Le Colonial

by Kien Nguyen

  He looked into the crowded room, searching for courage. Eager, innocent faces looked into his.

  “At the beginning, God gave Adam only one woman, Eve, and he stayed with her until his death, for nine hundred and thirty years. The same God saw us crucify His only Son on this very eve, on a cross. But His Son was resurrected three days later. Why this miracle? It is because God is merciful and all-forgiving.

  “Your own proverb carries the wisdom of Christ. Your law has affirmed that the mutual commitment between the husband and the wife is sacred. As long as one partner is alive, no other partner shall be taken. Polygamy, like divorce, is forbidden under the divine law. Christ has died for our sins. For our part, we must uphold His teaching.”

  The converts followed his sermon with the recitation of one Our Father, seven Hail Marys, and one Glory Be. The prince, red-faced and indignant, perched on his seat.

  It was time for the theatrical liturgy, which Pierre and the Portuguese monks had carefully rehearsed.

  Pierre declaimed, “In his last moment, the Lord Jesus cried out: ‘Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.’ Then, bowing his head, he breathed his last. The earth was shaken.”

  The converts stomped their feet. A wood floor had been built on top of the sandstone to amplify the sound. The rumbling noise reverberated through the old temple, making the candlelight tremble.

  “And there was thunder and flashes of lightning that lit the darkness.”

  They stomped their feet louder and clapped their hands, accompanied by Brother João’s gong and Brother Tiago’s drum. Soon the entire crowd joined in the clamor. Pierre smiled. He had successfully re-created the atmosphere of an Annamite operatic theater, with lines of dialogue exchanged between him and his congregation. He gripped the Bible until it hurt his fingers. He shut his eyes as he basked in the success of his strategy.

  The heavy doors flung open. All heads turned and looked toward the entrance. Pierre jerked from his trance.

  A tall man staggered into the temple, dragging a large wooden cross on his back. The children screamed. An old woman opened her toothless mouth and wept. In the front, two men fell on their knees and pounded their chests in supplication.

  “It’s God’s messenger,” someone wailed.

  Whispers and calls of protest drowned out Pierre’s demands for silence.

  The bishop was dumbfounded. This extraordinary occurrence was not a part of his planned ritual. But even though he could not discern the man’s features, he knew who he was. That blond hair, those long, spiderlike limbs could only belong to his former novice, Henri. What is he up to? One month had passed since he had stormed from the temple. Pierre was buffeted by waves of shock, anger, and annoyance. He swallowed his impatience.

  Henri took a few steps forward. His cross grated along the floor. No one spoke. The crowd parted, forming a center aisle. He stumbled and fell with the wood beams on top of him. His clothes were tattered and bloodstained. An unshaven face added to his martyred appearance.

  “Father,” he pleaded, “forgive me, for I have sinned.”

  He dragged himself a few more steps and fell a second time. Brother João dropped his musical mallet. Xuan gasped, pale with grief.

  “Can you feel my pain? I ask for your forgiveness.”

  His voice cracked, invoking more sympathy from the onlookers. Many offered to help him rise, but he struggled alone. He fell again, this time at Pierre’s feet. The bishop retreated.

  The spectators resumed their stomping. Henri looked up at Pierre. His face was wet with tears.

  “Please —” he whispered.

  The bishop opened his arms, palms up toward the youth. “I forgive you,” he said to Henri, making the sign of the cross, “in the one name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.” To the crowd, he shouted, “I have washed away this man’s sins. Who will join him next in the light of Christ?”

  Hands were raised. Several rushed forward and formed a line behind Henri.

  Xuan rose from her seat.

  “What do you think you are doing?” demanded the prince.

  “I want to be a Christian, Your Highness,” she said, infected by the room’s excitement. Her body shook.

  “Don’t make a fool of yourself,” said Ánh. “You will do no such thing.”

  She turned to the bishop. “Please baptize me, Cha CA.”

  “Come, my child,” Pierre said to her. “Make your vow to Lord Jesus Christ that you will become a Christian this Easter Sunday.”

