Le Colonial

by Kien Nguyen

  With the help of the natives, the missionaries came to the beach one by one. Feeling curiously out of balance, François walked close to Captain Petijean and the monsignor. Still offshore, Henri seemed to have developed a strong attachment to the savages and their canoes. He made them all laugh as he pushed and pulled, rowing an oar with both hands to propel his vessel toward land.

  François walked briskly on his heels. The sand scorched the soles of his bare feet. Its texture was a combination of finely ground shells and coarse granite that sparkled in the sun. Here and there he saw a rainbow reflection of mother-of-pearl, fragments of ruddy coral, transparent quartz, dark-blue mussel shells, and dull, purplish porphyry stones, all clean and soaked in the brine. Coconuts littered the ground, and beyond the white strip of sand lay the thick jungle. Mercy! Mercy! cried the bottoms of his feet.

  Everywhere he looked, François saw short dark figures dressed in rags. They all looked alike to him. Their exposed thighs and backs were decorated with blue tattoos of unrecognizable shapes. The women wore black or brown skirts that reached a little below the knees. A triangular piece of cloth was worn over the bosom. Their jet-black hair was smooth, slick, and glossy. They ornamented their necks and arms with copper or silver bands. Men and children ran about in a state of near nakedness. No one wore shoes. Their feet appeared flat and broad, the color of terra-cotta.

  Some of the natives withdrew into the shade of the trees. Fear mixed with curiosity on their faces. The monsignor spread out his arms, which were draped with strings of large, colorful glass beads. He moved, and their shine caught the women’s attention. They chirped to one another like magpies. Some of the children squirmed free from their mothers’ clutches.

  “See our feet,” shouted Monsignor de Béhaine, first in Latin, then in their native language. He lifted the hem of his robe to reveal his right foot. “We are not white sea devils.”

  His fluency in the Annamese tongue sent a jolt of surprise through the crowd. They erupted into laughter.

  “Take my gift of beads as a token of my friendship.”

  He threw a handful of necklaces into the air. The children ran to catch them. Two boys wrestled for the same strand of beads. They seized each other, punching and growling. A handful of villagers approached with curiosity, and as François watched, the crowd grew larger, until all he could see was a wall of thick black hair. Some of the Annamites tugged at his cassock, and then, growing more daring, they reached their fingers upward, pulling at his hair and stroking his cheeks.

  “I have a precious pearl,” announced the monsignor.

  The natives screeched with delight.

  “This pearl is far more valuable than any of the glass beads that I have given you. It is more prized than any jewel in a king’s crown. And it is so cheap that even the poorest among you could obtain it. Who among you is ready to accept this magnificent gift?”

  Hands lifted in the air, waving at de Béhaine. “Thây, thây,” they called. It was a word François understood, for it meant “teacher.” He exhaled with relief. Of one thing he was certain: he had been welcomed.

  “Very well, my children,” the monsignor continued. “Let me tell you more about that precious pearl. It cannot be seen by human eyes, but it can be felt by your spirits. It was formed in God’s hand, bright and pure. But when it was placed into your body, it became corrupted and soiled because of your original sin. This pearl is your soul. And only I can teach you how to make it shiny and pure again . . . through the holy water of baptism. With this gift you shall be led to an eternally safe —”

  He stopped. Forcing its way through the peasants was a team of eight soldiers dressed in blue silk uniforms and armed with drawn swords. The natives dispersed. A woman screamed. Silence fell upon the beach. Among the clerics, no one moved. Together, the nuns recited a prayer.

  The leader of the guards approached de Béhaine. He tilted his straw hat back using the pointy tip of his sword.

  “Would you like some necklaces?” asked the monsignor. His right arm reached forward. The beads made a soft clanking sound.

  François held his breath.

  “You . . . come with me,” replied the guard, lowering his sword. He had a shrill voice that made his pronunciation impossible to understand. Most of what he said François understood only from studying his hand gestures and expressions. Certain words seeped into his mind slowly. “No stranger . . . enter . . . Quinion . . . first . . . Mandarin Chi TuyBn . . . meet.”

