Moving the Palace

by Charif Majdalani

  Advance Praise for

  MOVING THE PALACE

  “Charif Majdalani has a ripping yarn to tell and tells it with a raconteur’s bravura. Transporting, wholly engaging, deeply moving. This book is why I travel and why I read.”

  —Andrew McCarthy,

  award-winning director, actor, and author of

  Just Fly Away and The Longest Way Home

  “On one side the desert, infinite, immensely varied, splendid. On the other, the courage, obstinacy, folly, violence, and dreams of men. Through this fascinating adventure, Charif Majdalani constructs one of the most beautiful epics I’ve ever read.”

  —Antoine Volodine,

  author of Minor Angels and Naming the Jungle

  “This novel provides entrée into the extraordinary fictional work of Charif Majdalani; with each book he lays out magnificent, terrible and true history through family genealogy, hopes and dramas. And each time Majdalani renews our vision.”

  —Patrick Deville,

  author of Plague and Cholera

  “In language of extreme classicism—he is often compared to a Lebanese Proust—Majdalani imposes his rhythm, slow and mesmerizing, to bring us in step with his story ... Throughout this epic tale he intimately weaves together the grand history of his country and his family, mixing fiction and reality in language of infinite sensuality.”

  —L’Express

  “An odyssey in the manner of The Thousand and One Nights.”

  —Le Figaro littéraire

  “An extraordinary book somewhere between adventure story, picaresque novel, fairytale and chronicle of a bygone era.”

  —Neue Zürcher Zeitung

  “Recounts the immense folly and excess of an explosive colonial episode—forgotten, deadly, torturous and involving weapons traffic and hidden treasures. Something that would have excited the adventurer Rimbaud had he survived his injuries .... Flaubert ... would have loved this imaginary depiction of a real historical event.”

  —Le Point

  “The reader remains captivated long after having completed this epic and comic novel that allows one to perceive in the ineffable silence of the desert the attachment of a man to his homeland.”

  —Le Monde

  “Full of stirring epic images, trenchant anecdotes celebrating the virtues of movement ... Majdalani has a way of merging time and place that makes his writing convey the concerns of men, their illusions, the sounds of the desert and the rhythm of marches and halts.”

  —Le Matricule des Anges

  Cet ouvrage, publié dans le cadre d’un programme d’aide à la publication, bénéficie de la participation de la Mission Culturelle et Universitaire Française aux Etats-Unis, service de l’Ambassade de France aux EU.

  This work, published as part of a program of aid for publication, received support from the Mission Culturelle et Universitaire Française aux Etats-Unis, a department of the French Embassy in the United States.

  MOVING THE PALACE

  www.newvesselpress.com

  First published in French in 2007 as Caravansérail

  Copyright © 2007 Éditions du Seuil

  Translation Copyright © 2017 Edward Gauvin

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  Cover illustration: Mahendra Singh

  Book design: Beth Steidle

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Majdalani, Charif

  [Caravansérail. English]

  Moving the Palace/ Charif Majdalani; translation by Edward Gauvin.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-939931-46-7

  Library of Congress Control Number 2016915498

  Lebanon—Fiction

  Strange man, bethink thee now at last to reach thy high-roofed house and the land of thine fathers.

