Zeidat swept down and squatted in front of her, her breath dry and sour. She clicked her fingers in front of Anna’s face so that the diamond on her ring flashed. ‘Recognise this!’ It had belonged to David’s mother; it was looted from Tsinondali. ‘Your husband is rich, isn’t he? So he needs to pay us. We must have fifty thousand roubles. We need to build our villages again, the ones you burnt down, the trees you cut down, the crops you destroyed, the pastures you razed, the cattle you did not pull away like decent warriors but shot down for no reason other than that you are evil Russians.’
I am Georgian, not Russian.
It was difficult to stop the words from coming out but still it was a challenge that she welcomed. Being able to restrain herself was itself a reassurance that she had control. She needed these proofs throughout the day. A little while ago, when Zeidat walked in, Anna had ordered Drancy to step out of the room and noted with bitter satisfaction the reply of ‘Yes, Your Highness’. Insisting that Alexander continue with his lessons, asking him to speak French at all times with Madame Drancy. She was clinging to who she had been, insisting on being more than a prisoner. ‘Anna, Princess of Georgia’ was how Shamil had addressed her. He knew who she was.
‘Write a letter,’ Zeidat hissed.
‘I have written to my husband.’
A smirk. ‘And he has not paid up. Maybe your husband has forgotten you. Write to that rich tsar of yours. Tell him to pay your ransom. Beg him for help.’
‘No.’ She should have heeded the warnings and stayed in Tiflis for the summer; later on she should have escaped immediately to the forest. Now, especially, she could not approach the emperor when he was so troubled by the campaigns in the Crimea.
Zeidat looked like she wanted to hit her. She opened her mouth but Anna interrupted, ‘The tsar will not hand over Jamaleldin.’ She remembered him clearly now as the exotically handsome aide-decamp, walking two paces behind the tsar. ‘And Jamaleldin himself would never want to come here.’
A vagueness skimmed over Zeidat’s eyes. Jamaleldin was not her son; perhaps that was why she cared more about the money. But Anna had heard Shamil say, ‘I want my son back.’ She had understood him because of Lydia.
Zeidat cocked her head to one side. ‘The tsar will return Shamil Imam’s son. And your husband will pay the money.’
‘My husband does not have fifty thousand roubles.’
‘Liar,’ Zeidat snorted.
‘I am not a liar. His wealth is in the land.’
‘Then he will have to sell it, won’t he?’
‘We don’t sell our land. It belongs to our ancestors and to our children. It is more than a possession.’ Tsinondali was vivid to her, more so than the present. Tsinondali was big and bright and waiting for her. When she was young, her father would speak disapprovingly of a neighbour who sold his land to cover debts, of a cousin who neglected his estate, of a friend who mistreated his serfs. The land was a responsibility, part of the fabric of the family. Not for sale.
Zeidat stood up. ‘Haughty, haughty. Do you think I believe such nonsense? Sell, borrow, steal, we don’t care. We want both: Jamaleldin and the money. Otherwise what will happen? You asked Shamil Imam this when you were presented to him and what did he say? He said “Our ordinary laws and customs will apply.” Did you understand what he meant? Of course you didn’t. Well let me explain. It means no more of the “guest” nonsense. It means you are a prisoner-of-war, like any prisoner. How do you treat us, you Russians, when our men fall into your hands? When our women fall into your hands?’ She squatted down again close to Anna. ‘Let me tell you, I lost sisters in Akhulgo dear to me, one a cousin and another a close friend. When the village fell, they could see the Russian soldiers climbing up, coming close, they could not escape and so they knew the Russians were going to capture them; do you know what they did? They covered their faces with their veils and jumped from the cliffs.’ Zeidat’s voice rose to a pitch. ‘Because being captured by the Russians is worse for a woman than death. Do you understand what I am saying? If the negotiations fail, you, Anna, would become a prisoner-of-war. You would be tossed out of my home and I would do it gladly. If the money isn’t paid, if Shamil Imam doesn’t get his son back, he will hand you over as a gift to his favourite naib. You understand, Anna, what I mean by the word “gift” – of course, you are not a child. That is our custom. Already every day now one of his naibs approaches him with an offer to purchase you. So write to the tsar.’
