Books were not bridges extended across different dimensions of reality. Instead, they were bricks of an edifice surrounded by an impenetrable wall inside which he could bury himself.
Slumped down in a sofa, the Countess felt an all-consuming melancholy: why should they listen to everyone? An uninterrupted flow of people passed through the house every day, there was no choice, it was as if every citizen of Benghazi had the right to a moment of their attention. It was a regal waste of time, or a boring way to settle a debt. She would observe the intricate geometrical designs of the floor tiles coalescing into a sort of labyrinth, like the deputy governor’s words, but unlike the Count’s words, which had a false ring to them, the tiles were playful in their own way, thanks to their bright colours. The Countess looked at the bright patches of sky framed by the windows – devoid of all inscriptions, words or images, they were just homogeneously blue – and sought refuge in them.
Bergonzi wore spectacles on his nose, the distinguishing mark of the brotherhood of teachers. He would pour the irreproachable verses of Parini and the rotund odes of Carducci into the minds of the adolescents entrusted to his care, and emotionally recount the sacrifices the heroes of the Risorgimento had made to bring glory to the motherland. He planted the cult of the Latin era in their hearts, being very inflexible when it came to the purity of the language, and defending it against all contamination. He would attentively, or even impatiently, follow all the developments in modern literature, and was astounded by the Count’s indifference. He had audacious opinions, would talk passionately about the problems posed by Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, and was enthusiastic about an Italian playwright called Luigi Pirandello, whose last effort, It’s Nothing Serious, he had seen in Rome. From what Bergonzi was saying, one could deduce that he believed adultery was the major problem faced by European civilisation: even if in a rather bookish way, he was well versed in its exquisite and infernal variations.
Bergonzi said he intended to establish a theatre company in Benghazi, since days in the colony were all the same, and made the spirit roil. He had chosen Leonid Andreyev’s drama Anfissa.
He also outlined his idea for a mobile library, which would be open to civilians and soldiers alike, and asked for the deputy governor’s support, or better yet his active complicity, so as to find the necessary funding. He would gladly select the books, as well as manage its day-to-day operations. ‘Libraries are indispensable instruments,’ he declared.
In addition, he told the Count of the municipality’s plans for public gardens. His monologues seemed interminable, as though he were lecturing a class.
The wreath of verses the professor quoted, a litany that belonged to an incomprehensible rite, reawakened in Rosina the faded memories of her school days, like sinister shadows that moved around them in circles. The mobile library, the museum commanded by that secondary school principal, was a place she would never set foot in, since it was a graveyard-like place from which all life was banished. Neither did she entertain any illusions about the municipality’s plans for public gardens: in that professor’s hands, all would crumble to dust.
Why did they have to put up with him? Why had the mobile library taken hold of the house? Why couldn’t they just kick him out? Why was the Count so patient? What does he have to do with us?
The questions lingered, restlessly hovering in mid air, accentuating the funereal character of the verbal ceremony.
Satisfied with the beautiful evening, the professor stood up at last, thanked his guests as though he were an actor peering out of the drawn curtains on the stage, and left. The Count paced up and down the main hall. Leaving Italy behind was my destiny, he thought, tense and surprised, as though a veil had suddenly fallen.
Rosina was playing a little ironic tune, almost a little carnivalesque, like a procession of ghosts. Omar woke up somewhat astonished; he’d never heard the Countess play the piano at that hour. The windows of the main hall were resplendent with light, but empty.
V
The deputy governor was irked by his nephew’s presence, as though it further confused the reality he was trying to bring order to.
‘Why were you so strict with the boy?’ Rosina asked, ‘You spoke to him so harshly on two occasions today at the club, and he was so crestfallen in the end that he stopped speaking.’
‘He’s been here for three weeks and he keeps butting in on all conversations, just to give his tuppence worth. He simplifies everything so unbearably. He’s my nephew, he lives in my house, and I don’t want anyone to think I share his reckless opinions.’
