The footstool had always been there. I had always just taken it for granted. To enter my boudoir from the courtyard, one had to lift the flap of one’s long dress and step over it. The barricade kept people from rushing in. Only the king and his eunuchs had stepped over the stool to enter my boudoir. No other men could be permitted.
For the first time in my life inside the Violet City, I focused my attention on the barricade, as I listened to the head eunuch describing the wish of Sylvain Foucault.
No real man except King Thuan Thanh had set foot in my boudoir. The head eunuch and Son La, of course, were not real men. During my pregnancy, the court physician, who was sixty-five years old, had to be lifted by eunuchs over the stool to reach my bed. I lay behind brocade curtains, and the old man felt my silk-clad belly by extending one arm between the curtain folds, without ever laying eyes on me. To feel my pulse, he placed his ears and thumb over a silk thread that had been tied to my wrist. There was never any direct, skin-to-skin contact.
The head eunuch had finished his speech and was still kowtowing near the entrance when I left the tea table to walk around my boudoir. For the first time, I became keenly aware of every piece of furniture, every carving, every fold of the curtains surrounding the bed. I felt the shiny wood pillars that accented the room and divided it into quarters. I moved my palm along the edge of the lacquer divan and felt the smoothness of the mother-of-pearl.
I began to see the brown torso of my husband, the silky slacks that draped the columns of his thighs, and those long fingers of his that once molded my flesh. I saw traces of my husband everywhere on the impersonal and familiar furniture that made up my existence. The emotions overwhelmed me, and I had to place one hand over my heart, almost losing my balance. The head eunuch, who, all this time, had kept his head bowed and his eyes toward the floor, failed to notice my shift of emotion.
My king was not here, yet I could feel him. I turned to the head eunuch. “I will not comply with the monsieur’s wish.”
The head eunuch remained kneeling, his eyes glancing again and again toward the footstool barricade, obviously looking forward to the time when he could step over it to return to the common courtyard. For once, I had the urge to see the barricade grow higher and higher so no one would be able to step into my world.
Years ago, after my husband stopped coming to me, I had once harbored the desire to escape the West Palace so I could roam Hue at my whim. But the days kept passing by, and gradually I grew accustomed to my fate, losing all desire to escape the confines of my boudoir. To sink into the freedom of my Perfume River, I simply stood looking out my half-moon window. The sudden recognition of the gradual change made me want to weep.
The head eunuch had started a new speech. He told me of the time predating my birth, when French gunmen had first entered the Violet City. The late emperor Tu Duc passed on around the same time the Treaty of Patenôtre was signed, forming the basis for French colonial rule in Vietnam—France directly controlled Cochinchina, while Annam and Tonkin were protectorate states. One French officer, Lieutenant Mahee, dug up the tomb of the late emperor Tu Duc to search for treasure. Too bad for him, he could not find the late emperor’s coffin. To this day, the French had never been able to discover where the emperor was actually buried.
“The Frenchman wanted to excavate the late emperor’s tomb, and he did, my lady,” the head eunuch droned.
“I am sure there were people who objected,” I replied.
“The minister of protocols and culture, my lady. He spent the rest of his life objecting, yet the digging was done.”
I moved toward the window and raised the curtain. I could see part of what was going on in the main courtyard. Never had the West Palace been so animated. I recognized the royal concubines who were preparing themselves for the photography session, among whom were the two young women, both sixteen years old, who had been chosen to accompany my husband in exile and were awaiting departure. Some of the children, the young princes and princesses of Annam, had also been dressed up in royal attire to have their pictures taken. The participants were shy, yet beaming in a festive atmosphere. The day must have been the highlight of their dull existence, ironically brought on by the departure of their husband and father. No one expressed sadness or anger. Beautiful furniture was being moved to stage the scene. The eunuchs ran around like bees. Among those little people, a black box towered on a three-legged stand, and I saw the silhouette of a tall man bending over it.
“Is that a camera?” I asked, pointing.
