Le Colonial

by Kien Nguyen

  During his travels with Xuan and the prince, Henri had developed a taste for her cooking. He knew she always made more food than necessary, so there would be some for him. Most of her dishes were simple. The ingredients she used were of the peasant style, prepared with imagination to yield an assortment of delicious flavors. Henri delighted in her everyday inventions.

  In the courtyard, servants and eunuchs went about their daily chores. To Henri’s relief the sentries were no longer at the corridor. He approached the well. Preoccupied with her work, she did not notice him.

  With one hand she gripped a carp by its gills, allowing its protruding stomach to face upward. She slid the thumb and forefinger of her free hand across its thick body. Jets of reddish-orange eggs shot into a waiting bowl, translucent and bright as pomegranate seeds.

  After harvesting the eggs, she scaled and gutted the fish, removing the vein along its backbone. When she was done, the two carp lay twitching on the cement floor, their abdomens gaping open, their eyes glazed. Both her hands and the knife were red with blood.

  She stuffed the fish’s bellies with mushrooms, swallow’s nest, fresh spices and herbs, and then tied them closed with palm fronds. In two clay pots, she placed the carp, one under a blanket of large-grained sea salt, and the other in a mixture of mud and honey. Henri watched, forgetting himself.

  From inside the kitchen came the scent of wood smoke. She raised her head and saw him. Fish scales stuck to her cheeks and forehead, and her eyes were the color of black currants. Startled, she shrank back in the shadow of the well.

  Recognizing him, she calmed, then looked concerned. “Are you well, Ông Tây?” she asked.

  He sneezed.

  She wiped her hands on the front of her blouse. “You are ill,” she said in a determined voice. “Come in the kitchen so I can make you a cup of lemongrass tea.”

  He blurted out, “I can’t, Xuan. I have to leave the citadel.”

  As she was lifting the two clay pots, his words stopped her. “Now? How long will you be gone?” she asked.

  “Once I leave, I will not come back.”

  She gasped.

  He explained hurriedly. “It’s the bishop. He tried to force me to take the vow of the priesthood. I refused. And so now I must go.”

  “But where? This is your home. He cannot ask you to leave, can he?”

  He reached out to caress her cheek. The skin felt soft on his fingertips. Unable to conceal his emotions, he looked away.

  “Don’t leave me!” she said. “You are all I have.”

  “Then come with me.”

  She withdrew from his touch and shook her head. He swayed, feeling his blood race downward. He had to hold on to the stone rim of the well for balance.

  “Please come with me,” he said. “You and I, we can find refuge in the Saygun Harbor, among the French and the Chinese. I can work on the docks, and I am sure I can find a safe place for you.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  Xuan looked past him. She seemed to be on the verge of tears. “You are kind, Ông Tây. But I can’t! This is where I belong. Besides, last night the prince sent a matchmaker to my bed. For the next two weeks, she will monitor my sleeping habits. Unless I have a trait that she finds disagreeable, I will be his concubine.”

  Flashes of lightning tore across the heavens, followed by a drumroll of thunder. “Don’t marry him,” Henri shouted over the clamor. “You know what he is like. He is sixteen and already has three wives and seven concubines. You will never be happy.”

  The rain returned, pounding the earth. He stood silent and watched her shiver. Her hair came loose. The full, heavy strands fell to her shoulders, down her back, and past her thighs like a waterfall.

  “I will have fine clothes, servants, and respect from everyone,” she said. With a sniffle she sang softly, “I have trekked over several mountains and rivers: How many perilous places have I been in the world! Forgive me, Monsieur French, but I don’t want to run away anymore. If I leave with you, I will always be running.”

  In the gray light, he could see that her eyes were red. Her lips were parted, and moisture dripped down her face.

  “The old woman will be back soon,” she said, summoning a rueful smile. “Grant me one last favor. Say nothing more.”

  He closed his eyes and did as she asked him.

  “Farewell, Ông Tây,” he heard her say.

