The Colonial Conquest: The Confines of the Shadow Volume I

by Alessandro Spina

  III

  Abdelkarim hurtled through the market to be the first to deliver the unbelievable news to the young Maronite: Ferdinando had been murdered. The sheer unlikeliness of the incident had momentarily cushioned the blow and muted the soul’s emotions. The tears that would flow in the wake of his friend’s death would come much later.

  ‘Mais quoi! La vie içi est à un très grand bon marché!’ was a saying that had been attributed to Anwar Bey, the leader of the Libyan partisans stationed in Derna.

  Ferdinando had been stabbed by a dagger belonging to the eldest son of that uncle who’d so affectionately tried to help Semereth Effendi through the ordeal that destiny had subjected him to; and it hadn’t taken place in a dimly lit alley far from prying eyes, but in public. In fact, when Ferdinando was about to be circumcised, thus making him a Muslim, and surrounded by curious onlookers, they’d discovered he was already circumcised. Hajji Semereth’s cousin had been blinded by rage, and unsheathing a dagger had exclaimed: ‘This man isn’t a Christian, but some sort of apostate or Jew. How can we condone such a profanation of our customs?’ and before anyone could intervene, the cousin had stuck his blade through Ferdinando’s heart.

  MARTELLO: Goodbye Ferdinando! I wasn’t able to save you! We flung open the gates of those prisons far too late for you! Escape meant too great a sacrifice and at that price, life itself would lose all meaning and become merely a lie! I’d assumed he was becoming a man, and that the metamorphosis would see him freed from bondage, but there was more to it than that, far more! His metamorphosis was leading him to his very death! Besides, how can anyone imagine that delicate young man leading a real life? His mysterious origins had made him an object of curiosity, but he seemed to wander this earth like a lost soul! As though he’d fled from another kingdom and been brought here, to another climate, with different laws, where he’d have only grown more sorrowful and died. He must have either escaped or been kidnapped. Did Semereth really have no clue as to his background? Or had he lied about that? Whom had he kidnapped the boy from? Now that we can be certain he wasn’t a Christian, but most likely either a Muslim or a Jew, the mystery of his origins deepens and thickens.

  DELLE STELLE: Your soliloquy right in the middle of the story left me a little perplexed. Tell me, my dear Captain, did you compose this passage on the spot, or did you recite it at the market? It’s as though someone from the audience had leapt onto the stage to challenge the brother or lover in the final scene of Lucia di Lammermoor! Need I remind you there’s an even thicker wall separating us from the natives than between the audience and the stage? You’re forcing me to take a heavy-handed approach: an officer who drinks tea with merchants and jumps up on stage to weep over a pretty character’s death can’t help but perplex me – in fact, it perplexes me greatly. These are tears that should be dried while in the darkness of the theatre, not flaunted at the market.

