Émile Chébas continued at length, and the merchant who’d come to intercede on Armand’s behalf listened patiently. He then pleaded with Émile to be more compassionate towards his brother by flattering both Émile’s intelligence and his generosity.
Having extracted a promise that Émile would forgive Armand and let go of the past, as well as an agreement to guide the latter more kindly, the merchant stood up to take his leave.
He then suddenly drew near to Émile and employing a distant, threatening tone, added: ‘Criticise your own faults and weaknesses with the same vigour you apply to Armand’s. One must measure oneself against perfection, not other people’s mistakes.’
IV
When the work on the first floor of the house the Chébas brothers lived in was completed Armand vainly tried to convince his brother to let it out, so as to turn the three rooms on the upper floor into a salon and two new bedrooms and thereby avoid sleeping downstairs, where it was damp and dark. Armand tried to persuade Émile to abandon the ground floor for the one above, but Émile displayed no interest whatsoever in the proposal. Armand said he was embarrassed to invite his Italian friends to the house because he could only receive them in his bedroom. Émile contemptuously replied that he couldn’t see the point of those get-togethers in the first place.
According to local custom, men who wanted a little company in the evenings should go to cafés, instead of closeting themselves in their rooms like women, and during the day, anyone who wanted to see Armand could find him in the shop. Émile didn’t even believe in those traditions, having been used to seeing friends come in and out of his father’s house in the evenings – but Armand’s presence had instilled in Émile an enmity against life, and he had wound up confusing a merchant’s life for that of a hermit.
Émile already regretted the two years he’d spent in Benghazi, before his brother’s shadow had come to darken his path. He was annoyed by his own frosty aphorisms, as though he were choking on his own Sibylline fumes, but his urgency to set himself apart from that moody, superficial young man answered such a deep-seated need that he was sacrificing a part of himself in the process. When, as periodically happened, one of them would get fed up with the other and uncork his resentments, Armand would tell Émile that not only was his brother discouraging and annoying him, but that he was also doing it to himself. Prone to tears, Armand would then begin to sob, cursing how fate had put him in the hands of a man who hated everything that was precious and delicate in the world: youth, beauty, happiness, serenity and love. That he would rather leave and take up whatever profession came his way, repudiating the family’s venerated mercantile tradition, rather than continue to live under such persecution in that godforsaken city at the edge of the world. Armand would tell tall tales about extraordinary offers that had come his way and, growing more excited and emphatic with each passing moment, would mark the bottom of his downward spiral by screaming that he was free, young and healthy, invoking the heavens to arbitrate their dispute.
The next day, at the shop, Émile would call his brother over and condescendingly inform him that since he’d heard he was unhappy and wanted to leave Benghazi, he should feel free to do so, that Émile had brought him over simply to help him through his infantile lack of direction and put him back on a straight, traditional path. Caught unawares so early in the morning, Armand would fail to summon the convictions he’d voiced the night before. All that delirious gibberish seemed so unreal and nonsensical when mouthed by his brother’s implacable voice in the light of day. Émile would then dismiss Armand with an annoyed wave of his hand, complaining that he’d already wasted enough time on him for the day.
CHAPTER 2
Olghina
I
An Italian physician and his wife, one of the first women to arrive in that distant colony, soon moved into the first floor of the Chébas house. The woman was from Trieste, and she was shapely and blonde.
Olghina had got bored with that little border town where her husband exercised his profession, and she had cheerfully welcomed the decision to leave for the colony. ‘It’s like I’ve taken on a lover,’ she’d confessed to her friends with a hint of ironic malice. It was as though Africa wasn’t a place, or indeed a continent, but a character. She assembled a formidable vanity case, ‘mercilessly depleting’ her savings, as she put it.
Nevertheless, as soon as she’d disembarked in that African port city, she realised her blunder. This wasn’t a pleasure trip: she’d been deported. She had arrived in a place without history, and that was the way it would remain, as though the whole country were a prison cell. Like the heroine in a fable, she’d fallen victim to an evil genie. What mysterious law had she broken? Hadn’t an overseas voyage been synonymous with a sentence in a penal colony, for centuries? The ghost of Manon Lescaut seemed to have been waiting for her. Her anxious mind vacillated between a vague feeling of guilt and a weepy rebelliousness against a punishment she hadn’t deserved. Where was the Prince Charming who would awaken her from her slumber, and how much longer would she have to wait for him? Through her vain fantasies, which made her weary and yet yielded no benefits, she recognised she was now like a prisoner. She refused to unpack. She spent seven days secluded in her hotel, refusing to set foot outside.
Until, on the eighth day, they arrived at the Chébas house.
Armand went to meet them, and from the moment he’d introduced himself, he no longer wanted to be parted from them.
