The Colonial Conquest: The Confines of the Shadow Volume I

by Alessandro Spina

  Ferdinando only appeared much later. He kissed the master’s hand. Hajj Semereth told Abubaker that he’d often seen the young man’s face in his dreams – as Ferdinando had been in poor health when he’d left, he’d worried about losing him. Abubaker gruffly replied that Ferdinando had refused to go to the countryside as the Hajji had commanded in collusion with the Venetian woman. The Hajji listened without interrupting him once. Ferdinando didn’t dare lift his gaze. For the second time, he had the impression of spotting a silhouette, off in the distance, of someone walking in the cool shade. But it wasn’t a painful feeling, like when Zulfa stood in front of him and yet seemed out of reach; on the contrary, he was soothed by the sight of that silhouette. The Hajji placed his hand on the boy’s head. ‘I forgive you,’ he said, placidly.

  After lunch, the Hajji paid his favourite wife a visit. Ashamed of what she’d done, and fearing the consequences, Zulfa both welcomed and abhorred the monster’s entry into her room. Hajji Semereth noticed that the way they communicated had changed, and the happy omens led him to draw nearer to her. Zulfa could no longer bear the grief and repugnance the Hajji inspired in her, and plagued by guilt, begged him to save her and send her back to her parents, or, should he not wish to grant her request, to kill her himself, meaning she would thus pay for her youthful foolishness with her life.

  Hajji Semereth left Zulfa’s room as though he were sleepwalking. He tormented himself over his gigantic stature, as though it were an irremediable injustice, like old age, or death.

  II

  The reception hall was swarming with people. Hajji Semereth’s friends, who had come, as custom dictated, to celebrate his journey’s happy conclusion, were sitting on a row of chairs lined up against the dark walls.

  The hearts and minds of that little coastal town were at odds. The desire to take up the hinterland’s cause against the colonial aggressors conflicted with their interests and traditions, which were inclined towards patience and compromise.

  The peace treaty between Italy and the Ottoman Empire concluded at Ouchy hadn’t resolved anything. It stipulated that the Ottomans withdraw all their troops, ratified the Italian occupation, but granted the natives the right to recognise the Sultan’s authority as Caliph. The invaders didn’t know the meaning of these words and didn’t understand that the Caliph was both a spiritual and temporal leader. Thus, from a legal standpoint, sovereignty was split between the Italians and the Ottomans. Not because both parties had agreed to it, but because of a basic misunderstanding.

  Anwar Bey, the Ottoman government’s representative in that province, had gone to the oasis of Jaghbub to take his leave from Ahmed Sharif as-Sanussi, the head of the Sanussi Brotherhood leading the resistance. The Brotherhood had refused to recognise the Treaty of Ouchy. With that trip, the Ottoman representative handed the keys to the country over to Sayyid Ahmed. Henceforth, the Sanussi Brotherhood began to refer to itself as a government. The disintegration of Ottoman authority, which the Brotherhood inherited, meant that Benghazi’s influence also began to wane, since it was solidly in the hands of the invaders, whereas that of the tribes of the boundless inviolate hinterland grew accordingly.

  Hajji Semereth found it difficult to follow these conversations, which bored him. The guests were tangles of endlessly unravelling conversations. The Italian government insisted on pretending that the road to the Seraglio Point lay open to them, and that Istanbul was ripe for the taking. The Sublime Porte refused to do anything for that province, and some there may well have hoped a European power would rescue it from its abandon and neglect. But it distrusted Italy’s intentions. After all, it was the seat of the Papacy, and it would try to colonise the region with its own citizens; furthermore, the lamentable conditions of Italy’s southern regions didn’t presage anything good. In addition, while a truly great nation only needs to make a show of strength, a second-rate power is forced to actually employ it. The game was far from over: the Treaty of Ouchy didn’t hold much weight on the coast of Africa.

