Ettore rubs his head. He has had several beers and the waitress is bringing more, but it is only his father’s voice that he hears. The cramped bar pulses with the commanding energy of Leo Navarra and his accented voice, the one he uses at home when there is no restraint in what he can say, when every word that comes from his mouth is exactly what he intends:
But have you answered my question, my son? Do you know what you would see if you sat in a dark, windowless bar in the middle of an African city and a girl were to walk toward you with a bottle of beer? What would you see, Ettore, if you turned in your seat to observe Mario and the others beckoning this waitress who is moving toward them in her native dress and lowered eyes. Is the body in shadow or in light? Remember, son, you are not home. There is no poetry in this place. There is no honorable stare that happens between these walls. Son, you who are here in this bar crammed full of soldiers drilling this girl with their eyes while a young man hangs, what do you have to say? I say the eye will hold in itself the image of a luminous body better than that of a shadowed object. I say, Father, the eye has the power to keep what it sees, the eye is greedy, the eye will always seek and devour that illumined figure made visible by predatory light.
Fofi says, Did you see him? Did you see the way he was smiling even when I pointed my gun at him from the ground?
Fofi says, Did you see the way he tried to act tough and stare at me even after they tightened the rope?
Fofi says, Did you get a picture of me next to his feet, Ettore? Can we call you Foto?
Everyone laughs, Mario the loudest, and Ettore nods and he laughs and raises his camera and points it at Fofi and he says, I’m going to shoot you now, and it is funny, Father, it is a joke, and so we laugh and we spend that night around that table telling jokes and miming faces so we do not hear the fresh cries coming from the villagers, their voices a ripple extending from the horizon to the ends of the earth. Because Father, this is war. Is this war? Fofi asks as Mario buys him another beer. This is not even war, Giulio says, but he is not laughing. And Ettore orders another beer and they watch the waitress balancing the tray of beers while dodging hands, and when she comes to their table she glances at the camera and says, No photo, and Fofi laughs again and points at Ettore and says, No Foto, and they drink their beer while Giulio keeps standing up and going to the door and checking outside, and I was glad on that day, Father, I was happy.
WHEN THEY MEET years later in Alexandria, Ettore will tell famed Egyptian journalist Khairallah Ali that each step away from Debark at the end of the long, bloody war was a relief. He will stare at the notebook sitting between them in a crowded café near the port and shake his head and shudder at the thought of that young prisoner hoisted up by rope. Khairallah will lean forward and say, But you haven’t really told me much, my friend, and he will pick up his pen and wait. Ettore will begin again and repeat what he has said for years: The Ethiopian prisoner was frightening and there was no other choice. He was intent on killing us though we meant no one any harm. This was an incident that could have gone badly, but it didn’t. It was larger than just one prisoner or our unit or Fucelli. We had to quell a rebellion moving from Gojjam into Gondar. It would have led to an ambush. Khairallah isn’t writing down any of what he is saying, so Ettore will pause then say quietly: The prisoner was terrifying, those eyes. Khairallah will stare at him for a moment and ask: Is it true what they say about Fucelli? Did he make you photograph the Ethiopian while he fired those shots to make sure he was dead? And Khairallah will sink the tip of his pen into paper and draw slow circles as he keeps his head down and asks, Or perhaps what I’ve heard is true, that it was you who fired those final shots?
Photo
He is a body suspended in the mean play of light. A figure deformed by obedient shadows. There he hangs in a beam of dying sun, held up by a tree bowing from his weight. See his head and its bloom of curly hair, the shorn ear that appears like a dip on a narrow jaw. What is plain to see: a neck arching horribly, the spine distended, a mother’s son pinned against a ripe afternoon sky. Behind him, the valley shrinks from the eager eyes of uniformed men. And what are they, after all, but the other sons of other mothers, and he the glorious proof of their mechanized ambitions? What we see: a boy pulled into manhood, a soaring body held back by gravitational laws. See him stretch against that terrifying rope, note the legs that kick against the downward tug: behold the rebellious silhouette spinning in a burning sun. And there, see him, too, at the edge of the frame, the taker of this photograph, the thief of this moment, there he is, almost out of view, made visible in the shadow stretching toward the elevated feet, a dark figure of a man firmly in focus, the camera pointed toward that defamation.
