The Kindness of Enemies

by Leila Aboulela

  Early the next morning, I let myself out quietly and pushed my key through the letter box. My car was full of those things of my mother’s I had decided to keep. When I stopped for petrol, the clock in the shop showed 5.50 a.m. I bought a new SIM card, a buttery and the new edition of Classic Car. I was going to visit Malak on the way. This was how I got through the night, thinking of her and her house and how good I had felt staying with her and Oz, like I was worth something and we were ringed by wider spaces, the past, the future, the Caucasus, the Grampians, my memories of Khartoum. It should not have ended, not in the way that it did. I had not been able to speak to her since the police took our phones. Now I wanted more news of Oz. And she always got up early to pray so I would not be disturbing her.

  It was a little after dawn when I parked in front of her house. Without the snow, the fields and the house itself looked bleak. She came out of the front door or at least it seemed to be her. Her appearance was noticeably different. Hair straight as a helmet, pencil skirt, leather jacket, boots reaching her knees. It was as if she was dressed for a part – what part, I wasn’t sure.

  ‘I thought you were the taxi,’ she said and explained that she was going to Glasgow for a few days.

  I persuaded her to cancel the taxi booking and that I would give her a lift to the station. We went back indoors so that she could use the phone. I was grateful for those moments inside the house, to wander around and recharge myself. I was looking at the empty space on the wall where the sword had been, when she joined me. ‘My great grandfather said that he got it back from the Russians. This is the sword Shamil wanted to fight with until it was shattered into pieces. The fact that it is whole represents the sacrifice he made. The other day when Oz was playing with it in the snow, he wasn’t respecting it enough. He has – as I have – a heritage which is moral and thoughtful and merciful. Did he honour it? Or did he choose to go along with those who claim they’re acting in the name of Islam and at the same time don’t follow the principles of submission and restraint?’

  I was taken aback. ‘You don’t believe he’s guilty, do you?’ Maybe she knew more than I did.

  She tensed a little. ‘He’s involved. But I can’t be sure. It’s all moved online these days. You can do it all on a laptop – run a website, fundraise, send money abroad, post this and that. Search for whatever needs searching for. He’s ruined his life; how will he ever get out of this?’

  She was not asking me a question. She went on, ‘Or I think “that little squirt ruined my life”. Because I forget he is old, I forget that to the world he is a man. I keep going back to when he was little, when he was nine, fifteen. My memory mixes all these versions of him together. And I feel the same anger that I felt for him when he muddied his brand new trainers or went out without locking the front door. Then I shake myself, this isn’t a prank … I keep going back over things he said, the way I brought him up. I don’t believe it. Except that I remember one time. There was something on the radio about a suicide bomber and he said “cool”.’ She looked down to the ground.

  I could imagine him breathing the word without smiling, without intending to shock. ‘So what did you say to him?’ I asked.

  ‘I let it pass. We do that sometimes, we mums, we pretend not to hear.’

  That stung. We mums. As if I would never find out, as if I would never be part of that group.

  ‘We bury our heads in the sand,’ she continued. ‘Because we are busy or we can’t be bothered to start an argument or because we can’t keep tabs on every little thing. And they do pass, these fads and moods. They go through phases. He went through a phase, I remember, of believing all these conspiracy theories about 9/11 – that it wasn’t Muslims that did it. I argued with him then, I talked him out of it, or at least I thought I did.’

  I too had my misgivings about Oz. No situation at any given time is entirely new; the constraints and conversations are different, the fears are different, but still today is a ripple of former times, a version of what has been passed down. Supposing Oz was neither completely guilty nor completely innocent. Suppose he had done something wrong but that something might not be what he was arrested for, might not be what he would be punished for. And at the end of the day we would all accept what was happening. We would all have a rationale for it, a way of putting it into perspective.

  I said, ‘We should go. I don’t want you to miss your train.’

  She picked up the house keys. Her movements were a little nervous, her shoulders dropping. Despite the effort over her appearance, she looked the slightest bit gaunt, she looked her age. ‘I’ve got an appointment with a London lawyer who specialises in terrorist arrests. He’s coming up to Glasgow to meet me and talk to Oz. They haven’t charged him with anything yet.’

