Le Colonial

by Kien Nguyen

Genres: Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

A "richly satisfying" epic of Asian history in the tradition of James Clavell ( Newsday), from the bestselling author of The Tapestries.

Release date: August 24, 2004

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 336

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

Avignon, France, 1771

The brush was a hickory twig, its end hammered into a soft, pointed fringe. The painter drew it across the canvas, tracing a long stroke of cobalt blue—the light of predawn. Another dash, a smear, a twist of the bristles, and a cluster of areca palms silhouetted the horizon. The only movement was a blur of wind across a colony of stars.

It was the first day of winter. The inside of the church was so cold that he could see his breath in the candlelight. The Painting was a rectangle of oils on sheepskin, stretched on a wooden frame. Its image resembled nothing of the splendor and immensity of the surrounding medieval architecture but was cast in the bold colors of his imagination. Hanging by cords over his wool coat was a collection of curios—fragments of broken clay pots, pinecones, a metal goblet, clumps of feathers, a bird’s wing. The rest of his belongings were leaning against the wall—five rolls of unfinished paintings, sketches, and a bundle of soiled clothes.

A deep voice echoed outside the realm of his concentration. Across the room, a priest was reading from his notes to an assemblage of novices.

These tall palms, with trunks as straight and smooth as masts on a ship, have simple crowns of large fan-shaped leaves. They grow in the deep shadows of the ancient forest, surrounding picturesque rivers, mountains, and villages. I have traveled through the mysterious lands of ancient Tsiampa, visited the ruins of Angkor in Cambodia, and witnessed the vast grace and wealth of the coastal cities of Cochin China . . .

The artist stepped back and examined his work. Its balance pleased him, but it needed detail. He cleaned his brushes, fumbling through his pockets for another color, a light green with a touch of blue. He imagined a bed of vegetation carpeting the forest floor, as if anticipating the sun in the lush landscape.

Around him in the cathedral, sumptuous paintings, tapestries, and fresco murals depicted the lives of saints and angels, their faces serene under golden halos. Although it was his first time in Avignon, he knew its history. At the beginning of the fourteenth century, the Palace of the Popes had been erected as the new home for Pope Clement V after the authority of the Holy See was shifted from Rome to Avignon. Now more than four hundred and fifty years later, the palace complex was still one of the most impressive Gothic castles in Europe, an imposing fortress made up of towers linked by stone galleries. But to him, the wealth and the beauty lay in the artwork.

There in the exotic lands of Asia, the voice was reading, I beheld the wide variety of human types, communities, and political regimes, which are unknown to the Western world . . .

The cathedral he had chosen to work in was housed in the Tower of Saint John—the quarter that was reserved for the resident scholars. As the first pale gleam of sunlight glanced over a row of gray stone corridors, the young man shivered. His eyes were burning, his stomach grumbling, his body aching. It had been days since he had eaten a good meal or enjoyed a restful sleep. The bustling city of Avignon had little hospitality for drifters, vagabonds, and artists.

Ahead of him, a long narrow passage led to the nave. Beneath a series of tapestries depicting the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, seminarians from many orders huddled on pews facing a black-robed priest. It was his voice the painter was listening to. Above the altar, Christ hung on a cross, carved from wood—his head bowed, his face hidden beneath a tangle of hair. It was an image that the artist had copied over and over, trying to invoke Jesus’ essence.

The priest put down his notes and leaned forward, addressing his audience more personally. “You are all preparing to be ordained.” His voice struck a low pitch, and its vibration rumbled in the cavernous hall. “With the conquest of heathen lands all over the world comes an opportunity for the expansion of Christianity. To novices of any order who have strong faith, I offer a chance to serve in a foreign place, along with the guaranteed reward of immortality in heaven. There will be a series of planned voyages and explorations of Southeast Asia, a pagan civilization open to conversion to the true faith. We need physicians, scientists, botanists, engineers, and artists to effect and record the dawn of the Christian era . . .”

The artist paused in the midst of his brushstroke. Those last words seemed to speak directly to him, and he saw that his intuition had served him well when he had decided to come to this place.