  — Homer, The Odyssey, Book X

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  1

  THIS IS A TALE FULL OF MOUNTED CAVALCADES BENEATH great wind-tossed banners, of restless wanderings and bloody anabases, he thinks, musing on what could be the first line of that book about his life he’ll never write, and then the click-clack of waterwheels on the canal distracts him; he straightens in his wicker chair and leans back, savoring from the terrace where he’s sitting the silence that is a gift of the desert the desert spreads in its paradoxical munificence over the plantations, the dark masses of the plum trees, the apricot trees, the watermelon fields, and the cantaloupe fields, a silence that for millennia only the click-clack of waterwheels has marked with its slow, sharp cadence. And what I think is, there may or may not be apricot orchards or watermelon fields, but that is most definitely the desert in the background of the photo, the very old photo where he can be seen sitting in a wicker chair, cigar in hand, gazing pensively into the distance, in suspenders, one leg crossed over the other, with his tapering mustache and disheveled hair, the brow and chin that make him look like William Faulkner, one of the rare photos of him from that heroic era, which I imagine was taken in Khirbat al Harik, probably just after he’d come from Arabia, though in fact I’m not at all sure, and really, what can I be sure of, since apart from these few photos, everything about him from that time is a matter of myth or exaggeration or fancy? But if I am sure of nothing, then how should I go about telling his story; where shall I seek the Sultanate of Safa, vanished from the memory of men but still bound up with his own remembrances; how to imagine those cavalcades beneath wind-tossed banners, those Arabian tribes, and those palaces parading by on camelback; how to bring together and breathe life into all those outlandish, nonsensical particulars uncertain traditions have passed down, or vague stories my mother told me that he himself, her own father, told her, but which she never sought to have him clarify or fasten to anything tangible, such that they reached me in pieces, susceptible to wild reverie and endless novelistic embroidering, like a story of which only chapter headings remain, but which I have waited to tell for decades; and here I am, ready to do so, but halting, helpless, daydreaming as I imagine he daydreams on the verandah of that plantation in Khirbat al Harik, watching unfold in his memory that which I will never see, but shall be forced to invent?

  *

  Yet his story, at the start, hardly differs from those of any other Lebanese emigrants who, between 1880 and 1930, left their homeland to seek adventure, fame, or fortune in the world. If many of them met with success thanks to trade and commerce, there were some whose stories retained a more adventurous note, such as those who braved the Orinoco to sell the goods of civilization to peoples unknown to the world, or those who were heroes of improbable odysseys in the far Siberian reaches during the Russian civil wars. He was one of these, who came back at last with his eyes and head full of memories of escapades and follies. Tradition has it that he left Lebanon in 1908 or ’09. He could’ve headed for the United States or Brazil, as did most, or for Haiti or Guyana, as did the most courageous, or for Zanzibar, the Philippines, or Malabar, as did the most eccentric, those who dreamed of making fortunes trading in rare or never-before-seen wares. Instead, he chose the most thankless land known at the time, and headed for the Sudan. But back then, the Sudan offered immense opportunities to a young Lebanese man who was Westernized, Anglophone, and Protestant to boot. And he was these three t
hings, the child of an ancient family of Protestant poets and littérateurs, originally Orthodox Christians from the Lebanese mountains, poets and littérateurs who, when the winds of revival wafted through Eastern philosophy, wrote treatises on the modernization of tropes in Arab poetry, whole divans of poems, and even an Arabic-English dictionary. Of his childhood, nothing is recorded; this much, however, is: at the age of eighteen he began his studies at the Syrian Protestant College in Beirut. After that, the ancient name he bore was not to open the doors to any career path other than a scholar’s, attended by some unremarkable post in the service of the Ottoman administration. This, it seemed, would not suffice him. Like the conquistadors who left a Europe that could no longer contain them, he left Lebanon one spring morning in 1908 or ’09, no doubt taking with him in a small suitcase a few shirts and handkerchiefs, and in his head a few delicate memories, the trees in the garden of the familial abode where a salt wind echoed the stately meter of the open sea, the aromas of jasmine and gardenia, the skies above Beirut vast and mild as a woman’s cheek, and the liturgical whiteness of the snows on Mount Sannine.

  *

  In those inaugural years of the twentieth century, the Sudan has just been retaken by Anglo-Egyptian armies, who put an end to Khalifa Abdallahi’s despotic regime, and returned the land to Egypt. Confusion still reigns, the country is only half under control, the reconstruction of the ruined former capital has barely begun. But after decades of obscurantist tyranny, a new world is being born, and in the flood of men showing up to seize the still innumerable opportunities are a few from Lebanon: merchants, smugglers, artisans. But he is not one of these. The oldest accounts about the man who would become my grandfather report that he was a civilian officer in the Sudan, and it was in that capacity, no doubt, that he would live out the fantastical adventures attributed to him. Just as it reached Sudan, the British Army was in fact starting to recruit Anglophone Christian Arabs of Lebanese origin to act as liaisons with the local populace. Considered civilian officers, these intermediary agents were first assigned to the Egyptian Ministry of War in Cairo before being dispatched to their postings in Khartoum.

