Le Colonial (31 page)
P
rincess 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.
His voice rose through the quiet. “Do any of your sisters possess your grace, your beauty, or your intelligence? Or did I get the best of your family?”
She bent one knee and hid behind the wide sleeve of her tunic. “Compared to my sisters, I am not so refined, for I am the youngest and most foolish. But, dear sir, I am now the most fortunate, for I have been chosen to serve the greatest of all warriors.”
Thom lifted his head toward the heavens and belted out a hearty laugh. “Well said, my priceless Jade.”
Again, he reached for her hands.
François glanced at Lady Bui and said under his breath, “Madame, I believe your question has been answered: given the right circumstances, even the most regal bird can be tamed.”
Slumped on the priest’s shoulder, Canh was fast asleep.
At the end of the ceremony, cannons were fired. With the booming explosions, the symbolic conversion of Jade Han from a princess to a wife was complete. The noise jolted little Canh out of his sleep. He looked at the joyous faces around him with dazed recollection. When he saw François, his anxiety subsided. Nearby, Lady Bui was chewing on several helpings of betel and areca nuts—her favorite way to celebrate. The smell of the concoction made François nauseous.
Below them, the remaining boats, which had swept across the entire length of the lake, were entering the makeshift dock one by one. The musicians, the oarsmen, and guests of the bride disembarked, all dressed in their finery. In François’s arms, Canh wiggled to break free.
“Má! Má! There is my má,” he cried out. His hands reached toward a group of Buddhist monks and nuns who walked in a double row on the pier.
François looked, and he, too, recognized Lady Jade Bình. She shuffled with her head bowed. Her demeanor was like that of her peers, plain and monastic. She was rolling a strand of prayer beads between her fingers. She held her robe with her free hand, but the wind kept trying to unravel the blue garment.
It dawned on him why she had been absent in the past few days. After all, it was her sister’s wedding day. Apparently she couldn’t resist the chance to watch the event. However, if she had tried to make contact with Lady Jade Han, Canh’s mother would have crossed the boundary from having a simple reunion with her sister to creating a political firestorm, since their husbands were mortal enemies.
Without knowing the new princess, François felt sympathy toward her. The sun had not set on her first day of marriage, and already she might have to keep a secret from her husband.
Canh burst into tears. “I want my má,” he wailed. His little fists pounded François’s shoulder.
Looking down at the crowd, Lady Bui swallowed a wad of betel juice. “Which one is his mother?”
François said, “Please excuse us. We must go.”
A
t last, Pierre received permission to leave Annam. Lady Jade Bình had brought him the happy news even before Prince Thom’s written proclamation arrived.
As he waited for the soldiers to come and set him free, the day grew late. Outside in the courtyard, sunlight faded. Campfires sprinkled their red glow over the citadel. The roads that led to the palaces were lit by thousands of colorful lanterns. The celebration was still going on in the distance. Tired of waiting, Pierre eased himself into a chair with his prayer book.
He was able to read the words as he had done a thousand times before, but doubts assailed his mind.
Why hasn’t anybody come? Could the prince have changed his mind? Was the news of his freedom merely a cruel trick?
He wondered if François had something to do with the delay.
In his entire career, Pierre felt his biggest failure had been François Gervaise. At the beginning, he had been optimistic about the artist’s potential and sensitivity, in spite of his lies about his scandalous past. But François’s radical and stubborn nature had allowed him to be poisoned by the heathen religion. His closeness to the Buddhist community had done irreversible damage to the teaching of Christianity and its commandments.
The artist’s intransigence was a personal affront to Pierre. The least François could do was to show him some respect while they were together in this pagan land. He decided to compose a letter to Rome, asking Pope Pius VI to excommunicate François. No one crossed the Bishop of Madras without paying a price. For this errant priest, the cost would be eternal damnation.
Pierre chuckled. As angry as he was, he felt victorious. If it had not been for the artist’s gossip, he probably would not have learned in time about the kinship between the Buddhist nun and Prince Thom’s bride. Summoning Lady Jade Bình to him, he had little trouble persuading her to go to her sister and plead for his freedom. The nun, meek though she might appear, eagerly embraced any plan that promised to restore her husband to power and place her son on the throne someday. She believed that Pierre was the only avenue to these hopes and dreams.
Under her sister’s influence, Lady Jade Han had persuaded her husband to pardon one prisoner for luck on their wedding day. She had chosen him, a holy man.
Could his strategy have failed?
He was taking a far greater risk than he normally would, but he had had no choice. Six years of waiting was too long, even for a man whose vision was as farsighted as Pierre’s.
He peered into the dimness beyond the entrance. A few dots of lanterns, orange and silver, separated from the sparkling lights that stretched across the terrain to move toward him.
As the lights drew nearer, he could see a group of four porters, carrying a palanquin. Walking before them was François Gervaise.
Pierre stretched his limbs. His liberty was, at last, within grasp.
