The Colonial Conquest: The Confines of the Shadow Volume I

by Alessandro Spina

  If at that exact moment, the first rifle shot boomed on the parched plain – Omar thought – my choice will have been made for me. One’s loyalties were to one’s kinsmen: tribal virtues were founded on this law. ‘So long as I’m up here, I’m not scared by any general,’ Sharafeddin said, clearly in high spirits. He seemed impatient for the war to start. He knew that even some Italian soldiers were impatient.

  On his return to Benghazi, Omar found one of his nephews waiting for him at the door of the deputy governor’s house. He was carrying Omar’s son, who’d been bitten by a dog. Sobeida, Omar’s repudiated wife, had left the city to visit some relatives, and her son had been playing with other children in an alley when a rabid dog had come hurtling towards him. The boy was feverish. Omar wrapped him in a blanket and took him to Doctor Amilcare.

  The doctor welcomed Omar kindly, examined the child and disinfected his wounds. He told Omar to go to the municipality; they had to pick up the dog and keep it under observation. He gave him his visiting card to facilitate the process. The doctor then wrapped the boy up in the blanket again and handed him back to Omar. Omar clutched the boy tightly against his chest and looked at Doctor Amilcare with gratitude. Smiling, the doctor said, ‘If he doesn’t get worse, bring him again the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘The mistress is asking after the boy,’ Khadija said on entering Omar’s room. ‘Go and speak to her, I’ll look after the child.’

  Omar appeared in the hall, looking pallid. He was still wearing the green waistcoat he’d worn during his long journey with Sharafeddin and the red cap was still pressed down over his eyebrows. He remained standing while he narrated the incident.

  Rosina went downstairs, drew close to the child and clasped him in her arms. Placated, the child became silent. Omar sat on the floor in a corner, while Khadija and the Countess fussed over the boy. Having been led there by Saber, the Count was very surprised to find everyone assembled in that little room at the far end of the courtyard. ‘The Count!’ Omar exclaimed. Omar declared he would not be sending his son back to his relatives: because the boy had been wounded as a result of Sobeida’s negligence and her witch of a mother, the court would certainly award Omar custody.

  That night the boy slept peacefully, but it was not such a tranquil night for the house’s owners, or for the coachman. It seemed the dog bite had upset the equilibrium that had been established with such difficulty, and put uncontrollable forces into motion.

  Rosina’s eyes were wide open as she lay stretched out on her bed.

  The following morning an usher appeared in the deputy governor’s office to announce that a woman was insisting she needed to see him urgently. She was very agitated and had something important to tell him. What should he do?

  ‘Show her in,’ the Count said.

  It was Muna, Omar’s mother-in-law. She was wrapped in a coarse woollen robe that covered even her head, and holding open an aperture with her hands through which only a single eye appeared. She advanced as far as the deputy governor’s desk, and thus shrouded, stood silently while waiting for the deputy governor to dismiss the usher. The Count hesitated until the usher understood there was no hope he could listen in on their conversation, and he left, shutting the door behind him in the blink of an eye.

  Muna uncovered her face, which was still youthful, the heirloom of a bygone beauty, and observed the deputy governor closely. She was making complex calculations in her head, where evaluation and desires bolted around like arrows. There was something repulsive and yet irresistible about her gaze: it was demanding and conspiratorial. She was wearing very thin gold bracelets on her wrists and a blue tunic striped in gold.

  ‘I am your son’s mother-in-law,’ she said.

  The Count grew pale, different impulses cancelled each other out, and he didn’t reply. He invited the woman to sit. Muna opened her woollen robe: her hair was ensconced in a blue veil with white stripes. She had a strong neck, but her skin was delicate. She indulged the Count, allowing him all the time he wanted to look at her. As she had long wanted to meet him, she was in no hurry. Even though she was staring straight ahead, she also threw him furtive glances, which were simultaneously shameful and questioning. Her gaze retreated and attacked, as though she were engaged in lovemaking. Experiencing a momentary impulse to rebuff her, the Count suddenly asked her what she wanted.

