OLGHINA: Or maybe we’re not even interested in that, perhaps we want to leave them naked, so we can hunt them down and wipe them out, making room for the new city – which will be our gilded cage.
ARMAND: All this talk of civilisation is rather exaggerated! The sooner they jettison what little of it there is, the sooner they can start on the right track.
ÉMILE: Armand forgets we are Christians. He doesn’t even know he’s blaspheming because he’s confused Paris with the City of God, and the actresses of Parisian theatres for the angels and saints of the latter. Which would be very funny were it not that the people in power think along the same lines as he does. Destroying what we don’t understand is a path that leads only to hell.
Olghina would occasionally glance into the courtyard through the corridor door, left ajar. Despite the darkness, growing thicker with each passing moment, she would ferret out Abdelkarim’s eyes, which were transfixed on her in spellbound admiration.
She would then break out in loud peals of laughter, which fell on the boy’s awestruck face like a fresh sprinkle of water.
III
Abdelkarim crossed the market carrying the secret in his head like a foreign body, like a bullet inside a soldier’s body, or an arrow shot from a bow. He cleared people from his path without even looking at them, as though he were running out of time or reaching the end of his strength.
The master had always been the one to order him about, dispatching him left and right, often to carry out difficult tasks. When Abdelkarim would return and relay the results of his mission to the Maronite, he would realise that he was bridging the gulf between them simply by talking, as though the master were absorbing him or swallowing him up, like when he vanished into the sea during the summer. These too were baths, and Abdelkarim always emerged from them feeling blessed.
However, this time the master hadn’t ordered Abdelkarim to visit someone in his stead, or sent him on an errand, or given him any message to deliver. A scoundrel, one of those swindlers who ran a stall in the little alleys behind the covered market, a loan shark the master had never even offered a cup of coffee to and whose shop Émile had never honoured with his presence, had grabbed Abdelkarim by the arm, dragged him into his shop and whispered horrible secrets into his ear so that Abdelkarim would deliver them to his master.
When Abdelkarim stepped over the threshold of the shop he immediately lost all heart, as though his strength had failed him, or he felt guilty, or even unable to fulfil his mission. He watched the master’s beautiful head as it pored over the books, and he wanted to run away to avoid disturbing that serenity, as though it were in his power to conceal that horrible secret, like an object he could easily discard or bury somewhere distant so the sight of it would never desecrate the master’s honest eyes.
The shadow of Semereth Effendi brushed past him. Even that powerful man had tripped on a secret reluctantly revealed by his uncle. Abdelkarim wondered whether he shouldn’t tell the loan shark to break the news to Émile himself. But the master would find the presence of strangers intolerable. Abdelkarim then understood he really was the right person to place that grim, appalling gift in his master’s hands.
Would the Maronite’s destiny follow the same path as Semereth Effendi’s? Would he avenge himself in such a cursory manner as the Hajji had done? Abdelkarim had fled Semereth’s house just in time – it had since become like the boatman’s ferry; in fact, he’d been rescued from it by Semereth himself. However, he would never be able to flee the Maronite’s boat: if the master’s hour had come, instead of fleeing, Abdelkarim would curl up at his feet just like he’d done in the early days of their acquaintance, when they’d lived at the back of the warehouse in that room with a single window on the roof.
Seeing a merchant walk into the shop was enough to stir Abdelkarim from his reverie. He instantly grabbed the merchant’s sleeve and dragged him back outside, heedless of the merchant’s astonishment, who was used to the master greeting him cordially while that guttersnipe of a servant usually employed much solicitude. The master himself, having lifted his gaze from his books, displayed no less amazement, but the forcefulness of Abdelkarim’s gesture had taken him by surprise. The pair were momentarily swallowed by the crowd and then Abdelkarim re-emerged, at which point, although it wasn’t closing time yet, and the master hadn’t ordered him to do so, Abdelkarim noisily slammed the metal shutters, then bolted one shut and partially closed the other. Émile Chébas followed all these movements and asked himself whether the boy hadn’t lost his mind. He’d never seen him so upset.
