“You are talking about superstitions and rumors, whereas what we have here are not hoaxes. Your stories don’t appear to be relevant.”
“You should consult Lucien Filongey. He’s a man who claims to be an expert in the field, and he easily invokes celestial forces. He deals with all those things that worry the common mortal.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Ask anyone in Gilly-lès-Cîteaux. They’ll tell you how to get to his place.”
“Filongey, you say?”
“Yes, Lucien Filongey: part bonesetter, part magician, part exorcist. You won’t find a more interesting man!”
“This part of the country never ceases to surprise me,” Cooker said, nodding. “I was familiar, or so I thought, with its wine spirit, but I didn’t know about the…divine spirits.”
“That’s amusing,” Pierre-Jean conceded soberly. “The novelist Stendhal, who knew this region extremely well, was not very fond of our countryside. But he was a great admirer of the wines of Clos de Vougeot. Incidentally, he wrote something very true: ‘As I left Dijon I stared hard at the famous Côte-d’Or, so celebrated throughout Europe. I had to recall the verse, “Are witty people ever ugly?” for without its wonderful wines, I would find nothing uglier than the Côte d’Or.’”
“You have an excellent memory,” Cooker said with admiration. “Perhaps that is why you immediately recognized Psalm 102?”
“Stendhal also wrote this: ‘At the table, Burgundians speak only about wines, their comparative merits, their faults, and their qualities; boring politics, so impolite in the provinces, are left aside.’”
“I thank you for all of your valuable information, Mr. Bressel, but I must go.”
“It was a pleasure,” murmured the librarian.
As soon as he had left the building, Cooker took a deep breath of fresh air. His feet planted solidly on the sidewalk, he stood for a long moment, turning over in his mind this conversation, which had seemed far too rambling. He started walking without paying attention to the passersby or the half-timbered homes and shops of the old city, which would have fascinated him on any other occasion. His phone rang at the bottom of his coat pocket.
“Are you finished with your meeting, sir?”
“Where are you, Virgile?”
“I’m buying mustard.”
“You are?”
“Well, yes. In Dijon, it seems appropriate. I’m getting a jar of it for my sister, Raphaëlle. She loves it. I am at the Maille shop.”
Cooker walked up the Rue de la Liberté and spotted Virgile behind the magnificent store window that had flaunted its letters of gastronomic nobility since the nineteenth century. The fluttering salesgirls seemed to be greatly enjoying themselves in the company of this handsome young man with an imposing build but reassuring long eyelashes. He was bewitching them with his distinctively southwestern French accent. Virgile emerged, beaming.
“I also got a jar for Mrs. Cooker. She likes it, I hope.”
“Even if she hated mustard, she would pretend to appreciate it, because you’re the one giving it to her. Be careful, or I’ll start getting jealous.”
“Come on, Mr. Cooker. She could be my mother.” Virgile burst out laughing.
“With you, you can never know, Virgile. No woman can resist you. Or is it the other way around?”
“You exaggerate, sir. But honestly, those women were charming,” he added with a wink.
“So, what did you think of the Dukes of Burgundy Palace?”
“Not much. I decided to stroll down the streets instead.”
“And no museums, either?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but without you, it’s not as much fun.”
“Never mind. You’re not going to get out of it that easily. We’re going there right away!”
“But I had no intention of avoiding it, boss.”
They quickly ate panini sandwiches with goat cheese and dashed off to the Ducal Palace. Cooker did not want his young assistant to miss any of the galleries. Without overwhelming Virgile too much with commentary, Cooker gave him an overall idea of what he needed to know so as not to die an idiot. Cooker spent some time examining the Presentation of the Infant Jesus in the Temple, painted by Philippe de Champaigne, while Virgile lingered even longer before an anonymous painting from the Renaissance, simply titled Woman at Her Toilet. They both came out of the palace inspired but exhausted.