  MARTELLO: And I’m telling you that this wall is inviolable, I want to leave this country tomorrow. We’re living a lie in an artificial reality, ripped from our native soil and transplanted into cramped pots. Ever since we blustered our way in here, my most precious hours were spent in the Venetian woman’s company, or in Ferdinando’s, or in Semereth Effendi’s house. Semereth welcomed me courteously, but made no effort to steer the conversation in a more intimate direction. When about to leave, he told me, ‘You have honoured us with your visit,’ but didn’t ask me to return. Whereas I would’ve returned that very evening, if invited. Sure, you may say I would only have gone there so as to spy on Zulfa or Ferdinando, but in fact I would have done so even just to glimpse once more Semereth’s scarred face: I’d sit and watch that face all day, as though he were the supreme deity of Benghazi and his face concealed the secrets to this city. Semereth’s face was disfigured by a gunpowder charge, just like the prince who was transformed into a monster by an evil spell. Semereth came into the picture wearing a golden mask that only half concealed his disfigurement … Why are you smiling? Even the asymmetry between him and anyone or anything he comes into contact with is a magic spell! My sword is useless except for breaking into that house where I’m not wanted, forcing the Venetian woman who refused to work for us to wait on me, forcing Ferdinando, Semereth’s valet, to enter my service (at least I would’ve protected the boy!) and usurping Semereth’s place, wearing his cloak and appropriating his child bride. I have no interest in mimicking either the young Maronite who moves so freely about town or that giant; instead I want to take their place, to supplant them. When I visited Semereth’s house, I had the impression I’d entered a dissociative state: I was Semereth. As for the officer in me, he was just an unhappy genius waiting to be freed. Semereth is a giant captivated by all that is ephemeral or fragile, which he could easily crush with one hand. Worshipping one’s own slave is the most horrible of traps. Seducing what he already owned – it’s the very essence of hope and the painful prison that encages all powerful men. I can’t help recalling Philip II, loved not by his inept and emotionally incontinent son, nor his young bride, nor the loyal but cryptic Marquis of Posa. Opera is the complete repository of all human nadirs. Once, when I was in Spain, I saw a dance involving a strong, seasoned man and a frail, diaphanous woman: the more passionate he became, the more robotic or puppet-like the woman seemed. She never once looked him in the eye, and her gaze was immobile, just like a robot’s. I was convinced they were a couple, but he was unable to get her to love him. To dance is to run around in a fixed circle where distance remains constant for the length of the spell.

  DELLE STELLE: Is the story of Semereth and his wife a metaphor for our role as the unloved conquerors in this splendid African province? Still, the desire to be loved, to seduce – if I am to employ your librettist’s language – is a poison that you have succumbed to. This has nothing to do with us. After all, being loved by people we already control is superfluous. We are powerful men who stare into the mirror of glory, lingering as motionless as portraits, almost immortal. We’re not lovers chasing shadows on the road to perdition – the shadow being the dream of bending another’s will to our own by offering them the gift of our hearts, freedom, and strength, which would in turn guarantee their safety. Seducing what we already own, as you put it – that’s the role allocated to Philip II, who dreams of himself and walks off the grand, brightly-lit stage of history and onto the frantic, illusory one of opera. My dear Captain, at times you seem as though you were a lyrical character drafted into the army, someone unfathomable and intangible, like the Marquis of Posa in fact, an invention arbitrarily inserted into Philip II’s life by Schiller and Verdi. Your quest constantly grows more obvious and impatient. It would be both amusing and cruel to send you back to Italy – and thus immure you alive, given that it’s nothing more than a prison to you now – while you’re actually running in the opposite direction. But I want to indulge you, and I’m willing to wait. In fact, I want to see your hopes wither away and see you use your sword in a fight where it’s not needed. If you employ your blade to chase your dreams, you’ll fall into a trap. I’ll give you an example: Semereth Effendi purchased Zulfa and she can therefore burst out of that house with sword in hand, but neither you nor that beast will ever be able to exact anything other than terror from her. The more you try to shorten the gap between you and the object of your desires, the further you’ll distance yourself from it. Semereth’s fate is to be stuck in an interminable monologue, which he uselessly tries to expand into a dialogue. The disproportion between that juggernaut’s body and Zulfa’s puny frame clearly suggests their lives are running on different tracks destined never to cross. Similarly, you too are mismatched, but in a different way: you can drink as many cups of fragrant tea in Semereth’s house as you like, but your foreignness is painfully obvious. Good intentions are like a Baedeker Guide and you’re the eager tourist traipsing through the museum: but life in that house unfolds in an alien dimension – and Semereth Effendi, whose disfigured face transfixes you so, is as indifferent to you as if
you were just another painting. Establishing a dialogue with a painting would be just as impossible as consummating his marriage with that little girl … Ferdinando’s death sends a very specific warning. Did our cumbersome presence here, which put the city in a particular situation, give that whole affair a special prominence? Was the act of following their barbaric customs to the letter intended to embody the country’s refusal not only to submit to our occupation, but to accept any changes to their laws and traditions? If that’s the case, and the weight of our presence precipitated the tragedy, then we are responsible for Ferdinando’s death. But there’s more: we too accorded the affair a distinct significance since we tried (or rather, you tried) to break through that wall and burst into the story as a human being without remaining trapped in that circle of fear, like demons or gods. By murdering Ferdinando, the city voiced its refusal. To put it bluntly, Captain, you were tossed out of Semereth’s house just as the giant failed to make love to his child bride, and your attempt to turn a monologue into a dialogue met only with failure. Ferdinando’s pierced heart proves this failure. Indeed, the natives spilled his blood for the explicit purpose of demonstrating how they are protected behind an invisible wall. Only now (and don’t forget that I am one of the Supreme Guarantors of the Social Order here) that the divide between audience and stage has been re-established, conforming to the colonial situation we’re in, can I allow you to proceed with your story. Actually, on second thoughts I’d like to ask you a question (perhaps prompted by guilt): Was I wrong not to summon the boy and take an interest in the matter?

