The Colonial Conquest: The Confines of the Shadow Volume I

by Alessandro Spina

  Sharafeddin was still drinking that dense, bitter distillation. He wiped his lips with the palm of his hand. That ‘scrap of paper’ was an act of capitulation, since the signatories weren’t even obliged to honour it. ‘People only abide by their own laws, not those of strangers. A day will come when you leave the deputy governor’s house with the firm intention of destroying it, or escape from it after committing a murder. Everyone’s got a role to play in life that befits their ancestry.’ He went quiet. There was an impure conflict in Omar’s heart: Sharafeddin and his room were fighting against the reality of the Count. ‘There’s no such thing as friendship unless one is among kinsmen, just like there’s no pity for the defeated.’

  Then Sharafeddin stretched out on the mat and fell into a deep slumber.

  Omar watched him as he slept. Proof of the Count’s sincerity lay in the confusion Omar felt in that wretched room: for the deputy governor of Cyrenaica and his coachman, the colonial experience was a journey, and Omar’s confusion legitimised the Count’s own confusion.

  The presence of one in the life of the other was a landscape, as well as a journey.

  III

  Rosina sat in front of her piano every day. She would flip through white booklets with very wide pages and recite lyrics. The cook and the coachman couldn’t understand a word of what she said.

  Whenever she dusted the piano Khadija’s arm was stiff, because she distrusted that gigantic, shiny black bird stuck in the middle of the hall. She’d once caught Omar making sounds by tapping on those black-and-white keys, at which point she’d sharply shut the lid and nearly broken his fingers. Even old Saber was curious about that instrument. He’d never seen the mistress play it, as he rarely went up to the first floor, since climbing the stairs tired him out. Besides, his hearing could barely register the sound, so all that dramatic singing would only reach him in muffled snippets while he was observing the crowds on the street, ensconced behind the door in the breezy atrium. But every time he heard the Countess suddenly yelling, he would shoot to his feet, frightened out of his wits.

  ‘There aren’t just five of us in the house now, but six,’ Khadija said to the Count, without turning around. ‘Either that or one of us has a doppelgänger.’

  She was in the kitchen cooking meatballs on an open fire, a dish the Count was particularly fond of. She turned them over, one after the other, using a spatula with an elongated handle.

  The music was the sixth presence. What did it mean? Everyone walks around with their own unique interpretation in their head. Now in the middle of the journey of her life, Khadija had been brought to bear with a warning. Now she would have to choose between different representations of a cryptic reality. Those who are blind see an encounter as a destination, while the intelligent see it as a crossroads. A spirit – music – was altering the direction in which the five characters were walking. Whoever had been walking along a riverbank suddenly found themselves on the opposite shore, whoever was walking in one direction found themselves going in the opposite; whoever was climbing down, would henceforth rise; and whoever was rising, would trip and fall. By denouncing the spirit, Khadija embodied it.

  Magic is the means to ward off evil spirits and to travel through the dimension in which they operate. Khadija was defying invisible forces because she had the powers to beat them.

  In the evening, Rosina accepted her friends’ pressing invitations to dine out and consented to give a musical performance; but it was something different, a tender, consoling melody full of light. The spirit that had been spotted revealed itself in a misleading guise. Walking past Omar, Khadija barely nodded her chin.

  When the Countess’s nephew Second Lieutenant Antonino Venier, who was almost still a boy, arrived in the colony, the Count scrutinised Khadija’s alert face: was Antonino the sixth presence she had been referring to? But Khadija eyed him sternly, and suddenly turned hostile – she considered it a sacrilege to joke about the intuitions certain people are granted, since whoever gives a gift can always take it away.

  Antonino was not the sixth person in the house, but the seventh. The sixth, a spirit which manifested itself in sound, remained invisible, that is assuming it wasn’t a doppelgänger of one of the other characters. But who among them could have a doppelgänger? Would the metamorphosis of one character mean the metamorphosis of the others? Regardless of whether it was a sixth presence, or a doppelgänger, the spirit held the destinies of all five characters in its hand.