Virgile said that nothing was better for re-energizing than a good walk, preferably at a brisk pace. Cooker went along with the idea and even decided to walk double time through the churches of Notre-Dame and Saint-Philibert and the Saint Benedict Cathedral. They found their car not far from Place Bossuet, close to the neighborhood that used to be frequented by “blue bottoms,” as wine growers used to be called in Dijon. It formerly housed the wine growers trade organization.
Night had fallen without warning, and the streetlights were already lit. Cooker suggested taking a detour to the Castel de Très Girard, which Virgile could not very well refuse. On the way, they chatted like satisfied tourists, and then Cooker told Virgile about his meeting at the library. He shared his reservations about the librarian with the chubby face, shiny hair, and thick binocular glasses.
“I have a bad feeling. I almost have the impression that he was saying a lot but not revealing anything. Maybe I wasn’t listening the way I should have been, or perhaps I wasn’t picking up what he was saying between the lines. He was a strange guy: polite and friendly, yes, but evasive, elusive even.”
“You must have been frustrated,” Virgile concluded.
“Not really. It was more that I had the impression that he wanted to lead the discussion in a certain direction and not really talk about the reason I had come to see him.”
When they arrived in Morey-Saint-Denis, they parked in front of the Castel de Très Girard and finished their conversation before going into the restaurant. Cooker asked about Raphaëlle, Virgil’s sister. He knew that she had a serious medical condition, and he had lit a candle for her in the chapel of the cathedral that very afternoon.
“Thank you, sir. She is doing better, and we’re hopeful. Between your candle and my jar of mustard, she has been spoiled today!”
The owner greeted them with open arms. “Sorry that I wasn’t here to greet you the other day. It was my night off. How are you, Benjamin? It’s been more than a year.”
Although he had not been born in Burgundy, Sébastien Pilat was an expert in the habits and customs of the land he had adopted. An impressive understanding of wine and a decided taste for well-crafted cigars complemented his gastronomic knowledge. It was obvious that he had taken over the reins of this establishment with the goal of making it one of the best in Côte-de-Nuits. And his hard work, innovation, and high standards were paying off.
“The other night we ate entirely too much here at your restaurant,” Cooker said as he unfolded his napkin on his lap. “We’ve come back to do penance!”
Cooker ordered just one course and a dessert, but Virgile opted for the entire regional meal. A marc de Bourgogne granita allowed him to recharge his appetite halfway through. When it was time for coffee, Sébastien Pilat invited them into the private back room, where he offered them their choice of cigars from his humidor. The winemaker chose a Cohiba Esplendido and suggested that his assistant take a Flor de Copan Linea Puros. The distinguished Honduran cigar was a final intermediate step before the Havanas of the big island. Settled in their club chairs, which were facing the fireplace, the three men watched the flames dancing while they talked pleasantly about the renovations that Sébastien was planning, which would improve this little eighteenth-century mansion even more. Then they got around to the gossip that was swirling in the villages of the Côte. Cooker admitted that he was very interested in all these stories, and in the course of the discussion, Sébastien asked them innocently, “Did you hear that Honoré Mancenot, Ernest’s brother, was found dead tonight?”
Cooker and Virgile looked at
him, incredulous. They simultaneously let out a big cloud of white smoke, their cigars frozen between their fingers.
“It was dark out, and a driver spotted his moped lying on its side on the shoulder of the road. The old man was in the ditch, his head smashed against a big rock. A phrase in Latin was painted on the pavement.”
“What phrase?” asked Cooker, sounding worried.
“Honestly, I wouldn’t know, but it was definitely in Latin. A retired professor from Morey confirmed it.”
“Someone talked to me today about a man named Lucien Filongey,” Cooker said, taking great care not to let the ashes from his Churchill fall on his shirt. “Do you know him?”
“Who doesn’t know him? It’s said that he heals burns and resets fractures. There might be some truth to it, or else he wouldn’t have so many clients. Some people also say that he performs rituals that are, well, let’s just say not very orthodox.”
“I’d like to meet him, but I’m not sure how to go about it.”
