Le Colonial (29 page)
Salvation
Saygun,
1782
F
or four years, François’s refuge was the Kien Tao Temple, a Buddhist monastery opposite the Christian church. The three women of Prince Ánh’s household had shaved their heads and joined the Buddhist nunnery in order to evade the rebels’ swords. Because of his ties with the royal family, the bishop had been imprisoned in the same pagoda where he had once held the Christian services—a duty now performed by François.
To fulfill his promise to protect the women, François had remained in the monastery with them. As a way to earn his place in the community, he had undertaken the task of renovating the interior of the great worship hall. By enhancing the beauty of the temple while preaching in his church, he hoped to promote harmony between the Buddhists and the Christians.
His plan was to create one large mural that would be the setting of the main altar. The north and south walls would each have three major paintings, accompanied by smaller side panels—altogether fifteen paintings, each twelve feet high. An enormous undertaking! François never dreamed he would be able to complete the work, but he threw himself into it. The project was a good way to forget himself while being exposed to the native religion.
Peace had settled over the citadel, but in the distance, skirmishes still erupted between Prince Ánh’s forces and the Mountaineers. Outnumbered and supported by a handful of loyalists, Ánh’s army took on the role of bandits. But on everyone’s lips was the miracle of the crocodile, being told and retold, gaining embellishment with each version. By the time the story reached François’s ears, it was said that wild beasts of all kinds had been following the prince on his travels, ready to sacrifice their lives to fulfill his destiny.
With each battle that he lost, Ánh always managed to escape unscathed. No bounty the rebel government could offer seemed high enough for anyone to claim the prince’s life. Even the Mountaineers believed that the divine forces of heaven were protecting their enemy.
For François, the more news he heard about Ánh, the more he was reminded of his own ties to the prince and the royal cause. He had once helped save Ánh’s life on a road outside Hue City. Now, he was guarding his three wives and a child. Though he believed in the peasants’ government, he had twice betrayed them. Try as he might, he could not reconcile his conflicting loyalties.
In the temple where he lived, the monks were simple and innocent. Never did they attempt to convert him from Christianity. But since the principles and history of Buddhism were the essential themes of his work, he felt obligated to examine the Eastern doctrines. Their teaching created new dilemmas within his mind. Catholicism, as he knew it, was a strictly traditional dogma that would not accept any deviation, while Buddhism was less like the uncivilized culture he once thought it to be. He floundered, seeking some common ground between the two faiths.
With the help of the monks, François constructed scaffolds out of bamboo poles and easels to hold the wooden panels. Every day for two years they had mixed large vats of foundation paint to seal the wood and keep it from cracking. Ánh’s wives, now Buddhist nuns, assumed the duties of the kitchen help. Lady Jade Bình was eighteen and looked twice her age. Her only source of happiness was her son.
The little boy’s head was now covered in a thick layer of prickly hair. His mother named him Canh—a word that could either mean
landscape
or
vigilance.
She hoped for the latter. While François worked, the child played nearby. His mother hid behind a partition beside the main altar and spied on them. She was unaware that her silhouette was visible on the screen, nodding like a shadow puppet. Assuming the role of his old teacher, Father Dominique, François taught Canh how to hold the paintbrush.
“No,” screamed the boy, tossing the tool away.
The mother laughed. She saw the defiance in her son’s eyes, and she was pleased.
At night, François dreamed of Villaume and the impending duel. He hated the image of himself waiting. The old fear returned, transparent and gnawing. Annam seemed an elaborate fantasy.
One night, he woke, gasped, and raised himself on one elbow. In the milky darkness, the mosquito net covering his bed shrouded his vision. Lost and frightened, he listened to the night. Out in the great hall, something or someone moved in a quiet rustle.
François wound up a kerosene lamp to create a burst of light and walked through the doorway leading to the altar. The unmistakable shadow of the Buddhist head monk, Master Chi Tam, with his shaved head and thin neck, stretched upon a wall. An orange robe, faded and tattered at the hem, was draped over one of his shoulders. He was moving from one canvas to another, turning his head this way and that to inspect François’s paintings. François was surprised. Master Chi Tam was a devoted truth seeker. He rarely ventured outside his room; his days were mostly spent in meditation.