ETTORE STARES UP AT THE HANGING BODY AS THE OTHER MEN CONTINUE their revelries into the next morning at the fire pit, this time in Colonel Fucelli’s presence. Ettore points the lens toward the body’s head and chest, hoping to catch that faint threshold between what lives defiantly and what is waiting to die. The prisoner’s bloated face is slack. The neck strains against the unnatural angle. Blood has dried from the fresh stab wounds in his chest. His bare feet splay, twitching gently in the bottomless bend of earth. In the wind, it appears that he is pivoting, trying to spiral into the sky. There is nothing ferocious about him, yet as Ettore kneels and takes another picture his heart hammers so loudly that he cannot hear what Fucelli is shouting to the men above the clashing tunes from their guitars and harmonicas.
In the near distance, a rumbling sound grows. A truck. The music in the camp quiets.
Ettore stands, pauses to listen, then hurries back to the camp and finds the men staring at a Fiat truck rattling up the pathway that clings to the side of the mountain. It moves at an unhurried pace, almost lazily, an odd intrusion puncturing the heady chaos. Fucelli pushes through the gawkers to stand in front. He sweeps a look over his shoulder, his eyes bright, a smile spreading across his face. He is flushed, almost beaming. Fucelli salutes the Fiat as it gets close. There are two people in the front seat. The camionista returns the greeting from the driver’s side, one sunburned arm shooting out from the open window.
The driver parks close to the soldati. There is a native woman sitting in the passenger seat. She is staring at the tree in the distance, looking at the hanging prisoner. Her distress is clear even through the glare in the window.
Fifi, you’re late, Fucelli says. He goes to open the passenger door.
Every man arches toward Fifi as she slides one long leg to the ground, then the other. She leans gracefully on Fucelli’s arm as she steps out in black leather heels. She kisses Fucelli three times on the cheek in the traditional native way, but she does not bow to him as Ettore has seen native civilians do. Her even features, carefully accented by kohl and red lipstick, seem to measure him up, a private assessment that ends in a small smile and a nod. Then her eyes rake past the colonel, past the gawking men, to rest again on the dead body. She is intelligent and alert. Even from Ettore’s distance, her startling beauty is obvious.
You’ve lost weight, Carlo, she says. Her voice carries without effort, melodious. There was an ambush in Azezo, she adds, everything’s slowed down.
Fucelli smiles. You’ll feed me, get me fatter, won’t you? He slips her hand onto his arm and closes the door behind her. He pauses at the truck, letting the men gaze.
Her dress is a flattering cut that hugs her waist and drapes gently against her hips then flares slightly at her legs. It is tasteful and elegant, the dress of a woman who is confident of her beauty but feels no need to show more than she wants. The color is a deep and rich red, vibrant without being crude. It is expensively made, perhaps even tailored for her, and the V-neck shows off one of those large gold crosses the natives wear and that every Italian soldier knows he could never afford.
Madonna. A voice comes from somewhere in the group. Until now, they have been staring in silent awe.
Fucelli saunters across the field with her, gallant and proud. He is leading her to hi
s tent, away from the tree, and she matches his stride easily. Her manicured hand wraps around his arm in a manner both possessive and casual. The morning sun lies warm across her face, brushing against her sloping cheekbones and pointed chin. She has large eyes so luminous she appears on the verge of tears. In the red dress, looking at them with those eyes, she seems too alive to be in this place, too much of everything. She is the most beautiful woman Ettore has ever seen.
Soldato, una foto, Fucelli says, motioning for him. He is smiling broadly.
They have their backs almost directly in front of the tree when Fucelli calls him, but the couple does not seem to notice. Ettore will have to angle to avoid the feet that will appear as if they dangle almost over Fucelli and Fifi’s heads.
Fifi leans into Fucelli’s shoulder seductively, her mouth curving without revealing teeth. The colonel stands stiffly, his bent arm like a ledge for her slender hand. Ettore adjusts his camera for lighting and focus but even then, he knows she is too bright for a simple photograph. She is better suited for oil paintings on the largest canvas.