  When he opened his eyes, Xuan was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The April weather in Saygun was erratic. Even with the rain pour- ing down, the heat was sweltering.

  For two weeks, Xuan had not noticed the weather. She lived in anticipation. Soon she too would sit in the rose garden, sipping imported white tea from a gold cup and wearing a pearl necklace. No longer would she be dressed in the blue uniform of a servant. With her beauty, the matchmaker had assured her, Xuan would lead a life of luxury.

  The old matron filled her head with wonderful stories of court life as well as gossip about other concubines. Xuan envisioned herself wrapped in fine embroidered clothes, with her own private apartment and a succession of ladies-in-waiting and eunuchs. In exchange for this opulence, she would have to meet the prince’s every need.

  “What must I do?” she asked the old lady. Even if she taxed her imagination, she could not fathom what a master and his mistress did behind the red curtain of matrimony. She wondered what she could do to please him. Over the past two weeks, she had learned so much, yet understood so little.

  “Never deny His Highness. Your body and your soul must belong to him the moment you enter his bed.” The matchmaker batted her rheumy eyes and cackled. The years had drawn her smile downward. “Remember, child, never look directly at the prince. It is one thing to be his trusted chef and another to merit his love.”

  “What do I do behind the red curtain? Is there a song or a dance he would want me to learn?”

  Again the woman laughed. “My wisdom is costly. For a girl of your station, I have but one bit of advice. Patience, child! As with all things in life, you must allow nature to be your guide.”

  Her mind invented fantasies that her body ached to experience. Each day, a terrible excitement consumed her. Each night, under the matchmaker’s scrutiny, she feared sleep, afraid to reveal an unpleasant habit that she herself was unaware of. Her head whirled with thoughts of the prince, Henri, the poverty of her past, and the possible wealth of her future.

  Inside the western wing of the fortress, the living quarters of Prince Ánh, it had just begun to grow dark. The weeping willows that flanked the palace’s moat quivered in the wind.

  Clutching a basket of food in her arm, Xuan walked on the familiar path. Slanted shafts of rain pricked her cheeks. She did not bother to wipe her face. It was more important that she deliver the prince’s supper on time.

  Outside Ánh’s chamber stood two sentries at attention. Their faces gave a hint of recognition. Each day at the same time, she met them there, guarding the entrance, so formal that she never could gather enough courage to speak. One of the guards would take her food to another servant, who would test for poison before he served it to the prince. While His Highness dined, Xuan had to wait outside the heavy doors, never allowed to look at him.

  This evening, something felt different. The food-taster was nowhere in sight.

  The sentries bowed. One of them said to her, “You may enter, madam. His Royal Highness is waiting.”

  The shock of the guard’s message weakened her legs, and the sentry offered her his arm. Adjusting her blouse, she glided through the doors before he could change his mind.

  The living room of Prince Ánh’s apartment was ablaze with lanterns of various sizes and shapes; many of them were suspended from the great carved and painted beams that supported the ceiling. The rain knocked on the tile roof with a relentless clatter. Humidity hung on the wooden columns like fish scales.

  Beyond an oval arch was the bedchamber,
perfumed by scented candles. On an ornate bed with a wooden canopy draped with many layers of silk, Prince Ánh reclined on a red quilt. His face was turned from the light. She had never thought she would see him again alone. Up close, he was larger than she remembered; his shoulders wider, his face more angular.

  She placed her basket of food on a table, loosening the top tray from its handles. Every object in the room was made of gold or porcelain or ivory, rare and exquisite, reflecting the lanterns’ light. Unlike her, each item occupied its rightful place. She saw her image, multiplied in an array of light and shadow, and the sight choked her with disappointment. Her clothes were plain and disheveled. The rain had drained the color from her face and made her pale.

  Her hands shook, spilling some sweet-and-sour quail-egg soup onto the inlaid table. To her horror, it dripped onto the sandstone floor.

  “I’ve been waiting. What has taken you so long?”