Anna pressed her hands together to hide their tremble. Her fingers were slippery. ‘I will not write to the tsar asking for a ransom and if you refuse to take the lead from Imam Shamil and treat me as a guest, then the least you can do is address me as he does, by my title.’
Zeidat picked up Alexander’s netting and stood up. It was one agile movement, a smoothness in her voice. ‘Maybe when your son is itching and crying, you will start to see sense.’
In this room, which was poorly lit even in the daytime, Anna had strained her eyes repairing the bigger holes in the netting. She now watched Zeidat carry the material out of the room. The sewing materials were one of the few things David had been able to send. Along with combs, soap, towels and a shawl. A serf from Tsinondali had made the perilous journey and had been allowed to speak to her for a few minutes, though not in private. He reassured her that David and all their friends were doing all they could to secure her release. No doubt the serf would go back and report on how thin she had become. She gave him a letter to David but she was only allowed to write about the ransom, nothing else. With a wooden pen and piece of wool soaked in ink (the only writing materials provided), she had managed a few stilted sentences, no information about their life, except that they were in good health, well looked after.
She read David’s letter only once. It made her stay awake at night, silently shouting at him. On the day of the kidnapping, he said – I thought you had escaped to the woods when I saw the flames rising up from the direction of Tsinondali. Why he had not rushed back home – the correct military procedure was to lie in ambush waiting for the enemy’s return. Why he had not attempted to save her – I know from experience that they prefer to slaughter, God forbid, their prisoners rather than loose them, I could not take such a risk. How the serfs found Lydia – they recognized the lace shawl … Where she was buried – in the Church of St George which has escaped the fire. When he found out about the burial and the kidnapping – two days later, when it was safe for me to leave the fort.
When it was safe for me to leave the fort.
The lace shawl.
She had wanted to tear up the letter. But she had controlled herself. Why make Zeidat laugh at her? Why upset Alexander? She had not torn it up but she had not read it again. David was telling the truth, she knew, when he said, I am doing everything I can to secure your release but, strangely enough, she did not believe in him. Nor did she doubt him, or question his abilities. He was telling her the truth but the truth did not always inspire faith. That was what she lacked often these days after the denial and the extravagant hope had passed, especially after the ransom sums were bandied about, more extortionate, it seemed, by the minute. Was it greed or compensation? She was not sure. Crops burnt, villages destroyed, forests felled … why? Her faith was wavering, not only that they would go back to Georgia but in who was right, who was winning; what was it all for?
Madame Drancy was better than her in this respect. She impressed Anna with her determination to be a true Christian, patiently carrying her cross. She would read aloud from the Imitation de Jesus-Christ, the only book that managed to reach them. ‘This is my true comfort,’ she would say, a little dramatically, tears in her eyes. Often she gave in to sobs and hysterics whenever she missed her mother or fell ill. These easy feminine tears made Anna envious. She was all dried up after Lydia, too angry to cry.
Of course David was doing everything he could to secure her release, but every day he seemed further away, detached from this strange new life. She would not ev
en want to tell him about it, ashamed of what she had been reduced to. But again, his letter should have given her nourishment. One would think, she mused, that such a letter would be my lifeline, my consolation, my link. Instead its words rattled rather than soothed her, kept her awake, her body lengthened with passion, her dreams, when they finally came, carnal and unfulfilling. The nights were hot and the room poorly ventilated. Thighs stuck together, sweat pooling under her breasts, her hair damp on the pillow. Last night she had sensed a familiar tug that folded into a gentle ache, a promise of a trickle. It had been more than a year since she had leaked this monthly blood, since first carrying Lydia. Welcome old friend. To reassure her that she was still fertile. To promise her future princes and princesses.
When they had first arrived in Dargo, it was stifling nights following long empty days. Total imprisonment in this one room for at least two weeks. ‘Is this how you treat your guests, Imam Shamil?’ she had berated him the next time they met, finding herself matching his tone, using his words. ‘No fresh air, no sunlight, no exercise. No wonder we are poorly.’ He relented immediately; Anna and Madame Drancy to have full and free access to all of the women’s quarters, Alexander to play outdoors with the children of the aoul, even all day if he wanted to.