“I suspect you have something for me?” asked the bishop, clutching his Bible to maintain his composure. He lifted his chin and straightened his posture.
The artist bowed. “I am here at the request of Prince Thom of the West Mountaineers to release you.” He handed Pierre a scroll. “This letter will guarantee your safety all the way to Saygun Harbor. The porters will take you there. You will board a ship to France and never return to the kingdom of Annam. If for any reason you set foot on this soil again, your action will be punishable by death. Do you understand?”
Pierre looked up with a glare.
François’s eyes searched the room. Inside the church, the Buddha statues had been draped in red veils—the color of marriage and happiness. He remarked, “Your Excellency, you have concealed all the statues’ faces. And by tradition, no one is allowed to remove the shrouds until the wedding celebration is over. There will be three more days of festivity. But I guess you knew that. By the time the celebrations are over, and the damage to the Buddhas is discovered, you will be safe, many leagues away from land. As always, you are very shrewd. I must admit you never fail to amaze me.”
Pierre exhaled a thin laugh. “You have no idea.”
François took an elaborate key from the captain of the guards and removed the bishop’s iron collar. Pierre stood with a stagger. The chain had been his umbilical cord for so long that without it he felt out of balance. Still, he pushed aside the hand that François offered for support.
“Farewell, Your Excellency,” said François. “We may never meet again.”
“I have a plan that is—so splendid.” Pierre placed a hand on the artist’s shoulder. “We are not yet finished with each other.”
He laughed as François withdrew into the darkness.
In time, the artist would discover what he meant. Under the veils, Pierre had left a sealed letter written in French and addressed to Prince Thom. This letter detailed François’s guilt in hiding the wives and child of Thom’s archenemy while ostensibly serving the rebels. It also exposed the events that led to Pierre’s pardon, including the assistance of Thom’s bride and her complicity in deceiving her husband.
Because of François’s close relationship to the prince, Thom would more than likely ask him to translate the letter. The artist was the only foreigner among the peasants who could read French. If he were as honest and enlightened as he pretended to be, by reading exactly what Pierre had written, François would be digging himself a grave. By the same revelation, Ánh’s wives and the rebel’s new bride would also be executed or, at the very least, imprisoned. With their demise, the alliance between the Northern Kingdom and the Mountaineers would be shattered. An all-out civil war would break out, weakening both sides.
All this would happen while Pierre was at Versailles with little Canh, asking for Louis XVI’s support to raise an army. By the time he returned to Annam, his protégé, Prince Ánh, would have far fewer obstacles to regaining his sovereignty. And what would Ánh have lost? Not much! Just a few expendable wives.
It seemed more likely to him that François would censor the letter. In doing so, he would prove to Pierre and to himself that he was, all along, a coward. That would not be enough to satisfy the bishop. But the prospect that François Gervaise would live out the rest of his life in disgrace made Pierre beam with delight. He could easily have sent the same letter to Prince Thom in the Annamite writing. But he chose not to. He wanted to allow François the freedom to choose his own fate. It was the bishop’s way of challenging the artist to a duel and watching him flee in shame once more.
This would be his last move in the game of chess that they had been playing since the day they met in Avignon. Whatever François decided to do, the bishop knew he had won the game.
On the road that followed Dong Nai River, the porters hauled a palanquin on their shoulders, carrying Pierre through villages with thatched houses and rice fields. They had been moving since the night before, escorting him southward to Saygun Harbor, over a hundred kilometers away from the citadel.
Leading the procession was a team of six imperial soldiers. Their feet stirred up dirt that dulled their uniforms. Some of it seeped up through the wooden floorboard and dusted Pierre’s black shoes gray.
It was high noon. The summer heat had just begun its wrath. Here and there hot breezes crept under the quiet trees, swaying a few clumps of leaves, only to evaporate in the featureless sky. Under the tattered eaves of the houses, old villagers squatted on their haunches, weaving bamboo baskets. Others, knee-deep in the muddy fields, plowed the earth with their clumsy animals and primitive tools. Children ran naked with the sun beating on their backs. From the young to the old, all bore the same flat expression.
The bishop shuddered. These images of suffering had once been the reasons why he had decided to pursue his mission. But somehow during his journey he kept wandering on to a different path. Almost half of his life had been spent in Annam, yet he had accomplished little. One thing was clear: his original passion was still burning within him. His dedication had not been altered. There was still time.
Before him, the river laced with other branches into a web of channels. A few gusts of wind, heady with the smell of the ocean, drifted into his conveyance. Far in the distance, a line of the blue sea bordered the horizon. Ships bobbed in the harbor. At his first glimpse of the vessels, his blood sang. Mixed with the joy of returning home was the pain of leaving. Pierre wondered if the converts would beprepared to meet the challenges of their faith without him. One of his main objectives in France would be to recruit new missionaries—many, many more.