Putting his finger on his lips and frowning as if to concentrate better, Sébastien thought for a moment. “If you don’t want to arouse suspicion, there is a simple solution. Just take a bottle of wine to him to release from a spell.”
“Are you serious?”
“The old people around here still resort to this practice from time to time. It’s rare now, but it was common years ago in the countryside. Filongey knows all the prayers for chasing away evil spirits. He’s a strange guy. You’ll see. If you want to contact him without looking like a busybody, all you need to do is remove the label from any bottle. Take it to him, and have him do his prayer. Make it up as you go, and get him to talk!”
“You mean to say that I have to get a bottle of wine exorcised to worm something out of this charlatan?”
“If you really want to mine the depths of darkness, I don’t see any other solution.”
“It keeps getting better,” Cooker said and sighed as he threw what remained of his cigar into the flames.
8
The man was wiry and tall, slightly stooped but chin up. His lean torso was squeezed into a black satin shirt. Pearl buttons shimmered under the glare of the candelabras.
His weather-beaten face, with its angular cheekbones and prominent nose, was not animated by any particular expression. It wasn’t clear whether he was friendly or aloof; he seemed beyond ordinary appraisal, just simply indifferent, absent from the world.
“Welcome to the house of divine help, gentlemen.”
Cooker and Virgile walked into a large room with dark velvet curtains that seemed to be breathing in the flickering glow of the candelabras. Before a wooden screen, a grinning skull and open prayer book lay upon a desk. A string of ebony rosary beads was draped around an image of the Virgin of Lourdes. Above her, a boxwood wreath was drying.
“You must be the gentlemen from Bordeaux,” Lucien Filongey said curtly.
Virgile shuddered, but Cooker refused to let himself be spooked. He figured the sorcerer of Gilly read Le Bien Public newspaper, just as everyone else did. One did not have to be a seer to know who the two men were.
“Yes, you are aware that we are on a business trip in this region, but we find ourselves in a bit of a fix.”
The man crossed his arms and stared at them.
“We’ve tried everything,” Cooker continued, trying to sound distressed. “But this particular wine concerns me—I brought you a sample. It’s evolving in a way we just don’t understand. I was told you could help, and maybe rid the wine of whatever evil has possessed it.”
“Your science has its limits.” Filongey sneered.
“I agree,” Cooker replied humbly.
“Place your bottle on the table, and stand back.”
The shaman seized a vial of water, sprayed his hands, and held them around the bottle without touching it. He remained this way for more than ten minutes, in absolute silence, before declaring in a rumbling voice, “Our help comes from the Lord, who made Heaven and earth. I exorcise you, living wine, through the One who, at the wedding at Cana in Galilee, changed the water into excellent wine, through Him to whom the Jews gave wine mixed with gall, so that no secrets may be exchanged with the evil spirits, so that you may be wine that is healthful and cure all God’s creatures who may drink of it. Dismiss, oh Lord, every evil spell, incantation, impotence, fracture, ague, infection, distress, curse, satanic act, convulsion, and all other infirmities of the body and soul. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
He had delivered his entire speech in one breath. His eyes were wide open, trained on the neck of the bottle.
“Hear us, Lord, and grant your benevolence to those who ask for it, and look favorably on your creature tormented by the devil, and spread on this wine your blessings and your sanctification. I bless this wine and sanctify it in your name so that the demons will be expelled and their evil spells will be broken.”
Virgile pursed his lips to stifle the laugh that was rising in his throat. He would not be able to contain it much longer. Cooker gave him a swift kick on the shin with his Lobbs. The young man paled. Filongey continued.
“You have planted the vine and have surrounded it with care from the beginning, and in times of drought, you have watered it with the divine blood of Your Son. Deign then, Lord, to bless this fruit of the grape so that it may be the wine of mercy, science, doctrine, devotion, love, and virtue to cure all creatures who will drink of it, so that it will nourish the soul and fortify faith, that it will sustain the body, that it will enlighten the mind, make the heart rejoice, chase away pain and sorrow, and destroy all evil in those creatures who will drink of it. Through You, the all powerful and everlasting God. So be it.”