“Yes, my lady.” The head eunuch had leaped to his feet and was standing behind me.
“It has a lens, through which you can see yourself upside down.”
“Upside down?”
“Yes, the size of a bee. The equipment makes a noise and your image is captured on paper. The West can do many a splendid thing.”
“And the man who stands behind it?”
“The photographer, my lady. A Western man.”
I had never seen a camera before. Nor had I seen a Western man, although I had studied the painting of Jesus Christ inside Son La’s book. To me, the man on the cross, with his dark beard and long hair, represented the image of a Western male.
“I want to walk the common courtyard,” I told the head eunuch.
We stepped over the footstool barricade, passed the double door entrance of my boudoir, and he followed me toward the gleaming central courtyard, full of sunshine.
I took my time scrutinizing the machine called the camera and the face of the tall Western man who bowed before me. The camera was exactly what the head eunuch had described. I even peeped inside the black box and saw the bee-sized, upside-down image of the posing concubines and their children. As to the Western man standing behind the machine, he could not take his eyes off me, and I had to remind him to bow his head. I could not tell his age. In many ways, he looked very old. His pores were extremely large, and his gold hair grew everywhere, on his uncombed head, around his lips, along his square jaw, even on his hands. His arms were awkwardly long. He reminded me of an old golden ape. On the other hand, he exuded all the characteristics of youth. His back was straight, like a bamboo tree; his movements, swift; and his cheeks, rosy, bumpy, and shiny, a sharp contrast to the smooth, olive complexion of my husband or the dry wrinkles of the old eunuchs. Most fascinating was the light blue of his eyes, as though the sky had reflected itself in the clear irises. I had never seen such blue eyes before, yet I could not stare at him very long for fear he would lose respect for me. I suspected he must have dyed his irises with eye drops, perhaps to perform Western witchcraft or magic. There was nothing in his appearance of the grim darkness and melancholy of the sacrificing Jesus Christ.
My curiosity was satisfied.
According to the head eunuch, Sylvain Foucault did not want any picture of my daughters and me wearing royal attire and posing in the courtyard. Other concubines of the abdicated king Thuan Thanh could easily perform that task. Foucault desired a special scene for a special postcard. There could be no other convenient time to stage the scene than after the abdicated king had been dragged off his throne, leaving a bunch of dependents and descendants unattended and uncared for, disposable at the mercy of the protectorate authorities.
I could read Foucault’s mind. He must have congratulated himself on the availability of the Mystique Concubine, the orphan paddle girl. I lifted my chin to the sky and thought of the mysterious Heaven that had set my life onto courses I could never have predicted. Once and for all, I wanted some control over my fate.
So I communicated to the head eunuch clearly what I wanted done.
I told the head eunuch I wanted a personal audience with the Frenchman who had sent my husband away. I wanted to move the lacquer divan to the open courtyard. A chair should be placed in front of the divan, far enough to create a noticeable distance, but close enough for conversation. I would be sitting on the divan, dressed in ceremonial attire. If Foucault wanted to change me into a postcar
d, he had to do it my way.
Dressed in the best of costumes, made of thick, heavy, crisp satin and brocade that completely hid my body shape, I sat on the divan in the middle of the courtyard from dawn until sunset to wait for Foucault. My burning rage intensified as the hours passed slowly and he was nowhere to be seen.
I had told Mai and Son La to come and get me when the sun died out, and if Foucault had not come by then, we would repeat the waiting game the following day.
I knew that from those half-moon windows overlooking the courtyard, the curious eyes of the concubines, their maids, and eunuchs were peeping out to watch me. Foucault’s intention to use me in a postcard was known to Son La and Mai. It must also have been known to the petty gossipers of the Violet City, who were all dying to know my reaction.
Whether my exiled husband could be humiliated rested entirely in my hands.
When beams of sunlight turned yellow, signaling the end of the day, I cast my eyes across the tiled courtyard toward the half-moon window of my boudoir, where Mai would be raising the curtains and nodding her head. Just before I could adjust my posture to remove myself from the divan, I heard footsteps.