  It was when she started talking about Oz that I guessed the part she was dressed up for: activist mum campaigning for the release of her son.

  I gave her my new mobile number, she gave me her house phone and the number of the hotel she was staying at in Glasgow. We would be in touch from now on. I drove slowly, wanting her company but unable to tell her about the last few days.

  ‘I was in denial when he was first arrested,’ she said. ‘Then I told myself I have to help him in every way, every possible way. I have to get him out of this mess. I can’t just sit back and cry. What good would it do? Yes, it’s been a shock for me but it’s not about me now, it’s about him.’

  Light was beginning to gather around us but below the clouds I could still see the full moon. It looked like a sun. ‘I haven’t spoken to him,’ she said in reply to my question. ‘They wouldn’t let me. And they wouldn’t let me take him anything. No change of clothes, no food, no nothing. I called his father in Cape Town.’ She sounded breathless, maybe because she was speaking too fast. ‘Instead of getting on the next plane, he says, “They might drag me into it and then what use would I be to him?” Can you believe it!’

  Yes, I could believe it, but I kept my eyes on the road. She sighed and touched her forehead. ‘So I’m on my own now in this. But I know people in London. I know people in the media and in human rights groups and I am not going to take this lying down.’

  We were inside Montrose now, passing the caravan park, empty now, nothing like in the summer. She said, ‘You don’t look well, Natasha. You look like you haven’t been sleeping properly.’

  I told her about my flat and the nights in hotels. I told her why I couldn’t stay with Tony any more.

  ‘Come and stay with me,’ she said. ‘When I get back. I mean it.’

  It touched me, this not unexpected invitation, but I would need somewhere closer to the university. I felt heavy with what I couldn’t tell her – the mistakes I had made; my conversation with Iain, all the reports I had written on the ‘vulnerable students’. I stopped the car in the parking bay of the train station. She undid her seat belt.

  I wanted to tell her that the days I had spent with her and Oz were special. Days in which I needed neither drink nor medication. Days in which I liked myself – no, that was not what it was; it was days in which I was free of the burden of myself. Instead I blurted out, ‘Malak, I’ve committed a sin.’ Since when did I use such language! Gaynor’s pro-life leaflet had hit me where it hurt.

  She laughed and turned towards me, touched my arm. ‘Only one? You’re lucky.’

  I pressed my lips together. The impulse to confess passed.

  Her voice changed. ‘Don’t do it again.’

  I looked at her dark eyes, not fierce like Shamil’s, not as wise, not as profound, but still there was something weighty there, the smallest remnant of power, just for me. I asked her, ‘Don’t do what again?’

  ‘What you believe is a sin. And don’t even talk about it. Let it go. Many things in life are out of our control but our egos insist that they are leaders.’ She stepped out of the car, the first rays of sun making her hair gleam. ‘Better a sin that leaves us broken-hearted, than a virtuous act that puffs us up with pride,’ she quo
ted. In this small Scottish station there were, directed at her, a few glances of surprise, glances of not quite admiration but an acknowledgement of that special quality she carried.

  2. DARGO, THE CAUCASUS, NOVEMBER 1854

  In spite of the fog, she insisted on her regular walk on the roof. Exercise was the cure for her restlessness, the outdoors an escape from the smoky chimney, the sound of the wind banging the doors and windows. But today the mountains were not visible. Holding Alexander’s hand, they could only see a few feet in front of them. Enough for a slower than usual walk, not too brisk, not like the other time when they ran a race. It made them feel as if they were entirely alone, in the kind of privacy they had been accustomed to in their life in Georgia and were now, as captives, deprived of.

  The fog thinned and Anna could see the curved edges of dense clouds trapped between the lower peaks. Then all became grey again. We could be anywhere, she thought. This silvery blindness was a neutral surface she could impose her imagination on. The garden in Tsinondali, Alexander in his summer hat. She must talk to him about home so that he did not forget. She must talk to him about his father.

  But Alexander could not be pinned down to the subject of home. He surprised her by asking, ‘Is Baby Lydia in Heaven now?’

  It had been a long time since he had mentioned his sister. ‘Yes,’ Anna replied. ‘Yes she is.’

  ‘Is she happy?’