The ghostly dawn poured in through rows of stained-glass windows and bathed the statues. Along the walls, the fresco murals absorbed the light, and the figures within their panels seemed to breathe. The artist coughed. The seminarians turned their heads and whispered in one another’s ears. A round-faced youth wearing the brown robe of the Benedictine order looked him up and down. The lecturer rapped his knuckles on the dais to regain their attention.

In contrast to his impressive voice, the priest’s body was slight. His thin dark hair, combed back from a high forehead, failed to cover his balding crown. From within two gaunt sockets, his eyes capturedthe sunlight’s golden hue yet reflected none of its warmth. As he spoke, his lower jaw revealed a row of uneven, yellow teeth. Everything about him, from his features to the simplicity of his cassock, reminded the artist of portraits of suffering saints from a bygone era.

A hand from the audience rose. The priest acknowledged a young man in the second pew.

“I pray of you, Monsignor de Béhaine,” said the novice. Most of his face was hidden under the hood of his robe. His clear voice suggested that he was in his early twenties, slightly older than the artist. “Please tell us more about the geography of these places that you are talking about. I’ve never heard of them.”

The priest tilted his chin forward and addressed the student. “Very well. Brother João, have you heard of China?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. It is a country east of India.”

“Excellent. Now, imagine, just below China, along the edge of the South China Sea, which is part of the Pacific Ocean, a land three thousand kilometers in length. We call this land Annam, and the people who live there are the Annamites or Annamese. Theirs is a primitive but ancient society. For the last few hundred years, a civil war has divided this country into two separate kingdoms. The North is called Tonkin, while the South is Cochin China. Both of the kings were anointed when they were mere children, and so the two countries are ruled by high-ranking nobles, who are known as vice-kings.”

He paused, allowing the seminarians to digest the information. “It took me some time to understand the many ways in which their culture differs from ours. If you decide to accompany me on my next voyage, I promise that you will gain more knowledge about the world than you could ever read in a book—that is, if you could ever find one that is written about these undiscovered lands. Who among you has the hunger for adventure and the dedication to faith required of a missionary?”

The room fell silent. Even the saints on the walls seemed to avert their eyes.

The monsignor chuckled. “Here in Europe we have been blessed with true religion. A priest must be above reproach because he represents God, and also because others on Earth are so lost in their paths that they need guidance. It is now our obligation to rescue the savages. Nothing must be allowed to stop us from carrying out our mission.”

Another silence followed his remarks. The same novice stood, pulling back his hood. He was a handsome man with dark features. “What dangers should we expect to face if we join you in your mission of glory?”

De Béhaine squared his shoulders. “The East is a strange and mysterious place,” he said. “Starvation is prevalent. Natural disasters are frequent. And death is commonplace. The natives do not believe in our God. Doubtless, you will be embarking on a very dangerous assignment.”

Brother João mused, “Then, dear sir, should we risk our lives?”

“You should, and you must,” the priest replied. “Because it is your duty as a priest to serve God’s kingdom and the Mother Church. Your life is not yours to keep. It belongs to our Heavenly Father.”

He adjusted the pin on his right shoulder, which held his ankle-length silk cassock together. A large crucifix was suspended by a thong from his neck and tucked into the folds of his sash. He looked out again at the audience and saw that the painter had disappeared down one of the many corridors. All that was left where he had stood was the canvas he had been working on, placed on a bench next to a flickering candle.

The assembled crowd followed the monsignor’s look. Decorum forgotten, the novices murmured at the image before them. The monsignor rapped his knuckles on the dais again, but the sound was lost.

De Béhaine stepped down from the altar and marched toward the painting. He forgot about his sermon as he lifted the sheepskin by its frame. The paint was still wet.

The monsignor took in the scene of mountains and palm jungles. The strength of the young man’s brush had turned the silent landscape into successions of broken curves and angular turns. The river’s pale blue water foamed where it passed through cliffs and emptied into a grassy ravine.

The monsignor laughed out loud in satisfaction. The artist, with his perceptive skills, had created a distant world with amazing accuracy.

“Silence!” he commanded. “Does anyone know the painter who left behind this canvas?” He held the picture above his head so everyone could see.

