Le Colonial

by Kien Nguyen

  “Your Highness, do you really need that servant girl?” he asked.

  “Which one?” replied Ánh.

  Pierre said, “The orphan girl. The slave.” He searched for her name. “Xuan.”

  The prince touched the cylinder with his fingers wrapped in his sleeve. “I enjoy her cooking.” He cocked his head. “But tell me, Bishop de Béhaine, why are we discussing this insignificant servant?”

  Pierre gave the rope a final tug. “I think it is time for a matchmaker to find her a suitable husband before she gets into trouble. A girl that age should not be without supervision.”

  Leaving his student baffled, he turned a valve that released water into the boiler in order to stop the steaming process. Slowly but powerfully, the piston was sucked downward, pulling the armature with it. On the opposite end, the horses struggled in vain against the force that pulled them into the air, where they hovered, kicking their hooves and neighing.

  The audience gasped. Prince Ánh was astonished. He turned to Pierre, speechless.

  Rising from the settee, the queen clasped her hands and shouted with enthusiasm, forgetting her station.

  “What good would this do?” asked the prince.

  “Your Highness,” Pierre replied, bowing. “What you just witnessed is power!”

  Night fell over the citadel. In the thick, humid air, the chanting of Buddhist monks joined the rhythm of the crickets’ chirping. Fireflies drifted through the dark branches.

  In the southern section of Prince Ánh’s palace was the monastery—the living quarters for foreign guests and monks of all religions. For centuries, before Pierre and the Portuguese missionaries arrived, it had been a Buddhist pagoda, surrounded by many smaller towers like a man-made mountain of sandstone. For the past three years, the temple had served as their home.

  Much to his dismay, he had to live with the Oriental idolatry that dominated the interior of his new refuge. Tall, meditating Buddha statues seemed tranquil in the fitful candlelight, but their size dwarfed everything in sight. Under the protection of the royal family, the carved stone figures challenged his authority.

  Even though Pierre was not officially allowed to preach to the royals, they didn’t object when he held services for the Portuguese monks and the natives who had been converted in the past. His Christian sanctuaries were two small chambers on either side of the grand hall. One was used for baptismal ceremonies for the occasional new convert, and the other for administering the Eucharist and penance. Despite the government’s effort to eradicate Catholicism, its seed continued to grow. It gave Pierre the greatest pleasure to reconnect with those he had baptized years earlier, those who still practiced the true religion.

  Ignatius Khanh, Patrick Châu, and Vincent HQp were among Pierre’s students, living in their own quasireligious community in Saygun after the deportation of the missionaries in 1770. They had been bound to the Church by their three vows. The first was to be chaste and not to marry until receiving permission from the bishop. The second was to share all their possessions. And last, they must, without question, obey their elder, whom Pierre had chosen to be their superior in his absence.

  He walked to the door of the great hall and stood, legs apart, hands clasped behind him. A bright star smudged the sky. Far beyond the inked outlines of the temples, across an unrecognizable empty space, lived the prince and his wives. He thought of Henri, his wayward novice, imagined him alone with the seductive servant girl. Their lust for each other polluted the night, like the odor of musk.

  Like it or not, it was time for him to take charge of the young man before he lost his grip on him forever.

  He surveyed the largest statue under the light of a handheld lantern and caught his reflection in a Pa Kua mirror that a heathen worshipper had hung from its neck to ward off evil spirits. He stared into his own eyes, deep-set and weary, squinting from under bushy brows, and a corner of his upper lip lifted with distaste. He removed his hat and opened the collar of his tunic. A tuft of chest hair, dusted with gray, was visible under his chin.

  In the dim chapel, two Portuguese monks, Brother João and Brother Tiago, leaned on a desk, both with their heads bent over theirdaily Breviary. Brother Tiago sat with his back straight, applying the devotion he had honed with his advanced years. Nearby, the younger monk, Brother João, slouched on his tailbone, his blue eyes moving as he read. Across the courtyard, light shone through the green slats of a closed window in a pagoda that housed a group of Buddhist monks. Their monotonous chant resumed. Life is a journey, death a return.

