Le Colonial (23 page)

Pierre rarely ventured outside the citadel. Three years had made little difference in the lives inside the palace. He confined the missionaries to a lifestyle of religious rigidity—praying, preaching, and administering the sacraments. From Captain Petijean, he learned precious but limited news about the outside world. But the information was generally linked to the captain’s own detailed and sometimes humorous stories of his adventures.

Sloshing footfalls approached on the muddy path. The bishop peered into the dark and saw the novice, walking in the rain. His anger, which had been brewing since the morning, pushed him toward the entrance steps. Surprised, the novice gave a yelp. He was soaking wet.

“Where have you been?” the bishop demanded.

Henri looked at him as if he didn’t understand.

“What possessed you and that servant girl to spy on us?” Pierre barked. “Have you any idea what would happen if the prince caught you spying on his royal women? In a time of war this is an act of treason. When you see me giving the prince a private lesson, what does that tell you about the secrecy of the subject?”

The youth’s silence and his expression of shock infuriated the bishop. He continued. “It meant for you to keep away.”

“I am sorry, Your Excellency,” replied Henri, straightening his posture. “I just wanted to see how a steam engine works.” He came into the great hall, shaking off the excess water as he walked past Pierre.

“You should have asked my permission. Since we’ve been together, you have accomplished nothing except for wasting time and causing trouble. What did you study with Father François for almost two years? For the length of time that the Church has invested in you, you should be ready to take your vows.”

A shadow moved across the room toward Henri, and Brother Tiago whispered, “Take this cloth and wipe thyself.”

“What do you mean by taking my vows, sir?” asked Henri, ignoring the Portuguese monk.

Pierre slanted his eyes at the novice. “You know very well what I mean. You are not that dim-witted. What do you think we are training you for?”

Henri ran his hand through his wet hair. His voice came out in a tense whisper. “You want me to become a priest? Now?”

Pierre answered with a loud grunt. “You will be more than a priest. You have been trained to be a soldier of God, a missionary. Since I am your superior and we are in Annam, this will be the sacred place for you to be ordained. Tonight we shall rehearse your ordination, which I have decided to hold on the eve of the Good Friday service.”

“During Tenebrae?” Henri exclaimed. “But that is only a month away.”

“Your ordination is an important event, which will be included in the Holy Week ceremonies. I advise you, Henri, to set a better example of humility and repentance in your behavior, especially during the Mass of the Presanctified, during which you will pledge your devotion to God and to me.”

The novice looked at Pierre, speechless. There was a faint odor on his body, a mixture of flowers and fish—a fragrance that Pierre associated with the female sex.

Pierre continued, “Your ordination will make you a priest, with the power to consecrate the Eucharist and to forgive sins in the Sacrament of Penance.”

To Pierre’s surprise, the novice pushed his chest forward and said stiffly, “I do not wish to be like you. I have done missionary work without becoming a priest. I want to continue my duty this way.”

Pierre started—had he given this youth any indication that he would tolerate a negotiation? He shouted, “If you didn’t want this life, why did you come here?”

He thrust his open palm straight into Henri’s chest, sending the boy backward. Henri staggered, clinging to a stone column for balance. There was anger in the way he held his fists.

“Are you going to strike me?” asked Pierre.

When Henri didn’t answer, Pierre raised the paper lantern closer to the novice’s face and watched him squirm.

“How dare you to have such a thought!” he roared. “Ignorant fool! You have damned your eternal soul because of that savage.”

Henri shook his head and swallowed. “I know you well, Bishop. You want everyone to live in your miserable world, void of any happiness. Others must share your loneliness or you will find a way to cast them out. You separated Sister Lucía from Brother João because of their affection for each other. And now you are trying to do the same to me and Xuan.”

A cry escaped Brother João’s lips. The glow of the lantern revealed his ashen expression.

“Ask him for the truth, if you have the courage,” said Henri to the Dominican monk.

Brother João turned to the bishop.

“Don’t!” said Pierre with exasperation. “No one judges me. Chastity is required in both monks and nuns. What I did was for the benefit of your eternal souls, both of you.” To Henri, he said, “Leave. You are no longer welcome in the house of God. May you burn in the fires of hell forever.”

Henri hesitated.

Before Henri slipped into the rain, he turned to look at Pierre. His voice was calm. “You may condemn me to hell all you like, but, sir, you are truly in your own hell.”

