by Kien Nguyen
“How do I find my passion?” retorted François. “By grinding beans?”
“This machine is a test,” replied the monk.
“Then show me again. I simply cannot pull the handle in the manner that you described.”
The monk moved closer to François and once again resumed his position in front of the quern. He fixed his eyes upon the monk’s movement. The scent of crushed soybeans rose again, accompanied by his gentle voice.
“You cannot do it,” said the master, “because you do not control your breathing correctly. Place your palms on the lever. Press your breath downward after you inhale and stretch your abdominal wall to hold it in. Use that energy to push the handle. When you exhale, keep your breath flowing evenly and slowly while you pull at the lever. Concentrate only on breathing in and out. The force will flow through your limbs more abundantly once you find the right path, and it will churn the machine without your labors. Work will become less work.”
François touched the monk’s arms as the mill again set into motion. In his hands, the muscles felt loose, just as when they were at rest. The room was silent except for the groan of the stones grinding together. It was a sound he would never forget—the sound of intense but effortless concentration. In that moment, he learned his first lesson in Buddhism.
It took him a year to complete the north wall of the temple. Master Chi Tam had asked him to depict the life of Prince SiddhOrtha before he ascended into enlightenment as the Buddha. Images of pain, old age, disease, and death had to be included. They were the reasons for SiddhOrtha’s quest for salvation to end humanity’s suffering.
François, too, was familiar with miseries. His interpretation of SiddhOrtha’s life was influenced by his own experiences—the part of his life that he had tried to escape. It guided his hands. His paintbrush swept across the wood, only to resurrect his past. The paint pigments stained his hands, and the stench of gum turpentine seeped into his clothing, but his memory was alive and ready to talk. For him, the temple became a sacred place. It stood apart in the city like a separate world, and he lived in its inner sanctum, projecting his memories onto its walls. Alone, scowling under the filtered sunlight, he examined every line, every brushstroke.
The first of the three major panels depicted The Death of a Prince. The second was The Portrait of an Impostor, who hid behind a mask. And the last one he called The Mirror of Self, when SiddhOrtha saw his reflection in a river. The four minor panels portrayed ill people dying from incurable diseases, emaciated children enduring the pain of famine, old women hiding in darkness, and the condemned kneeling before an executioner.
When it was time to construct the panels for the south wall, François sketched out a series of illustrations of the Buddha’s final trial—the attack of the satanic Lord of Passions, Mara, including his three sons, Flurry, Gaiety, and Sullen Pride, and his three daughters, Discontent, Delight, and Thirst. To ward off the temptations, SiddhOrtha engaged in purposeful meditation.
François was familiar with the practice of meditation because he had seen the monks engage in it. But he had no desire to sit with them on the cobblestone for hours under the sun. He discovered that when he painted, calm flowed through his veins. His hand, guiding the brush, executed the commands that floated in his mind. And he was unsure of which part of him—his spirit or his body—was responsible for bringing his art to life.
For the south wall, he created a painting of a jungle setting, with a beautiful pagoda under large trees with hanging tentacles. SiddhOrtha, not yet a Buddha, meditated by a quiet pond, dotted with pink water lilies. Fear, self-doubt, and lack of belief stirred the water into a gigantic tidal wave.
The main mural behind the altar was his greatest challenge, for it had to represent the cycle of life, birth, death, and rebirth that the Buddhists perceived as a wheel that never stopped turning. François painted as if he were turning the mill, and in the process, it occurred to him that he forgot everything he had learned, everything he had felt, and everything he had known. No longer tormented by his search for the existence of God, he became free of fear. He wondered if the peace he had discovered was similar to what the monks had described finding in their meditation.
Whatever this feeling was, he knew he must examine it further. Could it be that simple: that the way of the Buddha was to let go?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Saygun, 1784
Little Canh peeked from behind his mother. The garden was flooded with bright summer light. Birds were singing, but he couldn’t locate them. He spotted a few chicks pecking away near an overgrown hibiscus. But they looked too small and slow to have chirped out such a nice, fast tune.
