The Colonial Conquest: The Confines of the Shadow Volume I

by Alessandro Spina

  Émile Chébas hadn’t expected Captain Martello’s arrival, and failed to conceal his irritation. The captain noticed it and wanted to pre-empt him: ‘I believe Mr Chébas has come here for the same reasons that led me to do so. There are now two of us interceding for Semereth Effendi to be pardoned.’

  The young Maronite was convinced the captain would complicate everything, injecting even more confusion into his soul about Semereth Effendi’s destiny, thereby compromising any chance to have the execution stayed.

  ‘The problem is simple,’ he said, turning to face the general, ‘Semereth’s actions must be weighed in their appropriate context. The two sides are negotiating a truce. That attack was an attempt to show that the rebels aren’t on their last legs, and is thus an endeavour to force a more favourable treaty, since such a thing requires both sides to compromise.’

  ‘Indeed. It was an effort to secure a better price for the truce. It’s a political act.’

  ‘Has Semereth confessed?’

  ‘He hasn’t confessed to anything,’ the general said, ‘he was as indifferent as a statue throughout the entire trial, as though he were an actor who’d forgotten his part. Everyone got vainly excited, talking, threatening, explaining and laughing all around him. Semereth couldn’t hear them: it was as though he belonged to a different dimension. Which was an unforgivable offence, as it put our authority in doubt.’

  ‘The moment the Italian government decided to enter into negotiations with the Libyans,’ the Maronite said, ‘it granted their insurgency a little legitimacy. A man arrested while armed is no longer a rebel and should be treated like a prisoner of war. Excellency! Save him from hanging: keep him a prisoner, hand him over to us, exile him from this country, or deport him to Italy – do whatever you like so long as you spare his life.’

  ‘I believe it’s too late for that,’ the general replied, feeling refreshed by the sea breeze coming in through the windows. Above his head was a photo of Victor Emmanuel III in full military regalia.

  ‘I’ve come to ask for even less than that,’ Captain Martello cut in. ‘Postpone the execution. Allow me and Mr Chébas to see him. Perhaps we would come back with some information that could convince you to retry his case.’

  ‘That old fool refuses to speak to anyone.’

  ‘It’s of little consequence. I only need twenty-four hours. Once, I visited him in his house and he welcomed me rather reluctantly. Now I’ll pay him a second visit, this time in the pitch dark of the prison, and perhaps he’ll react differently.’

  ‘It’s pointless to delay his execution by twenty-four hours,’ the Maronite said. ‘If you don’t want to stay his execution, then delay it. Keep him imprisoned while waiting to execute him. When the truce is concluded, the order to pardon him will inevitably arrive.’

  ‘That’s fine by me, let’s keep him in prison, at our disposal!’

  ‘But that’s not fine by me,’ the general said, smiling, ‘I don’t think I can grant him more than twenty-four hours. All I need to secure this delay is some bureaucratic pretext or other, so as not to inconvenience the law.’

  ‘Your Excellency, I didn’t come here to ask you to prolong his agony. I came seeking clemency.’

  ‘And I have refused your request, Chébas.’

  ‘Can we visit the prisoner?’

  ‘You’ll allow me to do so on my own,’ the Maronite said, ‘I know it’s useless, I’m simply going to say goodbye.’

  ‘We’ll have to break down his door, his heart is sealed against outsiders: if we pre-announce our visit, he’ll refuse to see us.’

  ‘I’ll respect the door to his cell as though it were the door to his house, Captain. I’ll send word of my arrival and if the master of that cell refuses to see me, or excuses himself for being unable to see me, then I’ll turn back.’

  ‘You’ll come and let me know how it all goes,’ the general intervened. ‘I’m curious to see such a show of pleasantries when standing before the gallows.’

  ‘You’ll receive my full report, General. It’s highly unlikely Mr Chébas will visit us again so soon. He’s a proud man who humiliated himself by begging you to spare Semereth’s life: such an extraordinary gesture on his part that it should have met with success. Chébas is even prepared to kiss your hand to obtain a stay of execution, but he won’t pay us a second visit merely to satisfy your curiosity.’

  ‘Don’t mind the captain, my dear Mr Chébas. He has some talent for the theatre, and structures everything he says into monologues, unexpected plot twists and miracles. The ceremony of Semereth Effendi’s death is making his passions run high.’

  ‘Your Excellency, once again, I implore you to pardon him,’ the Maronite insisted, ‘not out of love for theatrical miracles, but simply out of human decency.’

  ‘Even that was rather theatrical. Wait a moment. Remain kneeling as you are. General, I too implore you to spare him: if you let him keep his head, I’ll bring you another ten, hundred, or thousand heads to take its place, however many you want, I’ll cut them off on the battlefield myself while the men are still gripping their swords.’

  ‘Mais que ma cruauté survive à ma colère? Que malgré la pitié dont je me sens saisir … ’

  ‘There we have it, General. You already have the punchline, so please go ahead and use it.’