  Always one for following his own path, Hajji Semereth observed the young Maronite sitting in front of him and talking with the others in a hushed tone. If accomplished with wisdom and caution, adopting an ambiguous stance towards both camps could prove to be that young man’s springboard to fortune: he was a Christian, like the invaders, and yet spoke Arabic like the Libyans. Both factions would consider him one of their own. Would he experience this duality as a mark of his unassailable foreignness, or use it as a talisman, a source of strength? How different that young, well-proportioned young merchant was to him: he wouldn’t lust after the impossible, but rather tailor his ambitions according to what reality could offer. His interactions with nature and society were both understated and coherent, and his desires were the product of the times he lived in, and not in opposition to them. Therefore, if the young Maronite remained in the city, he would undoubtedly rise to the higher echelons of Benghazi’s notables.

  Hajji Semereth stood up, pointed to Émile and said: ‘You must convince my young friend to stay with us. Let this be his country, his city.’

  It seemed as though the Hajji had chosen his heir, but this didn’t inspire any jealousy. Purely by picking a successor, the Hajji had finally found the inner peace that had long been denied him.

  A chorus of good wishes rose from the assembled guests.

  III

  Zulfa’s betrayal had become public knowledge. Only Abubaker, whom everyone feared, didn’t know anything. The wives had disclosed the tryst in order to accuse Zulfa and prevent the Hajji from finding a way out of the situation through silence and forgiveness.

  The Hajji’s maternal uncle, an old bachelor, undertook the thankless task of informing the Hajji of what everyone else in the city already knew. He also made a peremptory request: that the Hajji either repudiate that wretch, or kill her. As for Ferdinando, he could either murder the boy himself or commission someone else to do it, that is unless he wanted one of his servants to become an actual rival.

  Hajji Semereth treated his uncle courteously, honoured him with all the compliments dictated by custom, but sent him away without an answer, although hinting that one would soon follow. He nevertheless recommended the uncle exercise the same self-restraint everyone else in the city had shown and keep Abubaker in the dark, in recognition of the latter’s flighty mood. The Hajji’s uncle found this request rather irksome – what was the Hajji thinking? Did he fear Abubaker because he would take justice into his own hands? Zulfa’s tryst had brought shame on the entire family, not just the Hajji, and in accordance with tradition, every male relative had the right to redeem the family’s honour. If the Hajji’s sleeve was caught in a snag, someone else’s hand would carry out the deed, with or without his consent.

  Hajji Semereth replied that he’d listened closely, and that although he didn’t want to offend anyone’s feelings, he would act however his honour demanded. ‘But there isn’t enough room for both honour and emotions in this situation!’ his uncle retorted, growing exasperated. He had taken on the role of ambassador out of his own volition, not only because he knew his nephew’s ears would better bear the burden of the malevolent truth if it came from his lips, but because he was the only one of his relatives who wanted to leave the final decision in the Hajji’s hands, rather than dictate the necessary course of action. What would he tell the others now? ‘What should I say? That you’re dithering over retribution? Should someone else be entrusted with the role of executioner? Why are you hesitating? Are you still in love with that hussy? Can you really tolerate sheltering your wife’s lover under your roof? Or are you protecting him?’

  The Hajji listed to the crescendo of questions without forming a reply. When the old man stood up, the Hajji placidly ushered him to the main gate.

  IV

  Abdelkarim loves Ferdinando – the young Maronite thought as he lay stretched out on the bed, as Abdelkarim had told him all he knew about the affair – and he would joyfully welcome forgiveness and a compromise. B
ut he simultaneously fears forgiveness as a sacrilege that might unleash a host of terrible consequences: there would be less to fear from Ferdinando’s death than from his absolution. The world would become drearier and gloomier, but at least it wouldn’t be turned upside down.

  The sky out of the window on the roof was an unchanging blue, like a painting.

  To understand Hajji Semereth, Émile had to postulate a different reality to the one the Hajji had once belonged to, the paradise from which he’d been chased. Istanbul and the failed conspiracy followed the same old patterns and thus seemed made up; still, they were necessary components in forming a full understanding of the man. Maybe it wasn’t a failed conspiracy, but a different mistake.

  It hardly matters: there was a rule, and there was a transgression, which precipitated the fall. It’s useless to get so worked up trying to discover which rule was broken, especially since Semereth seems to contradict them all – his gigantic stature is unequivocal proof of that. Ferdinando and Zulfa are a double sacrifice the people are demanding to appease a God so vulgarly offended by the barbarians from the North. Now that the government and the streets obey different rules, he must defend the integrity of his household and his family.