  Venier had often heard stories about the colony, had read some books, and even met with veterans of the Expeditionary Force: men who told tales of heroism, of the implacable sun, of the boundless plains, of betrayals, and of a few acts of gallantry. Death sometimes made an appearance, but only in the consoling guise of heroism. He had chanced upon a book of photographs published by Treves on the war of 1911,the oval portraits of fallen soldiers arrayed across its pages like ornamental festoons. A closer look at those photographs revealed piles of murdered rebels lying on the floor, their clothes utterly wretched, as though they were rags hanging from their stick-like bones; as though they were nothing but hunting trophies. Venier was enchanted by the city of Benghazi, with its palm groves, whitewashed houses, and a sky that took up nearly the entirety of the boundless plain.

  He was very emotional when he landed and came ashore, as though he’d entered a graceful little fable fenced off from the outside world by invisible borders. Antonino cheerfully embraced his aunt. His meeting with his uncle, the Count, was simple and affectionate. Shiny and black, the open-topped buggy aroused his astonishment, and he was the last to climb on, taking a seat opposite his aunt and uncle.

  As soon as they reached the deputy governor’s house, Saber came forward to meet him and mouthed incomprehensible words. Having left the driver’s seat, Omar carried the suitcases.

  Khadija’s arrival into the hall left a strong impression on the new guest. Antonino was attracted by the gold jewellery she was wearing, which was splendid and unusual. His curiosity was piqued by her silk robe, with its silver and yellow stripes on a bed of blue, as well as by her large black bare feet, which were so majestically planted on the ground, by those short, stubby hands clasping his, by her fiery, delightful eyes, by the tunic she wore underneath her robe, with yellow flowers on a bed of red – large parts of which tufted out of her sleeves.

  In her turn, Khadija looked at the officer in wonder: he was little more than a boy, rosy-skinned, with fragile, well-shaped hands, a svelte figure, a perfect tiny face, ruffled hair, pearly teeth. She was also drawn to his uniform, expertly tailored and hugging his waist like a clasp.

  Khadija prepared a sumptuous lunch, threw open the windows, and advised Saber to leave the door open, since the whole city would undoubtedly turn out to welcome the boy who was dressed like an officer, and to congratulate the deputy governor. That swarthy, stocky woman looked as though she’d fallen in love with the second lieutenant, who was so nimble and light that he could barely fill his uniform. The Count, the Countess, and Omar and Saber had been shunted to the sidelines; the scene was now wholly occupied by Khadija and Antonino, a perfect couple.

  When the guests left in the evening Antonino went downstairs, and the cook and the second lieutenant observed one another again and bid each other goodnight several times: the tender delays that occur when lovers part for the first time.

  Antonino came down in good time the following morning, impatient to see Khadija again. The latter welcomed him with relief, and made him his breakfast downstairs while he stood next to her, although she always served the Count his meals in the dining room or the terrace. Antonino drank his milk, ate the slices of buttered toast with cherry jam Khadija had spread for him, then cracked open an egg and sucked out its yolk. He wiped his lips, put the napkin down on the table, but didn’t move.

  Khadija crossed the kitchen. She came back bearing a metal box that she opened before Antonino’s awe-struck eyes and then reached into, drawing out a stale pastry and offering it
to him. The box exuded a strong smell of rosemary.

  Antonino was wearing a light robe over his pyjamas, and being so lightly dressed, appeared even more fragile and small; and yet he was considerably taller than her. He had carefully brushed his hair, which was fair and extremely fine. Khadija only managed to gesture, as though scared that this bird, whose feathers were so regal and fragile, might take fright and fly off.