‘Now what?’ he asked, smilingly, once they were alone.
Unable to control himself any longer, Abdelkarim hurried over to his master, and while nearly sitting on his lap, and with his soul in a state of turmoil, he spilled the horrible secret he’d been entrusted with. Armand had run up debts with the worst loan shark in town, for an undisclosed and yet considerable sum, since this loan shark apparently thought he could twist Armand around his little finger. Abdelkarim had been told: ‘If it pleases your revered master, he is welcome to pay me a visit and I will be glad to reach a compromise, but it has to happen either today or tomorrow, otherwise Armand belongs to me.’ The loan shark had also said that the borrowed money had been spent on pleasures. Armand had ruined himself over a woman, and the woman, that bastard had added, was none other than Doctor Pietra’s wife, Olghina.
Émile Chébas grabbed Abdelkarim by the arms and rose to his feet, lifting him up as though he wanted to hurl him to the floor and smash him. Instead, he sat him on the desk and ordered: ‘Repeat what you just said!’
Despite being afraid – in fact, beside himself with fear – Abdelkarim couldn’t help drawing near to Émile to speak, because he didn’t want anyone else to overhear them, thus adding insult to injury, and so he softly whispered his words as though he were a ghost. The loan shark had pulled on his arm and dragged him into the shop, where he had revealed that Armand now belonged to him, that he’d bought him, and that he would only consider selling him back either today or tomorrow. He’d repeated the phrase ‘today or tomorrow’ many times; he’d then explained that if Abdelkarim’s revered master wanted to purchase his brother back, he should hurry and bring money with him, lots of money, and that if he did so, he could have him back. ‘What should I do with this?’ Abdelkarim had explained quite a few times. ‘Armand is worth a lot because your master wants him, and that’s why I bought him, whereas others wouldn’t have paid a cent for him.’ The loan shark also said that the jewels had wound up decorating the beautiful Olghina’s bosom. ‘Your master can either bring them back to me, with interest, or else pay for them, thus owning a right to that beautiful bosom.’ That’s what he’d said.
The Maronite stood up and grabbed the boy once more. Abdelkarim was certain that he would be the first victim in this new tragedy, Semereth’s tragedy having now come to an end. He thus entrusted his soul to God. However, he found himself back on the ground, all safe and sound, and saw that the master suddenly seemed self-assured once again.
‘Go,’ he said, ‘and tell him I’ll come tomorrow.’ Then he walked to the back of the vast warehouse, right at the back of which lay his neatly ordered office, and gazed into a mirror. He dusted his tunic.
He would begin his visits by calling on Olghina.
IV
OLGHINA: It’s all over. Because of Émile? I don’t think so. He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. Considering how mild-mannered he is, and his weakness for the fairer sex, he didn’t even talk much. I didn’t defend you, and perhaps this is what reined him in. Relinquishing the gifts I was given, which I returned once I discovered their dishonourable origins, was the price I paid not to be trampled by his speechifying. And I paid on the spot. Perhaps he was prepared to pay a reasonable price to see me cry, or see me fight tooth and nail to hang on to those jewels. If the first scenario had come to pass, he would have let me keep everything; while in the second, he would have pressed charges.
ARMAND: You’d be willing to give everything back, including me, so long as it meant you still got to play the belle of the ball. Our love was contingent on Émile’s obliviousness. You wouldn’t have had the courage to be caught on the wrong side of the matter in front of him: he’s blackmailing you.
