Le Colonial

by Kien Nguyen

  “I can’t watch,” whimpered Xuan.

  The prince could not help but chuckle. “Fool! If he thinks I am going to do that, he is mad.”

  Henri came to the end of the marsh, a flat expanse of dry, cracked mud strewn with clumps of grass and rocks. He looked back. The crocodiles were crowding around the boat. One of them raised itself off the ground. Its head was an inch above the vessel, its mouth open. Clear eyes, cone-shaped teeth, and powerful jaws were the weapons it brandished with deadly patience. The prince sat in the hull, holding Xuan in his good arm. She buried her face in her hands. The two of them seemed lost among the creatures, many more than four feet in length.

  Ánh stared at Henri, his hand clutching a dagger. Behind him, the water was thick with floating reptiles, brown under an intermittent sun. The boat swayed.

  “Do not fear, Your Highness,” Henri said, breaking off a tree branch.

  With a shout, he thrashed his crude weapon and walked toward the boat. The leaves made a rattling noise, and the crocodiles dispersed. He stopped, realizing in amazement that these swamp creatures could be frightened easily by sudden noises. After a few more thrusts, a path was clear. The prince, with the help of Xuan, got off the boat. Together they ran to dry land.

  “Twice you have come back to save us,” said Ánh, out of breath. “Why?”

  “Hush!” whispered Henri. “I think I hear a voice.”

  The runaways hid behind a clump of bamboo. The voices seemed to be getting nearer. The strangers spoke to one another in a low and cautious tone. Henri strained to listen.

  “I swear I heard someone,” said a male voice. “The scream came from this direction.”

  “Are you sure it was human?” asked a second voice. “It could have been an animal.”

  The first man replied with conviction, “What I heard was no animal. It was a human voice.”

  “Very well, let’s search for it.”

  They separated. Footsteps shuffled across the ground. Soon, Henri realized, it would be impossible for them to hide. He looked at Xuan and the prince, asking permission with his eyes. Ánh nodded. Together they jumped into the trail. The prince jabbed his knife at the air.

  “Stop,” he yelled. “One more step and I will use it.”

  The men stood still. There were four of them, armed with spears and bows. Their peasant clothing suggested that they were hunters, not soldiers. It occurred to Henri that they could be West Mountaineers.

  One of the hunters, dressed only in a loincloth and carrying a quiver of arrows on his back, pointed his bow at the prince. Most of his skin was covered in scars and blue tattoos of ancient symbols. “Look at the middle one and his silk robe,” he said. “He must be the dragon prince that we are looking for.”

  “Prince Ánh?” asked another, scratching his high cheekbone with his spear.

  “Be careful, he could be one of the decoys,” added the third, the oldest of the four. His whiskers were gray and sparse.

  “One thing we know for certain,” said the last man, laughing grimly. His authoritative nature gave Henri the impression that he was the leader. “If we find the royal seal on him, he must be the true prince. Seize the seal and capture him alive, and we will bring great fortune to our village. The citizens of Ben Song will be exempted from taxes for at least three years.”

  The hunters spread, blocking the path. There was no escape, except to return to the river.

  Henri whispered to the prince, “We still have the boat, Your Highness. We can get away.”

  They turned and ran toward the shore. But Henri’s hope was quickly dashed. The boat was gone. In their hurry, they had not thought to secure it. The current had carried it away. Henri ran alongside his companions, realizing that they, like him, were in deep despair. The captors were behind them, watching and laughing at their consternation.

  On the bed of mud, the crocodiles scattered as they sensed the approaching footsteps. A few bold ones snapped at the intruders, but they, too, withdrew after the initial show of aggression. Xuan plunged into the water, followed by Henri.

  He shouted, “The water is shallow. We can make it to the other side, Your Highness.”