An imposing figure approached my lacquer divan from across the courtyard. Soon, I saw standing before me a tall, stout, thick-shouldered man dressed in a fitted gray outfit, a crisp white collar protruding from underneath, with an accenting red bow in the middle. The man wore high boots and a matching hat. Strands of brown hair protruded from the hat, and a pair of chestnut eyes. Like a cat’s eyes.
The man resembled neither the golden-ape photographer nor the bearded Jesus Christ.
He moved his stocky frame with the combined grace of a crawling python and a hungry leopard, and his fierce face, with its high-bridged, dominant nose and thick whiskers, exuded an intimidating, animalistic quality. Under the brocade gown, my shoulders felt weak. I moved my perfumed fan and averted my eyes to maintain my composure. I did not want him to think I was afraid.
I had expected to see an interpreter, but Foucault was alone.
“So this is the famous Mystique Concubine,” he said in Vietnamese, his voice deep and throaty, with a perfect Tonkinese accent. He stopped by the chair I had set up for him, sat down, and crossed the muscular columns of his legs, his coarse and bulky hands resting on the chair’s arms.
I had set up the chair, knowing that the Frenchman in charge of Annam would not kneel down to kowtow the way a eunuch would. I had also deliberately ordered for the chair to be situated at a distance from my lacquer divan, but still close enough for conversation.
The man shifted his gigantic body as though the chair were too small for him, unbuttoned his sleeves, and rolled them up. I noticed the fuzzy brown hair on his arms. Another ape. He was everything my husband was not.
“I expect you to say the proper greetings, now that I know you speak our language so well,” I said.
“D’accord,” he said as he stepped out of his chair and bowed. “Thua ba, my lady.” As he sat back down, his eyes fixed on me as though they were grabbing my limbs.
“What are you doing sitting on that silly divan, wearing those bulky clothes?”
“What makes you think I would allow a Western man inside my boudoir? Especially the man who has just helped exile my husband!” I asked contemptuously.
“Suppose my photographer and myself had come to your boat on the Perfume River?” He was crude and uncultured, and did not speak to me with the refined and humble manners like the mandarins or the eunuchs. I didn’t know what to say or how to act.
“Thua ba, right now you look incredibly beautiful because you are offended,” he continued. “But I wish you would get off that divan and move around. You must realize the Annamese protocols do not become you.”
I snapped the fan shut, enraged.
“I saw you getting out of your bridal rickshaw when you first came. I said to myself, what a fine woman, built like a Westerner, with hips and height and dark skin like us swarthy Mediterraneans. What a waste to have you in Buu Linh’s possession. Your husband is a fool.” He sneered.
My fan flew in his direction and hit his face, then dropped to the floor. For a moment, I thought I heard oohs and aahs from my secret observers behind those half-moon windows overlooking and circling the common courtyard.
The whiskered ape bent to pick up my fan. I was trembling. I had shown my temper. Despite hours of thought and preparation, I had not done the right thing. Would he kill me, as he had my husband’s father, the late king Dai Duc, or would he exile me elsewhere off the coast of Vietnam?
The whiskered ape did not seem in the least offended. In fact, the whiskers rose and his thick lips pulled into a smile. He stretched his body in the chair and eventually bent down to pick up my fan. He turned it back and forth to scrutinize it.
“Dainty little thing. Like all things that belong to poor Buu Linh and his dynasty. I wished he had not acted up so badly. The three of us—Buu Linh, yourself, and I—share one thing in common. We all have a bad temper.”
“Stop talking that way about my husband,” I said sternly, “and live up to the refinement of the French Empire.” I was remembering how Son La had educated me about the empire of France and thinking of all those missionaries who had come to our land and befriended the earlier Nguyen Lords.
“The refinement of the empire is not my concern,” he said. “My ancestors, like you paddle people, used to fish in the Mediterranean Sea and around the island of Corse before they moved to their castles in Loire.”