  MARTELLO: You’d have simply shared my fate: a mixture of admiration and tears.

  DELLE STELLE: I would have acted more prudently. I wouldn’t confuse myself into thinking I was one of those people. I would have been happy to intervene like the gods of yesteryear: saving the hero or the favoured offspring only to then climb back up to Olympus immediately after – whereas you … you seem as though … you’re trying to escape Olympus altogether! Couldn’t I summon Zulfa to headquarters right now?

  MARTELLO: It’s too late! Even more inflamed after Ferdinando’s death, Semereth convinced the judge to question Zulfa. He arranged it all in a hurry as he’d worried that, unbeknownst to him, a blood relative of his might decide to kill her next. He said that Zulfa was still his wife and that he wouldn’t tolerate anyone meddling in the affair: a warning that also extended to his family. Semereth had hoped Zulfa would be forgotten once he’d repudiated her and sent her back to her parents, even relying on the judge, who having been appeased by the act of repudiation would then help placate any hotheaded relatives. After Ferdinando’s death, these barbarians started thinking this compromise was inadequate. Being a brave and introverted man, Semereth Effendi would have travelled as far as Istanbul, to the very gates of the Sublime Porte if need be, simply to prolong the lives of those two for a few more hours, or even humiliated himself by asking you for help, General. He was convinced that the judge would do everything in his power if only he had the girl right in front of him. When the old judge saw that the sinner’s face was so small it would fit in the palm of his hand, he was dumbstruck. But the onlookers didn’t seem all that keen on the judge’s procrastination. Were there agitators present in the room? Where had they come from? If Semereth carried on being so indulgent, he might well risk being killed too. He noticed they were complaining about Zulfa’s repudiation merely so as to strike at him without overtly causing offence. Those stooges considered Zulfa a hussy because she’d cheated on her husband with a slave. They humiliated her by uncovering her face in public. Once unveiled, Zulfa was so ashamed she fainted. It had nothing to do with remorse, but although those stooges wouldn’t suspect such a thing, Zulfa’s modesty had survived her sin. It was around this time that one of the stooges – the judge – decided he would act like a real man. Overwhelmed by Zulfa’s beauty, he did all he could to save her. All it amounted to was one pointless postponement after the other – and Semereth knew that. Only that which cannot be delayed truly matters in the end. There was something rather pathetic about this man trying to save two flies from drowning. I really do think he would be willing to travel all the way to the Golden Horn to beseech the Sublime Porte to defer her demise by a single hour, or even go knocking on the Quirinale’s doors to kiss the King’s feet, so long as His Majesty were capable of stopping all the clocks in the world. Even Semereth – you see? – tried to break through this wall and failed. General, I hope you’ll spare me narrating the rest of this abominable story. I’ll merely add that, in keeping with the customary way of punishing adulterers, Zulfa was eventually drowned.

  DELLE STELLE: The fifth act is always the most turbulent. Tell me about the others who died and let’s speak of the matter no longer.