“Saygun Harbor!” The guard captain’s words lifted Pierre’s heart. He was carried across a cement bridge that separated the old citadel from a contemporary downtown section of the city reserved for foreigners and their commerce.
He looked on with wonder, for this was the first time he had ever been in Saygun City proper. Rustic wooden cottages, some with a stucco finish and quaint balconies, flanked the cobblestone streets. Climbing roses, jasmine, and myrtles graced the facades of the homes. The richest merchants had built their mansions around the town’s square, which displayed a marble fountain at its center. In other sections, taverns, salons, and fancy hotels bustled with activity. Hiding behind them were the quarters that sheltered sailors and dockworkers, some of whom were natives from Africa and India. The ocean encircled the land, its smooth surface mirroring the sky’s vivid blue.
Through the teeming street, the happy tune of a hurdy-gurdy wafted its way from an outside café. Everywhere Pierre looked, he recognized the architectural styles of the French. Even the pungent aroma of fromage reminded him of Paris. Except for the sweltering temperature and an occasional palanquin, there was nothing of Annam in what he saw.
“Welcome to the Paris of the Orient!” said a voice by the window of Pierre’s conveyance. “In our last meeting, you promised me two weeks. Your Excellency, it has been over seven months. For a sailor, this is an arduous wait.”
Pierre turned and saw the ruddy, grinning face of Captain Petijean. The porters lowered the palanquin. Holding the railing, Pierre emerged from its narrow confines and drew a deep breath.
“I am sorry, Captain. I overestimated my stay.”
Both men laughed. Pierre rubbed his neck. It felt eerily bare without the iron collar.
“You are not yet free, Your Excellency,” said Captain Petijean. To the leader of the sentries, he said, “That will be all. Cha CA is now in my care. You are dismissed.”
“We cannot leave until the bishop boards the ship and we see him set sail,” answered the head guard. The rebel officer then presented the captain with a letter that had been tucked away in his sleeve. “Here is his expulsion permit. Please sign it.”
Pierre glanced at the paper and said, “I’ve been asked to leave this country one time too many. I am beginning to get offended.”
Captain Petijean signed the document. “Pray to God this will be your last expulsion. I am too old to keep coming to your rescue.”
“When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow morning. Today, you rest in Hotel Claudine, the best in Saygun.”
As they walked through the tall iron gates of the stately inn, Pierre clutched all his possessions, which were wrapped inside a cloth. He was dizzy from the heat. Under the stares of the hotel guests, he suddenly felt ill at ease.
Inside Captain Petijean’s rooms in the hotel, Pierre sat on a sofa. His body was drenched in sweat. Through the open shutters, the ocean hummed with restless waves.
A twelve-year-old hotel servant in a white uniform waited by a bamboo cabinet. His bare legs and feet seemed black against his pristine shorts. The moment Pierre sat on the sofa, the boy ran to stand behind him. His hands held a large fan, woven from palm leaves. Through his skillful movements, a current of air eased the bishop’s discomfort. He felt drowsy in the heavy warmth of the afternoon.
Petijean excused himself and disappeared through the doors that led to his bedroom. He quickly returned, carrying a box wrapped in golden imperial fabric. Pierre raised himself on one elbow. He recognized the red stamp made by the royal jade seal that belonged to Prince Ánh. His exhaustion dissolved.
“Your Excellency,” said the captain, “this box was given to me by your protégé, His Highness of Cochin China. He entrusted me to hold it for safekeeping. My instruction was to turn it over to you upon your release from bondage. It must only be opened by King Louis XVI of France. No one else.”
He handed the box to Pierre and added, “This has been in my possession ever since my last meeting with the prince, one month after you and I last met.”
“How is he? Did he appear well?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Since the fall of Saygun Citadel, he has been running from the rebels. I have failed in my many attempts to meet with him. Each time I was informed of his whereabouts, so were the Mountaineers. He would flee farther south before I had a chance to see him. Eventually, the prince ran out of land and was pushed out to sea. He sought refuge in Bangkok and was granted asylum under the protection of the king of Siam, Phra Buddha Yod Fa Chulalok Rama. That was when I was able to arrange for a private meeting with His Highness. Thank God, my business dealings with the Siamese government have always been on good terms.”
Pierre ran his fingers over the wax impression. He was relieved and happy that the prince had managed to hold on to the seal of Cochin China. This small gesture showed him how much his student had matured. “By fleeing to Siam, he demonstrated that he is a lot smarter than I realized.”
The captain shrugged. “I agree. But there is a persistent recklessness in his actions. His Highness never seems to plan anything; he just reacts to events around him. That is probably why he loses all the battles.”
“It’s also probably the reason he is still alive.”
Captain Petijean said in a detached manner, “He’s been fortunate. With all the stories and legends that surround him, one would think he is a demigod. By many, he has been dubbed ‘the slippery dragon’ for his numerous escapes.”