  ‘I’m afraid I must disappoint you, Captain: I’m not one of Racine’s characters. Mr Chébas, I admire your noble intentions. Even though your posture is straight, I understand that you made your heart bend its knee to secure Semereth’s pardon. I will accompany you to the main door, I want to satisfy Captain Martello’s theatrical instincts and make a public show of my respect for you.’

  III

  Captain Martello stepped inside Semereth Effendi’s cell. The light was casting Hajji Semereth’s deep shadow onto the wall.

  The captain dismissed the guard. He waited until he could no longer hear the guard’s footsteps, then began:

  ‘I’ve obtained a twenty-four-hour stay of your execution from General Delle Stelle. I’m offering you my help. Perhaps I’ll be able to save you.’

  A nod of Semereth’s head made his gigantic shadow on the wall oscillate ominously.

  ‘I’ve been told your attitude towards the military tribunal was hardly encouraging. I’d like it if you could adopt a different one with me. The treaty between the Italian government and the Sanussi Brotherhood will soon be ratified, and your sacrifice won’t have been in vain. It seems strange to me that although you joined the rebels’ ranks fairly late, you’re now the only one of them to be so uncompromising.’

  They lingered in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Perhaps you recall my visit to your house three years ago? Now I’d like to try to save you.’

  The prisoner stared at him as though he were facing the cell’s bare wall, or a hole in the ground. Captain Martello was seized by wrath.

  ‘I know your destiny, Semereth. Ever since I learned you were responsible for Zulfa and Ferdinando’s deaths I’ve been motivated by a single desire: to avenge them. I searched for you everywhere, but with no luck. Once, we came close: you were the one who set the El-Hania market on fire, and this new charge alone would be enough to ensure your demise. But this matter concerns only the two of us, and the Italian government has no right to meddle: it would be cowardly to call upon the authorities to settle our private affair. Whether ungenerous or mocking, fate saw fit to deny us the chance to meet on the battlefield, and instead determined we meet eye to eye in a cramped prison cell. You’re our prisoner. I’m offering you your freedom because I want to see your head impaled on my sword, and not rolling off the gallows and into the market square. I simply can’t accept that fate has reserved a rebel’s glorious death for you, and I want to punish you for the death of the beautiful Zulfa and that servant.’

  He kept quiet while awaiting a reply. Was waiting a kind of invocation?

  ‘I tried to save Ferdinando, I wanted to take him with us and send him back
to his country. But he preferred to stay with your wife.’

  Semereth’s face didn’t betray anything. It was useless for Captain Martello to provoke him.

  ‘Ferdinando preferred to stay with his beloved rather than opt for freedom. You showed no mercy, and thus will be denied it yourself. I don’t want to free you from this prison so as to save you, but rather so I can kill you myself. That sham of a military tribunal has offered you the chance to die a hero’s death, thereby tarnishing the memory of those two youngsters by allowing their deaths to go unavenged. Should you refuse to duel with me you’ll meet as infamous an end as that Venetian woman of yours.’

  Captain Martello was claiming the sole right to kill Semereth, and this was a further example of his trying to insert himself into the narrative of the giant’s life. Avenging the child bride and her lover wouldn’t only placate their faint shadows, but would also quell his despair. He was even prepared to let Semereth escape and go with him; if betrayal was the price for that friendship, he was prepared to pay it. But their lives would have to intertwine.

  ‘You’re the one who failed to comply with the ceasefire agreement. But now you must swear that you were just following others. Blame someone else, put a spanner in the peace negotiations, put an end to all trust and hope. Once we’re on a level playing field again, you and I will be free to confront one another.’

  The captain continued to talk while vainly glancing at Semereth’s distorted features. When he got up to head towards the door, Semereth followed him for a couple of paces, nodding his head once more in a parting gesture. Captain Martello thought Semereth’s body already seemed inert, as if dangling in a void. However, the captain also felt as though he was being sucked into that void himself. They were performing their parts on a tilted ledge: Ferdinando, Zulfa and the Venetian woman had already preceded them into the abyss.

  IV

  Olghina crossed the square while the soldiers were still disassembling the gallows where that monster had been executed the previous day, and entered the covered market. Abdelkarim spotted her and dashed to the back of the warehouse to alert the master. Olghina was almost running as she entered.

  ‘Forgive me Émile, I was alone in the house, and Semereth Effendi’s ghost is roaming the city and frightening people.’

  ‘Come in, come in.’

  ‘It’s the only thing people are talking about in Benghazi,’ said Armand, who’d returned to the city after being forced to close the branch in Tocra due to a dip in trade.

  ‘Will he be the last victim of the colonial conquest? It’s as though people actually want to celebrate the occasion in some way … ’

  ‘Don’t mind Armand, Signora. He only looks on these events as mere setbacks.’

  ‘I’m leaving: didn’t you know that? Now that war has broken out, I’m going to Italy. If I enlist as a volunteer, I’ll have the right to citizenship. Thus, I’ll bid goodbye to the Middle East once and for all.’

