The Colonial Conquest: The Confines of the Shadow Volume I

by Alessandro Spina

  Following the reception Rosina went to bed. Doctor Amilcare arrived immediately to prescribe her some medicine, scrawling it down in that horrible handwriting of his, although he didn’t seem very concerned. Khadija also came to fawn over the Countess, convinced that her illness was a manifestation of the malign spirit’s death throes.

  The next day, Rosina refused to see anyone at all. She spent the entire day alone, in silence.

  On the third day, Omar appeared at her door. He said that Antonino was in the city, and would be arriving at any moment. The Countess cheered up at the news and later received her favourite nephew warmly. He was on duty, and would have to leave the following day. He didn’t say what sort of mission he was on, and spent the rest of the day sitting on the Countess’s bed, telling her one fantastic tale after the other.

  Rosina now appeared relaxed and amused, then melancholically lay back on her pillows. A number of times Omar caught the phrase: ‘Oh, silence, silence … ’

  Antonino’s departure threw her into discomfort, as though something had got stuck.

  The Count was busy meeting one of the city’s native notables, and wouldn’t return soon. When even Khadija and Saber left, Omar remembered his mistress’s lament: ‘Oh, silence … ’

  He appeared at her door with a flute in hand: two little straws next to each other, punctuated by holes at almost regular intervals. At the top were two hollow horns, which opened out into a fan. Rosina was sitting on her bed, her head leant against the headboard. She watched him rest his back against the doorpost, lift his flute, and bring it to his lips.

  It was an indecipherable monotonous tune. Omar was employing much effort, his cheeks fully inflated and his eyes growing small.

  Those servants the Count treated with such respect in his house, heedless of the mockery this caused him among other Italians, seemed to be taking her husband away from her. But the secret lay elsewhere: it was carrying both of them away.

  The Count was annoyed to see Antonino and Omar together, envying their bond’s youthful ease. So much ease made a mockery of reason, of his persevering and meticulous efforts to find common ground with the natives.

  In the meanwhile, other bonds were being forged, eluding his observation. If Omar had appeared at her door with a flute in hand, Antonino had been in the room before him. Even in theatre, actors swap roles with one another. Similarly, Antonino and Omar replaced one another interchangeably; they looked like identical knockers fixed to the same door, but painted in different colours.

  XI

  MOHAMED AL-MAHESHI, MAYOR OF BENGHAZI

  In the name of the Municipal Council, I hope His Highness will allow me to express our gratitude for His recent visit, and further allow me, at this most solemn hour, to voice the feelings of devotion, gratitude, and intense joy that reverberate in my countrymen’s chests for the high honour that His Majesty The King has bestowed on the whole of Cyrenaica, and in particular the city of Benghazi, by sending us His representative to witness the inaugural session of the Cyrenaican assembly. Today, our city greets His Majesty in the form of a noble son of the undefeated House of Savoy, and the worthiest representative of the mighty King of Italy. Our city sees your visit as a new challenge to rise to, and a solid guarantee of those rights that the King of Italy granted to the people of these lands, as well as the accomplishment and fulfilment of the new Basic Charter. The grafting of Eastern civilisation with that of the West will find fertile Cyrenaica the most apt of soils in which to fecundate the bonds of Italian and Libyan brotherhood, which will be an example to the rest of the world. This chapter of history will be a new pearl in Victor Emmanuel III’s crown, and the memory of His Majesty’s visit to Benghazi will remain impressed in the hearts of all Cyrenaicans, who will pass this story on to future generations, to the everlasting glory of the House of Savoy, whose resolute reign is erected on the foundations of justice and liberty.

  FERDINAND OF SAVOY, PRINCE OF URBINO

  Your noble words are synonymous with the chivalrous virtues of these Arab peoples, whose ancient civilisation we are well acquainted with. When you speak of Cyrenaica as a fertile terrain for the grafting of our two civilisations, the East and the West, you hit on exactly why these lands, which are tightly bound geographically to the Orient, and which stretch out towards the shores of Europe, will act as a gigantic bridge, uniting the fruitful currents of knowledge and commerce. Destiny has brought them together, and in the name of His Majesty, I as his representative, and a supporter of the liberal institutions that His Majesty has bestowed upon you in Benghazi, where the most different elements of its varied population are already working together, recognise in your Municipal Council the first signs and example of what is already a reality today, and will continue to be so tomorrow.