“Où êtes-vous?” he shouted, mimicking Father Phan’s voice.
This day, according to Father Phan, was Canh’s sixth birthday. But his mother insisted that he was turning seven rather than six. All Annamite children are one year old when they come into the world. His mother, who knew and noticed all things but never seemed to be excited about anything, scolded him whenever he made a mistake about his age.
“Listen to Cha CA and Father Phan and learn their wisdom, but don’t forget who you are,” she would say, tapping his chest, and then adding in a whisper, “You are the son of a great Annamite. You cannot forget our ways.”
At times, when Canh asked her about his father, his mother would furrow her brow and search Canh’s face. Her look of longing always made him sad. “Waiting and solitude are the two curses of being a woman who is married to a great man,” she would say.
Canh’s father’s name had never been uttered, not even in the privacy of the Buddhist cell where they resided. From the portraits of his mother he had found in Father Phan’s sketchbook among the other drawings of kings, queens, mandarins, concubines, and elders of the court, he knew she had once been majestic and beautiful in her ceremonial gown. After Canh was born, his mother shaved her head and assumed the gray uniform of the Buddhist nuns, the same as Auntie Lan and Auntie Bao. The three women lived together in a small room behind the kitchen area, isolated from everyone, even the monks. Canh was their only link to the outside world, and that, he believed, was the reason they always reprimanded him.
“Speak to us in our own language,” said his mother. “Don’t use that foreign tongue. And remember, we don’t celebrate birthdays. It’s the custom of the West. You are a Christian only with your teachers. When you’re with us, we pray to our Lord Buddha. Your father would want it that way.”
But the Lord Buddhas he knew best were the wall paintings created by Father Phan. They were either mounted between the red-lacquered columns of the temple, or lay scattered around the main worship room, where the Buddhist monks came to pray each day. The Buddhas’ faces resembled no one in the citadel. Their shellacked surfaces had been polished to a high gloss; incense smoke clouded their pale eyes.
For as long as Canh could remember, he had spent his mornings and afternoons helping Father Phan with his work. To the little boy, the priest’s workshop, a small room behind the main altar, was a world filled with playthings and wonders. A door led into a wooden compartment shaped like a ship, and in the center stood a sea monster petrified into a pose, biting in its jaws a wood panel. Father Phan called it an easel.
In the workshop, Canh discovered how much fun it was to make paint out of food. Father Phan allowed him to taste certain things. His favorite color was edible yellow, made from cheese, egg yolks, flour, and milk and mixed into a liquid paste. The rancid stench of cheese would remain on his fingers, like the smell of fermented tofu on his mother when she was cooking.
Captain Petijean, whose copper beard and fuzzy hair were the stolen features of an old woolly lion, brought the paint ingredients to Father Phan from a far-off land he called France. The first time Canh saw the captain, he was frightened. But the crusty seaman’s stories of pirates, buried treasures, mermaids, giant sea monsters, and damsels in distress quickly won the boy over. He grew attached to the captain and looked forward to
his visits.
Sometimes Captain Petijean came only to see Cha CA, who could never leave his Christian sanctuary. A long chain, attached to an iron collar, tethered him to a pillar. It rattled each time he moved. When Cha CA met with his guest, Canh wasn’t allowed to disturb them. He was told to sit and guard the entrance until the meeting was over, whereupon the captain would rub his coarse beard across his belly and make him laugh.
Every Sunday, Canh helped Father Phan to hold Mass in the Christian temple. It was the only time the church was open to worshippers. After Mass, two or three mandarins would remain for the catechism. Father Phan complained that he could not understand why so many attended church yet so few would stay for his lectures. Perhaps the citadel’s residents came because they were curious to see the imprisoned bishop, who sat in a chair near the altar throughout the service. At his sides stood two imperial sentries at attention. After receiving Holy Communion, Cha CA crossed himself and retreated to his room. The chain did not allow his door to shut fully. As soon as he left, so did the public.