  His voice made her jump. She stood clutching the rattan handle of the basket, her back to him. His movement made the bed creak. Looking down, she caught a glimpse of his foot, dark and slender, as he crossed the floor. His fingers encircled her arm, spinning her so that they stood facing each other.

  “Ah, you have become such a beautiful girl,” he said, a statement of surprise more than a compliment. “I can see why the bishop has expressed his concerns about your future.”

  Never look directly at him. What an incredible struggle it was to keep her eyes downcast! She focused on a hanging scroll on the wall, then shifted her attention to his embroidered robe, his thin neck, a flash of his pinkish tongue, his flaring nostrils. A nagging stubbornness took hold of her. Unable to resist, she lifted her gaze and encountered a pair of dark, blinking eyes.

  His brows furrowed. He squeezed her chin and turned her face away.

  “If I catch you looking at me again, it will be the last thing you’re ever going to see.”

  Though his voice was deeper now, she still heard the petulant tone that had been his everyday mode of expression when they were children.

  His fingers tightened around her jaws, making it impossible for her to speak. Slowly he loosened his grip, but she did not dare to move. Too frightened to look at anything, she shut her eyes. He pulled her toward the bed. She stumbled against a piece of furniture. In her new sightless world the only thing she could discern was the lantern light, thick and red. The prince gave a push, and she fell on top of the red quilt. At the same time, she felt his hands at her waist, and then they were pulling her pants past her ankles.

  Xuan fought the urge to scream.

  His hand caressed her abdomen.

  “Open your legs!” came his voice somewhere above her face. She could smell tobacco on his breath.

  She felt his hand, clammy and rough, pry into her. Crying soundlessly, she groped for the quilt. In her mind she screamed out for her mother, and then for Henri. But her breath was forced from her lungs as he stabbed her again and again. Sticky fluid dribbled on her face—the stench of tobacco was stronger now.

  With a sigh, he collapsed on top of her.

  “I am finished,” he said. His words were no longer angry. “You may open your eyes.”

  She rose, brushing her hair from her face.

  The cement floor felt cold under her feet as she stepped into her pants and tried to repair the broken string that held them together.

  Prince Ánh lay on his back. He was holding a piece of white cloth, which he had placed underneath her. It bore a smear of blood—the evidence of her maidenhood.

  She was astonished by what had happened. The mystery curtain had finally lifted. He was the curse of her new opulence. Within her flesh there was a place of pleasure where he could feast, without warning. His clutching hands gave her no time to prepare herself to surrender. She only knew the act was over when he had salivated on her face during his climax. Now that she had nothing left for him to take, she could feel he wanted her to disappear.

  They listened to the downpour together, yet remote from each other. She was feeling her own emptiness, and he, his contentment.

  The sight of herself in a mirror intensified her humiliation. She gathered the trays together and rearranged them inside the hand basket.

  “I am hungry, but the food is cold,” said the prince matter-of-factly. “How long would it take for you to prepare another meal?”

  She reached for the basket of food.

  “Do you hear me? I told you I am hungry,” he repeated.

  She drew a breath and turned to face him. “Do I still have to cook for you?”

  “Why wouldn’t you?” he asked, doing nothing to hide his slick nakedness.

  She lowered her eyes to the table and retrieved the scattered chopsticks. Through a gap between the door panels, she could see the moving shadows of the guards. She wondered how much of her disgrace they knew.

  The prince was close to her. She could feel his hand on her hair. His breath was hot on her neck. She dodged, but he pinned her in his embrace.

  “You will continue to cook for me,” he whispered in her ear.

  His fingers crawled on her skin, reaching under her breastband. His voice came soft and low. “My kingdom is under attack, and my family is in exile. It is your duty to share my sorrow. But once we reclaim Hue City, your loyalty will be rewarded. Now, feed your prince.”

  With his scent clinging to her like a ghost, she left his bedchamber.

