‘First you say Khadija’s only a servant, then you ascribe her magical powers. Fat and short as she is, with that majestic gait of hers, her ancient face still youthful and lucid, as well as her deep, placid eyes – which nevertheless flash with irrepressible force if angered – Khadija’s the very portrait of her country.’
‘That crow lords over us. My authority means nothing to her, she doesn’t follow my orders.’
‘If it makes you feel any better, sometimes she doesn’t even obey mine. Your desire to dismiss her reminds me of those bureaucrats who want to push the Libyans further and further away so that we can finally dominate a country that doesn’t even belong to us. Instead, even though we may seem like gods, we’re only guests here. We must ensure our presence here is accepted and seen as the force for good that it is.’
‘You see the conquest of Libya as our original sin, the root of all the evils that plague this city’s inhabitants. The Basic Charter isn’t just the recognition of these peoples’ civil rights, it’s become a prayer that you hope will cleanse the sin of our presence. I don’t see why I should sit by your right, why don’t we put Khadija in my place, starting tomorrow?’
It was as though Rosina wanted to wound her husband, so she could later rush to his aid, and thus have him all to herself.
‘When speaking about me to other people, Khadija once said that His Excellency, may God forgive him, has never laid a hand on her. She called on God to forgive my sins, all for so little! She’s as stern with God as she is with me, and her plea sounded more like an order. Only people with clean consciences speak like that.’
‘When you left for Africa, I felt I was shut out from your thoughts and your heart. It either cost you a lot of effort to write to me, or you forgot about it altogether, and you spoke of things that didn’t interest me in the slightest, in fact they annoyed me, because they widened the distance between us. I wanted to come here so I could be with you again. You welcomed me affectionately, but you were in a hurry. I’m finding it just as difficult to get you to accept my presence in this house as you’re finding it to get the natives to accept your authority. But that I should be treated like this by my own husband?’
Count Alonzo stood to go and greet Doctor Amilcare.
‘My husband accuses me of laziness,’ the Countess said while Doctor Amilcare planted a kiss on her hand, ‘he says I twist reality to excuse my lethargy and thus inflict the same on him, meaning, in other words, that I limit his world and ask him to adapt as soon as he enters the home.’
‘Countess Rosina, anyone who speaks to your husband suffers the same accusations. He’s very strict and impatient with his friends.’
‘But not with our enemies. It seems they’re the only ones worthy of special treatment.’
‘The more arrogant and diffident they become, the more enthusiastic the Count grows in his mission,’ Doctor Amilcare said, taking a seat on the sofa next to Rosina. ‘Ever since the government granted the colony this Basic Charter, he hasn’t wasted a moment in trying to win over the people of Benghazi. As for what we want, once the King signed that decree, all our wishes became irrelevant.’
‘And how have the natives welcomed this Basic Charter? Alonzo’s always vague on this issue.’
‘The natives refuse to accept peace if it comes at the cost of our continued presence. His Majesty believed he could conquer them through a gesture of generosity. But the indigenous people know that we granted them this Basic Charter because we couldn’t win the war. By entering this agreement we’ve conceded our partial defeat. The natives are even aware this is just a truce before hostilities inevitably break out again, at which point we will still aim to achieve their unconditional submission. Although both sides view this provisional agreement coolly and pragmatically, Count Alonzo, one of the most important officials here, has transformed an opportunistic edict into a binding law, and doesn’t want anyone to voice any reservations: thus he accuses us of sloth and intolerance.’
The deputy governor’s house, isolated from the city and its outskirts, was located on the strip of land between the sea and the sabkhats, the littoral lagoons, only a short distance from the old Turkish fort. Their conversation wasn’t disturbed by any noise, as though the room on the first floor was separated from the reality around it by an unbridgeable gap – a reality that nevertheless refused to be bent to the will of the people speaking in it. The deputy governor listened out for any sounds: a donkey braying, children yelling, the cry of a horse-cart driver. The distance covered by a sound – or an object, or an animal, or a man – as it travels in one direction keeps shrinking if a traveller runs after it in the opposite direction.