  This means that at first—that is, the day he arrived in Khartoum—my grandfather had come from Cairo, after thirty hours of vile dust and soot tossed backward in black plumes by locomotives first of the Cairo-Luxor line, then the Luxor-Wadi Halfa, then the Wadi Halfa-Khartoum. Here he is, stepping off the train, covered in dust right up to the pockets of his white suit jacket, sand in his eyes and nostrils, the same amused air as in the photo I mentioned, with his trim mustache and Faulknerian brow, though for all that, hair neatly combed and suitcase in hand. For a mallime, a massive Sudanese man in white robes sees to dusting him off with a great feather, after which a British officer politely waiting in the wings steps forward to ask, “Mr. Samuel Ayyad?” And like that he is taken in hand, conveyed to the barge that crosses the Blue Nile, then to Khartoum itself, and then, in a carriage, through the construction site that is the city to a white, new, unfinished villa where he must make his way over piles of brick and goatskins filled with cement, getting his shoes all dusty again, though not with the usual brown dust, but rather the white powdery dust of plaster. “One of these rooms will be your office from now on, sir,” explains the British officer. “You will share it with a colleague. The rest of the house will be yours.”

  *

  So everything starts off wonderfully, and we will continue on in the same vein, imagining that the next morning the same officer takes him to Naoum Choucair, a Syro-Lebanese man of an older generation, advisor to the heads of the British Army. And with him, the contract is clear. “You will have two months to familiarize yourself with the country,” says the old veteran, an adventurer from the age of Khalifa Abdallahi. “You will receive reports from different districts, and you will write up a summary of them in English. That will be an excellent exercise with which to begin.” We will say that they are in Choucair’s office in the buildings being restored in Gordon Pasha’s former palace. Of course, the Nile can be glimpsed through the window, and when Choucair notices Samuel’s furtive glances, he drags him toward it, declaring that this room is Gordon’s former office. He points out the Nile’s far bank, to the west, the train station where Samuel disembarked the night before, feluccas with their slanting masts on the river, then a seagull. Then there is a long silence punctuated by the din of laborers’ hammers and trowels as they work on renovating a palace façade, and Choucair resumes his speech: “It will be an excellent exercise with which to begin. You will be assigned the office in Kurdufan, a district you will no doubt have reason to visit.”

  Samuel, who has returned to his wicker armchair, notices Choucair’s hesitation. He sees the hesitation of the man now seated sideways on a little sofa, elbow on the back, he reads the question in the man’s eyes, and anticipates it by nodding that yes, of course, he knows exactly where Kurdufan is. “At any rate,” says Choucair after this little silent exchange, “I’ll have a map of Sudan hung up in your office.” He rises and heads for his desk, which is cluttered with books, manuscripts, letters, and strange instruments—spyglasses, portolans, even wooden statuettes he must have brought back long ago from the Bahr el Ghazal. He has probably occupied this office no more than a few months, but already he has layered it with the silt of a dozen years of travel across the land. He is of medium height, a bit tubby, with a graying beard, and the look of a great dreaming rover. What’s more, he keeps getting up and sitting back down again, making sweeping gestures as he speaks, without a care for the bottles of liqueur, statuettes, vases he is constantly in danger of knocking over, as if he were more at ease in a pirogue on the Upper Nile or pitching on the back of a camel in the desert than confined by four walls. At that very moment he must be describing, perhaps by way of compensation, his famous and monumental History and Geography of Sudan. From amidst the disorder of his desk he plucks a cigar, offers Samuel one, and begins to speak once more, not in English now but Arabic, the Arabic of Lebanon; he claims to know well the Arabic-English Dictionary of Nassib Ayyad, Samuel’s father; he says this knowledge of languages is an asset (he says “our knowledge of languages,” and no doubt he means we Lebanese); he says the British need people who speak Arabic as well as they do English, and that proud as Baring and Kitchener are of their officers who speak Arabic, they speak like asses and understand even less, they learned Arabic from The Thousand and One Nights, and he laughs. Samuel smiles, watching him with curiosity, never interrupting, for from such men there is always much to be learned.

