Le Colonial

by Kien Nguyen

  He could hear the chatter of people talking in the distance, as well as the rumbling of horse-drawn carriages and the barking of a dog. He had other worries in mind. If this plan did not work out, and he got caught, the authorities might learn about the crime that he had committed in Paris. He feared that he would be put away in the most dreaded prison of all, the Château d’If. His mother would weep if she found out. The seething anger he had once felt toward her abated. The thought of her alone in the Hôtel Dieu flooded him with guilt.

  The rope in his hands jerked three times. It was Jérôme’s signal that someone was approaching. Henri stiffened his back against the wall, held his breath, and listened. Footsteps reverberated in the night. He wanted to drop the cord and run away as fast as he could. But before he could move, a figure appeared at the curve of the narrow street, walking toward them at a brisk pace. He had no time to think. The rope tugged at his hands. He gave a mighty pull. It lifted, and the target let out a muffled cry before crumpling to the ground. A three-cornered hat flew in the air and landed on the cobblestone street.

  Henri caught a glimpse of the victim’s half-hidden face. His thick, dark hair was shorn in a straight line over his brows. Beneath his bangs, his eyes seemed to have been bleached white with pain. The outline of a silver cross on the man’s chest reflected a weak trace of moonlight. Realization shot through him: he had wounded a holy man—a priest. Jérôme sprang from his hiding place. As though he had a sixth sense of where the money was hidden, he reached and found the purse.

  “Curse my luck,” he howled, “it’s empty.”

  In frustration, he kicked his fallen prey. Henri’s hands dug into Jérôme’s shoulders, pulling him back.

  “Don’t hurt him anymore,” he pleaded.

  The sailor spat contemptuously, “Don’t be afraid! He’s just a stinking Jesuit.” He bent down to the priest and snarled, “No judge would hang me for killing you.”

  Then, to the frightened boy, he said, “Leave him!”

  Henri stumbled to follow but stopped when he heard the man’s moan. Ahead, his partner’s shadow dissolved into the black ink of the night.

  Henri hesitated, angry that his compassion outweighed his judgment. Behind him, the choking sound kept him still; he was unable to leave an injured person unattended.

  “Help me, somebody!” came the cry.

  Henri tiptoed back to get a closer look at the victim. The priest stirred. Confusion, then surprise, then acknowledgment registered in his eyes. Already the boy regretted turning back.

  “Thank God you are still here,” the priest rasped. His voice was hoarse, probably because of the injury to his throat. He reached for Henri’s hand.

  “No,” the boy screamed, jolting away. “Let me go.”

  “Do not fear,” the priest said, swallowing with difficulty. “I will not condemn you for what you did. If God can forgive you, so will I.”

  The words rang in Henri’s head. Forgiveness was something his mother had given him. Bending, he lifted the priest to his feet and offered a shoulder for support. The wounded man was barely able to stand upright.

  Henri struggled to find his voice. “Where are we going?”

  As they stumbled down the alley, the priest whispered, “Help me walk to my seminary. I am grateful you decided to come back to me. I am Father François Gervaise.”

  Henri muttered his own name in reply. As they emerged from the alley, the light from the nearby dwellings brightened their path. Henri could feel the priest staring at him.

  “Dear God, you are so young,” he said. “Why are you doing this? Why rob people? Where is your family?”

  Henri said, “I am by myself. I arrived in Marseille this morning. I tried to find work, but no one would hire me.” Meeting Father François’s sympathetic gaze, he felt encouraged to explain further. “I left my mother in Paris. I met Jérôme a few hours ago.”

  “The man who took my purse? You would be wise to never see him again.”

  Henri walked silently beside the priest as they made their way through the narrow streets along the harbor. The weight of the wounded man seemed lighter on his shoulders with each step.

  “Do you have lodging for the night?” asked François.

  “No, sir.”

  “There is room at the monastery, if you’d like to stay.”