OLGHINA: You’re wrong. What I’m wavering about is whether I really want to be yours, not whether I have the courage to do so. Émile’s notions of respectability don’t faze me. If you take his arguments apart, their gist is rather simple … He limits himself to dealing out sound advice: don’t spend money that doesn’t belong to you; keep to your working hours and stay away from indolence, which is the Devil incarnate; be wary of your customers, but be prompt when the occasion demands it; be patient with debtors, especially because it’s in your interest to do so, but base your patience on hard numbers, not sentiments; confide in your ledgers as you would with the law; exercise prudence with friendships, don’t rush things, and remain reasonable; friendship is a pact of mutual assistance regulated by protective measures. Don’t imitate others’ manners, simply respect their customs. Discretion is as valuable as frugality. Always aid the weak, but only within your means. The goals one must strive for are commercial success, public esteem, a reputation as a generous man. According to these tenets, one’s personal values are a private matter. Which is to say mistakes only happen when they’re made public, that mistakes don’t really exist so long as they’re kept secret, and that one must shield oneself against their financial consequences by ensuring others don’t feel resentful – you didn’t observe any of these rules. Conduct yourself with dignity when dealing with powerful people: respect who’s in charge, and keep your distance. Powerful people don’t respect the rules, and thus an intimate relationship with them is always dangerous, because they’ll use their influence to bestow favours on you, and sooner or later, they’ll use that same power to plot your downfall.
ARMAND: Why don’t we talk about me instead of Émile? Now that’s he got those damn presents back, will he still be able to intervene?
OLGHINA: He has no need to … not at this point, anyway. Émile’s intuition is infallible, and he’s already understood everything. He was right to take those gifts away, but he exaggerated their value. As for their trade value, since perhaps he considered selling them, I gave him quite a moderate estimate, in fact one that was wholly inapplicable. This is what disappointed him and made him rein in his speechifying.
ARMAND: Now you’re the one who’s prolonging his presence here with us. I know I was wrong to leave him an opening – and he didn’t hesitate in exploiting it so he could sneak in his poisonous wisdom.
OLGHINA: I had a curious impression, which is the following: compared to Émile’s respectability, all your somersaulting boils down to very little. You refuse his rules, but what do you offer in their stead? You speak to me of Paris, but you’ve never been able to get there. Cursing one’s rotten fate isn’t a mark of seriousness, it doesn’t interest me at all, it’s demeaning behaviour for a man! Why are you so determined to use European standards? I’ll tell you this: in Italy, your qualities would be considered rather common. Your confused protestations are shared by many there, and I have no sympathy for them. Perhaps you have ideas about a more evolved kind of man, and in comparison to you, Émile might seem rather limited and fastidious. But it’s overwhelmingly clear that you can’t avoid talking about him. Your brother humiliates you by reclaiming the gifts you gave to a woman, and the only reaction you’re capable of is to declare your loyalty to that woman and ask her to keep loving you. I’m well aware you’d be willing to row with Émile: but you’d never be able to do without him.
ARMAND: So it’s all fallen apart because of unpaid gifts. What a fragile castle we erected! So paying for those gifts out of love and risk counts for nothing then? You are like a loan shark!
OLGHINA: Your love! You’re always generous with that, that’s for sure. I would be far more impressed, for instance, with a show of willpower.
ARMAND: You’re scolding me for not being like Émile.
OLGHINA: It’s still to be determined whether you don’t actually want to be like him. Émile keeps you under his thumb, and that’s what inspires such resentment in you. But your rebelliousness only amounts to lip service. Your idle boasting grows apace with your incapacity to accomplish anything properly; the more you feel like you’re sliding back, the more you rage against Émile and pretend to be more than you are.
ARMAND: All success means to you and Émile is to make money.
OLGHINA: It’s not Émile’s money that I admire, it’s his industriousness, even if it’s wholly devoted to making money. Doing so, he displays intelligence, patience, attention to detail, and willpower – it’s the stuff he’s made of, his character, his personality. But you refuse that industriousness, linger in ambiguity and adopt second-rate role paragons. Seeing as he’s far more complex than he appears at first, his industriousness has great range. He’s able to move in several directions, and even though he’s not particularly erudite, by virtue of his intelligence and considerable experience, and aided furthermore by additional extraordinary faculties like intuition, he commands a prepossessing appearance and a gift for eloquence that is most remarkable.
ARMAND: I’m even forced to watch him triumph – and to hear these words out of your mouth, too! Your monologue is tantamount to crowning him the victor.