On three, Ettore says. He counts aloud, and just when he gets ready to press the shutter release, Fucelli replaces his smile with a stern, narrow-eyed stare. When Ettore is done, he looks up from the camera to see that a small frown plays across Fifi’s mouth. She is serious now, angry even.
What’s going on? she asks. Who is that? She looks toward Ibrahim and the other ascari, then back at Fucelli. Then she turns to stare at the prisoner. Her hand flies to her heart, then to her forehead.
Fucelli tilts his head to one side. You came alone?
An extended look passes between them. It is a challenge, Ettore thinks, a test on Fucelli’s part, perhaps. Fifi looks down at her dress and smooths the skirt. She is regaining her composure with difficulty.
My maid’s in the truck, Fifi says. She waves and the camionista goes to the back of the truck to let the woman down.
Fifi’s maid is her opposite. She is heavyset, with a small, round head wrapped in a scarf. She steps down from the truck with effort, then turns and jerks back at the sight of the tree. She shifts from side to side, the movement swaying the skirt of her long dress, flattening then ballooning across her generous figure. She drops a burlap satchel at her feet. She is nodding but she cannot take her eyes off the corpse.
Where’s she come from? Fucelli is looking down at the woman suspiciously.
I found her at the market not long ago. Fifi goes to the woman and hands her the satchel and takes her arm. She cups her chin to draw her attention away from the tree. Her hold is gentle, affectionate. She’s an excellent cook, Fifi adds as she brings the woman to Fucelli. If you want me to stay with you, I can’t eat your pasta every day.
Fifi’s Italian is perfect, educated, with hardly a trace of an African accent. She speaks it with astonishing fluency. The servant stares at Fucelli but she cannot help her eyes straying back to the tree.
Tell her to look at him all she wants, Fucelli says quietly. In case she has any ideas, tell her what I do to spies.
She’s just a peasant, an old slave, Fifi says.
They train them all, no matter what they are, Fucelli says. Peasant, slave, farmer, nobility, whore. He smiles cruelly. I’ve had your tent set up. She’s not staying with you, I’ll get another for her.
Then the two of them head toward the colonel’s tent, the servant following several paces behind, turning periodically to stare at the corpse then at the ascari.
The light wind picks up, swirling clouds of dust around Ettore’s feet. A chill is settling in the air. It will be only a matter of hours before dark starts to creep in and the Ethiopians have a chance to exact their revenge.
THE PRISONER HANGS THERE ALL AFTERNOON, AND AS THE SUN SETS into the horizon, a rough wind begins to blow a hollow moan through the hills. Ettore feels for his knife and loads a new roll of film into his camera. Fucelli has told him to photograph the changing light against the tree, and he has been assured of his safety. There are extra guards posted on the road down the hill. Additional sentries are keeping watch for any signs of an ambush. Aside from the eight at the tree, there are four more stationed a few paces away, serving as reinforcements. They are darkening figures in a landscape pulsing with the colors of a dying light. Ettore leans against a log he dragged from the campfire site and crosses his legs. He feels the poke of the blank sheet of paper folded neatly in his pocket, ready for a letter to his parents once it gets too dark to photograph. He will try to ask about events at home while evading the likelihood of censorship. Not every letter gets checked but enough do. He must find a way to ask if it is true that there were pamphlets distributed across the country asking if Jews are really Italian, if Jewish shopkeepers in Tripoli are being forced to work on Saturday or submit to flogging. Is it true, he wants to ask, that even after Mamma donated her wedding ring to the state in the name of Italy and empire, they are telling her that she is not good enough? And Mamma, he would write, what does this mean if we have never been observant, if Papa and I believe in nothing but what is evident before us? What are we, if not Italian?
He works for as long as the light allows. He uses the tree as a backdrop. He positions it in the foreground. He moves to accent the slumped body, then blurs it behind a sharply etched helmet set on a stone as a prop. He moves so close to the corpse that only the stiff hands are in focus. Then he frames the body so the callused feet dominate the picture. As he continues, he shifts from discomfort and reluctance to a quiet and certain confidence: these are some of the best photographs he’s ever made. He is sure of this, and for a brief moment, that knowledge is enough to help him ignore the guards who keep looking in his direction, puzzled by his careful attention. Later, a bright moon will help him complete another set of photographs.