  In the courtyard the two guards fell to their knees when they saw her slip through the doors. Bamboo hats concealed their faces. Xuan stood, bent forward, her hand holding her clothing together. More than anything, she wanted to be alone.

  One of the sentries, who was wrapped in a raincoat made of palm leaves, asked, “Where are you going, madam?”

  “To the kitchen,” she replied, and hurried past him.

  “Please wait!” the guard called, reaching for a parasol. “I will escort you there.” To his partner he said, “Stand your post. I will return shortly.”

  Xuan protested. “You don’t need to protect me. I can go by myself.”

  “No, madam. It is my duty. From now on, someone must be with you at all times.”

  “Why so formal?” she argued, pulling herself away from him. “I am just going to the kitchen. This is something I always do. You’ve seen me many times coming and going. Just let me be.”

  She ran down the wide steps. Rain slapped her in the face, awakening in her the shock she had tried to suppress. But before she could react, the parasol floated over her head and shielded her. The guard followed in silence.

  “You like being someone’s shadow?” she asked.

  “I only obey the prince’s order.”

  His answer reminded her that her life was now changed forever. She wanted to disappear, to remove the whole incident from her memory. Henri had been right. She would now live only to regret.

  For the first time, the thought of Mr. French brought her sadness. She longed for his warmth and sympathy. If she could see him one more time, she would tell him how much she regretted her mistake.

  She let her hands fall to her sides and stared at the wet soil.

  They turned a bend in the path. The wind carried petals of peach blossoms to circle at her feet. The garden, veiled in darkness, whispered a secret. She stopped, one hand pressed against her chest. Her instinct sensed his presence.

  She took another step and paused, looking into the forest. The guard watched her studying the night. Xuan inched forward, and then to the sentry’s relief, she turned and walked to the kitchen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A man and his wife give each other their bones and flesh.”

  Pierre, his back to the altar, lifted his arms wide, looking out at the multitude that stood before him. Tonight, in his black vestments, he led the Mass of the Presanctified, a service to end the commemoration of Good Friday. It felt good to preach again before a large public gathering. He had waited years for this opportunity, which had been granted by Pri
nce Ánh. Brother João struck the gong. By quoting an Annamite proverb, Pierre knew he had captured everyone’s attention.

  The grand hall around him was gloomy in the broad shadows of the stone pillars. After the weeks of unrelenting rain, the full moon had returned to dominate the sky. Its light, thick as milk, spilled through the windows of the temple. All the Buddha statues had been draped in lavender—a sight that pleased Pierre. At least on this day he didn’t have to look at the faces of the false gods. Besides the natural moonlight, the altar was lit only by a bronze candelabrum with fifteen burning branches. Above it hung a crucifix, also shrouded in purple silk.

  The crowd, twice the number he had expected, was made up of three main groups. In the center were the Annamite converts, who had been taught the prayers in their own language because of their ignorance of Latin. A larger contingent of pagans, drawn by curiosity and the anticipation of a performance, filled the rest of the temple and its two annexes. Outside, the children clung to the bars of the windows, seeking a view of the spectacle. On Pierre’s left sat a few mandarins and members of the royalty, occupying three rows of chairs. The bishop saw his student, Prince Ánh, sitting proudly among his wives and concubines. His newest concubine, Xuan, clad in black silk, was by his side.

  Pierre was troubled by the girl’s presence. How could the prince possibly have mistaken Pierre’s suggestion to marry her off for a hint that he should make yet another marriage? Ánh knew how his teacher felt about the practice of polygamy. Yet because of him, the Mass was now tainted.

  “A man and his wife form but one flesh,” he said, raising his voice. “Even Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, true God and innocent man, has taught this with His own divine mouth.”

  The prince folded his arms. Pierre hesitated. He could feel Ánh’s dark mood escalating. Should he change the subject of the sermon? He was a priest, after all. For so long he had compromised to retain the royal support. It was time for him to stand up for his belief, even if it meant upsetting Ánh.