Le Colonial (14 page)
H
enri and François walked for hours through a field that stretched behind the citadel. The path forced them to climb to the top of a rocky promontory, where they sat for a few minutes looking back down on the walled city where they had narrowly escaped death. As they continued walking east, the land became more desolate, and the air was heavy with moisture.
Late in the evening, they heard the babbling of the Perfume River. Henri was too tired to go on. There was no village in sight, but in the air he detected a faint smell of cooking spices. The breeze brought the smoke to them from far away. He had a few silver coins, given to him by the bishop, which he had hidden in a band around his waist. The money provided the only touch of promise in their otherwise bleak future.
Above them, gloomy clouds framed the silvery moon. Large, spherical drops of rain fell, shiny as mercury, on Henri’s head. They soaked his clothes and plastered them sheer against his skin.
Henri and François were alone. The novice peered ahead, but he could not penetrate the darkness. François murmured incoherently, his face a mask. Henri hoped that his teacher’s confusion would be temporary. The priest wandered aimlessly on the road.
“Please, Father François,” he said, “we have to get out of the rain. I need you to be stronger.”
François did not seem to hear him. His fingers curled into fists and drew up under his armpits. He marched to the middle of the road, turning his back to Henri. His clothes sagged under the weight of the rain, outlining his body. From behind, with his shoulder blades sticking out, he looked like a bat, ready to fly into the night.
The bitter smell of wet soil was getting stronger as the breeze changed direction. Henri wiped the water from his eyes. The thought of leaving his teacher seeped into his mind. But the land ahead was dark and desolate. More than ever, he needed companionship.
A clap of thunder boomed, and by the lightning that followed, the novice saw a cluster of huts on stilts, clinging to the soil. Dead trees stabbed the sky with clawlike branches. In the distance, the Perfume River glimmered behind a row of rocks. The rain splattered on the rippling water, turning its surface into reptilian scales. Then all became dark again.
They walked through a sunken path toward the village. By the time they could hear raindrops hitting on the thatched roofs, a swamp opened before them. The mud rose to their ankles, slimy against their skin. Henri waded past a row of tree trunks toward the nearest hut. A foul stench, stirred up by his movements, carried rotten vapors in its waft.
He climbed the wooden ladder, dribbling a trail of muck behind him. He knocked, but instead of hitting a door, his knuckles scraped against a curtain that was hanging from the door frame. A small strip of light shone under the fabric. Inside, cautious footsteps stirred, and moments later, voices whispered, nearly muffled by the rain. The creaking of his weight on the old rungs must have awakened the occupants.
A voice shouted, “Who is there?”
“We are two travelers in need of shelter,” replied Henri.
As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realized his mistake. His foreign accent had given away more information than he would have liked. Behind the burlap, the murmuring stopped. He leaned against the frame and waited, shivering.
“Please help us,” he begged. “We are wet and cold.”
The only sound he heard was the pounding rain.
“We have money.”
At Henri’s feet, the faint glow brightened into a flood of light. He looked up to see the burlap part. Blocking the entrance was a man in his midthirties, without clothes except for a bit of cloth that covered his loins. He was holding up an oil lantern. Its flame illuminated his bronze face and added glints of copper to his beard. As he caught sight of the iron collar on the novice’s neck, he took a step back.
“I cannot let you in,” he said.
Henri turned around and searched for François. The priest stood on the ground beside the ladder. His face was lost in shadow. Behind him, the swamp glowed.
Henri had no more strength to look for another shelter. The room behind the Annamite man was warm, and the smell of fried fish and steamed vegetables made his mouth water.
He cleared his throat. “If we leave, my teacher surely will die from the cold and exhaustion. He is not well. Please let us in. We will depart in the morning as soon as the rain stops.” Sensing the man’s hesitation, he added, “I’ll pay you, sir.”
“I know who you are,” replied the peasant. “Foreigners teaching the forbidden religion. You are criminals. I can’t harbor you even if you pay me. I have a family to protect.”