In the kitchen, the scent of puffed rice and crushed sugarcane made everything smell delicious. His mother sat on a wooden stool next to a stove. Her naked head, a shade darker than her skin, looked as if it was sprinkled with sand. She stacked the streaming rice cakes on a dish. Specks of rice coated the sugarcane syrup, golden like drops of honey. He licked his lips.
“Má, I thought we don’t celebrate birthdays,” Canh said, reaching for the treats.
His mother narrowed her eyes and wiggled a finger at him. She dressed him in a new white jacket that had little bronze studs for buttons.
Her voice was guarded. “This shirt contains a secret.”
To demonstrate, she pulled back the inside of his left sleeve to reveal an embroidered green dragon, and in his right, the image of Saygun Citadel’s gateway. As he paid close attention, she took his left hand and slid it into his right sleeve.
“Watch this! Can you see the dragon entering into the citadel?”
“Why?”
“He is coming home. But you mustn’t share this story with anyone, because a jacket like this is only made for a prince.”
“Am I a prince, Má?” he asked her.
She pulled the sleeves down to hide the embroidered symbols. “Don’t ask silly questions. Eat your rice cakes, and I am going to ask a favor of you.” She winked.
His nose wrinkled. He knew immediately what she meant. “No, not that favor, please. Don’t make me!”
She handed him a pair of tweezers and unbuttoned her blouse. It was her way of asking him to pluck the hair in her underarms. He threw the tool down.
“No, Má.”
She laughed. “Very well, go help Father Phan. He has been looking for you. Remember, he is painting all the Buddhas for the monks in exchange for our refuge. You are a little man. Pay your respect to the good father by lending him a hand.”
“Can I show him the dragon in my coat?”
“No,” she replied curtly. “Show it to no one.”
In the hallway, the singing bird returned, as if calling for him. It fluttered from room to room. His mother returned her attention to the stove. Canh ran to the front courtyard and approached the main temple. His bare toes curled from the coolness of the tiled floor. Above an array of brushes, paints, pots, and dirty rags, he saw a painting near completion. The face of Buddha, very round, adorned with an unfinished halo in charcoal outlines, seemed to be drowsing. His eyes were blue and sunken, hair curled in smooth rolls that were raised from the wooden surface. Behind the main altar, the bird’s tweeting seemed to be coming from inside Father Phan’s workshop.
He entered, leaving the door ajar. From the opposite wall, just beneath the ceiling, light flowed through several round openings and lit the room in an amber hue. The unfamiliar objects scattered about caught his attention. Breathless with the thrill of intruding, he rummaged through books, papers, and wooden models, until he came to a bookcase. On its lowest shelf, hidden under a stack of manuscripts, was a leather carrying case. Sketches protruded from within its covers. Canh wondered if his mother’s portraits were inside.
He pressed his face against the scratchy spines of the books, inhaling the damp, moldy leather. The tips of his fingers caressed the sketchbook, and after a few tugs, he pulled loose some sheets of paper. He fumbled through the drawings, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Images of a foreign woman stared back at him. In almost every pose, she was naked. Her eyes were a watery blue, and her hair, clouds of chestnut. In one picture, she was holding a loaf of bread. In another, she was staring out a window, wrapped in a white sheet. He studied the figures intently, unable to stop his feet from shifting back and forth. The unseen bird chirped above him, making him jump. Father Phan slowly filled his vision.
Without thinking, he dropped the drawings and ran toward the door.
The priest caught him in his arms. “It’s all right,” he said. “Don’t be scared. You’ve done nothing wrong.” His hand held Canh’s jaw, tilting his head. “Look!”
On the easel, something was hidden under a white cloth. Father Phan lifted him up and brought him closer to the covering.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Pull it off.”