  Consecrated by the pastry produced from the metal box decorated with colourfully painted heroic scenes, Antonino and Khadija’s friendship continued to develop over the following days. In fact, it already had its daily rituals, as though Antonino’s beautiful aunt and black Africa were two hands that had stretched out a rope, leaving the young lieutenant to accomplish extravagant feats on it like an acrobat. Khadija tried to emulate him in the kitchen, ensuring she never served him the same dish twice, treasuring his compliments on her cooking in her heart, as though she were sliding coins into a piggy bank. She would serve him stuffed courgettes, eggplants, peppers, tomatoes and even potatoes, as well as wraps made of vine leaves or pumpkin. On Sunday she prepared an entire lamb stuffed with rice and almonds, even wrapping the beasts’ legs – which hung immobile in the air over the silver plate – in tin foil, making it look bright and festive. Antonino was impressed by the sacrificial offering, but this didn’t prevent him eating his fill. He would plunge his spoon into the carcass and happily extract its delicious stuffing. Couscous, the traditional dish, was always prepared in deliciously varied ways that constantly altered its taste. Antonino drank unfiltered Turkish coffee, punctuating his sips with long pauses, as though it were no big deal. A layer of black sludge would settle at the bottom of the cup, like a murky pond at the back of the garden. One only needed to slightly tilt the cup to see the sludge leave arcane hieroglyphs in its wake.

  The Countess was very proud of her Meissen china set, with its dishes decorated in green arabesques on a bed of brilliant ivory, and she only allowed it to be used on special occasions. Khadija thought Antonino’s presence constituted such an occasion. The young officer was enchanted by the way Khadija’s black hands contrasted against the white cup. Antonino thought the scene before his eyes was the spitting image of the contorted ebony-skinned slaves depicted in those fabulous Venetian china pieces. Khadija’s hands were as cool as the breeze one breathed in a grotto, and left him with a strange feeling that was simultaneously enticing and terrifying. He only needed to touch that hand to evoke a nocturnal world that was both sweet and melancholy, fleeting and impenetrable.

  On the evening of the third day, the Countess grew apprehensive about the risks those precious cups with the slightly undulated edges were being exposed to, and she approached Khadija as she was pouring Antonino some coffee, saying:

  ‘Come now, there’s no need to use them every day, Antonino is not a stranger.’

  Convulsed by a shudder, Khadija was silent for a moment, lost in her thoughts. Then, turning her torso to face her mistress, she angrily exclaimed: ‘Which stranger’s face could be dearer to our hearts than his?’

  The steam curling out of the cup and into the air was growing thinner, and Antonino couldn’t bring it to his lips. A veil of sadness fell over the room. Khadija stormed out grumbling to herself and even letting out some little moans.

  Neither on that day, nor on any of the succeeding days, did Antonino manage to convince Khadija to decipher the arabesques at the bottom of his cup, since the expert fortune-teller refused to read this particular destiny.

  Old Saber tried to pay the young officer the customary compliments, but Antonino was always in such a hurry that Saber eventually gave up. He watched him come and go at all hours. At first, he tried to stand up each time he saw him, out of respect, but always managed to do so too late. By the time Saber had stood up, the young man was already far away. In the end, he limited himself to moving his head, thus being able to see him disappear up the stairs or leave through the door. But Antonino went in and out of the house so often, irrespective of any schedule or devoid of any plausible explanation, that he wound up spending a great deal of time with the old doorman. Occasionally, Saber would hear his voice. He was a creature who belonged to a different species. Just like some birds are only ever seen with their wings spread in flight, Saber had always seen Antonino with his legs in motion. Did that little critter ever stop moving, and where did he sleep, and what did he look like when he rested? Once, Saber chanced upon Antonino while the latter, uncaring of his uniform, had stretched out on a bench in the courtyard and fallen asleep. Saber drew close to him. Antonino’s chest was rising somewhat hurriedly – perhaps he was dreaming? There was almost nothing inside that pretty uniform, little more than breath, the gulp of air he inhaled and exhaled. The old man marvelled once more at the variety of creation and praised the Lord, the Maker of everything that exists.