The tone he was using was not conciliatory.
‘Omar, who is usually so shut off, has opened up to Antonino. Today, I saw the two of them sitting together on the mat for a couple of hours, talking and laughing nonstop. The encounter between the conqueror and the indigenous people, which opens the colonial drama, prescribes the eventual elimination of one of the two; in your imagination, the Basic Charter granted by the King will facilitate their reconciliation. But the harmony you’ve been so uselessly pursuing took place right there on that mat between Antonino and Omar.’
‘Khadija spoke to me about Omar. Apparently he has divorced his wife, and since he lives under my roof, it’s my duty to set him up in a new house.’
‘We finally have a son! It’s a pity we can’t agree on who it is: you refuse to be a father to Antonino, while I refuse to be a mother to Omar … Khadija is always vigilant and keeps her eyes peeled: she spies on us.’
‘Khadija is devoted to us, she’s convinced that mysterious powers have taken a hold of us, and she’s merely looking out for us, to protect us from them.’
‘She doesn’t like music.’
‘You use music as a form of escapism.’
‘After you’ve told me about all your problems as this colony’s deputy governor, I open a musical score like a window and suddenly the stage turns into an infinite landscape. Music is a rallying cry. Your curiosity is reminiscent of the seventeenth century, it’s inexhaustibly hungry for all that is different, and your tolerance belongs to that lucky century, but – beware! – don’t adopt the same short-sighted view. When reason is the only instrument, one cannot go very far. It prevents us from seeing anything that isn’t brightly illuminated – very little, all told! It prevents us from realising that we can’t bring much order to anything! It makes us unable to believe in anything that can’t be explained, which is very, very little indeed!’
Rosina illustrated what she meant with her hands; but instead of augmenting her speech, they made her appear as though she was on a different plane, as though her gestures were the graceful and ironic poses struck by porcelain dolls in shop windows. Instead of acting as a ferry, or a voyage, the conversation accentuated the distance between the Count and his wife, manipulating both time and space. It was as though they were each engrossed in reading a book which had the other as its main character.
‘Forsaking reason is tantamount to making a deal with the devil. I find Antonino’s sympathies for certain political tendencies insufferable.’
‘Civilisation, the end goal of all the progress you preside over, is not a fixed, timeless paradigm, but is simply the expression of a powerful clique at a given moment in history. It’s the rubble on which others will build another edifice once they’ve reconquered their freedom. There are no universal rules: the fury of nationalism finds its justification in this certainty, and strength is the only guarantee of survival. Antonino is cruel. Yesterday, I saw him squabbling with a man in the street while Omar looked on, white as a sheet, barely restraining his wrath. But by the evening, they were together again, slinging rocks at birds sheltering in the trees. There’s something melancholy and altogether unhealthy about your mission, and the natives always notice that. The continuity of tradition, the identity of a nation, matter more than peace; neither is it possible to have peace if the continuity of these traditions is compromised. Your efforts to persuade these people it’s in their best interests to stic
k with us, that we can teach them many useful things, that business will boom – meaning, in other words, that trading their freedom for economic, medical, and educational advantages is a good deal for them – is haunted by a wretched, demonic shadow: the surfeit of reason produces monsters.’
‘We must be strong enough to go against the grain and ignore the consensus reached by others, to put up with the psychological burden of diversity, to go beyond limits others believed insurmountable. I’m not looking to play a specific role, but to bring together what was never meant to be separate – and reason is the bridge. When the Cyrenaican Assembly opens its doors, as the Basic Charter called for, you’ll be seated in the place of honour – I’ll keep you as a hostage. You’ll see reality contradict everything you said. In fact,’ he added while giving her a small bow, ‘it will humiliate you.’
‘I’ll be happy so long as Antonino is there: that boy will avenge me.’
Later that day, Omar and Antonino paid a second visit to Sharafeddin’s shop, where they were once again greeted with hostility: the offering of their presence had been refused.