‘The political situation in Rome is such a complete mess,’ Doctor Amilcare continued, having calmed down, ‘that soon enough there’ll only be room for criminals, martyrs and saints in government. Even the great King of Italy, as we melodramatically address him in our proclamations, might one day decide to replace Count Alonzo with a criminal: kindness, like violence, can sometimes be used excessively. In fact, the Count is the only new politician in this colony – in the coming days, more will come and occupy diametrically opposite ideas, but we are living in the era of excess: we are excessively virtuous, just as we are excessively cruel and dishonourable.’
In the afternoon, the doctor accompanied Count Alonzo and Countess Rosina on a long carriage ride outside the city. While the world, seduced by speed, was beginning to experiment with automobiles, the Count was in a carriage rolling through the limitless plain as he rediscovered the allure of travelling slowly along a path that was both pleasantly boring and familiar.
The plain was almost entirely deserted and the carriage raised a cloud of dust. Vegetation thrived inside humid hollows in the ground like giant basins, hidden from sight until one was only a few metres away, and the tops of the trees barely rose out of the surrounding plain. According to tradition, this was where the ancients believed one could find the Hesperides’ fabulous gardens where golden apples grew, apples which Gaia gave to Hera as a wedding gift when she married Zeus. Further along was the great abyss, a cave traversed by an underground river, which was identified with the legendary Lethe, one of the five rivers of Hades.
‘The indigenous chiefs of Tripoli,’ the Count said to Doctor Amilcare, ‘are in direct contact with left-wing forces in Italy and consider them their allies in their struggle against us. They even keep the Cyrenaican chiefs well informed. The natives’ acceptance of the Basic Charter can thus be explained by the following motive: to gain time while Italy descends into chaos, or civil war, by which time we’ll obviously need to abandon the colony. Or, if we don’t leave, it will make it easier for them to boot us out. Therefore, as His Majesty’s delegate, I’m willing to offer any concessions to avoid a complete withdrawal. What does the King really want? What can he do? How long will this last? And at what cost? Nevertheless, I won’t hesitate in the slightest: we cannot vote for the worst simply out of fear. Let us put this Basic Charter into practice here, in fact let us consider it a choice: if everyone refuses the alternative, we’ll be able to better defend democracy.’
Growing suddenly impatient, he added, ‘I’d like to govern this colony, or at least contribute to its governance, in the same way that travellers used to visit countries two centuries ago – not to oppress people, but to get to know them.’
Rosina rose from the sofa and went to sit on the black stool next to the piano. She placed her hands on the keys, struck a chord, then her hands ran along the ivories, her fingers striking the keys in a thick, stormy hail. Omar, the young man who worked in the house, was astonished by that wild, painful sound and shifted his gaze from the garden. The windows of the great hall, those white rectangular frames cut into the enormous façade, had been thrown open, but nobody looked out of them and only sound spilled out in invisible waves. It was like a mysterious well one sees in a dream: indecipherable.
Khadija was sitting on a mat boiling some tea in a corner of the court
yard.
Her skin was swarthy, her face rotund, and her neck nearly non-existent. Her torso was barrel-shaped. She had short legs, which she kept tucked under her while sitting down. Her body was wrapped in a threadbare purple silk robe with silver stripes. She had gold bracelets on her wrist and a fish-shaped filigree pendant hanging from her neck. That gold was her nest egg, all the wealth she’d accumulated from her long days of hard work. A small ring set with a blue stone shone from her stubby hand. The blue stone and the fish shielded her from the evil eye.
There was a young woman next to her who was also ebony-skinned, long-legged and nimble – her daughter. She wasn’t Khadija’s flesh and blood, but was adopted.
Saber, Khadija’s husband, lay stretched out on the mat. He was very old and only managed to walk with great difficulty, by dragging his feet. He was the doorman, but often fell asleep, and he’d keep the door slightly ajar, leaning his foot against it to prevent anyone entering. He was hard of hearing, and therefore ringing the doorbell was useless.