Canh obeyed. As the cotton sheet fell to the floor, he laughed in surprise. Father Phan had painted his face on a tiger’s body. He whistled, and Little Canh laughed louder. The child recognized the familiar tune of the mysterious bird. His hand pressed against the priest’s lips to touch the music, which blew in between his fingers like the wind.
“Happy birthday, little Canh,” said Father Phan, giving him an affectionate squeeze.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Pierre unlocked the doors and ventured as far as the chain would allow. Closing his eyes, he greeted the morning sun. His body was bathed in the sparkling warmth that came from above. “Dear God,” he whispered, addressing the divine force that governed his life, the reason for all existence.
The doors creaked on their hinges. He heard footsteps and a dog’s barking mingled with the incessant, repetitive chant of the Buddhist monks. The usual noise, which hung over Pierre’s quarters like a constant droning of rain, was growing louder in recent days. It seemed the Kien Tao monks were preparing their temple for a special occasion.
Annam was still going through its revolution. But his role in the war was now insignificant. His dream of putting Ánh on the throne seemed hopeless. However, he foresaw the future in the prince’s son. Little Canh was the last heir—the spark that proved some hope was still burning.
For almost a decade, he had supported the Nguyen family. In doing so, he had severed all ties with other factions. Would the boy provide the fulfillment of his mission? Every day, watching Canh grow, Pierre asked God the same question.
Because of his connections with the Nguyen monarchy, the Mountaineers regarded Pierre as a threat. They would have executed him but were intimidated by his title and influence with the foreign power. Prince Thom of the peasants had issued an edict ordering the bishop to leave Annam and withdraw to India. Fortunately for Pierre, François had persuaded the rebel prince to change his mind. Remaining under house arrest in Saygun was the only way for him to advance his plan without alarming the authorities.
The bishop kicked a dead leaf from the doorstep. Now was the time for action. The little prince was old enough for sea travel. Pierre would take Canh to Versailles, where the boy would help him plead his case to Louis XVI. According to Captain Petijean, Prince Ánh, although weak in forces, seemed to be building support among the Annamites. The fact that the Mountaineers could not kill him had made him a living legend. It was now up to Pierre to bring France into the war against the rebels. Would he be able to persuade the French king to invest in this little kingdom? His biggest obstacle was America, which had been draining France’s resources to fight the British. All he had was the innocence of little Canh and his justifiable cause. The rest was in God’s hands.
He touched his ir
on collar, overcome with fatigue. His next step was to escape this prison. But how? Many a time he had asked François to get a pardon from the rebels, but his appeal always met with refusal. He felt that the priest did not try hard enough. He also noticed that after each time he requested help, François’s visits became less frequent.
Through the thick foliage, the golden sun glared. A gong resounded from Kien Tao Temple. In the clearing outside the pagoda, where the monks met in meditation, Pierre saw François, sitting in repose. His dark peasant clothing stood out among the sea of orange robes.
Instead of anger, a smile came to his face. The silly priest had just given him an idea about how to get out of his predicament.
François mounted the steps of the church. As usual, Little Canh was by his side. Through the open doors, he saw the bishop reclining in his chair. De Béhaine lifted his head, which had become so bald that it gleamed like shellac on a wooden floor. A red cross was embroidered on the left side of his black robe, and curled in his arms was a calico kitten, white with yellow and black patches. He squinted and watched François.
“You look well rested,” de Béhaine commented, stroking his pet.
François beamed. “I just completed all the artwork for the Kien Tao Temple.”
“Indeed? I thought you had found a new way to sleep while sitting among those heathen fools.”
François ignored the barb. “I finished my last painting just in time for Prince Thom’s wedding,” he went on.
The bishop’s eyebrows arched. “Interesting! What number wife is this? I thought the prince of the poor didn’t believe in personal festivities.” He turned to Canh, studying him through his half-shut eyes.
“It is His Highness’s first marriage,” said François. “The bride is Princess Jade Han, youngest daughter of the north king.”