They had sought out the company of Omar’s cousin because of a story. Antonino was an agile, elegant rider, and despite his slender weight he guided the horse authoritatively. Omar had told him Sharafeddin was a renowned rider, which had sparked the young officer’s envy. Far away, on the high plateaus, there was a serene valley where a marabout was buried amongst the ruins of a small Roman fort, and this was where the tribe’s riders gathered every year, following the harvest. The women and children remained a hundred paces behind, having hung their veils from the branches to act as a screen so that they could uncover themselves. After midday they would send the riders camped in the olive groves vast copper trays heaped with tender meat and rice. Their eager horses, which were either black or a deep rusty red, not too dissimilar from the colour of the earth, were tied to the trees.
After lunch, the men would descend the hill and line up in two rows on the plain. The stirrups on the horses were ancient, and the saddles’ blue velvet emblazoned with arabesques in silver filigree. A gold coin could be seen hanging from each horse’s shiny head.
The riders entered the lane formed by the two rows of men at a wild gallop; once they’d reached the top of the hill, they would whip their steeds, invoking God. The men who formed the rows would accompany the rider with their yells, encouragements and curses. Someone would make a stinging comment, and those next to him would laugh.
The riders only entered the lane one at a time, ruling out any kind of competitive racing: it was a test of one’s individual courage and skill. Sharafeddin shot through like an arrow, the hem of his robe fluttering in the wind like a flag.
At night, the men slept under the olive trees, in the dark valley.
Having heard this story, Antonino had asked Omar if they could visit Sharafeddin again. Only repetition runs on parallel tracks with peace: that was the Libyans’ secret. No Basic Charter written by man could ever supplant the sacred law of Tradition. As such, Antonino wanted to challenge that renowned rider; both parties would bring their own law and square off. Sharafeddin didn’t budge from his loom, concealing his wounded dignity, or oblivious to the role Omar’s tale had offered him. But his nonchalance at the young officer’s presence, which was only possible among equals, his calm, and that barely veiled hostility, were clear indicators and confirmed Omar’s story. The man in disguise had rejected the challenge: the choice of weapon and locale would be up to him. It took Omar a great deal of effort to tear Antonino away from the weaver’s shop.
But his memory was a benign demon, neither tormenting him nor holding him back: the young man walked with the lightness of a god. The sporadic way in which Antonino had taken an interest in Sharafeddin was similar to the attitude one adopts towards a book: once it’s shut, it is nothing but an inert memory.
In the evening, Antonino went to look for Omar in his room at the far end of the courtyard, having left him in a gloomy mood earlier on. Antonino’s unexpected appearance threw the servant into confusion. They talked for a long time. Later that evening, they left; meanwhile, in the lit salon on the first floor, the Count and Countess were engrossed in one of their interminable card games, where instead of faces the cards were decorated with concepts like conquest, sin, expiation, liberty, democracy, the Basic Charter, defeat …
The night was clear and calm. The path Antonino and Omar took was the same one they had taken in the morning: they crossed the big square and the covered market, then went down the long alley to the palm grove. The light had changed: the moon had taken over from the scorching sun, discreetly and conspiratorially, so they were now taking the path in the opposite direction.
The black prostitutes were twins, but they were dressed differently. The first wore the traditional red Libyan robe over a purple organdie tunic, her head covered by a veil with hems adorned in intricate designs of purple, yellow and pink; she also wore big silver bracelets and large hoop earrings. The second twin’s robe was straw-coloured, with black stripes, and a white band around her waist; the tunic she wore underneath was blue, and her face was covered by a purple veil with whitish hems. A petrol lamp was hanging from a pole in the courtyard. On the ground there was a terracotta brazier filled with live coals. The first of the twins took Antonino’s hand, while the second took Omar’s. The young officer saw his friend and the second twin vanish into a room on the right. Antonino entered the room on the left: it was almost entirely dark, and Antonino could only detect the brightly coloured cloths and the gleaming silver jewellery. The bright lights were suspended like stars, and he could no longer make out the woman’s silhouette. But he could clearly distinguish the contours of his own body – the fingers of his hands, his belly button, and – like in a mirror – his ears, eyes, and penis: cryptograms that nature had affixed to his ivory frame.