  The monsignor adjusted his robe. “The mandarin wants to meet us? Then you must take us to him.”

  A dozen canoes took the voyagers down the brown tide of a sluggish river toward Quinion City. For a long time, François did not see his novice. It seemed that wherever de Béhaine was present, there would be no Henri. The boy had avoided the monsignor ever since de Béhaine had confiscated his green stockings. He chose to ride with the Portuguese monks instead of sitting next to François.

  Slowly they moved forward. Each boat was manned by four to six natives. Ahead, the river narrowed into smaller streams that vanished into the mountains. Thickets of forests turned into rice paddies and small villages, and then back to forests again. François could no longer feel the sun beating down on him. Green curtains of leaves blocked the sky, cooling and dampening the air.

  The canoes came to the mouth of a brook, which tumbled down a ladder of rocks amid foam and spray to churn the river. François gripped the wooden bar that separated him from the passenger in front of him. The vessels tossed, the first few dashing against one another. Cries rose in every direction. But the danger was quickly over, and the stream resumed its calm meandering.

  The forest grew thicker and darker, a luxuriant wall alive with bright flowers. Near the front of François’s canoe, Monsignor de Béhaine studied the mountains with his brass spyglass. François had the feeling that he and his company were not alone. He felt small, insignificant, yet uniquely visible, and he knew that somewhere in the mighty trees along the banks of the river, creatures were watching them. The rustling of leaves, the sound of squirrels frisking among the branches, and the chirping, squeaking, crying, and trumpeting of various species of birds, monkeys, and elephants all created a symphony of dread around the explorers.

  With ramrod posture, François perched on his seat. He could not tell how close the creatures were to him; certain sounds seemed as near as a breath against the nape of his neck. In his heightened state ofalertness, he became aware of a pair of eyes scrutinizing him. He felt the quick, flashing, golden gaze of a jungle cat. He turned and saw the monsignor looking at him through the metal eyepiece of his telescope.

  The monsignor pointed to the line of canoes behind them, stretching down the stream as far as the eye could see. Each boat carried a dozen soldiers who had disembarked from the ships. There must have been more than a hundred men-at-arms, pulling along five iron cannons on bamboo rafts.

  “Always remember, Father,” the monsignor said to him. “You have the power of France by your side.”

  At length, the waterborne caravan reached a cluster of thatched huts at the edge of the forest. To François’s surprise, he saw that most of the irrigated plains surrounding the houses were left unattended. Their brown earth turned the sky gray. The sun was setting—a pink orb hanging over the desolate landscape. Black buffalo, their bloated abdomens inches away from the wet ground, chewed mouthfuls of grass. The children that rode on their backs played sweet melodies on bamboo flutes. One of them waved to François.

  The priest no longer felt strange being in the heart of this tropical scenery. All it took was the friendly smile of a child to eradicate his fear.

  He heard the voice of the Annamite leader. “The sun dark. We sleep here. Tomorrow, we go see Master.”

  In just a few moments, he would dismount the canoe and walk on this feral land, where he would settle into a new life, with new opportunities. Never would he think of his past again. It was indeed God’s will.

  “Monsignor,
have you ever been to Quinion?” he whispered to de Béhaine. “All that we have been seeing are straw huts, rivers, and trees. Where does a governor of a province reside?”

  The monsignor gestured to the leader of the guards and spoke to him. When he turned to François, his face was almost jovial.

  “The city is at least fifty kilometers away, about another half day on the water. We’ll be leaving at sunrise.”

  In the background, François could hear Henri’s laughter. The novice was running through the rice paddies as if he had known the place forever. Each new thing he discovered broadened his smile in the wan dusk. The Annamite children, with their brown skin and round bellies, chased after him. They seemed to have no fear of the strangers. Two precocious youngsters clung to Henri’s long legs. Meanwhile, a group of village women surrounded Sister Natalia and Sister Regina, marveling at their height and touching their pale skin with blatant curiosity.