  The prince grabbed her arm and held it tight.

  Pierre bowed. “Your Highness, everybody is equal in the house of the Lord and has the right to be christened. With all due respect, you are not a stranger to God’s miracles. My Lord saved your life and brought you unharmed to this city. With my prayers, He will continue to protect you for years to come. Please don’t try to interfere with a soul in search of salvation.”

  Xuan tore herself from the prince’s clutches. Ánh brushed some invisible dust from his tunic and walked out, followed by his three wives and the rest of his retinue.

  After the candles had been extinguished and even the most fervent converts had departed, the priests barred the doors. The temple resumed its dark and isolated mood. A solitary lantern cast its dim light through the cavernous hall.

  Henri sat on the floor with his back against a wall. Brother Tiago tended his bruises. They talked to each other in whispers.

  Pierre paced the room with angry steps. Conflicting emotions clouded his ability to think. Surely for him the event had been triumphant. At his urging, many had agreed to convert. But that scoundrel! How dare Henri use “the creeping of the cross” to interrupt his homily? No one had the right to perform a religious act without the bishop’s permission. Pierre hated nothing more than to be surprised. Clearly, his decision to accept Henri back into the fold had been forced. In front of the natives, he had had no choice.

  “Your Excellency,” said Henri, pushing Brother Tiago’s hand away from his face, “when you said you forgave me, did those words come from your heart?”

  “Hush, don’t speak now,” the old monk advised.

  Pierre replied in a gruff voice, “I said it, didn’t I?”

  Brother Tiago commented with exhilaration, “It’s a sign, Your Excellency. He is, after all, the Prodigal Son.”

  Pierre flushed with shame. Very well, he would accept Henri with open arms, and even rejoice, for the novice who had been lost was now found. But under no circumstances would he trust the youth’s sincerity. With Henri’s rebellious nature, there was no guessing what he might do next.

  Brother João, who had been standing near the barred doors, approached Henri. “The last time I saw you, you were adamant in your decision to leave the Church. Why did you come back? What happened during the month that no one saw you?”

  Henri remained quiet.

  “It’s obvious why he came back,” snapped Pierre.

  Henri looked up.

  The bishop raised his voice. “It was foolish of you to think a native girl would deny her heritage for you, a foreigner. And when she broke your heart, what did you do? You could have left this kingdom, returned to France, or become a sailor, and never come back again. Instead, you decided to plot revenge. Your wish to become a priest serves no purpose but to punish yourself and inflict pain on her. Side by side but unable to contact each other, you will exist in misery together. I cannot allow you to enter the priesthood for such a venal motive.”

  Henri leaped to his feet. Fists clenched, he thrust his face inches from Pierre’s. “I never want to hurt her. I just want to watch over her.”

  Pierre shrugged. “That has nothing to do with serving God. I am happy that you’ve decided to return to the church. But you are doing it for the wrong reason.” He pointed toward the entrance. “It is not too late for you to walk out. Your whole life is waiting. I promise you, you will love again. A year from now, you probably won’t even remember that girl. But if I have misjudge
d you, if you decide to stay because this is your true calling, you must renounce Satan and all his works. A priest is the minister of divine worship, and the highest form of our worship is sacrifice. You’ve shown none of that. You may not be a priest, but I might accept you back as a novice. You will surrender all your will to God and recognize my authority as your bishop. Make your choice now.”

  Without hesitation, Henri fell to his knees, his hands clasped in prayer. “Lord, please help me find the strength to serve you.”

  Brother Tiago breathed a sigh of relief.

  Pierre lay on his cot, watching the night through the window of his cell. From the streaks of silver light traveling across his body, he could tell that it was past midnight. As usual, his mind refused to rest. He could hear the sound of footsteps splashing through the mud, hoarse voices drifting with the night breeze. Someone shouted his name. A guard mumbled. There seemed to be six or seven men speaking—their voices were undistinguishable.