“The Church allows strangers to come and go as they wish,” answered Brother João. “We do not know who that was. He could have been a vagrant, coming here to seek alms and refuge in the church’s sanctuary.”

“No, the technique is much too sophisticated for a vagabond,” replied de Béhaine. He lowered his voice. “Whoever he might be, he is certainly an educated man. This painting is not a gift. I have no doubt that I will meet that painter again.”

CHAPTER TWO

Monsignor Pierre Pigneau de Béhaine retired to his room after supper. A copper urn, hanging from the wall on an iron armature, glowed with red coals. The evening was harsh, with a bitter wind. Gray shafts of light wafted over the Rhône River like faint smoke. Looking from his small lead-glassed window, he saw a monk striding across an open meadow toward the cobblestone roads of Avignon. The lantern in the man’s hand sliced the night like a golden blade.

The Tower of Saint John was steeped in frosty stillness. The Benedictine priory where Pierre was lodging was a low, dark fourteenth-century structure with a church on one side and a cloister on the other. With the sanction of Pope Clement XIV, he, along with other pioneers, had traveled to the major cities to recruit missionaries from various orders for journeys to the Far East. Now, for the final stage of his mission before returning to Annam, the monsignor had come to Avignon.

For three days his efforts had yielded few results. All over France, his arrival was preceded by stories about the persecutions of missionaries in the Far East and, in some cases, their martyrdom. The newly consecrated priests listened to his sermons with fear and skepticism. He did not understand their reservations. After all, another Jesuit, Alexander de Rhodes, who was a native of Avignon, had brought the Gospel to Annam a hundred and fifty years ago. And the Portuguese mission to these uncharted territories had been in place for two centuries. Why are these novices so ignorant and afraid? In the early days of his priesthood, the monsignor had been driven by his thirst for adventure and a total devotion to his faith, a devotion that seemed to be lacking in younger priests. Their unresponsiveness frustrated him.

Across the monsignor’s throat ran a scar, purplish and embossed like the tattoo of some primitive tribe. In an absentminded gesture, he touched its rough surface. He often explained to his audiences that it was the seal of God, inflicted by an Annamite lord—an indelible testament to his Christian convictions. Unlike the Mother Church, Pierre did not believe in assigning priests to the missions, even though he himself had been chosen for the Far East at the seminary where he studied. He would rather accept a body of explorers who volunteered. In his experience, those with courage and tenacity had the best chance of success.

He listened to the murmurs of the night—the seminarians’ snores through the thin walls of their cells, the opening and closing of the front entrance, and the scratching of rats on the wooden beams—all reassuring sounds to him. He liked the solitude and calm confinement that allowed him to be alone with his books. He was compiling notes for an Annamese-Latin dictionary for the next generation of missionaries.

Few suspected the truth: the monsignor harbored little affection for Annam. His expeditions were to fulfill a higher purpose and responsibility, first to Louis XV, king of France, who was in desperate need of new colonies to augment his wealth. France had already lost India to the English, and China was too ambitious an undertaking for the monsignor to contemplate. Annam, with its modest size yet immense assets, weakened by its prolonged civil war, promised to be a vulnerable target. If Pierre could establish a lucrative outpost in Annam, the country’s riches would help restore the status of the Society of Jesus, which had lost favor with the king and Parliament in recent years.

His secondary devotion was to the Church of Rome. It was a central tenet of Catholic doctrine to spread the words of Jesus Christ and baptize heathens. Europe, as Pierre saw it, had been tainted by Protestantism, which had been incited by the devil himself, Martin Luther. The monsignor felt that he had been chosen to sow God’s truth in the new territories of the Far East. There were many difficulties and hardships, but Pierre took comfort in knowing that he had been among the first explorers. Salvation, like all things of value, could only come at a high price, and this alien land would be no exception. No other Western beliefs would compete with his master plan.

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. He lit another candle and neatened a few stacks of books on the floor before opening the door. A gray-haired Benedictine monk was waiting on the other side. The monsignor squinted into the dim hallway as the monk raised his lantern to expose his face.