  *

  “You will share this office with a colleague,” the officer said. But for now, he is alone in the villa still being built, with the Sudanese workers in their white robes that grow ever less white as the day goes on. They come and go indolently, talk loudly, carry tools—goatskins on their backs and planks on their heads—and mistake him for an Englishman because of his complexion, his neat mustache, and his jovial air, as well as his English. He doesn’t disabuse them, for he wants to be left alone in the house. Of course, he understands everything they say to one another, but he remains impassive. Besides, all they talk about is work, and sometimes among themselves they call him the Englishman or the Christian: out of the way, the Englishman’s coming through, throw a plank over the mortar so the Christian can cross. His office is finished, there’s already a table, chairs, and an armchair, and then one morning, a noncommissioned officer brings over a map of the Sudan. On the floor above, he sleeps on a camp bed, and this will not change before he leaves for Kurdufan. There is nothing else in his bedroom, and then one morning a little wardrobe and a hat rack are brought in. The villa overlooks the Blue Nile, and from the office window, Samuel can reach out with one hand and pick the fruit from a pear tree because, unlike the house, the yard has not yet been redone. It is still an uncultivated yard, like most former yards of the residences of Egyptian Khartoum which, before the city was abandoned, once served as gardens and orchards for the inhabit
ants of the Mahdist city. When he is not eating pears, he writes a few letters to his parents, or takes a walk in town, down new streets laid out with string from the Nile to the south, along which rise as yet unfinished white buildings. He wears a hat and a light gray suit with a little ascot, and meets British soldiers, merchants from Kurdufan, a few civilians in European attire, Greek or Armenian, Sudanese on donkeys and mules. He also goes for walks a bit farther south, in the jumble of former commoners’ neighborhoods half in ruins, with their smells of rotting hay, traversed by sudden, bewildering empty lots left untouched since the city was deserted, whose abandonment would seem complete were it not for a mule-driver who suddenly appears and disappears just as swiftly in the opening at the end of an alley. He also goes, of course, to look at the massive project to the east that is the future Gordon College, and the former gardens of the Catholic Mission to the west, not far from the villa where he lives. And then, while sitting on his bedroom balcony over the yard, he spies Omdurman, the populous Mahdist city. It is to the left, in the distance, on the far shore of the White Nile, a brown and ochre mass with hundreds of boats on the river. He sees it and also senses, around him, the powerful presence of an enormous country that is half desert, roamed by tribes whom decades of holy wars, tyranny, and famine have wearied.

  2

  THE COLORFUL SNATCHES OF MY GRANDFATHER’S STORY that have survived are full of mounted cavalcades beneath wind-tossed banners, singular banquets, and baths in the middle of the desert. But you must imagine the prelude to all this: garrison life in Khartoum, with what must have been the sudden irruption, in our newcomer’s life, of a kind of men he’d never had to associate with before—British Army officers. For example, Major Malcolm White, who knocks at the open garden door one morning. A Scottish officer, going by his accent, he turns up without any luggage, accompanied by an aide-de-camp, and introduces himself as my grandfather’s future housemate, extending a generous hand while looking this way and that, surveying the lodgings. He vanishes into the house, climbs upstairs, and comes back down, seeming satisfied at last. He sits down, gladly accepts a cup of the coffee Samuel has procured from a Greek grocer, and speaks grumblingly, his words swelling and bulging in ways Samuel has a hard time understanding at first. He refers to himself as Maucaum Wy, calls Samuel Mister Shawmule, and when he speaks of Khartoum, Samuel thinks he is speaking of cotton. The next day, not only do his bags arrive, but also his furniture: a Victorian bed, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe soldiers have carried from a small barge on the Nile. Samuel soon realizes that after his departure the major will be the villa’s sole occupant, but meanwhile, given the lack of habitable houses, he has been billeted with a civilian.