What did they do with themselves, Shamil’s women? Anna’s hosts were themselves like prisoners huddled in these quarters. Rooms of stone that opened into a gallery, screened by a high wooden fence, through which they could look out at the rest of their household. Shamil had his own separate building adjoining the mosque, a reception room in which he conducted meetings and received visitors. His rooms, which roused Anna’s mild curiosity, were not shared by any of his wives. Instead he visited them in turn, knocking on their door, waiting for permission to come in.
‘Is it true,’ she asked Chuanat, who arrived sneaking in another netting for Alexander, cake and tea for his mother, ‘that you ransomed yourself to Shamil to save your family?’
Chuanat smiled with her usual warmth. ‘That’s what I wanted them to believe but, no, I fell in love with him. I could not leave him.’ When they had first arrived in Dargo, Anna had noticed that Chuanat was plump. In fact she was pregnant and now due to give birth. Her trousers were hitched above her bulge; she needed extra pillows to lean upon.
Anna had plenty of questions. How could Chuanat bear this life? Did she not mind sharing Shamil with Zeidat and Ameena? Does not love wane after years of marriage and children?
‘When he comes back safe from battle, I am so relieved. It is as if I am seeing him again for the first time, fresh feelings and we start all over again. He is so handsome, I sometimes think he has bewitched me. If the story about the mountain lion is true, then it would be easy for him to ensnare a young girl. The first day I saw him, the way he looked at me, it was as if he knew everything about me and I didn’t have to explain myself. I was young when I was captured. Treated fairly well on the journey, no one laid a finger on me, but I cried for my family. Then he became my family. He replaced everything I lost, and more. He never asked me to change my religion. ‘Chuanat, my Christian wife’, he made everyone say it, like him, with respect. ‘We worship the same God,’ he told me, ‘and when you are ready I will show you shorter, quicker, more direct routes to Him. I will lead you.’ My mother had wanted to give me to the church. Yes, I had been destined for the Armenian Church – but I had my own misgivings though I kept them to myself. I loved my Lord and wanted to serve Him; I even liked how the nuns lived, how peaceful they were and orderly. I liked their clean life removed from the bustle of the markets, away from the competition and envy and always wanting more. But I wanted children, I imagined myself a mother and that made me think that I would be out of place in the convent, I wouldn’t be able to keep up with the other nuns, somehow, I would let them down. Now here I have everything I wanted.’ She laid a hand on the bulge of her stomach. ‘They are all inseparable, the baby and the prayers.’
‘But it is so basic, this life. How can you bear it? No music, no rides, no books. These stone rooms. The food is horrible, the clothes are horrible.’
Chuanat nodded, ‘Yes, I wish Shamil would permit us to dress better. A bonnet and a cloak – I would like that. But not the other things, not at all. It would have been basic too in the convent. Now I feel I have plenty. The outside world doesn’t interest me. When I pray behind him I am happy. I am peaceful. Shamil has brought me closer to God, because he is close to Him. And there is such a blessing in being with him, in serving him. It is a kind of intoxication that does not diminish or become stale. It is as close as I can get to Heaven. He is gentle with us. Have you seen him with the children? He always gives them fruit and toffees.’
Anna had seen him once carrying a pretty girl, while her crippled leg hung over his arms. She was his daughter, from Zeidat. His two older daughters were from the late Fatima; they were thirteen and ten.
‘He is one thing at home and another outside. He has never raised a hand against any of us. He knows when I am tired, he knows when I am remembering my family; he understands when someone has upset me.’
‘And the others?’ Anna prodded. Polygamy disgusted her but at such close quarters it was interesting.
‘Zeidat’s father is Sheikh Jamal el-Din, Shamil Imam’s teacher. Zeidat could not find a husband because of her sharp temper and difficult ways – so in gratitude to his teacher and to ease his mind, Shamil married her. I did get jealous when he married Ameena. But she is too young, she does not appreciate him. I don’t know what is wrong with this girl, she is moody and doesn’t know what she wants. You know she once set fire to Zeidat’s room! Over a quarrel about a piece of silk! She flew into a rage and burnt all of Zeidat’s clothes. And Imam Shamil did not punish her.’