“Monsignor de Béhaine, you have a visitor,” he grumbled. Before the priest could reply, he leaned closer and whispered, “This one insists I announce to you that he is an artist. Be careful, Father. You know they are all thieves.”

Pierre lit a knowing smile. “It’s all right, Brother Angus. I’m expecting him. Let him in.”

The monk shuffled away, irritated at being disturbed from his sleep.

A figure stepped from the darkness—the painter from the morning sermon. He was about twenty, with thick eyebrows and deep-set eyes that receded into the shadows. He shifted his belongings from one shoulder to the other. Looking beyond the monsignor, the artist caught sight of his painting, which Pierre had propped on his desk. A faint smile appeared on his flushed face.

“You came to retrieve the art piece, I presume,” said the monsignor.

The artist shook his head and attempted to say something, but stopped. He rubbed his hands together, and Pierre noticed that his fingertips were discolored with paint pigments and dirt. The monsignor opened the door wider and stood back. The presence of another person made him aware of how small his cell was. He beckoned.

“Enter!” he said. “You will be more comfortable inside.”

The copper urn emitted a steady glow under a thick layer of ash. Its light fell on the boxes of books he carried with him on his travels. The room’s heat had made the pages curl at the corners. The artist let out a groan of pleasure, thawing out his muscles in the warmth of the coal brazier. His cheeks were crimson. He covered his mouth to stifle a cough. Pierre offered the only chair to his guest and settled himself upon a wooden crate.

“In this cold,” he muttered, “staying close to the hot coals can help protect the lungs against pneumonia. Do you feel better?”

The young man nodded, still clutching his bundles.

“I am Monsignor Pierre Pigneau de Béhaine,” he said. “And, sir, what is your name and title?” He leaned back, studying his guest.

The artist regarded him steadily. “My name is François Gervaise. As you can see, I am just a humble painter with no title.”

Pierre watched the artist scratch his head. The thick chestnut hair was pulled back in a braid.

“Remove your coat,” he said. “Put down your possessions. Be comfortable!”

François glanced at him from under his eyebrows and unbuttoned his coat. “I am sorry for choosing such a late hour to visit. If you wish, I can return at another time.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” the priest said. “You’re already here. I have been studying the painting you have left behind. That is what you wanted me to do, is it not?”

“What I want is to get out of France,” blurted François.

Pierre barked a laugh of astonishment. “And you think I can help you? Monsieur Gervaise, I don’t know how you came to that conclusion. How did you learn about me, or my lectures, or my planned voyages?”

The artist looked back at him with blue eyes full of expectation. “At the Carthusian monastery of Val-de-Bénédiction.”

“Oh, the charterhouse. Is it located across the river, in the town of Villeneuve lès Avignon?” asked the priest with a vague recognition.

“Yes, sir. There were three monks who worked as almoners, feeding the hungry in one of the cloisters every afternoon. Your adventures have made you a man of legend. I overheard their conversation about you two days ago.”

Again the monsignor laughed, rising from his seat. “Listen to me; I am a missionary, not a sea captain. I only recruit priests.” He reached for the door handle.

“Please, let me explain,” François persisted. “You need an artist to capture the beauty of the lands you travel in and to chronicle your work. Remember the reaction of your students when they saw the painting? My art can help them experience the same excitement you once had. For that, you’ll need my assistance.”

“Ah!” said the monsignor, narrowing his eyes. “So you have thought of everything to your advantage, even the response from my students. But have you thought about the dangers of these missions? The natives often react violently to intruders. You could be shunned, tortured, or even murdered.”

“Every day I confront the same risks here in France.”

The priest lowered his voice. “Monsieur Gervaise, you don’t act like an ordinary vagabond. In fact, you seem intelligent and calculating. Tell me, why is it so important for you to abandon this country? What are you running away from?”

François slumped in his chair, looking down and tapping his foot against the stone floor. “We have just met,” he said. “I would rather not speak in detail of my past. All you need to know about me is my talent, and that I am a good and honest person. I can be of use.”

Pierre turned his gaze to the nothingness outside his window. Even though he was just thirty years old, he knew how to use his poise to seem older. He enjoyed intimidating others and taking control of conversations. “Then why should I believe in your goodness? So far you have shown me only that you are a troubled soul.”