  His words proved false as he stepped into a deeper part of the stream. Henri swam. Xuan paddled beside him. He could feel movement in the water. The reptiles’ rough hides lurked beneath the leaf-strewn surface, hidden among the reeds. Despite their passive behavior on land, in the water they became bold at the sight of the runaways.

  Luckily, they did not have to swim far. Land was just a few feet away. Xuan stopped abruptly and made a headlong turnaround.

  “What are you doing?” Henri shouted. He had to protect her at all costs.

  She gathered her strength to reply, “His Highness can’t swim. I cannot abandon him.”

  He grabbed her shirt. “It’s too late to turn back. You’ll never make it.”

  She struggled against him. “Let me go!” she shouted. “He is my husband.”

  Henri refused to release her. “They will not kill him,” he said. “We can do more alive than dead.”

  She wept but stopped resisting. With fading strength, they reached the opposite bank, only to find that it, too, was infested with crocodiles.

  “I am sorry, I am sorry,” she kept chanting in a breathless voice. “Your Highness, I never should have left you.”

  Tears mixed with mud rolled down her cheeks. Henri took her by the hand and ran to a clearing, away from danger.

  Across the stream, the prince knelt among the reptiles. Behind him stood the hunters. He raised his hands toward the heavens.

  His voice was choked with emotion as he spoke. “Dear ancestors, why must you torment me this way? Am I not the true king? Is my blood not noble? Show me your will. If you want the Nguyens’ bloodline to become extinct, let the swamp creatures devour my body. I would rather die in the jaws of these beasts than at the filthy hands of the traitors of Ben Song Village.”

  The laughter drained from the hunters’ faces.

  Ánh pressed his hands on the mud and bowed his head three times, giving reverence to his ancestors. Then he rose to his feet. Grabbing the branch that Henri had dropped, he swept a path in front of him. As he reached the water’s edge, he stepped on what appeared to be the back of a large crocodile. Xuan screamed. Henri watched in horror. He could not fathom that the prince was about to come to such a bitter end, nor could he bear to witness it. Yet he was unable to look away. The animals made no attempt to snap at Ánh.

  The tattooed hunter pulled back his bowstring, aiming. But the chieftain placed his hand on the man’s arm. “Stop! We have seen a miracle. Be careful. You must not offend the gods,” he said, and fell to his knees.

  As the prince walked across the stream, Henri realized that what they all thought to be the crocodile’s back underneath Ánh’s feet was actually the bottom of the upturned boat. When the vessel floated away, it must have been flipped over by the current or the creatures of the swamp. The hem of Ánh’s ornate robe glided on the water’s surface, giving the illusion that he was riding a dark-skinned reptile. Henri ran to the bank of the stream to help the prince to land.

  The boat slipped deeper into the water.

  On the other side, the rebels remained kneeling with bowed heads. “Forgive us,” they begged. “We were so blind that we could not recognize the true king.”

  Ánh turned to the hunters and pointed a finger at them.

  “Today you have seen proof that heaven is on my side,” he said. “No human can ever take my life. Tell the others, who will tell their children, and their children’s children, how the gods protect the rightful king.”

  He staggered and collapsed into Xuan’s outstretched arms. Henri looked away.

  PART FOUR

  Salvation

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Saygun, 1782

  For four years, François’s refuge was the Kien Tao Temple, a Buddhist monastery opposite the Christian church. The three women of Prince Ánh
’s household had shaved their heads and joined the Buddhist nunnery in order to evade the rebels’ swords. Because of his ties with the royal family, the bishop had been imprisoned in the same pagoda where he had once held the Christian services—a duty now performed by François.

  To fulfill his promise to protect the women, François had remained in the monastery with them. As a way to earn his place in the community, he had undertaken the task of renovating the interior of the great worship hall. By enhancing the beauty of the temple while preaching in his church, he hoped to promote harmony between the Buddhists and the Christians.