Ameena visited Anna later that day. She often did, keen to hear stories about Petersburg and the tsar’s court or to ask Madame Drancy about Paris. Anna found her a harmless distraction as well as a welcome source of information about the household. It was Ameena who told her that the elderly lady, Bahou, was Jamaleldin and Ghazi’s maternal grandmother, mother of the deceased Fatima. The one who looked like Ameena was her mother, the middle-aged Tartar was the governess of Shamil’s daughters, the steward’s wife, a visitor and so on. Today Ameena took Anna by the arm. ‘Come, let me show you something special.’
They walked through the gallery to the building that housed Shamil’s quarters. Anna began to feel wary even though she knew he was away. Curiosity kept her from turning around. Ameena pushed open a door and they were in Shamil’s room. In the dim light Anna smelt cloves or camphor. When her eyes adjusted she saw, hanging over the fireplace, a scimitar, a sword and some pistols. The pistols were Georgian, mounted in silver. The sword had an Ottoman cartouche and there was gold Arabic calligraphy inscribed on the blade. The hilt was of animal horn and there were vegetal decorations on the crossbar.
The walls of the room were a simple white and there were a few Caucasian rugs on the floor, a wooden trunk pushed against the wall, a copper basin and jug. What surprised Anna most were the books, manuscripts and journals lining the shelves of more than one wall. There was a stack of the St Petersburg paper, the Russki Invalid. It was a simple room, no opulent chair, no desk, no clocks or cigar boxes, no globes and no decoration. And yet she wanted to linger, to absorb the solemn atmosphere, the stillness that almost had a colour. She looked more closely at the books, their Arabic script, a stack of letters, ledgers full of accounts. Ameena moved towards the trunk and said, ‘Come and see his clothes.’
Anna shook her head but Ameena had already lifted the lid of the trunk open. Anna looked down at green and brown woollen cloaks folded neatly, the heavy twisted white that made up his turban. She flushed because she was snooping and she should not be. She had told him that first time, My rank and upbringing forbid me to lie. I will not trick you. Ameena was naive to bring her here; perhaps she would be punished for it.
‘Let us go back.’ She turned to see Ameena hold
ing a pistol in her hand. There was a strange expression on her face. She pointed it at Anna. It could not be loaded, but the sudden fear made her whole body tingle. ‘Put it back, Ameena.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is not yours.’
‘Or because your life is worth thousands of roubles? How much do you think my life is worth? One thousand, five hundred? How much is a childless wife worth?’
She did not feel frightened any more. ‘You are still young, Ameena, there is plenty of time for you to have children.’
Ameena mounted the pistol back on the wall. ‘I was teasing you,’ she said. She linked arms with Anna as they left the room. ‘But you weren’t afraid at all. If this were Drancy, I would have laughed my fill at her hysterics.’
The next day Chuanat gave birth to a girl. She lay propped up on cushions, dark shadows under her eyes but smiling, the baby swaddled in her arms. Her room filled up with women and a tray of rubbery Turkish Delight was passed around. The celebration would have been bigger had it been a boy. ‘We are waiting for her father to name her,’ Chuanat smiled. ‘I have already sent a message to him. Would you like to hold her, Anna?’
She could not refuse, though it brought back gusts of disbelief, one battering memory after the other. She had crooked her arm in exactly the same way, made sure Lydia’s head was supported, felt her own body large in comparison, a bulwark against harm. All babies were alike but not identical. There was the delicate skin, dewy, sometimes flaky, hair on the arms like threads. There were the exquisite movements, the slight toss of the head, mouth open rooting for milk, a yawn, a push of the elbow, a drawing in of the knee; these exact same movements the mother had felt in the womb. And then there were their eyes, large and steady because they held knowledge of other worlds. Later, in a few years’ time, they would carry names that defined them; they would find out on which side of the war they belonged. Later they would learn the legends and the proverbs, hear them from an older cousin or a younger aunt. When will blood stop flowing on the mountains? When the sugarcane grows in snow. But not yet, in these early days of their life – they were above it all, pure and holy.
The Kindness of Enemies Page 15