He was mentioning places I did not know, and again, my sense of power collapsed.
“Don’t turn down my photographer’s lens too quickly. See first what photography can do for you.” He stood up from the chair, reached inside his gray trouser pockets for some kind of object, and approached the lacquer divan. I folded my arms defensively, but he stopped at the edge of the divan, where the wings of the carved phoenix rested. I breathed out a sigh of relief.
He bent forward to hand me some glossy cardboard squares. I was curious enough to reach for them, as they might have an impact on the future of my children. Strangely, the beast did not withdraw his hand. He seemed to hold on to the squares for too long. Unexpectedly, the tips of our fingers touched slightly under my wide brocade sleeves. The contact seemed to linger on for a second as though he had deliberately caused it, and I frowned with irritation. This ape had no sense of propriety or respect for the royal court that had created my identity.
Again, I felt helpless. I was at the mercy of this man.
My curiosity took over, however, and I examined the squares. They were pictures and not drawings. These were things I had never seen before. From the scenes portrayed, I imagined an array of vast sapphire seas and pink or white castles—a manner of majestic grandeur completely different from my Perfume River and the West Palace
“You are an enticing belle, but I have no interest in Buu Linh’s women. Twittering Annamese birds.” His whiskers pulled up into an enigmatic smile. “I’m more than twice your age, more than old enough to be your father. I have a purely commercial interest in mind.”
Again I was struck by his accent, which was that of a native Tonkinese speaking standard Vietnamese.
“A wealthy European acquaintance of mine has expressed an interest in making postcards of the royal concubines inside the palace,” he said, waving his arm as if shooing away a fly. “He’s fascinated with the Annamese camisole, cai yem, so different from the Victorian lace corset, but it’s got to be worn by a genuine royal concubine. The caption will read ‘Bath of a Royal Concubine.’” As he announced this, he wrote the words in sweeping gestures across the sky before him.
I remained silent.
He went on. “Some say perversion. Some say art. Some say a taste for the exotic. I say my patron will be paying lots of money to the Foucault gallery. A view of you in this royal setting would be perfect. As a former paddle girl, you’re most likely not too prudish.”
I was correct. He
had picked me because of my past.
“Nothing complicated, nothing too out of line.” He raised my fan to his nose, inhaled, and closed his eyes. He looked like a monster in repose. “Just a picture of your naked back, the profile of your face and hair next to a royal blue porcelain sink of steaming water, maybe among a gaggle of little maids or eunuchs. Have your photograph taken in a second or so, and you will be well fed for the rest of your life.”
He handed me my fan and I turned away. The fan dropped onto my divan. I would not touch what he had touched.
Thoughts rushed through my head while I pretended to smooth the corner of my costume. “Very well, then,” I said, enunciating each word. “If the refinement of your French Empire is not your concern, neither is the State of Annam my concern. After all, I am Cham.”
I paused to let this sink in.
“Above all, I want to live. Disobeying you, I suppose I can be killed. So here I am. In the open courtyard. If you want your postcard, take my picture this way. You know the whole Violet City is watching right now. Go get your photographer. Send your men and women and set up your scene. But I will sit here, dressed like this. It will be a struggle to get all this fabric off me. You will have to drag me around to get the kind of picture you want. Capture my image and you will see on paper the scene of a woman dragged against her will. This is the only way you can have my picture taken.”
In the clear brown of his eyes I could see the flame I had ignited. I saw also the reflection of the bright redness of my gown. I threw his pictures back at him. “If you had come to me on the Perfume River,” I told him, “I would have knocked you off my boat with my paddle.”
His eyes seized mine in rage. I did not move.
I continued, sharply and proudly. “Your predecessors came in here and dug up the late emperor’s tomb for treasure. Now you come in here and want a wife to undress and smear the honor of her husband. These are acts of spoiled children, barbarians who carry weapons. I was just a paddle girl, but I can tell you when an act is barbaric.”
Daughters of the River Huong Page 9
