Le Colonial

by Kien Nguyen

  De Béhaine reacted to the gossip with a grin of cynicism. “Little Canh’s auntie is marrying the rebel leader. The boy’s enemy is now his in-law. What irony!”

  Canh inched away from François, curiously inspecting the hall. He ran from one Buddha statue to another, looking at them, then at the bishop. “What happened to the Buddhas’ faces?” he asked, pointing at the disfigured heads.

  “I smashed them, using a mallet,” replied the bishop.

  Noticing the damage, François sprang to the front doors and slammed them shut. “Why?” he cried out in dismay.

  “I was driven mad.”

  “Your Excellency, when the Annamites see what you did to their statues, they will stone you. Bishop or no bishop.”

  “Precisely. That is why you must help me get away before they all come to Mass this Sunday.”

  A fury came over François. He understood that the bishop’s act was deliberate and calculated; he had done it to manipulate him. His rage was also the exact reaction the bishop had expected, because in a fit of anger, François would be likely to rid himself of the bishop’s bothersome presence.

  He shook his head sadly. “If you wanted my help, couldn’t you just ask?”

  “Father François, I’m aware that I’ve lost you to the heathens. Many times I’ve asked you, but you either refused or did nothing.”

  “But to destroy such beauty. Your Excellency, some of these statues are over a thousand years old.”

  The bishop roared, “All the more reason to see them gone.”

  Canh returned to the two men. His eyes rested on the pet in de Béhaine’s lap. The kitten and the boy were drawn to each other with obvious mutual fascination.

  “Today is your birthday, no?” the bishop asked.

  The boy nodded.

  “I remember the day you were born. You were as frail and helpless as this little cat. Now look how you have grown. Soon you will be ready to go into the world. Do you want to travel the world on a big ship?”

  Again the boy nodded.

  He lifted the kitten. “Do you want to hold her?”

  The boy approached the animal cautiously with his arms open.

  “This cat is my present to you,” said the bishop, patting Canh’s head.

  He turned to François, and his voice shed its enthusiasm. “Will you help me? This will be the last time I’ll ask you. It’s not my will. It’s God’s will.”

  François reached for little Canh’s hand. “Let’s go,” he said to the boy. “Your mother is waiting.”

  “Please,” implored the bishop. “Don’t forget you’re a priest. And I am still your superior.”

  François drew a deep breath. “Your Excellency, I have learned to forgo all my burdens. So should you. There is nothing more I can do for you. You’ll have to face the consequences of your actions.”

  As he was leaving, de Béhaine called out, “Vicomte, remember your shame.”

  His words made François halt.

  “Come with me to Villaume,” said the bishop. His voice was silken. “All these years in Annam, you have proven yourself with strength, good deeds, and valor. No one can condemn you for your past errors and lack of courage. It is time to confront your foes and reclaim what is rightfully yours—your title, your name, your fortune. With God on your side, and with my efforts as Bishop of Madras on your behalf, Vicomte de Charney, I assure you, your honor will be restored.”

  François took a step.

  The bishop continued, “You are just thirty-three years old. Don’t walk in the shadow of shame for the rest of your life.”

  François turned and stared into the cold amber of the bishop’s eyes. “Your Excellency, I thank you for your generosity. The vicomte you’ve talked about is dead. Any shame he might have had, he took to his grave.”

  “Liar!” shouted the bishop with full venom. “How can you be so blind? You are the same as the day I met you, a weak-minded coward.”

  François walked down the steps without looking back. The label “coward” had lost its sting.

  The bishop’s voice followed him. “With or without your help, I will get myself out of this place.”

  Two days later, François saw the bright sun outside and decided to make Canh wear a straw hat. Such a funny sight, the boy’s body—too small for the wide-rimmed domed cap—scurried about like a mushroom with feet. An elfin pouch, strapped across his chest, held his kitten.