  ‘Yes, she is well and happy.’ She squeezed her son’s shoulder. When he looked up, she bent down and gave him a kiss. It was a comfort to her that, despite everything, he was well and happy. Her own hair was falling out; all she had to do was run her fingers through it for strands to loosen and fall. Dampness had crept into her chest so that she often coughed and wheezed through the night. A heavy downpour the previous week had caused the courtyard to flood; all became mud and dirt, dankness a smell she couldn’t shake off. Since Shamil’s arrival, their food had increased but it continued to be unappetising and limited in variety.

  ‘Imam Shamil said he would let me ride his horse tomorrow,’ Alexander was saying. ‘If the weather is good. He really said that. He promised.’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid of him?’ She was a little. The stories his wives liked to recount of his mystical abilities made her nervous. At first she had mocked them saying, ‘If he were so holy, he would bring my daughter back to me,’ but the way he looked at her on the few times they met made her feel that he knew more than he should.

  ‘Why should I be afraid of him? He gave me sweets today,’ Alexander said. ‘He gave all the children sweets. We had to stand in line. And I got extra because I was a guest.’

  ‘Lucky you.’ She meant it. Sometimes the craving for toffees and chocolates made her dizzy. At other times she desired nothing, her body arid and flat as paper. In the Eid al Adha oxen and sheep were slaughtered and there was enough meat for all. But the smell of the meat had made her crave wine and the feast did not feel like a feast without it.

  Alexander said, ‘When he is not speaking, he looks like a lion.’

  ‘So you are afraid of him?’ She could just make out the stairs, which meant they had come full circle. For the sake of variety, she switched sides with Alexander. He was now on her left.

  ‘No I’m not. A lion who is very quiet. You almost think he’s asleep.’

  She smiled. ‘When did you ever see a lion?’

  ‘In a picture book.’

  ‘Poor Alexander, you must miss all your books and toys.’ She wanted him to talk about his playthings but he suddenly cried out because he had seen something that she couldn’t. He let go of her hand and surged into the milky space ahead. The sound of an unfamiliar laugh as Shamil lifted him up off the ground. This is what Anna could see now. Shamil, with one arm, holding Alexander up high. His hand supported her son’s chest. Alexander lifted his arms out to the side, his legs straight out behind him. ‘Look Mama, I’m flying like an eagle!’ She caught the pleasure in his voice and laughed out loud as Shamil bent so that Alexander swooped down and Shamil twisted and moved so that Alexander, the eagle, veered left and right, weightless and free.

  When he put him down, gently in case he was dizzy, Shamil took out of his pocket a few pieces of dried fruit and gave them to Alexander. He turned to her and said, his Russian words carefully chosen, his accent familiar to her, ‘Would Anna Elinichna, Princess of Georgia, like some figs?’

  She warmed to the way he addressed her. It had a meaning these days, in this place; it was necessary that who she was should be acknowledged. She liked figs too, but pride made her say, ‘No, thank you.’

  Alexander wandered off with his mouth full. The fog thinned; he spotted the sentry and walked towards him.

  ‘Alexander and I have become friends,’ Shamil said.

  ‘Yes you have. In Georgia he used to hear that you eat Russian children.’

  ‘Raw or cooked?’

  She smiled. ‘I am sure this particular rumour is untrue.’

  ‘What else have you heard about me?’

  ‘That you miraculously escaped more than once.’ She started to walk and he fell in step with her.

  ‘They are cumbersome and slow these Russians. Heavy-handed bombing, brute strength – that’s what they’re good at. But you are right. I escaped by the will of Allah Almighty; my abilities are not enough.’

  ‘Did you really jump over a line of soldiers who surrounded you, slashed two with your sword …’

  ‘Three,’ he corrected her.

  ‘… and then over a five-foot wall.’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘With one leap?’

  ‘I was young then. What else?’

  She flushed, sensing that she had been praising him and he was enjoying it. ‘That’s all. Do you keep your word?’

  ‘I do. And if my demands are met I will set you free.’

  A coolness settled over her. He was reminding her of something she would rather have forgotten. But she was the one who had asked the question.

  ‘Does Anna, Princess of Georgia not believe me?’