There was nothing the artist was ready to show. The images were still in their early stage of formation. Only here and there would a face shake itself free of the canvas’s constraints, coming to life.
“A true artist must practice his art with effortless strength,” remarked the monk without looking at François. His voice was soft yet full of criticism. “Your brushstroke is indecisive. How can you express what you feel?”
François dug the ground with the tip of his sandal. He noticed the old man’s ears, thin and wrinkled and engorged with veins, like tree fungus.
“I assure you, thMy, that I possess both endurance and strength. For six years, I have been working without interruption. My technique and education will create a beautiful setting for your temple.” His eyes surveyed the dark hall. “Look around you. The pagoda is filthy and badly kept. Nothing has been done for at least a century.”
He pointed at the altar, where the sandstone Buddha sat. It was damaged by rainwater from a leaky roof. Half of its face had been washed away. A nest of sparrows sat on the right hollow of the Buddha’s shoulder. The monks’ crude attempts to mend the flaking paint with a patchwork of new pigments had worsened its condition.
“Still,” replied Chi Tam, “a concept may take you four years to formulate. But its execution should never take that long.”
The headmaster turned toward the entrance. He motioned with his hand, expecting François to follow. The priest was perplexed, but obliged.
He followed Chi Tam through the great hall and into the kitchen. His footsteps cracked the tranquillity of the room. Ahead, the monk glided gracefully in spite of his age. His saffron-colored cassock absorbed the darkness like an artist’s sponge.
In the middle of the kitchen sat a hand-operated rotary quern that the monks used to grind cereals. Two lay brothers were working through the night crushing soybeans to make milk. The mill was composed of two heavy circular stones, one placed flat on top of the other, with a small space in between. A pivot was built in the center. As the handle churned, the upper stone slid on the working surface of the bed stone so the beans could be mashed at a steady rate. A stream of white liquid poured through a groove into a container below, amid the loud popping groans of the soy kernels.
Chi Tam tapped on the novices’ shoulders, and they stopped.
“It is late,” he said. “You must rest. This can wait ’til tomorrow morning.”
The lay brothers bowed their heads and departed the kitchen, leaving the two men alone. François touched the soy milk, examining its velvety texture between his thumb and forefinger.
“Why are we here?” François asked.
“This mechanism produces milk to make tofu,” replied Chi Tam. “That is our main diet, the food that preserves a sound mind.”
Taking the handle, he planted his right foot forward, assuming a sturdy stance. Then he pulled the handle back and forth, working the machine. His movements produced a loud cracking noise as the stones moved. A deeper sound rose from inside the quern. The massive wheel spun, slowly at first. Soon it gained speed to become a blur. François was amazed to watch the old man maneuvering such a heavy machine. He made it look not only graceful, but effortless. François listened to the drone, entranced. Through a window, the moon shone weakly, and the headmaster, bathed in its light, seemed to levitate. He peered at François, his dark eyes alive with energy. The mill came to a slow halt.
“Now, you do the same,” he said. “Show me your endurance. But remember, grinding cereals does not require your muscular strength. It takes spiritual force to make the wheel turn.”
Following his instructions, François mimicked the master’s stance. He realized right away that it took considerable force to rotate the wheel. The handle he held reached his chest level, and he found he could rest his weight on it to push. But as soon as the mill proceeded to make a half turn, he had to pull it toward him to complete the cycle. Ultimately, he had to push and pull with all his might to keep it rolling. The moonlight was in his eyes. The work caused his arms to tremble after about fifteen minutes, and his breathing became labored. At last, he collapsed against the stone’s cold surface, sweating.
“There must be a trick,” he gasped. “You are withholding some secret from me.”
The monk chuckled, adding fuel to François’s frustration.
“ThMy Chi Tam, I am not here to grind soybeans for you,” he said indignantly. “I am a painter, and I am restoring your temple with my labor and skills. If you are not happy with my work, just tell me so.”