  Canh had not let the cat out of his sight since the bishop had given her to him. His mother and Ánh’s other two wives were nowhere to be seen. Lady Jade Bình had left Canh in François’s care before, but never for more than a day. No one, not even the Buddhist monks, seemed to know their whereabouts. The priest found Lady Bình’s behavior unusual and oddly disturbing. He wondered if it had something to do with her sister’s celebration with Prince Thom, since today was their big event. To distract Canh from missing his mother, he decided to take the boy along for the experience of a royal wedding.

  They walked together. François rolled up his trousers past his knees, a pair of leather sandals protecting his feet from the hot sand. At times, he would carry Canh. But the boy, full of energy and curiosity, wanted to wander off by himself.

  Across from the temple and separated by an open field was the West Wing Palace, which once had belonged to Prince Ánh. The new owner and occupant was Prince Thom. Behind the palace lay the orchid garden. To get to the wedding site, they had to cross through this landscaped park, home of many exotic flowers and rare species of birds and insects.

  François kept Canh near him for fear the boy might run off into the woods. But Canh was determined to walk. His will was strong, but not his feet, partly because of the rising heat, and partly because of the road, uneven and bursting with roots. Leafless branches reached out and scratched the boy. On either side of the path, orchids of many varieties, thriving on the decaying bark, nestled in the hollows of trees. Billows of yellow pollen swam in shafts of sunlight. The air was heavy with perfume and the buzzing of bees.

  They were not alone. The deeper they went in the forest, the more clearly they could hear murmurs of young girls singing. Beyond the orchid garden, past the stands of trees, were green fields laden with peonies, hyacinths, lilies, sunflowers, and deep-colored dahlias. Beyond them were beds of roses, bordering the outer walls of the stables, home of Lady Bui and her mammoth elephants.

  The maidens moved from flower to flower, fluttering their rainbow dresses above the greenery as they sang a love song.

  I do all the housework;

  I weave a bale of silk;

  I prepare the inkstand and the writing brushes, leave my heart open to entice the right man.

  A studious husband he has to be;

  Pray the gods my hard labors will be repaid.

  He shall pass the examination given by the king,

  And a mandarin’s wife someday I will be.

  They paused from their work to wave at Canh and François. Their fingers were dusted with gold specks. François waved back.

  He picked a white lily and showed it to Canh. Deep in the funnel of the flower, its pistils were coated with golden powder like the maidens’ hands. Dusting gold into the flowers was an ancient method of making candles for the royal household, which he had had an opportunity to see once before.

  “Look how the pollen mixes with the gold dust,” he explained to the boy. “It is ready for the bees to collect. The wax will then be made into candles to serve the king. When the candles burn, the flames will make the gold sparkle.”

  Somewhere in the field, a voice sang out:

  Heave ho, little brother, where are you going without a mother?

  Come here and introduce your handsome father to this nice lady.

  The maidens giggled. François blushed. He took Canh’s hand and made a dash toward Lake Thien Thu, northeast of the king’s palace. The laughter followed them to the end of the road.

  Little Canh sniffed the white lily he was holding. The go
ld dust coated his nose. He hugged his cat, looked up at François, and giggled.

  The priest laughed. His worries for the bishop were, for the moment, forgotten.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Princess Jade Han’s caravan, two and a half months into its journey, approached Saygun City, not by road, but through a network of rivers and streams. When François and little Canh arrived at Lake Thien Thu, a crowd had gathered along the shore, anticipating the bride’s entrance. Thick forest covered the opposite shore. They could see trees half submerged in water, their trunks gripping the earth with powerful roots. The sun reflected off the foliage, making it a piercing green.

  Far in the distance, a labyrinth of canals emptied into the lake. Murky waves rolled over large blocks and boulders. Horses and water buffalos dotted the landscape. The silhouettes of peasants, small and black, tended their herds, oblivious to the ceremony that was about to take place.

  The bridal procession, a flotilla of thirty bright-colored boats, appeared through the haze. Each sported a dozen pairs of bamboo oars, stroking in unison like the long legs of a centipede. The spectators cheered at the sight.