Many people were out of work in Benghazi, and everyone was astonished the old man had found a job – and in the deputy governor’s house to boot. The ancient man’s presence soothed the Count, who pictured Saber at his post as a protective measure. In the morning, the Count would linger in the atrium and enquire after Saber’s health before leaving the house. Saber would thank the Lord and say he was in good health, and after having praised God once more, would invoke Him to bless the master: that was the viaticum with which the Count began his day.
Saber owned a donkey cart he and Khadija used to return to their village in the evenings.
The tea ceremony, which took so much time, exasperating the colonists – who confused efficiency with purity of heart, or organisational rigour with equilibrium – had never made the Count impatient. If Khadija ever saw the Count walk by, she would call him over and offer him some tea, which she’d pour into small, ribbed glasses. Omar sat next to her. He was roughly twenty-five years old, thin, of medium height, and light-skinned. The Count owned a cabriolet and Omar was his coachman. Driven by a single horse, the carriage was identical to the ones available for hire in Benghazi. It was open-topped, featured a seat broad enough for two travellers and lined in black leather, and a fold-away seat in front of it, as well as an additional seat for a servant next to the coachman. On Sundays, the Count would gladly take a carriage ride to the orchards of El-Fueihat. Omar had also been entrusted with making purchases at the local market every morning, where he’d go with a wicker basket in his hand and buy whatever the demanding cook needed. He would see to his errands in the city, sweep the courtyard and terrace, and wash the stairs.
The tea ceremony in the deputy governor’s house wasn’t usually held at that time, which was when the old couple would head home after the day’s work, but Omar had detained them. This meant he was getting divorced. He didn’t seem convinced about it, and when he spoke about his wife, his wrath concealed strong emotions. Khadija listened to him without looking at him or interrupting him. Impatience is a sign of ignorance: first he had to let the cat out of the bag.
Omar’s mother-in-law lived in his home. She was a woman with a difficult and complicated past. Much was said about her, and some of it was mere conjecture, but nobody knew much for certain. Everyone saw a different version of her past, and as for her whole life, no one knew it intimately.
Such an interesting past meant many mysteries, and life with that woman was a contract with conditions that Omar was oblivious to. Being shrewd, Muna hadn’t kept the gold Omar had given her to pay for her daughter’s hand, but had instead sold it. What could she still want? She was a very demanding woman, always clamouring for their attention, and only described reality in a way that obliged them to see it through her eyes, blackmailing them with her past and pawning their future according to her whims. Muna’s daughter was very beautiful, and very different from her mother: but there was no way to tear her away from that infernal woman, who dominated every aspect of her life.
Khadija lifted the blue tin teapot, and from a great distance, her arm all tensed, she poured the tea into the first glass without spilling a single drop on the floor. She tasted it, threw the rest on the floor, washed the little glass and put it back next to the others. She lifted her arm again and poured out three cups without making a single wrong move. She offered Saber the first, Omar the second, and kept the third for herself, beginning to sip it slowly.
Omar’s face reflected the light of the moon, while the charcoal fire in the terracotta bowl burned brightly.
From the windows of the hall, where the Count, the Countess and Doctor Amilcare were talking, three squares of light fell on the floor. They looked like tarot cards, and Khadija, being an expert fortune-teller, was busy reading them.
Khadija had never really liked that woman with an overly interesting past. Muna hailed from the westernmost corner of Africa, even though she’d been born in Benghazi and hadn’t ever spent much time away from that city. But her secrets meant as much as absences. The sum of those secrets was more important than her origins, which distorted the image.
Why hadn’t Omar asked her advice when it came to choosing a wife? After all, she knew the complete ancestry of every girl in the city. Having too much of a past was a bad sign: honest people could always tell you their life story in a single breath. Who was the girl’s real father? The man whose name she bore, and who’d been Muna’s lawful husband, was dead. Perhaps he had only ever been a mask that concealed someone entirely different. Sobeida’s beauty was a gilded cage: now Muna had Omar under her thumb.
Saber mumbled something. Young Aisha had fallen asleep. Perhaps even the old man was asleep, and had merely muttered something in his slumber. Omar now lived in the Count’s house, in a little room at the far end of the courtyard. He occasionally spent the evening with his cousin Sharafeddin, who owned a shop in one of the alleyways that led away from the market.