  “What can I do to silence those simpleminded fools?” he asked the idols in irritation. “If we come from nothingness, and death is the return to nothingness, then explain to me, how can a soul continue to transmigrate through time?”

  It wasn’t the first time he had expressed his disdain for the Buddhist doctrine. He wondered how the Orientals, Chinese, and Indians alike, who were so advanced in culture and knowledge, could accept such a nonsensical religion. His frustration was directed toward the silent stones. He had petitioned the royal family numerous times to have the statues removed. Each time the queen denied his request, his resentment increased. As long as the idols reigned in his house of worship, they reminded him of his inability to influence the young prince and, therefore, of his failure as a missionary.

  He stood and pointed his forefinger at the stone carving. “One day I will demolish all of you and wipe out this false religion once and for all.”

  The chanting stopped. Then, as if to challenge his authority, it returned with renewed intensity, reaching a high-pitched crescendo. Pierre spat, facing their monastery’s window. The lantern flickered, and a yellow blade of light swept across his face.

  Outside, the rain came, rolling down the tiled roof, collecting in the bamboo gutter. From there, it rushed into another bamboo shaft, which poured into a vat. He could still hear the Buddhist monks, but the words were now washed in the drone.

  “Where are you, Henri?” he yelled into the darkness.

  The two Portuguese monks looked up from their prayer books.

  Rain splashed in his face; the taste was almost as salty as seawater. The sultry weather in Saygun reminded Pierre of Marseille. It was, after all, an open city for commerce. Foreigners from many countries sailed in and out of port with their goods, trying to set up businesses. When King Due Tong and his surviving family arrived at the citadel, they had brought with them nothing except for the royal seal, which helped them gain dominance over the people. To recover the fortune they left behind, and to rebuild their militia, the king took control of the trading and enhanced it to an art form.

  The holy temple became a refuge for eminent foreign guests. Among them was the captain of the Wanderer. Like the other traders, Petijean was attracted to the richness of Saygun. Ivory tusks, rhinoceros horns, sugar, rare woods, ginseng, rice, and other exotic resources were available for export. In exchange, the captain would deliver to the palace his cargoes of muskets, gunpowder, iron armor, and cannonballs. Besides providing the king with artillery, he offered his expertise in Western combat strategies and, on occasion, would sell the king a battleship that would be added to Cochin China’s naval fleet. All around Saygun, brothels, gambling casinos, and taverns were flourishing, thanks to the influx of sailors.

  Pierre rarely ventured outside the citadel. Three years had made little difference in the lives inside the palace. He confined the missionaries to a lifestyle of religious rigidity—praying, preaching, and administering the sacraments. From Captain Petijean, he learned precious but limited news about the outside world. But the information was generally linked to the captain’s own detailed and sometimes humorous stories of his adventures.

  Sloshing footfalls approached on the muddy path. The bishop peered into the dark and saw the novice, walking in the rain. His anger, which had been brewing since the morning, pushed him toward the entrance steps. Surprised, the novice gave a yelp. He was soaking wet.

  “Where have you
been?” the bishop demanded.

  Henri looked at him as if he didn’t understand.

  “What possessed you and that servant girl to spy on us?” Pierre barked. “Have you any idea what would happen if the prince caught you spying on his royal women? In a time of war this is an act of treason. When you see me giving the prince a private lesson, what does that tell you about the secrecy of the subject?”

  The youth’s silence and his expression of shock infuriated the bishop. He continued. “It meant for you to keep away.”

  “I am sorry, Your Excellency,” replied Henri, straightening his posture. “I just wanted to see how a steam engine works.” He came into the great hall, shaking off the excess water as he walked past Pierre.

  “You should have asked my permission. Since we’ve been together, you have accomplished nothing except for wasting time and causing trouble. What did you study with Father François for almost two years? For the length of time that the Church has invested in you, you should be ready to take your vows.”