  He rose from his bed. The sound was coming from outside the main entrance. It must be important, as it wasn’t common for late visitors to disturb a monastery. He rushed to the door. Behind him, Henri and the Portuguese monks shuffled from their rooms. Pierre puffed out his chest and resisted the urge to reach for the door handle.

  “Who is out there?” he asked, making his voice deep and commanding.

  “It is I,” came the angry voice of Prince Ánh as he pounded his fist against the wood. “Open the door!”

  The bishop pushed the doors open. The prince rushed past him, followed by the aroma of burning torches. The temperature was dropping. Pierre shivered in his robe. Under the awning of the temple, a palanquin waited, surrounded by six royal sentries.

  He shut the doors and bowed. “Your Highness, what troubles you?”

  “You and your terrible cult are the source of all my troubles,” shouted the prince. “I should never have granted you permission to preach. How could I be so foolish? For years you have been begging me until I gave in. You are supposed to educate me about Western civilization, not influence my people with your nonsense.”

  “I am sorry, Your Highness. If you had sent for me, I would have come to your quarter. Whatever it was —”

  The prince interrupted. “I am too angry to wait. Besides, the last thing I want is for you to be around my concubines. You have caused enough problems in my household already.”

  Pierre cleared his throat. “Are you upset about Lady Xuan and her decision to become a Christian?”

  The prince let his shoulders slump. The anger on his face was replaced by a frown of frustration. “She refused to enter my bedchamber because you condemned multiple marriages. She claims that she’s afraid of being cast into the underworld if she disobeys your law.”

  Pierre turned to hide a smile in the dark. Clever girl. He could not help admiring her resourcefulness. He managed to keep his voice sympathetic. “She is not worth all this rage, Your Highness. Remember, you have others.”

  Again, Ánh flared. “She is my property,” he shouted. “She has no right to refuse me. Cha CA, if you had any respect for my power, you wouldn’t have put me in this predicament. If any woman rejected me, I wouldn’t hesitate to put her to death. Except in this case, I do not want to offend your God. You are the wise one—tell me what to do.”

  Pierre looked at Henri, who stood motionless between the two monks. “You must let her go,” he said to the prince.

  Ánh seemed startled. Clearly that wasn’t the answer the prince had expected.

  The bishop stood firm.

  “Never!” was Ánh’s reply.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Today was Brother João’s turn to prepare supper. Henri was sent to the market for bamboo shoots and wild mushrooms. The bishop had been gone all morning, summoned by King Due Tong. Passing through the dusty roads, Henri saw cavalry, foot soldiers, and convoys of military wagons. The news of the rebels’ advance had reached the citadel. The city was preparing for war.

  The market, at the outskirts of the fortress, was nearly vacant, littered with abandoned platforms and empty baskets. On a wide field of grass, a few peddlers displayed the last of their pigs and chickens.

  It had been four weeks since Henri had returned to the Christian sanctuary.

  Suffering now acquired a deeper meaning. He felt alone even among his fellow missionaries, whose main concern was to calm the hysterical people of Saygun. The monks’ acceptance of their fate had given them a serenity that he lacked. Whether it was his youth or his inability to forgo his love, the gulf between them pushed him further into isolation.

  The only thing that kept him sane was the memory of Xuan. She was the string that tied him to life. Their shared hardships had taught them to depend on each other. She was all he desired.

  Nothing could soothe the pain of her rejection. An occasional glimpse at her from a distance only deepened his wound.

  Although never religious, Henri hoped to find solace in the Church and its rituals. But how could he, when his mind was full of her image, her smile, her voice?

  The door to her was shut, Henri reminded himself, and Prince Ánh possessed the key.

  He wandered in the hot sun, searching for the ingredients that Brother João had requested. Two little girls held each other inside a clay hut. Their long black hair whipped in the wind. He wondered what would happen to Xuan if the enemy were to attack. Would the prince be able to protect her, among the many others who depended on him?

  As if in reply to his thoughts, deafening blasts of cannons tore through the air.