  MARTELLO: I don’t know who told Semereth about the part his wives and the Venetian played in the affair. The story goes that Abubaker killed the wives, either acting on his master’s orders or on his own initiative.

  DELLE STELLE: Cut to the chase, Captain. The death toll has risen to five.

  MARTELLO: The Venetian hurled herself at her master’s feet and begged for forgiveness. It seems she’d had the opportunity to escape, as she’d been in the courtyard when Abubaker went into the women’s quarters to slay the wives. Instead, she submitted herself to Semereth’s judgement. An odd move for such a shrewd woman, and certainly voluntary. Her master’s cave was the extent of her universe. Just as she refused to come and work for us, she disdained bolting out of the door to save herself. People say that Semereth crushed her head under his foot.

  DELLE STELLE: Death is meted out quickly in tragedies – after all, it was his palace! But can’t we do anything about all this? Despite the botched circumcision, Ferdinando was still technically a Christian, and the Venetian woman was repudiated. Why don’t we arrest Semereth and the old man?

  MARTELLO: They both disappeared last night. Semereth miraculously re-established his connection to the real world: he’s gone to the rebels’ camp. As for me, I’ve been granted the right to avenge those youths that were so dear to my heart. I hope God sees fit for Semereth and I to meet face to face one day.

  DELLE STELLE: A duel? If Semereth finds out that an officer wants to avenge the two lovers – who were also dear to him – then he’ll let himself be killed. As we’ve had an active part in shaping his destiny, let’s deny him death’s restorative balm and swing open the gates of nothingness for him.

  BOOK II

  CHAPTER 1

  I

  Abdelkarim always woke up before his master. Émile Chébas’s arrival at the market was invariably announced by Abdelkarim’s zigzagging gait as he sniffed around for customers. If there was no work to be done, he would perch himself on one of the colossal shelves that nearly protruded right out of the shop and into the street. The shop front was devoid of windows and thus wholly exposed to the comings and going of the narrow, covered street. Abdelkarim would observe the passers-by and keep vigilant even when he looked distracted, or appeared to be dozing. People had got used to the sight of him perched on his shelf: his clients would provoke him, and his debtors would try to camouflage themselves by melding into the crowds. Abdelkarim would address the debtors by name and greet them with much deference, in order to warn his master that these deadbeats had come into firing range.

  Depending on the case, the young Maronite would pretend not to hear his servant, or loudly greet his debtors too, in a way that made it seem as though he were pulling on their ears. If verbal warnings produced no results, Émile would get up and call the person in question over, or order the boy to fetch him. Abdelkarim would then jump off the shelf and overtake his prey in the blink of an eye, inviting him to retrace his steps because the master wanted to speak to him. In order to ensure he wouldn’t slip away, he would take him by the hand and kindly drag him along, as though guiding a blind man through the crowds.

  Abdelkarim wouldn’t usually intervene while his master – who would sometimes limit hi
mself to offering his prisoner a cup of coffee and then sipping it in studied silence – was speaking, but when the unlucky debtor took his leave, Abdelkarim would shower him with ceremonious greetings to let him know he’d overheard everything. The debtor would then mutter curses under his breath, or else grumble in a tone that left no doubt as to his mood. But these were like innocuous pebbles that always fell back down to earth without striking the young servant.

  Abdelkarim knew how to tell real customers apart from unwelcome guests, and he would scrutinise the intentions of the passers-by in the way one rummages through someone’s pockets, inviting customers who seemed unsure into the shop, hovering in the background so as to assist them when ordered to, or else barring the path to those visitors who were unwelcome by adopting an authoritarian tone and informing them that the master was too busy to receive them, and that they should come back some other time. Sitting at the back of the shop, Émile Chébas would hear everything without ever lifting his gaze from his ledgers. Abdelkarim’s voice was like a sixth sense that kept him informed about everything happening in the market. His voice filtered the chaotic flux of people as though he were an autonomous body connected to his master by sound waves.