The guest coughed as he traced a crack in the wall with his fingernail.

“Are these your drawings?” the priest asked, reaching for the artist’s sketchbook.

Without asking permission, he turned the pages, going through them with the tips of his fingers, discarding each sheet of paper on his bed as if he were sorting through a deck of cards. The room was silent except for the rustling of the pages and the crackling of the coals.

“These are the work of a talented artist,” he said after a moment. “Where did you learn such technique? Who was your teacher?”

“My skill has been largely self-taught.”

The priest responded with a look of doubt.

“At the age of sixteen,” added François, “I was introduced to Monsieur Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin in his apartment at the Louvre and was fortunate enough to be invited to attend his master class.”

Pierre was taken aback. Chardin was, in his opinion, one of the finest painters of his day, although unappreciated by the Royal Academy because of his simple subjects. He remembered seeing one of the artist’s early works, a painting of a youth playing with cards.

He cleared his throat. “Monsieur Chardin has the support of many wealthy patrons, including His Majesty King Louis XV. How can you, a drifter, claim the company of such an illustrious individual?”

François’s only answer was to continue tracing the invisible pattern on the wall. Pierre’s patience was fleeing.

“I have a strict policy,” he said. “Because you cannot answer my simplest questions, I will not be able to accept you. What kind of missionary would you be if you cannot be forthright with your superiors?”

“In due time, sir, I will.”

“Time is something I have very little of. Soon I will be leaving this seminary. If you have anything to say, tell me now. As a priest I am bound by God to keep my silence when it involves a confession. Are you a Catholic, my son?”

“Yes, I am,” replied François.

“Then tell me who you are, where you came from, if you want to join me.”

The artist gathered his drawings from the bed and stacked them back in the sketchbook, saying nothing.

Pierre dismissed his guest with a wave. “You are a fool!” he said. “I can no longer be bothered with your nonsense.”

François’s face darkened with defeat. Leaning forward, he muttered in dismay, “Please, wait.” With downcast eyes, he said, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two years, four-and-twenty days since my last confession. I was born in Villaume on the thirty-first of October. The year was 1751.”

Under the flickering light of the candles, a smile tugged at the corners of the monsignor’s mouth. He reached under his pillow for the wooden box that held his Bible.

As François uttered the words that led to his past, shame flooded his soul. The artist had come to visit the priest with one hope in mind—escape. He had believed that his talent would be enough to impress the monsignor. But now, although the priest was expressing interest in his sketches, he realized that to achieve his goal, he must give up a part of himself.

François was in despair. Before he arrived in Avignon, he had been struggling to find the barest necessities of life. All the changes he had made seemed to lead him in a downward spiral. He was elated to be inside a warm room and hated the prospect of returning to the bitter cold outside.

“Villaume,” said the priest. “Where is it?”

“Sir . . .”

“Don’t tell me,” interrupted de Béhaine. “I’ve heard this name before. Is it between the towns of Saint Gilles and Beaucaire, in Nîmes?”

François nodded. The sound of his village’s name coming from the mouth of a stranger made him realize how unprepared he was to confront his past.

“I was born in Villaume,” he repeated. “As an infant of about a week, I was abandoned in the stable of Saint Mary Magdalene Priory and was discovered by one of the priests. That was the only home I knew in all my twenty years. There in the church I was fed, clothed by the parishioners, and educated by Father Dominique, who was both my guardian and teacher.”

An expression of pain gripped his face. He grabbed his coat in one hand and his possessions in the other, strapping them over his shoulder. “I have told you enough,” he said, rising to his feet. “I can’t say any more. What kind of priest are you if you turn away a needy soul like me?” He flung open the door.

Before the monsignor could recover from his accusing words, François disappeared into the dimness of the hallway. The whooping sound of his cough lingered.

CHAPTER THREE

Time began its torment once his guest departed. Alone and dreading the next six hours of darkness, Pierre tossed on his cot. He knew the routine of insomnia so well. It had first troubled him in his old bedroom when he was ten, the evening his mother had died, and it had returned to disturb him every night since. Here in another unfamiliar room, when the light faded into obscurity, he again became that bereft ten-year-old.