  Muna began to cry. They were real tears, even if they fell fresh on her cheeks. She was holding a handkerchief and making gestures of desperation. She stood up, letting the woollen robe fall from her shoulders, and loosened slightly the vibrant robe held tightly to her waist by a red belt. Pushing her hips against the desk, she leaned forward and with wet, sharp eyes, asked His Excellency what he intended to do with her grandson, whom he was hiding in his house. She pressed her hand against the surface of the desk and her gold bracelets clattered against a thick ledger. But before the Count could reply, Muna had fallen back into her chair and started to cry again, this time keeping her handkerchief pressed tightly to her face. Here was the woman who’d shattered his son’s peace. Omar had repudiated his wife because of that second-rate actress. The Count flirted with the idea of having her locked up in a cage under any old pretext, thus ridding the world of a monster! But they were thoughts that best belonged to a play; the Count seemed to have been infected by exaggeration. Consequently, he assumed an air of stern simplicity and … but his words came out altogether differently to how he’d planned. Although he’d wanted to reproach and threaten her, he instead spoke of Omar and the boy, and questioned her about Sobeida.

  Muna dried her tears in a single swipe and told him all about her life. Everyone knew that Omar was very reserved and patient in the deputy governor’s palace, where people took a liking to him. In his own house, however, Omar was often quick-tempered and irascible. He had become obsessed with separating Muna from her daughter. Sobeida was beautiful, but delicate and feeble. What would become of her without Muna’s protection? Whenever Omar was gone, the house was incredibly peaceful! The boy played with his mother, while Sobeida would cook or receive visits from her relatives, and the hours rolled by pleasantly and unchangeably. But when Omar came home with a gloomy expression and slammed the door, one always had to expect a storm. He even made the boy anxious, often bringing him to tears.

  ‘If he’s so moody, it’s means he’s unhappy in that house – it’s your fault.’

  Muna looked at the deputy governor, satisfied. The Count’s wrath was a mark of his commitment. She said she was well aware that Omar, that miscreant, had coached the deputy governor. ‘I know you’re biased against me. Antonino told me.’

  The Count wrathfully slammed his hand down on the desk. ‘You spoke to him?’

  ‘Many times,’ Muna cheerfully replied, ‘Antonino is very kind and he even gave me some money.’

  There he was again, the young officer: he was gifted with omnipresence! The Count’s heart was afflicted by a bitter confusion. How could that witch have seen Antonino? What did she want from him? What did he offer her? His nephew had set his sights on Sobeida. That was what gave Omar and Antonino’s friendship its value, which Rosina had instead interpreted as a prime example of emotion and generosity, valuing it above the Count’s more calculating approach. The Count felt deceived and marginalised.

  ‘If Antonino wasn’t away on duty, my grandson wouldn’t have spent a single night in your house. Antonino would have brought him back to me, or opened a secret door to let me in: that young man isn’t as calculating as you are. He trusts his heart.’

  How Rosina reproached him for being so servile to reason! Had this woman put those words in his wife’s mouth? The Count felt betrayed by everyone.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ he asked, aware the woman was observing him. ‘The boy belongs to Omar, and he’s free to do with him as he wishes. He said he’ll refer the case to the religious courts so that he’ll be granted custody of the boy. Omar lives in my house, and so long as he remains in my service, he’ll be f
ree to keep his son with him – whereas you’re so simple-minded that you let a dog bite him.’

  ‘My poor son!’ Muna screamed, wringing her hands and shedding more tears. It took her a long time to calm down. She wasn’t in a hurry to bring the meeting to an end. This time, she dried her eyes slowly, as though she were on her own.

  His Excellency wished to wash his hands of the matter. He was bored by these little trifles. Although he could easily use his authority to restore peace to that family, he let them squabble like dogs. ‘I will inform your devoted Omar, so he’ll understand in what esteem His Excellency holds matters dear to his heart,’ Muna ventured, ‘you don’t have any children, which is why you can’t understand certain things.’

  ‘If this is about seeing Omar reconcile with his wife, then I’ll try to speak to him. But you know the price: you have to leave that house.’