He stepped aside, and Henri saw identical twin girls, hiding behind their father. Wrapped in a mat woven from rush, the children could not have been more than twelve. They looked at him with a quiet expression as their father hugged them closer to his side. The light from the lantern hovered above their heads. Although the girls seemed frail, their cheeks were rose-colored, and their long black hair glistened in the amber light.
Henri was stunned by the beauty of the two girls. They looked like fawns in the forest. The bonds of happiness among the three people before him pierced his lonely heart. With nothing else to say, he bowed his head and bade them good-bye.
“What kind of Buddhists are we if we shut our door to these suffering souls, husband?” said a voice from a corner of the room. “How will you teach our children kindness when all they witness from you is indifference and fear?”
The man turned around. His lantern swept the room until it came to rest on the slight figure of a woman. She lay on a bamboo bed, facing them. Dried skin was peeling from her lips. She had long, thick hair—a trait that the twins had inherited—that flowed over the pillow to touch the floor. It seemed to be her only healthy feature. She acknowledged Henri by nodding in his direction.
“B-but —” the man stammered.
“Their only wish is to be our guests for one night,” she said. “Of all the sheds in this village, they chose ours. It was destiny.” Her eyes were large and feverish, conveying more of her thoughts than her words. Her husband heaved a defeated sigh.
“Please bring your companion inside,” he said. “My wife and I and the children welcome you to our humble home.”
In front of a terra-cotta stove that crackled with burning wood, they were each served a bowl of rice topped with fried bass. To Henri the fish came as no surprise, since it was the main diet in this region. But the pork fat and heavy seasoning that flavored it turned it into a delicious treat. He ate rapidly, grabbing the fish in his fingers and biting into its crispy skin until the comblike bone was clean.
Nearby, François squatted on his thighs and leaned toward the stove. He chewed the food slowly. It was impossible for Henri to guess what his teacher was thinking. He seemed far away, absentminded, lost. The twins huddled under the blanket with their mother, watching him. All of them were curious about François’s state of mind. But Henri knew it was not their custom to ask questions.
When the guests finished eating and their clothes had begun to dry from the heat, black tea was served. Its bitterness curled the novice’s tongue, and his forehead broke into a sweat. He savored the warmth of the tea, feeling his limbs relax for the first time in days. Outside the window, a bird cried over the din of the rain.
“Y Lan and Xuan,” said their father, “it is considered bad manners to stare at the guests. The black cuckoos are calling. That means it will be dawn soon. Go to sleep with your mother.”
The little girls crawled under their mother’s arms and giggled.
The father mumbled to the priests, “Forgive them; they have never seen a Western man before. They don’t understand why you don’t have black hair and narrow eyes.”
“That is enough,” said the woman. “Do not cause any more discomfort to these gentlemen than they have already experienced.”
The husband fell silent. Henri decided to change the subject. “What happened to the trees?” he asked. “So many are dead.”
“They drowned,” she replied.
Henri looked at her husband, unable to imagine what she meant.
“Too much water, too much water,” said the man. He stood up, spreading his arms to make a sweeping gesture as he explained. “The flood came and stayed for many days. Some trees were uprooted and washed down the river. Others rotted away. We are fortunate because our home still stands. My father and I built this hut together when I was your age. Without it, we would have nothing. If the water continues to rise, we will lose everything.”
“Husband, please sit. You must not preach with your arms open. The loincloth and that light make you look like the Jesus man.”
Her eyes squinted, and she winked at her husband. He stifled an embarrassed laugh.
Henri hid his thin smile behind his cup of tea. Even François, in his perplexed state, seemed amused by the hostess’s unexpected humor. But the laughter was short-lived. From under the blanket, one of the girls shrieked. And soon after, her sister joined in with her own scream. They sprang out of the bed. Their mother tried to soothe them, but suddenly she too was struck with horror. Her husband ran to her side.
Henri was taken by surprise—he had not anticipated any danger inside the hut. He followed the man and caught a glimpse of a snake as it slithered through a small crack on the bed and blended into the darkness of the wooden floor. It had moved so fast that the novice did not have time to see it clearly. For a terrible moment, he imagined how its slick body would feel gliding along the inside of his tunic. He bit his lip to keep from cursing.