  The inauguration of the Cyrenaican Assembly the following day was a splendid cacophony of sounds: trumpets, applause and countless words.

  The banquet held at the Roma Club was attended by three hundred guests.

  ‘Our mission,’ a high functionary of the Political Office told the guest seated next to him, who had come to the colony as part of His Highness’s entourage, ‘is to bring certain institutions in this society to a point of crisis by employing either persuasion, example, or force: the others will crumble accordingly. Growing increasingly insecure, the indigenous people will progressively absorb all the qualities of European civilisation, or at least become harmless, even if still harbouring vain ambitions of violence. Having been forced out of his centuries-old lair, we’ve offered the native the splendid edifice of civilisation: he’ll be the one to decide whether he wants to walk towards this light, or be left to rot. Indigenous society will be unable to survive our presence as an organic whole: every day that passes sees us removing a stone from its foundations.’

  ‘But we’ve no need to destroy this civilisation, as though we were punishing them,’ the gentleman who belonged to the Prince of Urbino’s entourage said, growing animated, this being his first time in Africa.

  The high functionary smiled: all the new arrivals talked like this.

  ‘Our presence here,’ he continued, holding forth pedagogically, ‘stirs the opposite reaction in the indigenous people: they will sanctify every aspect of their culture, refuse our help, our physicians, and their fanatics will even refuse the bread we offer them. Religious faith will become the national ethos. Thus, either we forsake continuing our presence here, or we must consider all aspects of indigenous culture a citadel of the enemy – precisely because it has been sanctified – and apply ourselves to dismantling them, one after the other. Strategy is as important when it comes to spirituality as it is on the battlefield. Believe me, it will not take much for the rest to crumble.’

  XII

  The Count was looking down. Having learned that Muna had knocked at the door of the house to pay Khadija a visit, he leaned against the windowsill and was watching the atrium from his box. Passion is a stranger to pedantry: attentive and diligent in his public life, Count Alonzo would be incapable of smiling if he saw a woman’s secretive steps cross his field of vision instead of a group of warriors.

  Muna and Khadija’s meeting followed the strictest adherence to ceremony. They came towards one another, shook each other’s right hand, brought it to their lips, and each planted three kisses on the back of the other’s hand. Khadija then repeated obsequious words of welcome and Muna replied in an equally grandiose manner: it was a meeting of queens.

  From his box, the Count breathed a sigh of relief. He’d had the impression Muna had darted a secret, hurried glance at him, like an actress making a subtle gesture on seeing a friend amidst the thousands of people in the audience. He wanted to rush down to the scene, but dejectedly remembered the highest of duties he was expected to shoulder.

  The playwright’s shrewdness played a dirty trick on him. Why had the women disappeared after the customary pleasantries, leaving the atrium empty? Everything had to be kept a secret, it was a pact that had been forged betw
een two forces of darkness.

  The Count sighed. He would wait until dinner time to learn any news. Muna took her grandson with her when she left: he was a rosy doll with sparkling eyes, dressed in an oversized tunic that kept tripping him up, with a hand always held out in front of him.

  The Count appeared in the kitchen. While Antonino would noisily burst in and immediately demand the answer to whatever he wanted to know, the Count instead prudently entered it as though he were stepping inside a salon, propped on the crutches of pleasantries and small talk.

  Khadija invited him to sit. She didn’t appear surprised in the slightest, as though she’d foreseen consigning an hour to their meeting. Omar was also present, and he remained standing.

  Khadija offered her master some tea. Tradition demanded that a guest should be received in silence, in fact that one should offer it so as to put the guest at ease; long pauses were a sign of respect, not of embarrassment. The guest is sometimes left alone, since the room that honours his presence belongs entirely to him.