“Amen,” Virgile let out. He could not stand it any longer and was ready to say anything to get rid of his nervous tension.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Filongey,” said Cooker, who had managed to keep his British stiff upper lip. “I have no doubt that your prayer will be invaluable to us.”
“I will pray for you tomorrow at the same hour. Our good country of Burgundy must be saved from the workings of the devil.”
“It’s true that Vougeot has not been spared, lately.”
“The good Adèle Grangeon received a visit from him two nights ago. Beware—the devil may be lurking among the vineyards!”
“We will be vigilant,” Cooker promised. “I would not want to suffer the same fate as that poor woman or the old man they found dead in a ditch last night.”
“The Prince of Darkness strikes the pure and the impure alike. I prayed for the salvation of the soul of our good Adèle, who did not deserve such a fate. A pious woman who never forgets to go to Mass and say her prayers to the Black Virgin.”
“The Bravart cousins were also devout Christians,” the winemaker ventured.
Lucien Filongey turned red and waved his arms. His tunic came undone, giving him the look of a nighthawk poised to swoop down on its prey. He bellowed, “Children of cursed childbirth! Not one of them legitimate! Bastards! Detritus of whores! The Mancenot brothers are nothing but sodomites, traitors! Bigots!”
He stopped suddenly and stared at one of the candelabras as if the mere power of his lunatic gaze could extinguish the flames. Then, in a softened voice, he said, “Shh! Gentlemen, Satan is listening to us.” His tone turned unctuous, making him sound all the more disturbing. “The Evil One is among us. He lurks and observes us, just waiting to find a home in malevolent spirits.”
“We thank you again for your intercession, Mr. Filongey.”
“The world of wine is quite wrong to deprive itself of my services. The winemakers do not know what they are missing. In the past—I’m talking about ancient times—there wasn’t a single wine in this land that did not have recourse to divine protection. Do you know that it was the priests of the diocese who would save the vineyard by putting a curse on the flies, the weevils, and the escrivains?”
“The escrivains, you say?” interrupted the winemaker, who cou
ld never resist the chance to enrich his cultural knowledge, no matter where he was or the circumstances.
“Yes, it’s a name they used for little evil brown and black beetles. They called them scribblers because they left little markings on the vine leaves. The Clos de Vougeot suffered much and it was a great misfortune, gentlemen! Whenever the vines were withering under the vermin, and the leaves were devoured, people would have processions. They would forbid using the name of the Lord in vain and everyone went to confession. Purifying, cleansing, and sanctifying the soul—this is what we need to bring back today.”
It was time to leave, Cooker thought as he reached for his bottle. Filongey gave them an icy smile.
“Before you leave, gentlemen, I would like to offer you two excellent wine tonics that I made myself. I macerate a good quarter gallon of red arrière-côte for about ten days with about two and a half ounces of fennel seeds. And for the white, I always use one from the slopes of Beaune. I add slices of fresh kola nut with a little eau-de-vie. Tell me how you like it, since you are the experts.”
“We won’t forget,” Cooker said and nodded, eager to leave.
“Every person I have given it to has benefited from it. Believe me, it’s the only remedy for severe exhaustion and anemia. It’s better than other tonics, even cod liver oil and horse blood. All those potions rot in the stomach and cause pestilential gas, inflammation of the uterus in women, vaginal discharge in young girls, and extreme diarrhea in young boys. I can assure you that my fortifying wines are safe! You only need to take one shot glass of it twice a day, preferably at ten in the morning and four in the afternoon.”
“Many thanks, Mr. Filongey,” Cooker said, faking a grin.
“May the All Mighty protect you, and don’t forget to drink at least one glass of magnetized water every day.”
Nightmare in Burgundy (The Winemaker Detective Series) Page 7