He paid for the carriage, despite Doctor Pietra’s protestations, who was irked by how that young man seemed to be trying to take them under his protection. Armand accompanied them up the stairs, and entered the apartment with them – all the while speaking without pause, furnishing them with all sorts of information, even asking a number of questions to which there was neither rhyme nor reason, but which instead scattered confusedly through the room like a swarm of flies. Quick and nimble as a harlequin, Armand leapt up and down the stairs, providing the newcomers with whatever they might need, craving their attention.
At first, Doctor Pietra tried to shoo him away, then, growing annoyed, he let him carry on.
Olghina was far friendlier. Those seven days she’d spent in the hotel had been so melancholy that this lively little creature distracted her and made her feel less lonely. Thus she listened to that handsome young man, and occasionally rewarded him with a peal of laughter, whose shrill notes enlivened the scene. Everything Armand said was vapid, but her husband’s severity was like a slab of bare rock. The surgical, leaden atmosphere of the hospital seemed to follow him everywhere.
They heard the door downstairs swing open. ‘That’s my brother,’ Armand explained, disappearing. He breathlessly announced the newcomers’ arrival to Émile, who didn’t even answer him. His clothes were dusty, he was tired, and his brother’s senseless excitement was bothering him. He hadn’t seen Armand at the office all afternoon. Who were these wretches he’d taken up with now?
Armand announced that Doctor Pietra and his wife would come down in an hour for coffee. He immediately started running around the house in order to make it a little more orderly. The amount of clutter Émile had left lying around was immeasurable. Armand cursed his fate. Why should he live with that surly man who always sucked all the fun out of life with that authoritarian and scornful manner of his? It was like having an immovable crate right in the middle of the house.
Armand vented all his disappointment on Abdelkarim, who’d arrived late. Where had he been? Why wasn’t he helping him? Why should he assume duties that really belonged to a servant? Abdelkarim looked at him in amazement, wondering what was making Armand so chirpy, nervous and aggressive; but being mild-mannered, Abdelkarim began scurrying around the house in ill-concealed excitement.
Émile shut himself in his bedroom. He already regretted not renting out the first floor of the house, since it would have at least spared him the bother of having those strangers above him. He prepared to welcome them coolly, thus making them understand
that although they were neighbours, they had nothing in common and wouldn’t need to socialise, except during the return visit Émile would pay them, all strictly out of courtesy of course. In fact, in order to deprive the visit of any intimacy, Émile dressed impeccably. He would need to ensure a chilly atmosphere, so as to snuff out all familiarity, making the occasion immune to any sort of congeniality.
Shortly thereafter, he reappeared. His dusty tunic had given way to a refined gentleman’s attire. Armand and Abdelkarim were momentarily perplexed. Émile looked like a high functionary who’d chosen to dramatically allow the crowds a glimpse of his impenetrable countenance. Armand expressed his approval, but didn’t manage to extract even a grimace from his brother’s marble countenance. He started cursing his fate once again.
Abdelkarim had never seen his master look so cold and distant. He didn’t even look like a merchant any more, but rather like one of those robotic officers who strolled through the town. An unbridgeable distance lay between them, and he suddenly experienced an intense feeling of despair, as though his master had left for good. What were they waiting for? Whom were they expecting?
By that time the house had been tidied, and Armand locked himself in the bathroom to change. Intimidated, Abdelkarim fled into the courtyard. Depending on the time of day, or the season, the courtyard and the basement were Abdelkarim’s favourite resting places.
Once outside, he heard the sound of shuffling feet and muffled voices from upstairs. Then he saw a bright, smiling face look out onto the courtyard.
When the doctor and his wife came downstairs at eight o’clock, Armand rushed to open the door and he rolled out one greeting after the other, unfurling them like carpets, as though he were a merchant welcoming customers into his shop. Olghina laughed. Her voice was crystal clear, hearty and harmonious; Doctor Pietra, on the other hand, muttered something or other, as though he were taking his leave.
When Émile stood up to greet his guests, he was unable to suppress his surprise and confusion. The mere appearance of that young, beautiful woman seemed to justify all that coldness. He bowed his head ceremonially, while the woman’s voice came to rest on his head like a crown. He shook the husband’s hand and appreciated his stern expression, which was so unlike the holidaying look that most Italian military officers wore when out in town.
II
OLGHINA: My first impression of this town was horrible. How the houses are painted a blinding white, how the dust lies thick on the trees like ash, the mayhem, the neglect, and the fruitless attempts to clean this up; the new military government, their hurried emergency measures. While I was riding in the carriage to the hotel, I felt a mysterious hand wrap itself around my heart. I couldn’t understand the reality in front of my eyes. The further the carriage ventured down those dusty streets, the more frightened I grew.
PIETRA: Are these people really such barbarians? Regardless, we clearly need to think of them as such in order to reassure ourselves. Barbarism is a crime and civilisation is always right, these are what our rights amount to. In other words, we don’t want victims, we want criminals. Civilisation always amounts to bloody retribution.