  Khadija had turned her back to the master and was replacing the cups in the cupboard on the other side of the kitchen. The Count’s impatience gave way to a melancholy tranquillity: he drank his tea slowly and reflected, without coming to any conclusions, on the secret of that different reckoning of time.

  Sobeida would go back to Omar. As sharia law proscribed, they would celebrate their second wedding, since their divorce had already been granted. Muna had made many promises.

  ‘I don’t believe any of it. That woman is lying. I did it for the good of Omar’s son,’ Khadija declared, her eyes blazing. Omar’s face was pale, and his brow split by a thick furrow. Khadija crossed her arms and remained pensive. Then she approached the table, and picked up the cup.

  ‘Life is a struggle, my father!’ she said, returning sombrely to her chores. The Count had been dismissed.

  XIII

  Omar was going back to Sobeida’s house, so he gathered up his few belongings. Everything had been restored to its natural order, like in the last act of a play. Only the final feast was left: the second wedding. However, tradition forbade any displays of excess. Two people were present at the signing ceremony in the presence of the judge: Sharafeddin stood in for Omar, while Saber – designated by Muna in a conciliatory measure to her old rival – represented Sobeida. The betrothed and the women were not in attendance.

  For the traditional ‘night of the groom’s entrance into the bridal chamber,’ Sharafeddin invited his cousin to dinner, as well as two young men who worked in his shop. The modest atmosphere was shattered by Antonino’s festive arrival. The young officer had obtained a transfer to Benghazi, and was happy to have arrived in time for Omar’s wedding. Antonino had also been invited to the weaver’s house.

  The feast had been prepared in the room behind the shop, which opened out into a courtyard. There was a straw mat on the floor, and some cushions, as well as a green bench, crudely inlaid in metal and glass. On the wall was a sumptuous example of silver filigree calligraphy praising God, and in front of it that photograph depicting the man with his stiff black moustache.

  The two young assistants were very intimidated by the presence of the guest. Sharafeddin had drunk a lot already, and he offered them some laghbi, a cloudy alcoholic drink distilled from palm leaves. Omar brought a bottle of beer, but Antonino refused it: he wanted the exotic drink instead.

  The groom was happy to be returning to Sobeida, as though he’d never wanted to separate from her, but had been forced to. He offered Antonino a cushion, and they stretched out on the mat. Antonino didn’t seem to care much about the state of his uniform. They’d removed their shoes. Omar ordered the assistants to start playing the tambourine again.

  Since this was a renewal of vows after a divorce, music and dancing would be a defiance of custom. But Antonino’s presence at the dinner had prompted Omar to bring with him the traditional popular instruments, loud whimsical guests that could keep the guest of honour entertained. Sharafeddin put two glasses at a small distance from one another, and then accompanied the tambourine by beating a flat knife against the glasses. Antonino grimaced each time he brought the fermented palm wine Sharafeddin offered him to his lips, but insisted on drinking it regardless. It seemed that the alcoholic beverage was having a strong effect on him, triggering his metamorphosis.

  A great calm reigned in Sharafeddin’s eye, which lay semi-concealed under his drooping eyelid: Antonino continued to look at him, as though that eye were a hole beyond which one could see a panorama, or perhaps an olive-shaped chalice filled with a bright and mysterious water. Having learned that her favourite master was going to that so-called feast, Khadija had prepared a pot of minced meat in red sauce, as well as marinating pieces of lamb in oil and black pepper so the men could grill them.

  Sharafeddin dominated the room. He sat cross-legged on the floor, facing the fire and placing pieces of lamb on it at regular intervals. Antonino was stretched out in front of him, and the glare of the fire endowed his body with a vibrant luminosity. Omar sat apart from the others, distracted by thoughts of Sobeida, the beloved wife he had repudiated and then remarried.

  Like animals in a wood, the young assistants continued with their concerto, oblivious to what had transpired between the three men. Occasionally, Sharafeddin would sing along: a gloomy rumble that unsettled the musicians and visibly fascinated the young officer in uniform stretched out in front of him on the floor, his head propped up by his pale hand.