An initiation rite required either extraordinary, solemn or bizarre feats of patience, courage, strength or ingenuity. The trip to Africa was such a trial. I haven’t braved lions, nor crossed raging rivers or deserts, nor climbed impassable mountains; instead, I was welcomed into the deputy governor’s palatial house. But trials can come in deceptive guises. Instead of terrorising, deceiving, or plotting his downfall, Khadija – the black goddess, the nocturnal master of the house that belonged to the King’s representative, his uncle – was actually protecting him. Antonino’s trial merely consisted in alienating himself, and he had easily passed it. He hadn’t been crushed by the heavy burden of guilt like his powerful and unhappy uncle; nor had he fled, like his beloved aunt, into music and games, into the infinitely small and the infinitely large. If the two communities were separated by a barrier guarded by two sets of gods – while the conquerors, who’d engineered the most monstrous cataclysm to have befallen those shores, adopted all the behaviours and stances known to them: cruelty, martyrdom, reason, prudence, violence, hypocrisy, piety – Antonino instead leapt over this barrier with the same ease and frequency with which he crossed the threshold of the house Saber watched over.
Antonino lacked both memory and a sense of mission, so he remained miraculously detached from the past and the future. If he passed his trial so easily, it was because he was fleeing from the power of the subterranean gods: time and memory, which bind everything together. Why had Sharafeddin refused his challenge that morning, or why had he postponed it? The threshold of that shop remained inviolable. Thus, even Antonino’s happiness had limits, although he forgot they were there. If Sharafeddin had rejected his and Omar’s approaches, here they were now, crossing the threshold that belonged to the prostitutes. He had seen many strange and marvellous things in Africa, but never any enigmas. The young officer wanted to test his courage and strength, and didn’t shy away from conflict: but he wasn’t restless, which is the fatal sign of alienation. The other shore, from which there might be no return, simply didn’t exist for him: every step he took was leading him further away from it.
Meanwhile, ha
ving overcome his trial, Antonino was shut inside that room with the black silhouette, in a darkness barely pierced by a few faltering rays of light, busy accomplishing the rite. The women he’d had before this one didn’t matter: they were either dreams or insignificant. That act of copulation put the seal on a new man.
Having stood up and dressed himself, Antonino watched as the woman re-acquired her silhouette, once again becoming the prostitute who had come up to him and with whom he’d gone into the little room – taking them back to the starting point.
When Antonino saw Omar again, it became immediately obvious that the same scene had played out on two different stages, like a mirror image. Consequently, even the twins must have been mirror images of the same woman; and their blackness had helped blend them in with the darkness of the place, which was punctuated by blurry colours and fragments of light.
Accompanied by Omar, Antonino went back into the street, feeling as though he had the power to communicate with every shape, object or sound.
The young men crossed the city without feeling either frightened or apprehensive, the airy excitement that followed them all the way home vanishing the moment they laid their heads on their pillows.
VI
Far from the city, on the mountains that dominated the Barca plateau, the two cousins stopped to rest. They had spent the past two days in tribal lands.
Sharafeddin moved nimbly among the boulders, his eyes wandering on the plain. Libya’s boundlessness had always been a bulwark against invaders. With his baggy white pantaloons, Sharafeddin was wearing a greenish waistcoat with matching embroidery. Omar wore an identical waistcoat. Both sported the traditional red Libyan cap on their heads. Sharafeddin wore his at a cocky angle, while Omar’s was pressed down to his eyebrows.
The Colonial Conquest: The Confines of the Shadow Volume I Page 21