  François had not been standing in the crowd long before he noticed Lady Bui. She waved to him. Beneath her straw hat, beads of sweat dappled her tanned skin. A row of freckles was scattered across her cheeks like roasted sesame seeds. Her lips were outlined with the ruby stain of betel sap. She was thin, but her aura of power made her noticeable among those who stood near her. François bowed and withdrew into the multitude. It was his duty to keep Prince Ánh’s son out of harm’s way.

  The woman warrior inched her way through the wall of bodies, her eyes darting as she searched for him. She spotted François, pushed past a group of mandarins, and grasped his shirt, pulling him toward her. François mumbled an embarrassed apology to those nearby.

  “Father Phan, it’s been a long time since we last met,” she said. “How are you? I’ve heard that you restored Kien Tao Temple, and I wanted to come by and see it. But the elephants keep me busy.” Noticing Canh, she added, “Who is this boy? Is he your son?”

  The child hid behind his legs.

  Ignoring her questions, François said, “How are you, madame? You seem full of vigor, as always.”

  The woman sighed and stretched until her backbones cracked in a loud sequence. She shrugged. “I trained a group of elephants to perform for today’s event. The beasts were just captured, wild, last year. To break them in took a lot of hard work. Just two weeks ago, one of my men was stomped to death.” She tugged at his sleeve. “Come with me. We can see everything from the higher ground.”

  She pointed to a ledge at the first drop of a waterfall. It was already teeming with guests. Above them were King NhCc and his family. The stream descended from crag to crag to glide through the dense jungle, screening the rebel leaders from the prying eyes of the spectators.

  François shook his head, looking for an excuse to decline her offer. But in her insistence she did not notice. He lifted Canh with one arm. The boy curled up and rested on his shoulder. He climbed an uneven path, keeping a few paces behind the female warrior.

  They passed through a cave until they came to an opening where a thin sheet of falling water created a cool, crisp environment. No one paid any heed to François, Canh, or Lady Bui. All attention was riveted on the action on the lake twenty feet below. The lady pushed her way through the guests. François looked for Prince Thom. He could see dark shadows mounted on horseback, waiting for the procession of boats.

  On the shore stood a small docking area. A dozen thick bamboo poles were planted into the water and supported a canopy, created to look like a pagoda. Under its roof, large metal rings were lashed to the poles. Thick, linked chains threaded through them, connected by a series of pulleys. The design marked the entrance where the bridal convoy would disembark.

  Lady Bui whispered in his ear, “This marriage is a union between the two great kingdoms. Many who have met the bride tell me that she is very beautiful and intelligent, unlike her disgraced sister, the wife of that dog Nguyen Ánh.”

  “So I hear,” replied François.

  “Do you want some refreshment?” asked the lady. “I’ll tell my son-in-law to bring a coconut for you.” She looked down and yelled toward a thatched hut near the water. “LGc, come here.”

  Her exuberance wore on François’s nerves. He struggled for calm. Lady Bui turned her attention to Canh, studying him through her wary eyes.

  Touching the boy’s clothes, she wrinkled her nose and asked him, “Who the devil are you to have such nice silk for a jacket?”

  The boy pressed closer to François. His hands, wrapped around the priest’s neck, slid together inside his sleeves.

  “He is my apprentice,” said François. “I am teaching him how to paint.”

  Lady Bui did not seem to listen to him. She peered down at the lake with visible impatience and shouted, “LGc, where are you?”

  A young man, about twenty, emerged, out of breath. In his hand he held a tray of ripe coconuts, open at the top. He broke into a smile when he recognized the priest.

  “Father Phan,” he cried happily. “Is that really you?”

  François nodded.

  LGc’s smile widened. The tip of his forefinger tapped his front teeth. “Look, still a perfect fit. I’ve been so happy ever since you carved these ivory teeth for me.”

  “You don’t come to Mass anymore,” said François.

  LGc ran a hand through his short, black hair. “I am married, Father. I have two children to look after. No time.”