  His plan was to create one large mural that would be the setting of the main altar. The north and south walls would each have three major paintings, accompanied by smaller side panels—altogether fifteen paintings, each twelve feet high. An enormous undertaking! François never dreamed he would be able to complete the work, but he threw himself into it. The project was a good way to forget himself while being exposed to the native religion.

  Peace had settled over the citadel, but in the distance, skirmishes still erupted between Prince Ánh’s forces and the Mountaineers. Outnumbered and supported by a handful of loyalists, Ánh’s army took on the role of bandits. But on everyone’s lips was the miracle of the crocodile, being told and retold, gaining embellishment with each version. By the time the story reached François’s ears, it was said that wild beasts of all kinds had been following the prince on his travels, ready to sacrifice their lives to fulfill his destiny.

  With each battle that he lost, Ánh always managed to escape unscathed. No bounty the rebel government could offer seemed high enough for anyone to claim the prince’s life. Even the Mountaineers believed that the divine forces of heaven were protecting their enemy.

  For François, the more news he heard about Ánh, the more he was reminded of his own ties to the prince and the royal cause. He had once helped save Ánh’s life on a road outside Hue City. Now, he was guarding his three wives and a child. Though he believed in the peasants’ government, he had twice betrayed them. Try as he might, he could not reconcile his conflicting loyalties.

  In the temple where he lived, the monks were simple and innocent. Never did they attempt to convert him from Christianity. But since the principles and history of Buddhism were the essential themes of his work, he felt obligated to examine the Eastern doctrines. Their teaching created new dilemmas within his mind. Catholicism, as he knew it, was a strictly traditional dogma that would not accept any deviation, while Buddhism was less like the uncivilized culture he once thought it to be. He floundered, seeking some common ground between the two faiths.

  With the help of the monks, François constructed scaffolds out of bamboo poles and easels to hold the wooden panels. Every day for two years they had mixed large vats of foundation paint to seal the wood and keep it from cracking. Ánh’s wives, now Buddhist nuns, assumed the duties of the kitchen help. Lady Jade Bình was eighteen and looked twice her age. Her only source of happiness was her son.

  The little boy’s head was now covered in a thick layer of prickly hair. His mother named him Canh—a word that could either mean landscape or vigilance. She hoped for the latter. While François worked, the child played nearby. His mother hid behind a partition beside the main altar and spied on them. She was unaware that her silhouette was visible on the screen, nodding like a shadow puppet. Assuming the role of his old teacher, Father Dominique, François taught Canh how to hold the paintbrush.

  “No,” screamed the boy, tossing the tool away.

  The mother laughed. She saw the defiance in her son’s eyes, and she was pleased.

  At night, François dreamed of Villaume and the impending duel. He hated the image of himself waiting. The old fear returned, transparent and gnawing. Annam seemed an elaborate fantasy.

  One night, he woke, gasped, and raised himself on one elbow. In the milky darkness, the mosquito net covering his bed shrouded his vision. Lost and frightened, he listened to the night. Out in the great hall, something or someone moved in a quiet rustle.

  François wound up a kerosene lamp to create a burst of light and walked through the doorway leading to the altar. The unmistakable shadow of the Buddhist head monk, Master Chi Tam, with his shaved head and thin neck, stretched upon a wall. An orange robe, faded and tattered at the hem, was draped over one of his shoulders. He was moving from one canvas to another, turning his head this way and that to inspect François’s paintings. François was surprised. Master Chi Tam was a devoted truth seeker. He rarely ventured outside his room; his days were mostly spent in meditation.

  There was nothing the artist was ready to show. The images were still in their early stage of formation. Only here and there would a face shake itself free of the canvas’s constraints, coming to life.

  “A true artist must practice his art with effortless strength,” remarked the monk without looking at François. His voice was soft yet full of criticism. “Your brushstroke is indecisive. How can you express what you feel?”

  François dug the ground with the tip of his sandal. He noticed the old man’s ears, thin and wrinkled and engorged with veins, like tree fungus.