  The ground shuddered. He could hear the gongs sounding an alarm. People scattered from their cottages into the streets, screaming and running in all directions. Frantic questions leaped from mouth to mouth. No one could grasp what was happening. Across the road, the two girls hid behind a partition. The roof of their hut was ablaze.

  He must find the fastest way to Xuan’s apartment. But first, he had to rescue the two little girls he had seen.

  He ran to the hut, but when he threw open its door, they had disappeared. The burning hovel stood for a few moments longer before it collapsed. Flaming arrows whizzed past him.

  A tidal wave of men, women, and children rushed toward him. The whites of their eyes told unspoken accounts of horrors.

  Henri struggled against the current of refugees. Human limbs and tree branches whipped across his face, but he barely noticed. Looking over the crowd, he could see the fortress, shrouded in smoke. Lake Thien Thu emptied into several streams that circled the palaces, forming a moat.

  He scanned the landscape for the western wing, where Xuan lived. But Prince Ánh’s palace was no longer there! At least, not in the way he remembered it.

  In the smoke-filled stream, he saw the inverted reflection of spurting flames. A portion of the stately hall had collapsed, and a hole was coughing up black smoke. He came to the shelf of land bordering the water and paused, taking a long, bewildered look at the scene across the moat. Several apartments in the eastern wing of King Due Tong’s palace were also on fire, including His Majesty’s throne room.

  The drums rolled, and the great bronze gongs inside the fortress brayed. The imperial soldiers formed ranks in a manicured garden behind the ruins, using what was left of the building’s bulk to protect themselves against further cannon attacks. Each troop of swordsmen, spearmen, and bowmen held up a banner to identify its unit. From the back of the fortress, soldiers mounted on warhorses surged over wooden drawbridges.

  “Dear God!” Henri exclaimed in disbelief.

  The women of the court were nowhere in sight.

  A man sprang over a block of stone and lunged into him. His mandarin uniform was tattered; his headdress had slipped over his head to embrace his neck; his eyes darted with fear.

  “Let me go,” he babbled, falling on his knees.

  Grabbing the front of the man’s tunic, Henri shouted, “What is happening?”

  The mandarin pulled against Henri’s grip
, but there was no strength in his struggle. A large patch of his scalp had been grated away. The skull was bright red and glistened with moisture. Over the man’s left ear, the loose skin dangled like a tousled hairpiece.

  “Big news!” he slurred. “The puppet king of Cochin China escaped the West Mountaineers’ prison and sought refuge here.”

  “What do you mean?” Henri asked. “King Due Tong is already here.”

  “No, ignorant foreigner, I am not talking about the true king,” the mandarin said with exasperation. “I am talking about Prince Hoàng, the puppet king appointed by our enemy. He has escaped from Hue Citadel, and the rebels are coming after him. They have surrounded us. Because of Hoàng, they will kill us all.”

  He broke free from Henri’s grasp and ran off.

  Henri thought quickly. There would be only one way to escape, by the river.

  He must find Xuan.

  When Pierre had been summoned by King Due Tong that morning, dawn washed the city in thin shafts of light. To his surprise, his palanquin joined the traffic of other conveyances belonging to members of the Nguyen family and their courtiers as they headed to the eastern wing entrance of the palace. The throne room was the only hall inside the Forbidden City that was open to mandarins of the first three tiers. The rest of the city—a series of apartments—formed a fortress, home of the king and his immediate family. For the king to hold this unexpected audience, Pierre realized something of importance must have happened.

  Pierre’s palanquin, borne on the shoulders of four imperial guards, moved through a sea of black iron mail and muskets. He could not count the troops, but their number had to be in the thousands. In spite of the confusion, the soldiers lined up at attention. Their broad, flat faces shone under sputtering torches.

  We are going to war, thought Pierre. It had been nearly three years since the bombardment of Hue City. The imperial troops had recuperated; they had trained and rearmed themselves with imported weapons. But were they ready?