  “Bring your family with you. It only takes an hour on Sunday.”

  “I’ll see to it that he will come to Mass,” interrupted the female warrior. She grabbed the drinks and said to LGc, “Go back to your post. See if Prince Thom needs your help.”

  The young man disappeared through the cave. Lady Bui handed François and the little boy two coconuts.

  “Drink this,” she said. “This variety of coconut originated in Thailand. It’s smaller but sweeter.”

  On the shore, a clamor exploded. The boats were entering the lake. The first vessel, also the largest, long and flat like a barge, led the fleet. At its bow glared the carved head of a phoenix. From the bird’s crown soared colorful streamers. Twelve oarsmen in red uniforms held their stations on each side of the boat. At the center stood an elaborate cabin, the princess’s sanctuary to conceal her from public view. On the deck sat an orchestra of musicians, all dressed in gold and silver. Their instruments ranged from reeds to percussion.

  The large eyes on the carved bird batted their lashes. A horn split the air, signaling to the other vessels. The musicians began to play. Their melody leaped across the lake, and the onlookers hushed. As fast as it came, the music dimmed. People watched quietly, not sure what would happen next.

  François leaned closer to the ledge. A violin, sweeping like the coo of a nightingale, broke the silence. Its melody was joined by a softer, murmuring flute, and the two sounds lifted each other to dance atop the water’s surface. It was the symphony of a young maiden, longing for her consort. Slowly the vessels approached, close enough for everyone to see the detail of feathers painted along both sides.

  The caravan on the lake changed its shape. Added to the revelry were the beats of a drum, which grew louder until the sound took precedence over all. Following the hypnotic rhythm, the boats glided closer together and formed a long, continuous chain. The oarsmen hauled in their oars.

  To greet his future bride, Prince Thom came down from the higher ground, mounted on his white stallion. His long hair flew in the wind. He was dressed in common peasant garb. It was no surprise to his followers, who referred to him as “the prince of the cloth” to distinguish him from his brothers.

  A few feet in front of the leading vessel, large bubbles came to the water’s surface. Something was rising from below. Soon François could see what it was. A pair of golden talons with ivory tips flanked either
side of the bow. The ship’s middle section spouted massive wings, sails that were made out of canvas and held together by a bamboo skeleton, flecked with gold dust. The stern elongated toward the sky, dangling an orb at its tip. With a loud explosion, the orb burst open, and a plumage of streamers completed the phoenix in majestic glory. As the bird’s wings flapped, it propelled the vessel toward land.

  The only sound from the audience was a collective gasp. No one had ever seen anything so spectacular.

  “What an entrance!” remarked the female warrior. “I wonder how Prince Thom will tame such a regal bird.”

  François glued his eyes to the pier.

  The prince slid off his horse. Two servants plastered his feet and legs with lime and areca juice to prevent the leeches in the water from attaching themselves to him. The bridal cabin and the phoenix head were sliding off the main barge and into a sampan. It seemed small in contrast to the princess’s wealth.

  As the small skiff drew under the canopy, the proud head of the phoenix bowed submissively before the prince.

  Prince Thom tore off his shirt and grasped one of the lengthy chains. His muscles rolled in anticipation. At the precise moment when his bride’s boat went under the pagoda, he gave a mighty haul. People shouted encouragement to him. From within the shrubs and bushes around the dock, dozens of men appeared. Together they pulled on the heavy chains, and the canopy broke free from the poles. Rising out of the water was a heavy net, made from thick ropes. The boat, entrapped, was lifted out of the water. The pulleys screeched as they were set into motion. With another wrench, Thom’s prize was hauled to land amid the roars of his people.

  The prince drew a sword and hacked his way through the net. With each slash, the cheers grew more exuberant. Finally, Thom was able to reach inside the cabin. With one hand, he ripped the curtain aside and took a few steps back.

  A delicate arm, sprinkled with crushed pearl, reached out from the compartment. The crowd hushed. Thom received her hand as she emerged into the light. She clung to him until her feet touched the ground.