The old man wrinkled his forehead. “Forgive me, foreign man,” he said, waving his hands. “You have misunderstood my intention. You speak Annamese well. There is no doubt that you have great respect for our religion and culture. But to renovate the worship hall requires a great deal of work, endurance, patience, and, most important, passion. You seem to lack the control of your energy. Without the heart, it would take you many years just to do mediocre work. Your painting would suffocate before it was even born.”
“How do I find my passion?” retorted François. “By grinding beans?”
“This machine is a test,” replied the monk.
“Then show me again. I simply cannot pull the handle in the manner that you described.”
The monk moved closer to François and once again resumed his position in front of the quern. He fixed his eyes upon the monk’s movement. The scent of crushed soybeans rose again, accompanied by his gentle voice.
“You cannot do it,” said the master, “because you do not control your breathing correctly. Place your palms on the lever. Press your breath downward after you inhale and stretch your abdominal wall to hold it in. Use that energy to push the handle. When you exhale, keep your breath flowing evenly and slowly while you pull at the lever. Concentrate only on breathing in and out. The force will flow through your limbs more abundantly once you find the right path, and it will churn the machine without your labors. Work will become less work.”
François touched the monk’s arms as the mill again set into motion. In his hands, the muscles felt loose, just as when they were at rest. The room was silent except for the groan of the stones grinding together. It was a sound he would never forget—the sound of intense but effortless concentration. In that moment, he learned his first lesson in Buddhism.
It took him a year to complete the north wall of the temple. Master Chi Tam had asked him to depict the life of Prince SiddhOrtha before he ascended into enlightenment as the Buddha. Images of pain, old age, disease, and death had to be included. They were the reasons for SiddhOrtha’s quest for salvation to end humanity’s suffering.
François, too, was familiar with miseries. His interpretation of SiddhOrtha’s life was influenced by his own experiences—the part of his life that he had tried to escape. It guided his hands. His paintbrush swept across the wood, only to resurrect his past. The paint pigments stained his hands, and the stench of gum turpentine seeped into his clothing, but his memory was alive and ready to talk. For him, the temple became a sacred place. It stood apart in the city like a separate world, and he lived in its inner sanctum, projecting his memories onto its walls. Alone, scowling under the filtered sunlight, he examined every line, every brushstroke.
The first of the three major panels depicted
The Death of a Prince
. The second was
The Portrait of an Impostor,
who hid behind a mask. And the last one he called
The Mirror of Self,
when SiddhOrtha saw his reflection in a river. The four minor panels portrayed ill people dying from incurable diseases, emaciated children enduring the pain of famine, old women hiding in darkness, and the condemned kneeling before an executioner.
When it was time to construct the panels for the south wall, François sketched out a series of illustrations of the Buddha’s final trial—the attack of the satanic Lord of Passions, Mara, including his three sons, Flurry, Gaiety, and Sullen Pride, and his three daughters, Discontent, Delight, and Thirst. To ward off the temptations, SiddhOrtha engaged in purposeful meditation.
François was familiar with the practice of meditation because he had seen the monks engage in it. But he had no desire to sit with them on the cobblestone for hours under the sun. He discovered that when he painted, calm flowed through his veins. His hand, guiding the brush, executed the commands that floated in his mind. And he was unsure of which part of him—his spirit or his body—was responsible for bringing his art to life.
For the south wall, he created a painting of a jungle setting, with a beautiful pagoda under large trees with hanging tentacles. SiddhOrtha, not yet a Buddha, meditated by a quiet pond, dotted with pink water lilies. Fear, self-doubt, and lack of belief stirred the water into a gigantic tidal wave.
The main mural behind the altar was his greatest challenge, for it had to represent the cycle of life, birth, death, and rebirth that the Buddhists perceived as a wheel that never stopped turning. François painted as if he were turning the mill, and in the process, it occurred to him that he forgot everything he had learned, everything he had felt, and everything he had known. No longer tormented by his search for the existence of God, he became free of fear. He wondered if the peace he had discovered was similar to what the monks had described finding in their meditation.