  ‘I’ve never been afraid of men!’ Muna declared.

  The Count smiled, and vague dimples formed on his cheeks, which Muna didn’t overlook. He thought about that woman’s past, a long trail of events which nobody had ever seen in their entirety. Muna repaid him with her own smile. His Excellency had caved in, and the smile he’d let slip was conspiratorial. ‘If I were afraid of men, I wouldn’t have come to speak to you. As for Omar, I’ll see him in court. I won’t let him have the boy: the law is on my side.’

  The Count was a well-shaped man. While she’d been defying him, Muna had studied him closely. If at times he appeared uncertain, it was because he was scatterbrained and prone to sudden impulses, not because he had a weak character. A long time ago, Muna had made the acquaintance of another powerful man, and they both exuded the same aura: a certain steadfastness and weightiness. The kindness and arrogance of a powerful man were something altogether different from Omar’s wrath and violence. Age had not dried him up or disfigured him – power seemed to go hand in hand with a healthy body. He had heavy hands and whenever they fell, they picked something up. Thus power became an antidote against death.

  ‘You have a nice office,’ she said, looking around.

  The keys to the city – how long and how passionately the Count had looked for them! The Basic Charter, an instrument of reason, perhaps wasn’t as useful as the emotions that had prompted it, the means which it utilised, and the objectives it proposed. He had wanted indigenous servants in his house, against Rosina’s wishes, because he’d wanted to be in direct and prolonged contact with them and thus reap precious rewards. He had guessed that the keys to the city – the mythical golden apples – could only be found by forging close links with the locals: but these people were all walking on different roads. He had to trust that woman – she would be his guide.

  He came to an abrupt halt. While outlining his public actions, hadn’t he often mentioned that he was not interested in psychological experiments, nor was he trying to resolve any personal problems, or soothe a crisis of conscience and values – hadn’t he always aimed to bring progress and peace to the country that had been entrusted to him, so its entire population could benefit from it?

  While speaking to Muna, the Count had been thinking about Sobeida. His desire for ‘pretty Sobeida’ – a woman he’d never even seen, and of whom he’d only been given the vaguest description – shared the same root as his benevolence towards Omar. His individual journey seemed to want to supplant his public role. Muna, the witch, was ferrying him from one bank of the river to the other: but was she responsible for plotting his downfall, or was he bringing it upon himself? The private sphere that Muna was offering to guide him through was a diabolical path. A brief and illegitimate domestic happiness would be purchased at the cost of his sincerity and career. The high functionary seemed to be negotiating with someone who was offering him vague promises in order to secure his betrayal.

  Time gnawed away at everything: how could he carefully plot his moves? Muna was offering him shortcuts that his logic was oblivious to, in fact, shortcuts his logic refused to accept. Taking them would compromise his dignity, but sometimes there were alliances one couldn’t make without paying a high price.

  ‘I haven’t been able to convince you. Fine, Sobeida will try in my stead.’

  It was as though she’d read his mind. She was offering him exactly what he so ardently wanted: to meet the beautiful Sobeida.

  Local customs forbade any young woman from entering a man’s office; but having broken through the traditional taboo, the action on the stage was about to grow lively. Merely by agreeing to see her in secret and welcoming her into his office, the Count was already offending the honour of the young man under his tutelage. It was an irreparable breach, and to cover it up, the Count would only be able to rely on Muna’s discretion, her complicity. But that meant giving in to blackmail.

  Embarrassed, the Count kept quiet, but wasn’t sufficiently strong to reject the offer. That woman had distinguished the public man from the private one, a distinction Rosina had never managed to make. The encounter with Sobeida was an allegory of his deepest desire, the union of the two different parts of the city. It was a rite. He asked himself, exalted and afflicted, if his heart had reached the limit of lucidity, or confusion. The presence of that woman contaminated his thoughts: and now he was looking for shortcuts to infernal destinations.

  ‘I want to see the boy,’ Muna said.

  Muna started acting as though the child were right in front of her, and laughed. Then she stood up. She threw her rough woollen robe to the ground and started wrapping it around herself while only hanging on to its hem.