  Henri’s lips moved, but his “yes, sir” was inaudible.

  The monastery where Father François resided was located on a hill looking down on the harbor. The moon had descended. The stars were too weak to illuminate the way. They managed to find a crude path leading to the residence. The front door was unbolted.

  When they crossed the threshold, a harsh odor greeted Henri, the smell of rotted wood beams and kerosene lamps. Sitting inside the entrance, the night watchman had nodded off. The sound of their arrival woke him. He rubbed his hands over his face and assumed an alert expression, which turned into concern when he saw the wounded priest. He raised a metal lantern closer to them.

  “Oh, Father!” he cried. “Why must you insist on going out so late? Now look what happened to you.” Turning to Henri, he said, “Since we were forced to close our university, few people in this town have respect for the Jesuit order. Just this week alone, there have already been four assaults on our priests. I can’t understand why they must attack us. We are just missionaries. The only reason we have this seminary here is so that we can wait for ships.”

  More priests gathered, drawn by the watchman’s voice. Shoes scraped the hallway, shadows brushed across the wall, and Henri heard voices whisper, “Dear God!”

  The priests took François to an inner chamber to tend his wound. Ignored, Henri stood by the door, his shoulders hunched. There was a hint of rain in the air, but the night was warm. After waiting for what seemed like a long time, he left the monastery. Apparently Father François’s offer of a night’s lodging was an empty promise.

  All was quiet outside. Henri was alone.

  He had not gone far when a soft wail escaped his throat. He remembered the tiny room in the rue de Lappe where he had lived with his mother. It was the last home he had known. He missed his mother’s warmth, the gentle way her ribs rose and fell when he lay next to her, her quiet enjoyment of his company. What chance did she have in the Hôtel Dieu among the sick, with no means of support? Had he paid attention, he would have recognized the boundless love she had for him. But he had been angry at her betrayal of his father—too angry to care, too selfish to see, and too eager to leave. If she knew that he had harmed a priest, her heart would be broken yet again.

  Overcome with repentance, he burst into sobs. He did not begin to calm down until a hand rested on his shoulder. He wiped his face with the tail of his shirt, blew his mucus to the pavement, and turned.

  The watchman stood before him, scratching his thick white hair. It was plain that the old priest had not expected to find Henri in such a state.

  “Come, my child. Father François is waiting for you,” the priest said.

  He led Henri back to the open door of the monastery.

  In the corner of the room, Father François lay in a wooden bed, under a sheet. A white bandage was wrapped around his neck. On the nightstand by his bed was a washbasin containing a cloth, along with a burning candle and a crudely carved cross.

  “Sit here,” said Father François, pointing to a chair. “I want to talk to you.”

  Henri came forward and sat down. He turned his face away, hoping the priest would not see that he had been crying. But Father François leaned over and wiped a tear from his cheek.

  “These tears,” he said, “tell me that you are a boy with a good heart. Will you promise me that you will love God and serve Him by following His commandments?”

  “Father, I don’t know if I can.”

  The priest seemed to take the measure of Henri’s soul. “I came here to embark on a ship,” said Father François. “I need someone to help me in my missionary work in the Far East. And here you are. Yo
u can be my assistant. Would you like that?”

  “Does that mean we would go to sea?”

  “For at least seven months, possibly a year.”

  Henri pressed his hands on his knees to keep from trembling. Going to sea had been his desire. And helping a missionary would make his mother proud.

  “When will we be coming back?”

  Father François thought for a moment. “I don’t know when or even if I will return. But you will be free to leave any time you want.”

  Henri cleared his throat. “I don’t want to be like Jérôme, but Father, I don’t want to lie to you. I don’t love God the way I should.”

  He closed his eyes, expecting to be chastised by the priest. But Father François propped himself on his elbows.

  “I too have a confession,” the priest said. “I don’t think I love my God either, the way I am supposed to. In many ways, we are alike. I think we can help each other.”