A bachelor never gets up to any good, and Khadija was already thinking about Omar’s second wedding. ‘You’ll get your son back by the time he’s nine years old – you’ll be free to educate him however you wish, as per our customs.’ Too much of a past indicated restlessness and confusion, and restlessness and confusion always led to the loss, or disavowal, of traditions, and whoever breaks with tradition is doomed to be lost. ‘Keep him away from that woman, so people won’t be able to say anything strange about him when he’s older.’
Omar was in a gloomy mood. His divorce would free him from Muna: but he wouldn’t only be leaving beautiful, unhappy Sobeida behind in that woman’s infernal hands, he would also be leaving his son. He said he didn’t have enough money to marry another woman.
‘We’ll help you,’ Khadija replied, ‘and then there’s the master. You live in his house: he should take care of you.’
Omar made a gesture of refusal.
Employing a great deal of effort, Khadija rose to her feet. Omar helped old Saber stand up, and Aisha ran ahead. She’d woken up happy, and was laughing as she went. When they reached the door they crossed the street, Saber untied the donkey from the post, Khadija and Aisha climbed onto the cart, and they left in a cheerful mood. The women tucked their legs underneath them. For that old couple, the night was safe and bearable.
II
Sharafeddin had learned the craft of weaving in Tripoli, where it was a time-honoured tradition. Having brought his loom to Benghazi, he had opened a shop in one of the labyrinthine alleys around the covered market. It was demanding work: the weaver’s hand threw the shuttle while his foot regulated the weft. One could hear the beating of the shuttle from afar, and Sharafeddin’s shop was used as a reference point to indicate the street.
There were only a few artisans in Benghazi, which was mostly a centre of commerce for the immense surrounding region peopled by nomads and farmers; the city also served as the Italian army’s general headquarters, and provided all the ancillary services it required. The colonial invasion had altered the s
ocial fabric: soldier’s wages were highly sought after, regardless of which of the two flags one fought for. During the last years of the Great European War, a catastrophe that had immediately followed the entrenchment of the Expeditionary Force, the country had been ravaged by starvation and disease. Thus, Victor Emmanuel’s lieutenant and Sidi Idris al-Sanussi, Libya’s noble representative, had stretched out their hands in a gesture of reconciliation.
‘All those people didn’t fight and die in order to extract that little piece of scrap paper from the King of Italy, which he now offers us instead of the gallows.’
Sharafeddin and Omar sat on a straw mat, their backs propped against cushions. The room was narrow and low ceilinged, and the walls were rotting with damp. Their shoes were lined up along the edge of the mat. A photograph was hanging from one of the walls: it depicted a man wearing a red fez and sporting enormous black whiskers. The room, which was devoid of any items even remotely linked to the barbarian conquerors, was in keeping with the man who inhabited it, whose refusal of the Italian colonisation was steadfast and consistent. Sharafeddin was drinking laghbi, a fermented liquid distilled from palm leaves. He spoke calmly, only to suddenly be overcome by wrath. One of his eyes was opaque and hooded by a lid that was thicker than the other.
The Basic Charter the Italians had offered the Libyans, and which was to be considered a contract between the two communities, might have seemed like a reasonable compromise to those living in the deputy governor’s house; but Omar only needed to visit his cousin’s shop on the other side of Benghazi for the barrier that separated the two communities to once again prove inviolable.
In Tripoli, the Italian governor had summoned the Arab chiefs to the fort – which had once belonged to Charles V, then been passed to the Hospitaller Knights of St John of Jerusalem in 1530, subsequently become the seat of the independent Qaramanli dynasty in the eighteenth century, and finally become the official residence of the Sublime Porte’s representative in the nineteenth century – so they could officially submit to him. The chiefs had arrived armed, on horseback, as though they’d decided to take the fort by force. In 1911 Italy had counted on the complicity of the great European powers, who’d avoided conflict in order to safeguard peace and the balance of power: the world war had broken that code of silence and the monopoly of strength. After all, hadn’t the American president Woodrow Wilson spoken in favour of the emancipation of all peoples?
The Colonial Conquest: The Confines of the Shadow Volume I Page 19