He ran out the door and down the steps. Pierre watched the novice turn and gaze at him one last time, and he was struck with the urge to call his name and forgive him. But he gave up the thought as soon as it took form. The rain closed its curtains behind Henri.

Pierre blew out the lantern.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

H
enri stepped into the unknown.

Behind him stood the bishop, brittle and diminutive among the statues. De Béhaine lifted the lantern. Their eyes met as he extinguished the flame.

Henri had never imagined he could find the courage to defy the bishop. But now that he had done it, he felt more liberated than frightened.

He plunged into the night, oblivious of what his bare feet might encounter. The darkness was impenetrable. A hand reached from nowhere to seize his shoulder. With a shout of surprise, he leaped forward.

“Hush,” whispered a soothing voice. “It’s me, Brother João.”

“Brother João, what are you doing out here?”

“I want to ask you about Lucía,” said João. “How do you know about us? When did you see her? Did she ask about me? How is she? And where is she?”

“Why does she matter to you now?” asked Henri bitterly. “You have chosen Christ above all things.”

“Tell me if she is all right. I just need to know.”

Henri shook his head and walked away.

“Please!” the monk cried after him. “I beg you.”

He replied without looking back. “The last time I saw her, she had been rescued by the rebels in NgK Bình Mountain. She was living with them.”

“Praise be to God,” said João. “I thank you for your kindness. If you apologize to His Excellency, he will forgive you and allow you to reenter the fold.”

Henri turned. “I will not apologize.”

“Don’t be foolish. Without the bishop’s protection, how could any of us ever survive in this land?” He reached out his hand. “The best thing for you is to come back with me. What else can you do? Where will you go?”

Henri was unconvinced.

“Have you thought how much it will hurt Father François when he learns of your decision to forfeit your vocation?”

The mention of his teacher pained Henri. “Don’t try to make me go back there.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I do, I will become like you.”

A sob escaped João’s throat.

“I understand,” he said in a dejected tone. “Go! Find yourself. I must confess I envy you.” He touched Henri’s chin, quoting Saint Augustine, “‘Love and do what you will.’”

When Henri entered Prince Ánh’s grounds, it was midnight. The imperial guards were changing shifts. Silhouettes of palms and weeping willows stretched against the black sky. The light from the sentries’ torches made the peripheral area seem darker. He was confident that no one could see him among the shrubbery.

The palace was a series of single-story buildings, linked together by a gold-tinted roof. On the front terrace, a row of four blue-and-white ceramic vases housed a rare species of pine tree. The branches were coiled in demotic characters, whose meanings were unknown to Henri. Two guards marched outside the prince’s bedchamber.

The summer rain pierced the night like needles. He took a shortcut through the orchid garden to get to the women’s quarter, located at the end of the compound.

As he navigated the soggy path, overgrown flowers thrust themselves into his face. He forged through the vines, ripping their tentacles apart until his hands were sticky with sap.

Before the night was over, he must find Xuan. In a few hours the sun would be up, and so would everyone else in the fortress. He would have to leave this place. The moment he had shouted his defiance to the bishop, he had lost his right to stay.

A lantern lit the window of her room in the servants’ quarter. Xuan sat on the dirt floor with her back toward him. He crept closer.

With one hand, she removed a jade pin from her chignon. Her hair fell down her back. She combed the long, thick, black strands. Henri envied the instrument in her hand, imagining its tortoiseshell teeth as his fingers. The lantern flickered, trickling over her river of hair to give it an identity, a life of its own. He had seen her using a brew of coconut oil mixed with crushed wild peach flowers to maintain the rich luster. But it was Henri’s gentle stroke that many a time had untangled the knots caused by the unruly winds.

From within the mosquito net that draped her bed, someone stirred. Henri saw the face of an aged person. Alarmed, he retreated into the rain.

To see Xuan, he had to wait until morning.

After a fitful nap under a clump of sugarcane, he awoke feverish and impatient. The breeze that wove through the orchid garden only heightened his anxiety. As the gray in the sky spread, the air was heavy with moisture, forecasting more rain. He rose from the piles of leaves that had been his bed. His muscles ached under his damp clothing. From his hiding place, he watched until he saw Xuan emerge from her bedroom. Her blouse was not yet buttoned at the front. A brown undershirt, the color of her skin, preserved her modesty. She was more beautiful now that her hair was tied neatly in a knot, exposing her face.

