Le Colonial

  COPYRIGHT © 2004 BY NGUYEN-ANDREWS, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group USA

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at HachetteBookGroupUSA.com.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  First eBook Edition: Septemper 2007

  ISBN: 978-0-316-02870-7

  Contents

  Also By Kien Nguyen

  Dedication

  Epigraphy

  Part One: Faith

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two: The Mission

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Part Three: Slaying the Dragons

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Part Four: Salvation

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  ALSO BY KIEN NGUYEN

  The Unwanted

  The Tapestries

  TO MY WIFE, KATHLEEN,

  AND

  TO MY CHILDREN, DANNY AND AMORY

  Empty shells, filled by many hands.

  Such labor only for a glimpse of glory.

  The louder you burst, the more tattered you become.

  All you can ever leave behind is an echo.

  — “Firecracker,” NGUYEN HUU CHINH (?-1787)

  PART ONE

  Faith

  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 re
vealed 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 R
ome. 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.