  A shadow moved across the room toward Henri, and Brother Tiago whispered, “Take this cloth and wipe thyself.”

  “What do you mean by taking my vows, sir?” asked Henri, ignoring the Portuguese monk.

  Pierre slanted his eyes at the novice. “You know very well what I mean. You are not that dim-witted. What do you think we are training you for?”

  Henri ran his hand through his wet hair. His voice came out in a tense whisper. “You want me to become a priest? Now?”

  Pierre answered with a loud grunt. “You will be more than a priest. You have been trained to be a soldier of God, a missionary. Since I am your superior and we are in Annam, this will be the sacred place for you to be ordained. Tonight we shall rehearse your ordination, which I have decided to hold on the eve of the Good Friday service.”

  “During Tenebrae?” Henri exclaimed. “But that is only a month away.”

  “Your ordination is an important event, which will be included in the Holy Week ceremonies. I advise you, Henri, to set a better example of humility and repentance in your behavior, especially during the Mass of the Presanctified, during which you will pledge your devotion to God and to me.”

  The novice looked at Pierre, speechless. There was a faint odor on his body, a mixture of flowers and fish—a fragrance that Pierre associated with the female sex.

  Pierre continued, “Your ordination will make you a priest, with the power to consecrate the Eucharist and to forgive sins in the Sacrament of Penance.”

  To Pierre’s surprise, the novice pushed his chest forward and said stiffly, “I do not wish to be like you. I have done missionary work without becoming a priest. I want to continue my duty this way.”

  Pierre started—had he given this youth any indication that he would tolerate a negotiation? He shouted, “If you didn’t want this life, why did you come here?”

  He thrust his open palm straight into Henri’s chest, sending the boy backward. Henri staggered, clinging to a stone column for balance. There was anger in the way he held his fists.

  “Are you going to strike me?” asked Pierre.

  When Henri didn’t answer, Pierre raised the paper lantern closer to the novice’s face and watched him squirm.

  “How dare you to have such a thought!” he roared. “Ignorant fool! You have damned your eternal soul because of that savage.”

  Henri shook his head and swallowed. “I know you well, Bishop. You want everyone to live in your miserable world, void of any happiness. Others must share your loneliness or you will find a way to cast them out. You separated Sister Lucía from Brother João because of their affection for each other. And now you are trying to do the same to me and Xuan.”

  A cry escaped Brother João’s lips. The glow of the lantern revealed his ashen expression.

  “Ask him for the truth, if you have the courage,” said Henri to the Dominican monk.

  Brother João turned to the bishop.

  “Don’t!” said Pierre with exasperation. “No one judges me. Chastity is required in both monks and nuns. What I did was for the benefit of your eternal souls, both of you.” To Henri, he said, “Leave. You are no longer welcome in the house of God. May you burn in the fires of hell forever.”

  Henri hesitated.

  Before Henri slipped into the rain, he turned to look at Pierre. His voice was calm. “You may condemn me to hell all you like, but, sir, you are truly in your own hell.”

  He ran out the door and down the steps. Pierre watched the novice turn and gaze at him one last time, and he was struck with the urge to call his name and forgive him. But he gave up the thought as soon as it took form. The rain closed its curtains behind Henri.

  Pierre blew out the lantern.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Henri stepped into the unknown.

  Behind him stood the bishop, brittle and diminutive among the statues. De Béhaine lifted the lantern. Their eyes met as he extinguished the flame.

  Henri had never imagined he could find the courage to defy the bishop. But now that he had done it, he felt more liberated than frightened.

  He plunged into the night, oblivious of what his bare feet might encounter. The darkness was impenetrable. A hand reached from nowhere to seize his shoulder. With a shout of surprise, he leaped forward.

  “Hush,” whispered a soothing voice. “It’s me, Brother João.”

  “Brother João, what are you doing out here?”