  ‘Goodbye, goodbye,’ Émile parroted, clearly annoyed. ‘Since your problems are now over, let’s not rehash them – so shut your mouth. Were you really afraid? It was an evil act, and I’m also afraid, but not of Semereth’s ghost, whose apparition would console me: no, I’m frightened of God’s retribution.’

  ‘Just what do the two of you find so extraordinary about that tow-haired monster? The past few years have seen so many victims interred and then quickly forgotten. Instead, Semereth is granted all this fanfare. Captain Martello says that my magnanimous brother even bent his knee in front of the general to implore his clemency.’

  ‘I also heard that, which is why I came here, Armand. Semereth Effendi’s ghost will respectfully leave this shop alone. Émile, did you see Semereth before he was executed?’

  ‘I asked to see him, and he sent the jailer back with a note: Tell him to forgive my mistakes, just as I have forgiven his. It’s the most drastic form of goodbye used in this country.’

  ‘It’s all over now, there’s no need to frighten the lady.’

  ‘Armand, one of your brother’s finest traits is that one feels safe next to him’

  ‘Indeed. My brother’s like a church: he consoles and pontificates. But I’m a heretic.’

  V

  ‘Semereth Effendi refused to shake my hand, which I’d held out to save him,’ the officer said, ‘therefore I wanted to be present in the square. Was I trying to give him the opportunity to make some explanatory gesture? Or did I want to be numbered among the butchers? Even though I reached the final act of this affair, the part I played couldn’t resolve its ambiguity. In any case, I still had the chance to look at his face and I didn’t miss a single detail, I was only a few paces away.’

  ‘But I couldn’t read his expression: Semereth Effendi remained just as impassive standing on the gallows as though he’d been in his reception room when it was enlivened by the floral presence of Zulfa and Ferdinando. I uselessly tried to detect fear in his features, or hatred, or pious resignation. He said: We return from whence we came. Or maybe: Devoted to God, to Him we return. Every translation is a restless shadow.’

  ‘How long had you known him, Mr Chébas? One of our informers tells us the Hajji’s face was disfigured when a barrel of gunpowder exploded next to him. It seems he was once incredibly handsome. In other words, he was the beautiful prince that was transformed into a monster by a spell. We were merely the spectators who arrived late on the scene after the major events in his life had already occurred: he appears before our eyes from the valley of death, his face hidden behind a mask that doesn’t fully conceal his rotting features. I sometimes suspect I’m more of an archaeologist than an army officer, and that I was in the grips of such folly that I dug a grave in order to make it speak! I even tried to explain this to the general: how everything in Semereth’s life had already happened, and that we didn’t mean anything to him. The general thinks there isn’t much to learn from all this. He spoils everything by couching it in ironic terms, as though he was only amused by my part in all this, which was nevertheless minor, or as he put it, that of a “naïve spectator.”’

  ‘The monster’s love for Zulfa, the lovely creature he’d captured, was both gloomy and tenderly desperate. He played the legal role of a husband next to the immaculate image that was as distant from him as a memory. I’ll spare you the comparison between me and that monster. When I arrived here, I also desecrated the innocence of the natives, which our decrees did nothing to redress. This is the reason – in the way plans only intersect in the invisible realm of desire – why Semereth Effendi was forced, or perhaps resigned himself, to make so many concessions. Thanks to the disproportion between them, he was never able to consummate their marriage; and then another disproportion – perhaps a result of a banal disagreement – prevented him from saving Zulfa and Ferdinando. There’s something pathetic about the giant, whose every loving act wound up bringing him closer to death.’

  ‘For the sake of those two, he even went through the humiliation of going to talk to that senile uncle of his, and then deprived himself of the only link to the real world he still had, by allowing Ferdinando, who was already slipping out of his grasp, to run off with Zulfa. He wanted Zulfa to grow up so that they could consummate the marriage, and he simultaneously didn’t want Ferdinando to grow up: the dead have unreal cravings. In other words, he wanted to bend time to his purposes so he could use it on people as he liked, like a watchmaker who whimsically pushes the hands forward on one clock, and then stops them on another.’

  A few merchants tried to peer into the shop, but kept their distance on seeing Chébas talking to an Italian officer, as though the shop had become a theatre, a simultaneously public and intimate place that nobody was allowed to enter. The captain was speaking passionately, and seemed to want the spotlight to shine on him alone – or perhaps to run away from it entirely. They were dark days, afflicted by a collective anguish, and everyone went their own way in a hurry, especially in the evenings, when the shadows settled on the city, as thou
gh they wanted to reach their destination before everything vanished or fell apart: war confuses the reckoning of time.

  ‘Seeing that body hang from the gallows, I asked myself: Semereth obeyed the call of his sacred inheritance, by paying it homage once more and dying while his countrymen protested the loss of a good Muslim – or was he instead playing the role of a warrior who was dying for his faith, like he once used to hide his heart’s leanings behind his merchant’s robes?’