Le Colonial
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“My dear Bishop,” he cried. His outstretched arms pointed to the food. “You are hungry. Please eat.”
Without waiting to be asked again, Pierre grabbed a drumstick. The chicken, cooked to perfection, fell apart at the joints. It tasted as heavenly as it looked. With his free hand, he reached for the other leg.
The captain looked at Pierre, commenting, “You are weary. We have a long journey ahead. Please take my bed and rest after you dine.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Of course not. It would be my pleasure.”
“But wait! What about my special cargo? Was it delivered in good condition?”
Petijean smiled. “You will be pleased with it, I am sure.”
Pierre was grateful that he did not have to talk further. The captain was right. He was ravenous and exhausted. “Thank you,” he said.
Captain Petijean raised his forefinger. “One last thing, Your Excellency. Your other protégé, Henri, has accompanied the prince to Siam. His devotion to the Nguyen monarchy would make you proud.”
Pierre clutched his stomach. Suddenly his appetite was gone.
The next morning arrived with the sparrows chirping on the ledge of the bedroom window. Pierre found the captain out on the hotel balcony, dressed in his uniform, holding a cane. He looked at the bishop with an enthusiasm that had not changed through the years.
“I didn’t expect to sleep this much,” Pierre said apologetically. “You should have woken me.”
“I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Captain Petijean offered the cane to Pierre. Its handle was crudely carved in the shape of a mallard’s head. He said, “I noticed you have trouble walking. In haste, this is the best walking stick the hotel servants could find. When we are in Paris, I will get you a better one.”
Pierre held the present between his two fingers, unsure of how to react. “You shouldn’t have,” he said. “I really don’t need it. However, I thank you!” He searched the captain’s face. “Shall we leave now?”
“As you wish,” was Petijean’s reply.
An hour later, they arrived at the harbor. With each minute that flew by, Pierre grew more impatient. The imperial guards who were trailing by his side annoyed him, but he could do nothing but try to ignore them.
Among a flotsam of timbers—long, heavy logs that littered the shore—a sampan was waiting for them. It took him and the captain to a clipper that was, to his surprise, twice as large and stately as the Wanderer. At the vessel’s stern, hordes of coolies were hauling the timbers across the deck.
The captain shouted over the bustling winds. “This is the Saint Jacques, my newest passion.”
The first mate tossed a rope ladder over the railing to them. With difficulty, Pierre climbed onboard, declining the captain’s offer of assistance. Still, he had to admit that the past six years had taken their toll on him. He must regain his strength to accomplish what lay ahead.
“With this journey, we are shipping a load of teakwood,” said the captain. “It is a profitable new commodity in Europe.”
Pierre took one last look at Saygun Harbor. The imperial guards on the shore remained unmoving in the sand.
“One day this will be a Christian colony of France,” he said.
“No doubt, Your Excellency,” replied the captain. “Come with me and I’ll show you to your cabin. Someone has been expecting you.”
With his cane, Pierre tapped the door of the cabin three times before pushing it open. The room, its floor stained with seawater, was vacant except for a bed. His eyes rested on the figure sitting cross-legged on top of the mattress—a little boy in a princely robe. A calico cat was curled in his lap.
Little Canh looked up. His face brightened in recognition when he saw Pierre. “When is my mother coming?” he asked.
“She is not,” Pierre replied. “This journey is just for you and me.”
EPILOGUE
Lepers’ Cavern, 1785
Around the banks of Lake Tam, the painted storks came early this year.
It was April. The monsoon rains were not expected for another few weeks. The water level in the lake had receded, leaving the soil around it spider-veined. The higher the sun rose toward midday, the greater the furnace it became. Spontaneous fires ignited among the few remaining clumps of grass and were fueled by dry leaves.
The storks were the first birds to return to the Lepers’ Cavern. Their wide wings ended in a blush of red on the tips of their white feathers. The fanning of a thousand birds seemed to bring fresh air all the way from the Perfume River, rising to a gale. Soon, masses of dark clouds gathered above with the promise of long-awaited rain.
François stood outside his hut, watching the birds. Their bodies gyrated into an elliptical funnel, spinning off in all directions like bands of streamers. Far away, the mountain seemed to surrender wisps of its moisture to the brown nimbus. As he gazed out into the lake, he thought of the little prince, Canh. His life seemed empty without Canh’s voice and laughter. For the sake of the bishop’s ambition, the child had been wrenched from him. How calm Lady Jade Bình had been when she told him of the boy’s voyage to the other side of the world with de Béhaine.
“Farewell, farewell,” he whispered to the wind. “Wherever you are, I hope you are safe.”
There was no need for him to bid good-bye to the bishop or the Mountaineers. They had been part of his past for almost a year.
As long as they had known each other, the bishop, with his cunning and devious nature, had coerced François into a contest of wills. Too much time was wasted, too many tragedies had occurred. The artist no longer wanted anything to do with Pierre’s politics or his religion. To prevent a civil war, François had burned the bishop’s letter. But that was all he could do. François fully expected de Béhaine to return to Annam someday with an army. War was inevitable. The bishop, in his relentless pursuit of his mission, would be more than likely to triumph in the end. As for François, he was at peace in the leper colony.
The sky darkened, and the smell of wet clay permeated the air. He wrapped his arms around his body and rested his head against a tree. The storks had settled down, scattered on land or perched on bare branches in the cajeput trees. Among them were a few black-and-green marsh ducks, salt-and-pepper sandpipers, red-whiskered bulbuls, and other creatures with exotic plumages. All had arrived to partake in the changing weather. When lightning slashed across the pregnant clouds and cracked open the heavens, the rain fell with the force of a waterfall.
He listened to the sound of footsteps, approaching from behind. Lucía came up to him. She raised a yellow parasol over his head.
“Who died?” she asked.
At first, he didn’t know what she meant. Then she pointed at a large mound of dirt in front of him. It was a termite nest, but with its raised outline, it resembled a grave.
The answer came to him effortlessly. “Yesterday,” he replied.
In 1802, Nguyen Ánh, with the army and navy raised by Bishop Pigneau de Béhaine and financed by the king of France, overcame both the West Mountaineers and the Tonquinese. For the first time in the history of Annam, the North and the South were united into one nation. He was coronated as Emperor Gia Long and renamed his kingdom Viet Nam.
He ruled for eighteen years. His descendants succeeded until the twentieth century, the last imperial dynasty in Viet Nam.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The following people helped me, both emotionally and practically, during the writing of this book:
Frank Andrews
Judy Clain
Christine Cronin
Phuong Khanh Do
Thu Doan
Fiona and Jake Eberts
Michaela Hamilton
Tom John
Brenda Marsh
Peter Miller
Ilona Price
Ninh Quang Vu
Special thanks are due to Dean C. Alfano and Elyse Bloom of the New York University College of Dentistry.
I also w
ant to thank
Corbin and Associates
Little Saigon Radio
Viet Tide Newspaper
Thuy Nga Productions
I could not have written this book without my family—my mother; my brother, Jimmy; my sister, BeTi; and, most important, my father-in-law, the revered writer Nhat Tien, who treats me like his own son.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KIEN NGUYEN was born in Nhatrang, South Vietnam, to a Vietnamese mother and an American father. He left Vietnam in 1985 through the United Nations’ Orderly Departure Program. After spending time at a refugee camp in the Philippines, Nguyen arrived in the United States. He has written a memoir about his childhood in Vietnam called The Unwanted, as well as the novel The Tapestries, which was inspired by the life of his grandfather. He lives in California. He can be reached through his Web site, www.kiennguyen.us.