  François listened to the voices around him, high-pitched and loud in the sultry air, and he tried to recognize some words. He had spent the past eight months on the Wanderer learning the Annamese language and culture from Captain Petijean. But even though he had easily mastered Latin during his novitiate, understanding these brown people was impossible. Clearly he would need more practice, more time. He must learn the virtue of patience.

  A woman in her midtwenties twitched the side of his tunic. Silently she offered him a coconut, cracked open at the top to reveal a murky liquid inside. She pressed it against his lips as if to gesture for him to drink, and so he did. The juice tasted sour and tepid. François grimaced, and the woman shrieked with delight. He joined her merriment, threw back his head and gulped down the liquid, and returned the empty shell to her. The woman’s child, a little girl, clung to his fingers. He bent and lifted her in his arms. She nestled her head on his shoulder, her tiny hand toying with the crucifix he wore around his neck.

  In the clearing at the edge of the village, a large fire was being built. To provide food for the travelers, Monsignor de Béhaine purchased a buffalo and two full-grown pigs from the village chief and paid him in silver pieces. François could see the farm animals being led to an open area near the fire by the owner and two youths. A large stake was driven deep in the ground, knives were sharpened, and wooden vats of rice wine appeared.

  “Welcome to Kim Lai,” said the Annamite leader, bowing with solemn hospitality.

  A circle of spectators, mostly children, formed around the frightened beasts, and above the locals’ dark heads, François saw the buffalo. A rope was wrapped around its thick neck and tied to the stake. Before François could prepare himself, one of the youths raised an enormous mallet and signaled for the others to get out of the way. He aimed at the beast’s forehead. A dull and heavy thwack rang out. Sister Lucía let out a hoarse cry, hiding her face against Brother João’s shoulder. Sister Regina scratched furiously at her back; her old hands shook. François saw Henri, standing tall among the natives, watching with fascination.

  Night fell. They camped in the rice paddies. Swarms of mosquitoes tormented the uninvited guests. The insects’ bites were intensely irritating, but their faint buzzing was drowned by the calls of crickets and toads. No one could sleep.

  The bonfire crackled. Sparkles of embers added glitter to the starry sky. The crescent moon was as slender as a misplaced silver eyelash. François lay on his side, wrapped in his cassock. Facing him, Henri was awake but deep in thought.

  The wind rose, filled with menacing voices. The world around François seemed hostile. More than ever, he longed for morning.

  A hand touched his shoulder, and with it came a musty scent that brought him back to his childhood: the smell of an old Bible Father Dominique had often carried in a pouch beneath his tunic. François wondered if he had just dozed off and was dreaming of Villaume. He rubbed his eyes, and then he saw Henri’s grim expression. It dawned on François that the presence he sensed was that of Monsignor de Béhaine. He sat up to face the older priest.

  “Well, Father François,” said the monsignor, “I am not disturbing your rest, am I?”

  “No, sir,” grumbled François. “However, the mosquitoes are.”

  The monsignor laughed.

  “And what about you, sir? Can you sleep?”

  “I don’t sleep,” replied the monsignor. “I am going to take a short walk. Come with me? A stroll may help you rest better.”

  De Béhaine offered his hand to help pull François to his feet.

  François hesitated.

  “Come now, Father,” the monsignor pressed. “You know that I will always protect you. It is time for us to continue our lessons. I must show you the proper way to establish your own congregation once you settle in this country. What I know, I learned from years of experience and hardship. Peace comes to men of great patience and to those who are willing to be trained.”

  He walked to the campfire and pulled out a burning branch. Its red blazes glowed in the dark, serving as a torch. François got to his feet. The monsignor led the way, the flames showing a short distance ahead. Soon, the earth turned muddy at their feet; they left the camp and the other travelers behind.