  Would Semereth Effendi forgive the lovers? No man had ever done so, but maybe various secret variables had entered the Hajji’s equation. A guarded man, who spent many years in a faraway place and only partially belonged to the city, seeming to dwell in another place altogether. But how could he spare the lovers his family’s revenge? It’s a well known fact that an insult inflicted on an individual is an insult to the whole clan. The latter had only waited until Hajji Semereth’s return out of deference. They could have meted out justice in his absence. Hajji Semereth was hesitating. His prying servants hadn’t detected the slightest trace of wrath on his face. Would he give in? Had he already given in? Can someone who is alive remain as absent as the dead? And what was holding him back: love and compassion? Or was it weariness and indifference? How could he tolerate such a grave offence?

  Oppressed by various invisible threads in the Hajji’s house that impeded his movements, Abdelkarim was pleased with his new master, who was young and impatient. The young Maronite hadn’t come to that coastal town as an exile like the Hajji, but so as to play his hand, like the Hajji had done in Istanbul. With the arrival of the young Maronite that world had levelled its decline, and consequently the young man had left the realm of shadows and stepped into the kingdom of light, where he dwelled in its inexhaustible fount.

  The Maronite knew that Ferdinando had cried when Abdelkarim had entered his service. He had embraced him convulsively, as though they’d been parting forever. Disdained, Abubaker had denounced Ferdinando’s tears to Semereth Effendi, leaving the latter in a sombre mood for the rest of the day. That courteous man was tormented by how his shadow snuffed out all life before it.

  The market was shut on Sundays. During the interminably long hours when no one went out, the Maronite would labour away in his imagination in the hope of speeding up the course of events, as though he were plotting to take over the entire city. Abdelkarim followed his new master’s trajectory. He too was mulling over secret thoughts while curled up in a corner. But something set him apart from the Maronite during those lazy hours. Mimicking his master didn’t satisfy him: he wanted to complete him, not imitate him, to become the missing link in a perfect circle that would then encompass them both. But on Sundays, the master was a loop of his own.

  Therefore, crouched in his corner, Abdelkarim set to constructing a little parallel loop of his own.

  V

  The deferment Hajji Semereth had tacitly asked for helped placate his wounded pride and wear it down until it no longer posed any threat. His unrequited love needed to resign itself to reality for his deluded hopes to stop oppressing his aching heart. Just as he had let Zulfa cry herself dry on their ill-starred wedding night, he patiently waited until the well of his own tears was depleted. He let his agony consume itself with steely determination: he simply had to bide his time and consider all the likely scenarios, to avoid acting impulsively.

  He could crush the two youngsters like insects; the law was on his side, and custom craved retribution – even the public was impatient to see this happen. Zulfa and Ferdinando’s fates were wholly in his hands. The injured party could act as judge and executioner.

  Semereth Effendi’s opinion was that the judge had his own faults to atone for. He could only make amends under one condition: that he, as the injured party, should defend the accused. Only then could he be granted absolution and pass sentence on the matter impartially.

  In a display of deference, he decided to head to his uncle’s house, regardless of how humiliating it would be. Late in the morning, he dispatched a messenger to announce his arrival. Thanks to this messenger, the news of Hajji Semereth’s embassy spread through the house before the Hajji had even accomplished his mission. The servants focused their eyes on the master’s face, which remained impassive. But his lips, like those of the dead, seemed to suggest a smile. The house was enshrouded in silence, as though people saw it as a place for hiding, not living.

  Torn between a desire to second his nephew and his relatives’ impatience, the Hajji’s uncle was anxious. If the Hajji had sent a messenger, it meant he undoubtedly wished to show his respect for the family, whom he would personally visit to deliver his answer. But what would he say? Respect didn’t equate to acquiescence, and the Hajji’s painstaking decorum seemed to herald a refusal. The Hajji’s relatives were already exasperated by the injured party’s unexpected hesitation, and various theories had been put forward to explain it. The Hajji’s uncle had been forced to weigh all these arguments in order to stay the clan’s hand and preserve Semereth Effendi’s right to defend his own honour: yet didn’t tradition make allowances for men who renounced the right to defend their honour, delegating said responsibility to any family member to punish the perpetrators, in fact even going so far as to include the Hajji – who was either too impotent or too complicit in the affair to act – in the same category as those who’d grieved him?