  In the company of the priest, Henri was cleaned and fed. He would never have imagined that by helping Father François, he would change the course of his destiny. A few weeks later, he became a novice in the Jesuit Society of Foreign Missions, a branch of Catholicism that explored distant worlds.

  The choice came to him quickly. Unlike most adolescents, who believed that their lives would go on forever, Henri was aware that his life on Earth had its allotted span of days, months, and years. And in the end, inevitably, it would cease. In his mind, the only certainty was Death, whose presence stretched through an infinity devoid of light. To him, Death had always been the ultimate God because it was unyielding, irreversible, and eternal.

  Meeting Father François introduced him to a new way of thinking that was the opposite of everything he had learned. Watching the priest sit and read his daily devotions, he wanted to acquire the same patience and tranquillity. He wondered why this order of men had such an optimistic belief in a divine being. Clearly, by being one of them he could learn to both achieve this contentment and avoid facing the uncertain future alone. In Father François’s care, he was safe. The priest had assumed the role of a provider as well as a teacher.

  To prepare for his voyage, Henri took with him his single possession: Madame Leyster’s woolen green socks, which he wore around his neck under his ankle-length cassock. He did not want to use them, for fear that they would be worn through. And in doing so he had made certain that the gift served its purpose well: to be near his heart.

  Normally, a candidate entering the Jesuit society was required to pass a series of examinations conducted by four or more experienced priests. But because their ship was to disembark in a month, and because of Henri’s lack of education, Father François accepted the responsibility of teaching Henri. The training of a novice should last at least two years. On its completion, Henri would be well versed in philosophy, theology, mathematics, and languages, and would take a vow of religious obedience and chastity.

  On May 12 of the year 1773, one month after their encounter, Henri joined the young priest for the journey. France had offered him nothing but hunger and destitution. Annam seemed a fantastic world, and he was eager for adventure.

  Influenced by his teacher’s tales, Henri had his own picture of the exotic land. He dreamed of a place where dense masses of gigantic trees and monstrous flowers wound together to form wild forests, and where the sun burned so brightly and so close to the Earth that dark brown was the common skin tone. And the natives—he envisioned little clay statues that moved like pawns in a game of chess. These thoughts only intensified the excitement Henri had felt since he first learned about the voyage.

  The waiting was over. The wind blew due east, and in the early morning, the harbor of Marseille bustled with travelers hauling heavy burdens. A ghostly sun stretched its limbs of light above the rippling water. Three large ships were anchored and bound together in a series of mooring places, apart from the steady stream of craft down the port.

  The boy ran to the edge of the water and splashed his feet in the breaking waves. He was delighted to feel the cool ocean. His clothes, wrapped in a bundle, hung over his right shoulder. The green stockings around his neck flew in the air, catching the wind.

  “Look over there, Henri,” the priest said, pointing across the bay to the dock. “The white one nearest to us is our ship, the Wanderer. Next to her are the Saint Ignatius Loyola and Saint Raphael. Ignatius is the founder of the Society of Jesus; Raphael is patron of the travelers and one of the seven archangels who stand before the throne of the Lord. The name Raphael also means ‘God heals.’ You may notice that the last vessel is slightly larger in size and armed with cannons. That is the Hercules, which is a warship. Her job will be to protect the other three.”

  Henri halted, apprehension in his eyes. “Why do we need protection?”

  Before the priest could answer, a loud, continuous whistle cut through the heavy air. Its noise prompted the men-at-arms to begin boarding, most of them heading toward the Hercules. Over the taffrails of their caravels, the four captains appeared, their hats off in salute to the passengers. Seven monks were praying together on the quay, along with three nuns. Like Henri’s and François’s, their belongings were contained in a few modest packages. Their garments were made of crude black wool. Small identical metal pins, each adorned with a cross, fastened their coats at the neck. The priest identified them as Portuguese members of the Dominican order.