OLGHINA: Had I visited this little town during a long voyage, I might have found it rather pretty. I might have been happier to look at it from an outsider’s perspective, and what I saw would have been far more foreign and incomprehensible, indeed, intensely more satisfying. Instead, the spectacle in front of my eyes isn’t like that presented to an audience watching a tragedy at the theatre, where the horrors disappear once the curtains come down! No, this is the place where I must live. Everything that might have seemed compelling from behind the safety of the fourth wall instead seems haunting. Now we’ve been thrown amidst the actors and must share their fate! Pirates once used to capture their prisoners at sea, but now our Royal Government has taken their place; one world replaces another, and a pirate’s victim is now called a colonist.
ARMAND: It was horrible for me too, I had come expecting a very different life. Culture means nothing here. Does anyone here know who Anatole France is? It’s like being an actor who’s prepared for one play and then cruelly gets cast in another. Imagine if, instead of walking into Rosina’s room, Count Almaviva were to stumble into the clutches of Ernani’s bandits, what would he do then? The same mistake has made my own footing uncertain. I know all of Almaviva’s moves, but they are useless here where all I do is grow bored while the audience boos me.
PIETRA: What I’m still unsure about is whether I’m more astonished by the differences between us or our similarities. They are different, and this puts our values and beliefs into doubt. But then they are also similar, and this jeopardises our notions of superiority. We’re even in a hurry to destroy this civilisation because we’re so afraid that its mere existence threatens the worthiness of our own.
OLGHINA: The government wants to build a new town. This does little to cheer me up. The new city scares me as much as these labyrinthine alleys.
ÉMILE: We must be patient. It’s a city we will be building with our own hands. The effort required will give our presence here a sense of purpose, and one day the city will have a shape familiar to us. We must however be brave enough not to look over our shoulders, or ponder the different roads we might have taken. It’s important that this new city isn’t built on the smouldering ashes of the old city, but should instead be its auxiliary, a transplant: even if uneasy, unnatural, unwanted.
OLGHINA: Nostalgia is gnawing away at me, Mr Chébas. Not that I miss one city or the other, but I’m nostalgic for reality itself, as though this city had the illusory confines of a dreamscape or a memory. When the carriage was taking me to the hotel, my eyes examined everything both greedily and hatefully. The shops I was seeing would be the shops I would visit every day. The alleys I crossed would the ones I would walk, where the sound of my footsteps would echo like an alien bell. These people I couldn’t understand would be the ones I would eventually meet. The idea that there were so many Italians in uniform was of little comfort. And all those prisoners, and the sick. I have every respect for my husband’s profession, but I never wanted the hospital to replace the city, or even to assume the proportions of it! I wasn’t on my way through the city, no, this was where I’d arrived, as though I’d reached my final destination.
PIETRA: Italy’s obsession with catching up with Europe’s great powers is impeding its culture from recognising the legitimacy of other civilisations. We employ reason merely as an instrument in our attempt to imitate a superior model. We disdain civilisations to the south of us; in fact, it’s as if they embodied exactly what we wanted to escape. We’re a backward country that always keeps its eyes on the other European capitals: Vienna, Paris or London. If Venice had led the Italian unification effort, things might have turned out otherwise, but instead it was led by Piedmont, a lowly vassal of France, and we are the victims of those provincial beginnings. Italian culture seems to atrophy part of our organs. It’s no use trying to educate oneself, or to read books written elsewhere; whatever we do, a congenital mediocrity clings to us like a bad smell.
OLGHINA: I’d brought news with me. But a few days after I arrived, having refused to poke my nose outside the hotel, I started to read, and all of a sudden those snippets of news seemed so remote: they’re useless instruments here, nothing but rags and ashes.
ARMAND: You’re wrong! We haven’t been condemned to live here forever! I don’t think I have wasted my time getting ready for Paris instead of this stupid little town, which is nothing but a raft adrift on the African sand ocean. Don’t tell me we should cut our legs off so as to be on the same level as everyone else! Provincialism be damned, Italian culture gets it right, and Vienna, Paris and London are the capitals worth looking at. There’s no real civilisation elsewhere. By coming here, we’ve been distanced from our desires, but all it means is that we’ve taken a wrong turn, and thus the journey will be longer than we first thought. We’ve slid backwards! And here is the solution: to forget we�
�re living in a colony, to refuse to change, and to preserve our own ways of life. Then, one day, when the door swings open and we are able to flee, the years spent here will roll off our backs, as though the cloak that kept us hidden suddenly fell off our shoulders, without us ever having changed.
PIETRA: We want to divest these people of their civilisation, which we don’t even know anything about, so as to dress them up in a new one. But this changes the very essence of our presence here!
The Colonial Conquest: The Confines of the Shadow Volume I Page 9