He is startled out of his reverie by Colonel Fucelli easing his way up the short hill while lighting a cigarette. The colonel takes a deep drag and air unwinds out of him in a long, smoky thread. He waves as he approaches.
Did you see this? Colonel Fucelli takes out a folded telegram from his pocket. They’re trying to separate the Italians and the natives even outside of the major cities? No more living with our women in the mountains? So I can’t commingle with any native women or I’ll go to jail? He laughs. Let them try. Fucelli looks down at him and nods when Ettore scrambles to his feet.
I heard something about that, sir, Ettore says. He wipes the dirt from his uniform. This was the news from Asmara, rumor confirmed as fact by truck drivers. Shiploads of Italian prostitutes were arriving in Massawa. There was also this: the drivers, resting before driving on, debated about the expulsion of all foreign Jews from Italy. One of them even shook a newspaper clipping in front of the gathered soldiers. All appropriate officials, the article said, must record the ethnic and religious identities of every political refugee arriving from Germany and other parts of Europe. Un ebreo, una spia, the driver had shouted.
The news from Italy isn’t good either, Ettore adds. He stops.
Fucelli looks at the telegram.
As soon as a country builds an empire, he says, it has to decide who is who.
The colonel stares at him for an uncomfortably long time.
You didn’t take communion when the priest was here.
No, sir.
You don’t take part in Mass, you don’t pray before meals. The colonel smiles when he sees Ettore’s surprise. I pay attention, soldato, especially to those who are important to the mission. Both parents Jewish?
Ettore looks at him, stunned. I’m not a believer, he says. Neither are my parents. We’re Jewish, yes, but we’re Italian.
Everybody believes in something, soldato. And I don’t care what Rome decides to do in Italy, Fucelli says, we’re here to win a war and I know how to do it. They begin with these natives, then they come for us, other Italians. The colonel taps the ash from his burning cigarette. You’ll have to be smart about this. We have to stick together.
The sentries are pacing near
the tree, slender shapes treading across a growing night.
I’ve got good soldiers, Fucelli says, but what you do is something else. He sweeps his arms in a gesture that feels rehearsed. Romans left us their texts and paintings, their statues. We’ll leave our photographs and reels. He puts a hand on Ettore’s shoulder and squeezes. Fucelli looks at the tree, then at the guards in the short distance. Go back to your tent, Navarra, he says. No need to do any more here. I’ve got to talk to the guards, you get some rest.
FOOTSTEPS. SLENDER BRANCHES snapping. There is no other sound. Carlo sinks lower into the grass, still hidden by the dark and shrubbery. He watches through his binoculars as three Ethiopians stare up at the body hanging on the tree. They are strong, slender men illuminated by the cloudy moon that shrouds the rest of the area and keeps him safe. The guards have taken breaks as he ordered them to do. The extra sentries he has kept posted were given the night off. There is no sign that anyone else is aware of this intrusion. It is only Colonel Carlo Fucelli who dares to sit alone on this stretch of land while outnumbered by his enemies. Carlo presses himself farther to the ground, tugging his mind away from Libyan battlefields, and Benghazi horsemen and the Senussi warriors’ cries that sent a chill through every officer from Cyrenaica to Fezzan and Tripolitania.
One of the Ethiopian men holds the feet of the corpse while another climbs on the shoulder of the third to cut the rope. The knife swipes through the air cleanly, the long silver blade glinting in momentary moonlight. The corpse sags stiffly into the arms of the man with the knife. An audible grunt punctures the silence as he balances the body precariously, clutching it as if holding a child while the one beneath them both is staggered by the added weight, wavering then steadying himself with the help of his companion. They work efficiently, noiselessly, until the body is on the ground, the neck still in its awful stretch. They kneel around the corpse, two of them bowing their heads. The other runs his hands over the dead man’s face, kisses his neck, and lays a head on the still chest as if listening for a heartbeat. Then he cradles the prisoner, rocking back and forth until an anguished groan soon turns into the sound of a grown man weeping.
The Shadow King Page 19