His cell was warm, and the night, through his half-closed eyelids, was an undulating indigo in which he was sinking. In this viscous space burned the red shadow of the urn, so dim he seemed to be staring at the sun from deep within a pit.

He had gone to the Far East at the age of twenty-four, and had lived in India, Siam, Kampuchea, and Annam. Six years ago, under a cluster of bamboo by the edge of a rice paddy, he had built his first mission, a bunch of mud-drenched, thatch-covered huts. The image of the Annam that he knew merged into that of the painting created by the drifter. He marveled at how accurate it was for someone who had never set foot in a tropical terrain. Could some intuitive bond between them have provided the artist with such keen vision?

Soon Pierre would be traveling to the Far East again, leaving the winter behind.

He turned to one side, his eyes squinting shut as he tried to trick his mind into drowsiness. If he achieved two hours of sleep tonight, he would consider himself fortunate. Often, he masked his frustration by conducting predawn sermons, seizing the opportunity to ridicule any monks or novices who were unable to keep awake. He regarded those who overindulged in sleep as grave sinners. He knew his suffering showed clearly in the dark rings under his eyes and in the lethargic way he moved.

Pierre ran his fingers under his pillow to search for a crude wooden box. The unvarnished texture was familiar to his touch. On the lid he felt the metal crucifix fastened next to a faded inscription. In the box he kept a small Bible, a rosary made from olive pits, and a few unopened letters from his brother Joseph. These were the only possessions that remained from his past.

Home was a comforting word that soothed his mind with tranquil images. Many a spring day he had sat on the doorstep of his house on the outskirts of Origny watching his brothers and sisters play in the meadow. Once, behind the rows of apple trees, he had spotted a pair of young lovers, their colorful garments showing through the green leaves like ripened fruits. Curious, he observed them. Their passion made him wonder about his own sexual apathy. For as long as he could remember, he had felt no interest in women nor courted any from them. Something inside him seemed radically wrong; he believed it was his heart. Instead of love, it harbored only resentment, and most of it was directed toward his father, Doctor Abraham Pigneau de Béhaine. His mother’s body was not even cold in the grave before there was a new bride in the house.

When Pierre decided to leave home at the age of seventeen, his family’s governess, Mademoiselle Émilie Tournelle, had already been Madame Pigneau de Béhaine for more than seven years and had borne five more offspring for his father, including a set of twins. Pierre needed a change in his life. Enrolling in L’université théologique de Paris was his way to escape the infirmary, a household full of noisy children, the country life, and a woman who every day attempted to erase his mother’s presence with her own offensive traits. He knew that if he allowed the memory of his mother to dissipate, he would retain nothing of his spirit. He would become an empty shell, a walking corpse among the living. With all his will, he kept alive his belief in the heavenly world where his mother was now dwelling.

As the day for his journey to the seminary drew near, the atmosphere in his family had quieted to a deceptive calm. Dr. de Béhaine, still tending his duties in the somber, rustic hospital, hoped his eldest son would come to his senses and accept his rightful place as the heir to his father’s profession. But no miracle intervened. The doctor accepted his son’s decision with ambivalence. He did not hold the Church in the same esteem as Pierre did. But what was happening to his son was now a private matter between the boy and God, and even a father could not enter that realm.

Pierre remembered the galloping of horses on the cobblestone pavement, the fresh scent of a spring morning, and three of his siblings—Theresa, Mary, and Joseph—pressing their faces against the kitchen window. He also recalled the way he had forced himself to be polite and not give in to his feelings as he bade Godspeed to his father and stepmother.

In Paris, Pierre used his newfound freedom to submerge himself in his studies. Slowly, like the winter in Origny, he grew icy.

The next dawn, he conducted his sermon in the Tower of Saint John. Pierre paused in the middle of a sentence and squinted above the students’ heads. There was an empty space in the dark opening of the corridor where the artist had stood the day before.

François Gervaise and his painting weighed on the monsignor’s mind. He could not deny the impression t