  She turned to look at him, beard, turban, worn-out coat; no weapons. ‘Yes, I believe you.’

  ‘Nothing has caused me so much pain as treachery. If the Russians would fight me honourably, I would not mind living the rest of my life in a state of war. But they tricked me; in Akhulgo they treated me like a criminal, not a warrior, and they sent my son far away to St Petersburg.’

  She could imagine how he must have felt. It was not difficult. ‘My grandfather, George the twelfth, did not want to go to war. He did not want his children to live in a state of war. This is why he bequeathed Georgia to the tsar.’

  ‘Is that what you’ve been told? He had first wanted protection from the tsar but instead Georgia was annexed.’

  ‘For the sake of prosperity.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  As a child her instinct had been repelled by the loss of the Georgian throne; Georgia distinctive, whole, should not be swallowed up. Her questions were at first received with indulgent sighs and then disapproval – it was unbecoming for a young princess to express dissatisfaction with the king’s will. And so now she repeated to Shamil the answers she had received over the years. ‘My grandfather believed in progress. Progress meant following Russia. It meant education in the European manner. It meant change for the better.’

  ‘You do not sound convinced.’

  ‘My husband is more European than me. He often remarks that I am too Georgian, too traditional.’ She regretted the confidence immediately. It felt as if she had tripped.

  He caught her in time. ‘Here in Dargo, you are more modern than any of us.’

  She stopped walking. ‘I should not have said that about my husband. It was not my intention to sound disloyal.’

  ‘You are not disloyal.’

  She nodded and moved briskly away, stumbled in the mist, scraped her shoulders against the wall, until she found the stairs.

  In the evening Ameena tiptoed into he
r room. Her ankle bracelets jingled, the kohl rimmed around her eyes made them wider. ‘I will hide with you, Anna,’ she said. She had a gleeful smile on her face. It made her look like a child set on a prank. She drew the door behind her but left a crack open, flounced down on the floor and peered out. Anna joined her. She could see the entrance to Ameena’s room across the gallery. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Shush,’ giggled Ameena. ‘Wait and see.’

  Anna saw Shamil approach Ameena’s room and knock on the door. Ameena shifted on her knees, breath held. Shamil stood in his long white coat, head bowed; he knocked again. Finding no response, he stood waiting at the door.

  Anna whispered, ‘Why doesn’t he just walk in?’ The key was visible in the lock.

  Ameena breathed in to supress a laugh. ‘He’s waiting for me to let him in.’

  Time passed and yet there was no expression of impatience on Shamil’s face. He did not knock again on the door, he did not fidget or stamp his feet. Yet it must be cold to stand so still. Anna drew her shawl closer around her. She watch the breath come out of him like smoke.

  ‘I’m going to keep him waiting and waiting.’ Ameena’s voice was a pitch higher. Would he hear her, would he sense her? If so, Anna would rather she was not with Ameena, giving the false impression that she was her accomplice. She moved away from the door and went back to where she had been sitting on a cushion on the floor. Chairs were one of the things she missed but it no longer hurt her thighs to sit on the floor. Not like when she had first arrived – the pins and needles, the stiffness in standing up again.

  Ameena turned and beckoned. Anna quickly took up her position behind the door again. She saw Shamil turn the key of the room but instead of unlocking it and walking in, he locked it, put the key in his pocket and walked in the opposite direction.

  Ameena groaned. She was now locked out of her own room.

  The following morning Alexander insisted that she accompany him to the goodbye gathering in the courtyard. Shamil was riding out to battle or so Anna assumed. He could be going to inspect troops or visit other aouls but she did not want to ask. Ameena was indiscreet and often let slip the kind of military information Anna should not know about, but the others were tight-lipped, Chuanat out of fear for his safety, and the snippets Zeidat dropped were deliberately guaranteed to lower Anna’s morale. ‘We must stand in line to see him ride out,’ Alexander insisted but Madame Drancy refused to budge and it was Anna now, shivering in the cold, who was crammed with the whole household, children, servants and an added group of eager beggars. The weather was brighter today and she could see all the way down to the successive stone walls that circled the aoul, each with its wide low entrance. The mountains beyond and all around were covered in snow, the sky a bluish grey in contrast.