With the snake out of sight, the Annamite man shifted his attention to his wife. She sat up and leaned over the edge of her bed. He helped her to her feet. She drew a labored breath, dragging herself along beside her husband. Her hair, thick and glistening like a silk shroud, swallowed him. He placed her against the wall, and gently he picked the hair up from the ground with both of his hands, rolled it around one palm, and twisted it into a large chignon at the back of her head. Henri noticed her swollen abdomen, pushing beneath her blouse in spite of her emaciated frame. She was at least six months’ pregnant.
“This is very bad,” her husband murmured.
“What is happening?” Henri asked, wondering if the snake was considered a bad omen.
“Hold her, please,” the man said.
She leaned against the young novice, who supported her among the confusion. In the cooking area, François remained sitting. Only now, he had his arms wrapped around the twins, who were silent. Their father ran toward the entrance. He grabbed the curtain with both hands and ripped it away from its frame.
At first, Henri could not understand what the man was searching for. All he saw was a view of dead tree branches crisscrossing a dark sky. Then silhouettes of dangling vines that cascaded down from the roof came alive and recoiled in a rhythmic motion. A few of them slipped to the floor.
The children began to cry again. Henri felt a chill when his eyes at last acknowledged the familiar forms of the snakes—hundreds of them seemed to be falling from the sky, along with the rain. They slithered across the floor with incredible speed, avoiding the humans.
“W-what is happening?” Henri asked, his voice quivering.
“The flood is rising,” the man replied. “The snakes are trying to reach higher ground. We have to get out of here.”
A cold wetness licked at the soles of Henri’s feet. The hut gave a violent shake, and a gurgle rose from below. Water seeped in between the cracks of the floorboards, rising in a continuous flow.
Henri stood frozen, watching in disbelief as his feet disappeared into the growing tide. The air bore a heavy, penetrating smell, like overturned mud mixed with an undefined floral fragrance. A sharp blow stung the side of his face.
“Are you listening to me, foreign man?” said his host. “Or do I have to slap you again?”
Henri recoiled, and the man struck him again.
“Whatever you are planning to do, tell me.” His voice sounded weak in his ears.
“Help my wife and daughters. We must get to the roof now.”
His teacher stood on a windowsill and lifted one of the girls to the top of the hut. The other twin waited by François’s side, clutching his shirt. Snakes were crawling everywhere, wrapping themselves around the girl’s limbs. She cried each time one fell on her, but despite her fear, she grabbed the reptiles by their tails and swung them over the ledge into the water.
“Don’t worry, darling,” her father reassured her. “They are grass snakes, the harmless kind.”
Henri lifted the woman in his arms and carried her to the window. Outside, the first rays of sun turned the sky a faint gray. The water surged.
He was the last person to reach the top of the hut. But their misery was far from over. While they huddled there, the flood continued to rise, coming after them with white, fuming waves like the crowns of a thousand swift horses, shrieking madly in the wind. Lightning flashed across the sky, leaping from one cloud to another in red and blue streaks. As the water mounted higher, the Annamese man sliced away the vines that connected the roof to the hut’s walls. Once detached, it was swept away by the current, twirling with the refugees on its back. The downpour unraveled the woman’s chignon, and her hair flew free. She tried to gather it back in her hands but was too weak.
“Oh, no,” cried one of the twins. “The house is drifting away.”
The man reached for his children. “Don’t be frightened,” he said over the screeching bellows of nature. “Lie flat on your stomach and hold tight to the palm leaves so the wind won’t knock you over.”
“Be still,” added the mother. “
Má
is here. Soon it will be over. We will be safe.”
The parents looked at each other, and in a pulse of lightning Henri caught a secret exchange of despair between them. He kept his body low as the flood spread farther into the delta, taking them through a newly formed maze of lagoons and channels. Ahead, Hue City slowly disappeared as the water redefined the borders of the Earth.