  Henri lingered. His anticipation grew, and now and again he turned to look at the city behind them, still sunken in fog. The sounds and smells that came from the dirty streets reminded him of Paris. The thought of not seeing France for a long time was frightening. To his embarrassment, he felt like crying.

  Henri and François stood in line behind a few merchants, who were directing their cargos into the watertight compartments below deck. Toward the stern of the vessel, the sailors stowed large sacks containing dried beef, rosewood crucifixes and rosaries, gunpowder, and rifles.

  With a rush, the wind came upon them, making the rigging clank against the masts. Henri and François walked up a long ramp to the ship. The Portuguese monks and nuns followed them. Once on the deck, Henri took a deep breath, smelling the air. A putrid odor greeted him. The water below was dark and slimy with fish carcasses and discarded refuse.

  “It smells foul!” he said, holding his nose. “The water, the wind, the air—everything stinks of rotting flesh.”

  The captain lumbered forward—a thickset man of medium height. His face, made leathery by the sun and wind and dripping with perspiration, beamed a generous smile. His sun-bleached hair, his reddish beard, and his muscular upper body gave him the appearance of a Nordic king. A pewter pipe with a reed stem dangled at a corner of his mouth.

  “Yes, yes, and so do I stink!” he replied. “But that doesn’t matter because we will set sail soon.” Turning to the priest, he said, “You must be Father François Gervaise. Monsignor de Béhaine has informed me about you. He was very accurate in his description.”

  The priest nodded, appearing pleased.

  The captain continued. “I am Captain Petijean. Welcome aboard the Wanderer. Would you be kind enough to bless my ship before we depart?”

  “Indeed,” the priest said, and intoned a heartfelt prayer.

  Henri’s education began a few days after they left Marseille. Being young and impressionable, and having an appetite for knowledge, the novice readily absorbed information from his teacher. He retained most of what he learned, and sometimes he even surprised François with difficult questions. On days when the ocean was calm and the vessel was gliding along with every sail full of wind under a blue sky, they sat on deck exploring the boundaries of knowledge and faith until their minds were exhausted. Never did they run out of subjects to talk about. When he looked at the beauty of the sunrise or sunset, he was amazed to think of the ignorance that had blinded him in the past. Now he was able to read passages of the Bible, listen to the sailors’ singing with a keen ear, and appreciate the beauty in
his teacher’s paintings.

  One day, as they sat on deck watching fluffy clouds drift across a bright sky, the priest described to him the splendid painting by Leonardo da Vinci of a woman with a mysterious smile.

  “That is the greatest achievement on canvas ever done by a human being,” said François. His voice trailed dreamily as he described the image.

  Henri closed his eyes and tried to visualize the colors and brushstrokes. He could only see the face of Madame Leyster, and he was satisfied.

  The priest continued. “Do you know the difference between man and God?”

  Henri shook his head, not knowing how to reply. The possible answers to that question were endless.

  François smiled. “The painter takes his brush and dips it into all of the different colors of oil. And with each stroke, he applies his talent to give birth to an image of life and makes the viewers see what he sees. But the image in itself is still, and that is all the artist can do. When God smiles, He breathes life into the painting.”

  It was an excellent analogy. Yet Henri felt that something was lacking. As much as he tried, he could not share the priest’s faith. François seemed to be secure in his belief that God created the universe and controlled humans’ lives. How could a world so magnificent exist, he argued, without the hands of a masterful creator?

  But the more Henri pondered the question, the stronger his fatalistic convictions became. He could not imagine some being up in the clouds ruling all life. Deep inside, he felt that his existence in the universe occurred merely by chance.

  Four and a half months into their trip, Henri was on the way to becoming an educated man. He had mastered reading and writing, and acquired some knowledge in conversational Latin and simple mathematical problems. The Wanderer and its accompanying ships sailed northeast toward the mysterious Indies for an exchange of passengers in Pondicherry, India. There they rested for a week and gathered new supplies before continuing their journey to Cochin China.