She stepped into her clogs and walked outside to the well where she kept the fish basket. Following her was an old matron. This was the shadowy figure who had occupied her bed. Leaving the apartment, the woman limped toward the palace. Xuan fished into the wicker container for two carp. They writhed in her hands, gills pulsating. The fish must be alive as she prepared them for the prince. To serve him a fish that had expired would be disrespectful—a punishable crime.

During his travels with Xuan and the prince, Henri had developed a taste for her cooking. He knew she always made more food than necessary, so there would be some for him. Most of her dishes were simple. The ingredients she used were of the peasant style, prepared with imagination to yield an assortment of delicious flavors. Henri delighted in her everyday inventions.

In the courtyard, servants and eunuchs went about their daily chores. To Henri’s relief the sentries were no longer at the corridor. He approached the well. Preoccupied with her work, she did not notice him.

With one hand she gripped a carp by its gills, allowing its protruding stomach to face upward. She slid the thumb and forefinger of her free hand across its thick body. Jets of reddish-orange eggs shot into a waiting bowl, translucent and bright as pomegranate seeds.

After harvesting the eggs, she scaled and gutted the fish, removing the vein along its backbone. When she was done, the two carp lay twitching on the cement floor, their abdomens gaping open, their eyes glazed. Both her hands and the knife were red with blood.

She stuffed the fish’s bellies with mushrooms, swallow’s nest, fresh spices and herbs, and then tied them closed with palm fronds. In two clay pots, she placed the carp, one under a blanket of large-grained sea salt, and the other in a mixture of mud and honey. Henri watched, forgetting himself.

From inside the kitchen came the scent of wood smoke. She raised her head and saw him. Fish scales stuck to her cheeks and forehead, and her eyes were the color of black currants. Startled, she shrank back in the shadow of the well.

Recognizing him, she calmed, then looked concerned. “Are you well, Ông Tây?” she asked.

He sneezed.

She wiped her hands on the front of her blouse. “You are ill,” she said in a determined voice. “Come in the kitchen so I can make you a cup of lemongrass tea.”

He blurted out, “I can’t, Xuan. I have to leave the citadel.”

As she was lifting the two clay pots, his words stopped her. “Now? How long will you be gone?” she asked.

“Once I leave, I will not come back.”

She gasped.

He explained hurriedly. “It’s the bishop. He tried to force me to take the vow of the priesthood. I refused. And so now I must go.”

“But where? This is your home. He cannot ask you to leave, can he?”

He reached out to caress her cheek. The skin felt soft on his fingertips. Unable to conceal his emotions, he looked away.

“Don’t leave me!” she said. “You are all I have.”

“Then come with me.”

She withdrew from his touch and shook her head. He swayed, feeling his blood race downward. He had to hold on to the stone rim of the well for balance.

“Please come with me,” he said. “You and I, we can find refuge in the Saygun Harbor, among the French and the Chinese. I can work on the docks, and I am sure I can find a safe place for you.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

Xuan looked past him. She seemed to be on the verge of tears. “You are kind, Ông Tây. But I can’t! This is where I belong. Besides, last night the prince sent a matchmaker to my bed. For the next two weeks, she will monitor my sleeping habits. Unless I have a trait that she finds disagreeable, I will be his concubine.”

Flashes of lightning tore across the heavens, followed by a drumroll of thunder. “Don’t marry him,” Henri shouted over the clamor. “You know what he is like. He is sixteen and already has three wives and seven concubines. You will never be happy.”

The rain returned, pounding the earth. He stood silent and watched her shiver. Her hair came loose. The full, heavy strands fell to her shoulders, down her back, and past her thighs like a waterfall.

“I will have fine clothes, servants, and respect from everyone,” she said. With a sniffle she sang softly, “
I have trekked over several mountains and rivers: How many perilous places have I been in the world!
Forgive me, Monsieur French, but I don’t want to run away anymore. If I leave with you, I will always be running.”

In the gray light, he could see that her eyes were red. Her lips were parted, and moisture dripped down her face.

“The old woman will be back soon,” she said, summoning a rueful smile. “Grant me one last favor. Say nothing more.”

He closed his eyes and did as she asked him.

“Farewell, Ông Tây,” he heard her say.

When he opened his eyes, Xuan was gone.