  “I assure you, thMy, that I possess both endurance and strength. For six years, I have been working without interruption. My technique and education will create a beautiful setting for your temple.” His eyes surveyed the dark hall. “Look around you. The pagoda is filthy and badly kept. Nothing has been done for at least a century.”

  He pointed at the altar, where the sandstone Buddha sat. It was damaged by rainwater from a leaky roof. Half of its face had been washed away. A nest of sparrows sat on the right hollow of the Buddha’s shoulder. The monks’ crude attempts to mend the flaking paint with a patchwork of new pigments had worsened its condition.

  “Still,” replied Chi Tam, “a concept may take you four years to formulate. But its execution should never take that long.”

  The headmaster turned toward the entrance. He motioned with his hand, expecting François to follow. The priest was perplexed, but obliged.

  He followed Chi Tam through the great hall and into the kitchen. His footsteps cracked the tranquillity of the room. Ahead, the monk glided gracefully in spite of his age. His saffron-colored cassock absorbed the darkness like an artist’s sponge.

  In the middle of the kitchen sat a hand-operated rotary quern that the monks used to grind cereals. Two lay brothers were working through the night crushing soybeans to make milk. The mill was composed of two heavy circular stones, one placed flat on top of the other, with a small space in between. A pivot was built in the center. As the handle churned, the upper stone slid on the working surface of the bed stone so the beans could be mashed at a steady rate. A stream of white liquid poured through a groove into a container below, amid the loud popping groans of the soy kernels.

  Chi Tam tapped on the novices’ shoulders, and they stopped.

  “It is late,” he said. “You must rest. This can wait ’til tomorrow morning.”

  The lay brothers bowed their heads and departed the kitchen, leaving the two men alone. François touched the soy milk, examining its velvety texture between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Why are we here?” François asked.

  “This mechanism produces milk to make tofu,” replied Chi Tam. “That is our main diet, the food that preserves a sound mind.”

  Taking the handle, he planted his right foot forward, assuming a sturdy stance. Then he pulled the handle back and forth, working the machine. His movements produced a loud cracking noise as the stones moved. A deeper sound rose from inside the quern. The massive wheel spun, slowly at first. Soon it gained speed to become a blur. François was amazed to watch the old man maneuvering such a heavy machine. He made it look not only graceful, but effortless. François listened to the drone, entranced. Through a window, the moon shone weakly, and the headmaster, bathed in its light, seemed to levitate. He peered at François, his dark eyes alive with energy. The mill came to a
slow halt.

  “Now, you do the same,” he said. “Show me your endurance. But remember, grinding cereals does not require your muscular strength. It takes spiritual force to make the wheel turn.”

  Following his instructions, François mimicked the master’s stance. He realized right away that it took considerable force to rotate the wheel. The handle he held reached his chest level, and he found he could rest his weight on it to push. But as soon as the mill proceeded to make a half turn, he had to pull it toward him to complete the cycle. Ultimately, he had to push and pull with all his might to keep it rolling. The moonlight was in his eyes. The work caused his arms to tremble after about fifteen minutes, and his breathing became labored. At last, he collapsed against the stone’s cold surface, sweating.

  “There must be a trick,” he gasped. “You are withholding some secret from me.”

  The monk chuckled, adding fuel to François’s frustration.

  “ThMy Chi Tam, I am not here to grind soybeans for you,” he said indignantly. “I am a painter, and I am restoring your temple with my labor and skills. If you are not happy with my work, just tell me so.”

  The old man wrinkled his forehead. “Forgive me, foreign man,” he said, waving his hands. “You have misunderstood my intention. You speak Annamese well. There is no doubt that you have great respect for our religion and culture. But to renovate the worship hall requires a great deal of work, endurance, patience, and, most important, passion. You seem to lack the control of your energy. Without the heart, it would take you many years just to do mediocre work. Your painting would suffocate before it was even born.”