  “I want to ask you about Lucía,” said João. “How do you know about us? When did you see her? Did she ask about me? How is she? And where is she?”

  “Why does she matter to you now?” asked Henri bitterly. “You have chosen Christ above all things.”

  “Tell me if she is all right. I just need to know.”

  Henri shook his head and walked away.

  “Please!” the monk cried after him. “I beg you.”

  He replied without looking back. “The last time I saw her, she had been rescued by the rebels in NgK Bình Mountain. She was living with them.”

  “Praise be to God,” said João. “I thank you for your kindness. If you apologize to His Excellency, he will forgive you and allow you to reenter the fold.”

  Henri turned. “I will not apologize.”

  “Don’t be foolish. Without the bishop’s protection, how could any of us ever survive in this land?” He reached out his hand. “The best thing for you is to come back with me. What else can you do? Where will you go?”

  Henri was unconvinced.

  “Have you thought how much it will hurt Father François when he learns of your decision to forfeit your vocation?”

  The mention of his teacher pained Henri. “Don’t try to make me go back there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I do, I will become like you.”

  A sob escaped João’s throat.

  “I understand,” he said in a dejected tone. “Go! Find yourself. I must confess I envy you.” He touched Henri’s chin, quoting Saint Augustine, “‘Love and do what you will.’”

  When Henri entered Prince Ánh’s grounds, it was midnight. The imperial guards were changing shifts. Silhouettes of palms and weeping willows stretched against the black sky. The light from the sentries’ torches made the peripheral area seem darker. He was confident that no one could see him among the shrubbery.

  The palace was a series of single-story buildings, linked together by a gold-tinted roof. On the front terrace, a row of four blue-and-white ceramic vases housed a rare species of pine tree. The branches were coiled in demotic characters, whose meanings were unknown to Henri. Two guards marched outside the prince’s bedchamber.

  The summer rain pierced the night like needles. He took a shortcut through the orchid garden to get to the women’s quarter, located at the end of the compound.

  As he navigated the soggy path, overgrown flowers thrust themselves into his face. He forged through the vines, ripping their tentacles apart until his hands were sticky
with sap.

  Before the night was over, he must find Xuan. In a few hours the sun would be up, and so would everyone else in the fortress. He would have to leave this place. The moment he had shouted his defiance to the bishop, he had lost his right to stay.

  A lantern lit the window of her room in the servants’ quarter. Xuan sat on the dirt floor with her back toward him. He crept closer.

  With one hand, she removed a jade pin from her chignon. Her hair fell down her back. She combed the long, thick, black strands. Henri envied the instrument in her hand, imagining its tortoiseshell teeth as his fingers. The lantern flickered, trickling over her river of hair to give it an identity, a life of its own. He had seen her using a brew of coconut oil mixed with crushed wild peach flowers to maintain the rich luster. But it was Henri’s gentle stroke that many a time had untangled the knots caused by the unruly winds.

  From within the mosquito net that draped her bed, someone stirred. Henri saw the face of an aged person. Alarmed, he retreated into the rain.

  To see Xuan, he had to wait until morning.

  After a fitful nap under a clump of sugarcane, he awoke feverish and impatient. The breeze that wove through the orchid garden only heightened his anxiety. As the gray in the sky spread, the air was heavy with moisture, forecasting more rain. He rose from the piles of leaves that had been his bed. His muscles ached under his damp clothing. From his hiding place, he watched until he saw Xuan emerge from her bedroom. Her blouse was not yet buttoned at the front. A brown undershirt, the color of her skin, preserved her modesty. She was more beautiful now that her hair was tied neatly in a knot, exposing her face.

  She stepped into her clogs and walked outside to the well where she kept the fish basket. Following her was an old matron. This was the shadowy figure who had occupied her bed. Leaving the apartment, the woman limped toward the palace. Xuan fished into the wicker container for two carp. They writhed in her hands, gills pulsating. The fish must be alive as she prepared them for the prince. To serve him a fish that had expired would be disrespectful—a punishable crime.