  Omar was so silent and discreet for the first few days that Antonino almost didn’t notice his presence. The swarthy Khadija had claimed all his attention. Antonino loved his beautiful aunt, held his uncle in timorous respect, and was so curious about Benghazi, and the people who belonged to this or that community, that he neglected Omar. But the latter was always ready to heed Antonino’s orders, as though he were following him, and answered all his questions frankly, so the young officer grew accustomed to Omar’s presence. They ended up spending most of their time together, whether Antonino was in the house or out in town when Omar was off duty.

  Omar was the shadow that followed Antonino, but he also silently guided him.

  One day, when they were at the market, Omar and Antonino walked down a little alley and stepped inside Sharafeddin’s shop. The latter was rather peeved at the sight of that couple, as he disliked them, and so he welcomed them rather awkwardly. He didn’t even get up from his spot in front of the loom, and only reluctantly consented to give a demonstration of his work, at Omar’s embarrassed insistence. Antonino couldn’t hear Omar’s explanations over all the noise the shuttle made as it swung to and fro, and was struck by the weaver’s hostility. Antonino wasn’t used to hostility, being more accustomed to indulgence and admiration wherever he went, as though he carried a talisman with him. Antonino was spellbound as he watched Sharafeddin.

  Omar regretted that unfortunate outing. The two should never have met. Sharafeddin’s mere presence had made Omar feel guilty about his relationship with the deputy governor’s nephew. The rapport between the officer and the weaver – tense, silent, and violent in its unnatural awkwardness – didn’t stop when the two left the shop, but was bound to carry on and would eventually come to light, regardless of whether it happened days or even years later. Although their paths – and the outcomes those paths would have – uncertain, mysterious forces were already working in the dark.

  The following day Omar was in a bad mood, but Antonino had no recollection of his encounter with Sharafeddin. That evening, for the first time, he paid a visit to the loyal coachman in his room at the far end of the courtyard. That unexpected appearance confused Omar, so he detained the young officer and told him the story of his life. Antonino was incredibly curious to see the beautiful Sobeida. Omar didn’t suspect that Antonino’s attentions, or rather his obvious desire to identify with him, as though he wanted to replace him, were malign. Omar spoke innocently and Antonino wasn’t in a hurry to interrupt that dream. The unfortunate incident helped cement their bond, and their conversation overcame the idea of insurmountable barriers. Sobeida was a mirror that lay between the husband who’d repudiated her and her would-be lover.

  The next day, Antonino went for a carriage ride with the Countess. They asked to be driven to the market. The young officer was enchanted by the sight of a silver necklace, and so he bought it for his beautiful aunt. They were the sort of jewels typically worn by peasants: large hoop earrings, rings with enormous square red green or yellow stones, festive necklaces with thousands of pendants, delicate fans to be worn in one’s hair, little cylindrical vials one could keep perfumes in, wh
ich were adorned with hand-shaped pendants. Antonino’s games amused the Countess. They returned from their outing exhausted: the heat was unbearable and the market as stifling as a crowded theatre.

  IV

  The Count listened patiently to Professor Bergonzi and answered his questions unhurriedly, despite his surprise that this erudite young man apparently hadn’t noticed that he’d stumbled onto a stage where a very different kind of play was being performed, one that differed greatly from those in Italian cities. This play featured different landscapes and characters, each with their own unique meaning, and answered to alien gods, thus praising different virtues and condemning different sins. Professor Bergonzi had arrived in Africa as though he’d shifted apartments from one floor of a building to another, where he brought the same familiar objects and where the same idols would be waiting for him. The colony had to become just another Italian province, and its different origins wouldn’t be allowed to enrich or influence it, since the military conquest had made it into a legitimate part of Italy’s heritage. Bergonzi never mentioned the Libyans, who didn’t feature in his thoughts because they’d never appeared in the books he’d read, which was the only guarantee of reality besides the confusion of the present: his ignorance of the context in which he was operating was unshadowed by questions and doubts.