  When Omar stood up to announce that the time had come for him to leave, Antonino suddenly remembered the feast was in celebration of Omar’s second wedding. He cheerfully sprang to his feet, seemingly reluctant to let his servant friend go, and promised to wait for his return, saying that he would have given anything to be married to the beautiful Sobeida, among a thousand other festive and melancholy things.

  Tradition dictated the groom not spend the entire wedding night with the bride, but leave her after they’d consummated the marriage to rejoin his friends and celebrate until dawn, while the bride was entrusted to the cares and attentions of her female relatives. But this only applied to one’s first wedding, when the woman in question was a virgin. By saying he would await Omar’s return, Antonino had mixed the customs up, but Omar didn’t want to disillusion him, so he promised to return.

  Sharafeddin’s farewell, on the other hand, was terse.

  Antonino’s words had moved and saddened Omar. A vague feeling was keeping his soul in limbo – as though something more important than his wedding were about to happen.

  Having reached the top of the alley he lingered for a moment, preoccupied, but then he heard the flute and tambourine again, and feeling suddenly relieved, with his mind wholly focused on the beautiful Sobeida, he ran through one alley after the other, as though dancing through them, until he once more stood at the door to his house. He pushed it open.

  A few old women welcomed him, ululating; this was yet another infraction of custom, since that vivid traditional trilling was only used for the first wedding. It was as though Muna had wanted to assert her daughter’s value by preparing such a loud reception.

  He pushed open the bedroom door, and there was Sobeida.

  Pale, her eyes circled in Kohl, she was wearing the long thin silk robe of their first wedding night, blue with silver stripes, the organdie emblazoned with flowers, a white cotton belt, and heavy slippers that made her feet look even smaller than they were. She was not wearing the gold jewellery he’d given her, and Muna had treacherously sold. But this was not the time for investigations and recriminations – those pale arms were no less beautiful for being naked. On her finger was a silver ring mounted with a flat rhombus that almost covered the two adjacent fingers. Two engraved cylinders of silver were clasped around her ankles, an addition prompted by the second wedding. She had a small mouth and a chin-tattoo of three drops arranged in a triangle.

  On seeing Sobeida in the room where he’d left her, the separation now
seemed to be a necessity, or a trick of geography, and not a repudiation sanctified by the law. Mountains, rivers, fields and deserts had kept them apart. However, as they joyfully reunited, it was as though their parting had been bitter. They could hear the old women chattering in the adjacent room, as well as Muna’s imperious voice: the voices wafted in like the natural sounds of rain, or wind, devoid of any psychological link. So long as they remained alone in the room, they would be safe.

  The second wedding’s lawful façade was irrelevant, and they slept together with an old couple’s intimacy. Only their hearts were tense and confused. The long separation they’d endured weighed on them as though they’d just come out of prison.

  Mindful that he’d promised Antonino he would see him again at Sharafeddin’s house, Omar imposed a new separation on his wife. This time, his absence would only last a single day, in fact only a few hours, a contrived rerun of the old drama they had lived through, which would exorcise the memory of that first, bitter separation. But Omar was restless.

  From the first moment he and Antonino had set foot in Sharafeddin’s shop, Omar had been struck by his cousin’s aversion to the young officer.

  The usually taciturn Sharafeddin only became devilishly loquacious when he wanted to convince people there was no way to resolve the conflict peacefully – and that soon the two warring parties would take up arms again and meet in battle, sweeping the Basic Charter into the dust. To Sharafeddin, the sight of Omar and Antonino together was a picture right out of the Basic Charter, meaning Sharafeddin found it both abhorrent and laughable.

  Whenever Antonino arrived anywhere he quickly gained entry, as though nothing were off-limits to him. The way he sped past the door where old Saber slept appeared to be an ironic illustration of this particular talent of his: when the frightened Saber opened his eyes, Antonino had already vanished. Instead, the door to Sharafeddin’s shop seemed to be impenetrable, as though it were guarded by a dragon.