  ‘May God forgive you, father,’ she said, her face once more veiled as she stood in front of him. The Count rose to his feet. His behaviour was somewhat gauche; as for Muna, who’d raised her hands back to her nose, leaving only a small aperture in her veil for a single eye, she stared him down.

  She turned on her heels and took two paces towards the door. ‘Sobeida will be luckier than me. She’ll come to you tomorrow at this time. May God save you! As for those dogs you keep at your door, warn them that tomorrow a woman will come asking for you. They shouldn’t dare to stop and question her. Those dogs!’

  Suddenly pulling the door open, as though certain she’d find the usher trying to eavesdrop on their conversation, she vanished.

  Alone in his office, the Count waited for Sobeida. That beautiful name, unique and sophisticated, had perhaps been suggested by Muna’s powerful friend, the highly placed man who belonged to her past. Some events always repeat themselves, except with different actors. In fact, there were no new events, every role that we play once belonged to someone else. In the great theatre of the world, repertoires don’t suffer additions and mechanisms are put into motion by oblivion and returns. The Count was playing a very old role, simply against different backdrops and involving other variables.

  He had kept Antonino in Benghazi purely to indulge Rosina, but the young man was imprudent. When Muna had told the Count about her encounters with Antonino, the Count had mentioned to the city’s commanding general that he would have no objections if Antonino were called up to the front in the east. He did so to protect his rival, whom he was trying, out of a spirit of generosity prompted by guilt, to supplant. But he was playing his role in a slightly different way, to affirm the status quo, not to change it: that was his justification. He was forty-four years old, and was as experienced and self-confident as a baritone. In order to nourish himself, a young man often creates much havoc. Age teaches us to nourish ourselves by leaving everything in the world – a tired, lazy monster – relatively untouched.

  The wait was protracted and the Count wasn’t able to take any interest in the papers lying on his desk, as though he couldn’t even see them.

  Once upon a time, young Nordic men would take up travelling to complete their education. Despite the fact they headed south and called it the Grand Tour, they were prudent enough not to cross the seas – and those who did go overseas weren’t burdened by any guilt.

  These days, anyone who travel
s to lands overseas must instead embrace their ancestors’ sins and judge them in the way they deserve; but if one shies away from that loathsomeness, it will be difficult for the prestige of the education they received, which produced those sins in the first place, to remain intact.

  Sometimes, everything around the Count would come to a standstill, leaving only his thoughts in motion, similarly to how dreams occur in silence at night.

  Instead of tearing reality apart to satisfy the schemes dictated by his upbringing, the Count saw the reality before his eyes and realised that was where his individual path lay, and he defended it from the misrepresentations his education had created, and from confusing it with the collective path: one can remain in lands overseas either by being one of the missionaries, who given the primitive nature of the local populations came to sell them a simplified world view, or by being like penitents seized with a crisis of conscience when confronted by a mysterious reality that contradicts the values around which we’ve ordered our lives …

  Waiting for Sobeida, in that large office where the warm winter sun seeped through the open windows, turned out to be useless. The Count knew a woman couldn’t visit a man and show him her face and voice without her honour being tarnished. He had accepted Muna’s promise to send the pretty Sobeida to beg for his help, as though he were just like his moody young nephew.

  The Count smiled. So long as we indulge our weakness for mythologising our sentimental mistakes, they never become obstacles. Everything would turn out for the best: his loyalty to his wife and his devoted servant had remained intact. He couldn’t claim any credit in the outcome.

  ‘We don’t deserve credit for everything that’s a part of us,’ he said out loud, in the empty room.

  VII

  Omar broke the news to the Countess: Antonino was back in the city and hiding at a friend’s house. His Excellency had banished him so discreetly that Antonino’s superiors hadn’t understood it was a punishment. In fact, when Antonino asked to go on leave, they’d granted his request as a courtesy to the deputy governor, so the latter could see his nephew. The note Omar delivered read: ‘My beloved aunt, I’ll be coming to see you this very day to embrace you.’