  For a hundred feet or more they did not speak. The monsignor held his head high and showed no sign of weariness. It was disturbing to see him always so resilient, so in command of himself and events. Even with the rising heat from the earth, François felt the chill emanating from the monsignor, like an impenetrable shield that set him apart from the rest of them.

  François broke the silence. “The way you approached the savages on the beach this morning was a revelation to me. You not only speak their language but also seem to have a clear insight into their nature. I see that I have a lot to learn.”

  The monsignor stopped walking. “It is acceptable to think of them as savages when you are at home in France,” he said. “But it is dangerous to have that perception here in their land. You will never understand their nature by thinking that way. To reach out to the peasants, you must recognize their customs and their pagan beliefs, which have existed for thousands of years. Our job will be to eliminate that nonsense and introduce them to the true religion.”

  François released a discreet sigh.

  “Are you feeling overwhelmed?” asked the monsignor.

  “I realize how little I know of this place,” replied François.

  The monsignor grasped his shoulder and turned so that he could look into François’s eyes. “I give you these simple truths. Understand them and you will find a way to triumph. The Annamites, like the Chinese, worship three sets of superstitions. The first is Buddhism, the creed of the king and the royal family, which reveres the material heavens and the stars. The second is idol worship, which holds past kings as deities. One of their false gods is Confucius, who created a set of laws and writings. The third belief is Taoism, founded by a man named Lao-tzu. It is by far the most pernicious because it is widespread among the many sorcerers and witches. They devote their service to the devil. Only when you know their belief systems can you meet their challenges and attack them at their roots.”

  He raised his forefinger. François looked and gasped in surprise. On the monsignor’s finger he saw a large, ancient ring. The light in its glittering stone matched the silvery flame in his eyes. François knew what the ring signified. He bowed and placed his lips on its smooth surface.

  “Why didn’t you tell us that you were made bishop?” he muttered. “All these months we have been together, and you said nothing of this.”

  “I chose to travel with you as a priest, not a bishop,” said de Béhaine. “But now that we have reached our destination, I must exercise my power.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The next morning, the procession of missionaries, led by Captain Petijean and his soldiers, approached the east entrance of Quinion. Their purpose was to seek the governor’s approval of their presence in his territory. Pierre had abandoned his black attire, exchanging it for a brown Annamite robe from
the elder of Kim Lai Village. His new clothes were traditional, with large sleeves and a stiff collar, and the front buttoned down under the right arm. His three-cornered chapeau was replaced by a simpler handwoven straw hat.

  Only François Gervaise and his novice followed his example and adopted the local wardrobe. The Dominican monks felt they had to honor the Council of Trent for ecclesiastics and kept their brown silk cassocks and brown silk overcoats. Mimicking the natives, François let his hair fall in long braids to his shoulders. Next to him, the nuns had replaced their habits with simple black dresses. Their shaved heads appeared pale and delicate. They walked close to one another, clutching their rosary beads.

  Sister Lucía chewed at her fingers. She was thin and piteous, with a small face filled with bewilderment and fear. Her look reminded Pierre of his own as a child. He imagined her agony at having to face the world outside the safety of her convent, and he prayed she would adjust to the new life she had chosen. Both her companions, Sister Regina and Sister Natalia, seemed to have a bit more confidence. These were the lives he was now in charge of.

  Pierre knew about Lucía’s nail-biting habit, just as he knew about the mysterious rash on Regina’s back and Natalia’s compulsion to crack her knuckles. He had learned so much about these missionaries that it was difficult to make fair decisions about their future and well-being. He wondered if God would be more merciful if He knew less about the human race.

  Before them, Quinion was built like a fortress, with a tall wall surrounding it. Beyond these barriers, the ancient city, with its myriad twisting streets and pastel buildings arranged in a circular pattern, drowsed under a hot sun. Deep within its core sat the mandarin’s mansion, the heart of the metropolis. The guard who escorted Pierre and the other foreigners referred to this home as -Diê.n Mã Não, “the Amber Manor,” because of its yellow marble construction.