  The uncle welcomed the Hajji in private.

  Semereth Effendi was handsomely attired and prolonged the customary greetings longer than he needed to. The strain in Semereth’s soul manifested itself in an accentuation of formalities. Life exhausted itself in rituals during those difficult moments.

  The uncle suspected that the Hajji was solely concerned with keeping him at arm’s length so as to avoid him spying on him or questioning him. Nevertheless, he couldn’t hold out for long. He suddenly blurted out the question that had lingered on his lips from the start. What had the Hajji decided?

  The old bachelor’s eyes were bewildered: Semereth’s words didn’t presage anything good. Instead of accusing the lovers, he accused himself. He spoke slowly, but effortlessly. The uncle felt as though he were playing the role of a notary who’d been called on to certify a contract that had already been signed. His bony hand jerked with a horrified shudder.

  Hajji Semereth had given his speech a rhetorical spin, signalling that his decision was final, as if he were reading a text out loud rather than arguing a case or exculpating himself. Why, he asked, had he married that girl who was so much younger than him, who’d cried when she’d seen him, implored him to repudiate her, whose nature was so incongruous with his own that they hadn’t even consummated the marriage? Why had he clung to her? The Hajji’s mistake, while not excusing what had happened, had been fatal. The marriage, which nature hadn’t blessed, had thus been annulled by nature itself. Zulfa had grieved him, but she, being little more than a child, had also been harshly grieved. Her father shouldn’t have consented to that match. Neither should the Hajji have insisted on keeping her in his house when the situation proved so impossible. What should he have expected from a twelve year old? Time had been called on to arbitrate their marriage, but nature had forced it to submit to its will and betrayed all expectations. Zulfa had tri
ed to fulfil her conjugal duties. Tradition had put her in an unfair situation and now the same tradition, and its laws, were accusing her without even first listening to her justifications. The bride had remained a virgin for two years. As the injured party, Semereth Effendi took full responsibility for this. It was an atonement he was glad to make as it proved he too was guilty. He had therefore decided, since after all he had taken the role of judge upon himself, to return the following verdict: he would repudiate Zulfa.

  His uncle had been on the verge of interrupting him several times throughout his speech. But as both the offended party and the judge, Hajji Semereth had only allowed his uncle to play the role of court stenographer. Regardless, the Hajji’s uncle chose to overlook the slight, and said the verdict was acceptable. The strain these events had caused were clearly legible on his face. The Hajji’s clemency towards his wife was undeserved, but repudiating her was an adequate solution. The uncle turned his thoughts to the restless accusers in the family, those fanatical vigilantes. He seemed solely concerned with avoiding a conflict between Semereth and the family. Zulfa’s fate was of no consequence. So long as she disappeared, it didn’t matter whether she was repudiated or murdered.

  Semereth Effendi listened attentively. He even appeared interested in the proverbs his uncle peppered his thoughts with, as well as in his gelid scrutiny of life, and the hopes and honesty that endowed his words with a deeper resonance.

  It was now time to discuss the rival, the boy the Hajji had raised under his roof. Semereth began by saying he couldn’t possibly expect to trust the young man as he’d done in the past. Ferdinando wasn’t a boy any more. Hadn’t the Hajji considered that by taking the boy into his home and raising him, he had in fact signed a contract and fulfilled his end of the bargain, thus turning the rest of Ferdinando’s life into a mortgage that could never be repaid? Ferdinando’s origins were enshrouded in mystery; it was said he was the son of Christians. Couldn’t the upheaval caused by the arrival of Christian soldiers – who perhaps were even his fellow countrymen – into Benghazi, prompt the restless boy to leave the home he’d been raised in? He could thus escape his boyhood and prison in a single stroke. Wasn’t it up to Semereth to foresee all that and keep a hold of him, as though he could preserve his youth? Wasn’t it his responsibility to emancipate Ferdinando, just as one does slaves?