OLGHINA: I don’t need you to explain Émile’s defects, because I’m able to see them myself, and besides, Émile doesn’t exactly conceal them. His nature allows him to calmly accept his limitations and the rules that go with them. Whereas you hide behind a smokescreen of chatter in order to pretend you’re someone you’re not. Whoever has allowed themselves to get mixed up in all of this seems to notice – and with increasing impatience – only one thing: the opportunity to escape. This incident over the little jewels you gave away as presents but didn’t pay for was just the occasion I was waiting for. Thanks to Émile, I’ve been able to extricate myself from a sentimental scrape. At the same time that I returned those jewels, I was also relinquishing his brother.
ARMAND: You’re just tired, that’s all!
OLGHINA: If, in order to better understand the situation, you have to search for clues on the emotional palette, then yes, I am tired. In the initial fire of our rapport, being certain we belonged to a different world, we kicked this little colonial town aside. We imitated a Parisian couple, or repeated the encounter between the White Lady and the Oriental Prince: we dabbled in provincial pastimes. We disdained bourgeois values. But is the devil that drives you really of a higher calibre? I appreciate drive and intelligence in a man. Opposing Émile’s rational, harmonious world with nothing but emotional confusion seems a tad trifling to me. A man should be intelligent, tolerant und erotisch.
ARMAND: Just tell me you like money and bookkeeping and let’s get it over with.
OLGHINA: Émile isn’t doing himself any favours subjecting himself to such a strain in order to keep away from you. His marble man to your straw man is highly respectable, even if a little funereal. I think he’s more alive than first meets the eye. For all the paragons you hold and all the outcomes you seek, do you really have culture? Perhaps you do, but how mediocre it is! Instead, Émile tries to keep his ledgers in meticulous order – and succeeds.
ARMAND: You failed to notice that Émile wasn’t being sincere. He’s after my inheritance, but I’ll never allow it.
OLGHINA: Your judgements don’t really take any of us into account: even the threats that you make are promises you’ll never keep.
ARMAND: Émile didn’t give the jewels back to the loan shark. He bought them. He can’t even fathom how one can be indifferent to objects, thereby rendering their exchange value absolutely worthless.
V
Émile decided to open a branch of his business in Tocra, a little port ninety kilometres to the east of Benghazi that was becoming increasingly important as a market plac
e for the hinterland. He dispatched Armand to run it, and he welcomed his brother’s decision with wordy but ineffectual wrath, sincere in its desperation and full of self-pity. Paris now seemed even further away, and his destiny was leading him in the opposite direction. He accused Émile of wanting to get rid of him: he was sending him to that dangerous outpost, secretly hoping he’d never see him again. Émile replied that since this was the decision he had come to, and that it was in the best interests of the business, that was the way it had to be. Thus, he told Armand to stop speaking like a drunk.
Armand left, slightly taken aback by the regret he felt at leaving that wretched little city to which he’d been confined.
One evening Olghina and Doctor Pietra went downstairs, having been invited by Émile. Armand’s room had been transformed into a salon – proof that his estrangement was destined to last.
Olghina had dressed with care. She made her own dresses. As soon as she’d entered the flat, Abdelkarim fled into the courtyard, marvel etched on his face. ‘Look at me, Abdelkarim!’ Olghina exclaimed as she stepped outside, her black dress engulfing the narrow patio.
Chapter 3
I
The rebel camp at Benina was destroyed on 13 April. The doors to the hinterland had been thrown open, and the army flooded through them. Tolmeta had been besieged by sea, which had resulted in a victorious landing. The other cities of the ancient Pentapolis – Cyrene, Apollonia and Tocra – had also fallen. Even the south had surrendered, and Ajdabiya was in the hands of the invaders. But what did owning these places amount to? The Italians’ real strongholds were nothing but warships adrift on a vast, unfaithful sea. They could sail in any direction, but the darkness would descend on them thicker than ever once they had cut through it.
After the door at Benina had been opened, the country’s roads were nominally free. Death, theft and violence ran along them in all directions. But commerce was an adventurous knight, impervious to intimidation. He too ran along those roads, the highways of death, stalked by thieves and on intimate terms with violence. Freight would cross the mountains and deserts like ships on a sea infested with pirates and battered by storms.
The Colonial Conquest: The Confines of the Shadow Volume I Page 10