The Kindness of Enemies

by Leila Aboulela

  Anna had woken up to a busy household. From the window, she watched Zeidat, with full concentration, saddling Shamil’s horse as if she wanted to ride out herself, before walking off shouting at the servants for their tardy packing. In the meantime Shamil was indoors, spending a long time visiting the elderly Bahou in her room. When she shuffled with him to the door, Anna saw him kiss her hand one last time and ask for her blessings. Then he sat with his crippled daughter, Najdat, who was unwell, crooning to her and feeding her breakfast. Now in his long sheepskin coat, his scimitar held by a leather halter, a tall Circassian hat on top of his white turban, he carried his newborn baby and walked slowly in the windy courtyard bidding everyone goodbye and asking them to pray for his safety.

  ‘I should not be here,’ Anna thought but the delight on Alexander’s face made her stay. Tugging at her hand, he was caught up in the thrill of the moment. Shamil’s white Arabian stallion, now led from the stables, had a red bridle and a bright crimson blanket under the saddle. More horsemen gathered outside the gate. The canter and snorts of their horses filled the air. They carried banners and a few began to chant. The whole aoul, it seemed, was out and Anna felt nervous of the fervour that was building up. The repetition of La ilaha illa Allah rose up around her and even Alexander joined in. Later, when he kept on singing it, Madame Drancy, ever sensitive to religious differences, would scold him and in vain teach him Cadet Roussel as a substitute. But now Anna looked at his animated face and could not bring herself to censure him. To see him enjoying himself was enough and when they went home, she deliberately reassured herself, all this would become a childish memory.

  Shamil, in what must be a farewell custom, handed out pieces of cotton cloth to the beggars and servants. He seemed reluctant to leave. The fervour of his men, the excitement of battle had not yet reached him. He was giving pieces of silk to his wives when Chuanat burst into tears. She took the baby from him and, overcome, had to be helped indoors by Ameena. Sweets for the children, and Shamil was now in front of them both. Anna could see the fringes of black fur around his collar and sleeves. He was more distant than he had been that day on the roof, but his sadness weighed him down and bobbed him towards her. Alexander was cheeky enough to demand his extra guest’s ration.

  ‘You are right, young prince,’ said Shamil. ‘I owe you two coloured creams instead of one.’

  In imitation of the other children, Alexander bent and kissed his hand. Thank God Madame Drancy didn’t see this, thought Anna. Shamil turned to her now, looked straight into her eyes. ‘Anna Elinichna, Princess of Georgia, I have no gift worthy of you. I am not a rich man.’

  She remembered her rude refusal of the dried figs, opened her mouth but there was nothing to say.

  ‘So instead I will send you a dream.’

  Later she would wonder if she had heard him correctly. Later when she waited for the dream and rebuked herself for waiting for the dream and marvelled that she was waiting for a dream. Later she would doubt that she had heard him correctly. He must have meant something else, a weakness in his Russian, a misunderstanding. But she was almost sure he had said it. ‘I will send you a dream.’ And then it was all over immediately, the individual and collective farewells, the melancholy air, the mixture of anxiety and loss. He turned and leapt on his horse. The chanting rose like cheers. He gathered speed and cantered towards the gate. Joined now by the other men, he galloped towards the outskirts of the aoul. The portal was too low for him to ride through and yet he didn’t slow down his pace. At the very last minute, to the thrill of the crowd, he pitched himself low over the horse’s side. Once through the first portal, he stood up on the stirrups of the speeding horse, and again, this time with Alexander gripping her hand, swung himself to the side of the horse just in time to pass under the second entrance. The chants grew louder as the riders, crouching low over their saddles, followed him out of the aoul and into the distance of the lowlands.

  ‘Madame Drancy, you certainly missed a show of equestrian skill today.’ Anna was flushed from the cold. She stood by the fire rubbing her hands. Madame Drancy, bent over the Imitation de Jesus-Christ, looked up at her with tears in her eyes. ‘If Imam Shamil dies in battle, we are completely lost.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If he is killed, they will cut our throats. Zeidat said so.’

  ‘To frighten you, I am sure.’

  ‘I told her I would rather die than live here the rest of my life.’

  ‘And what did she say to that?’

  ‘She flew into a rage. But I am not afraid of her. If she wants me to despair, I will not.’

  Anna felt the familiar soberness creep up on her, the duty to bolster Madame Drancy. ‘You are right, we must not despair.’ She sat down next to the governess. ‘Tell me about your book. Have you been thinking more about it?’

  Madame Drancy was planning to write about their kidnap and captivity. Sometimes when she could get hold of ink and paper, she scribbled down notes. But a carefully drawn map of the compound had been confiscated by Zeidat and there would have been dire consequences had not Chuanat intervened. ‘It is always on my mind,’ Drancy said. ‘I am constantly recording all that I see and hear so that I don’t forget. Remember that pit we saw when we went for our walk?’

  It had been a large empty pit and they had speculated about its use.

  A faint expression of glee crossed Madame Drancy’s face. ‘There is a woman in it now, a young woman with a baby in his cradle.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘She killed the murderer of her husband. Her punishment is to stay there for four months. After which she will be promptly married off.’

  The marriages of widows was a subject that fascinated Madame Drancy. ‘I have never been in such close proximity to a people so different from me. It is a marvel.’

  A marvel. For a person to send another a dream would indeed be a marvel. Anna waited a day, a week. She slept better than she had ever slept before but in the morning there was nothing to remember, only fragments of sights and sounds, poor in quality, nothing wholly formed, nothing distinct.

  Shamil’s absence meant reduced rations at mealtimes, all of which were poorer quality. There was also no response to requests for an extra blanket or for a coat for Alexander when it started to snow. Shamil’s absence meant longer visits from Chuanat and her baby, Ameena showing off her talent to sing, egging Drancy on for more descriptions of Paris, insisting that Anna teach her the difference between the mazurka and the quadrille. His absence meant that when the sound of gunfire echoed around the mountains, Chuanat would cry, Drancy would cross herself and no one would want to talk. His absence meant no protection from Zeidat. She banged into the room one morning brandishing a copy of the Russki Invalid.

  ‘Read this!’ She pointed at a paragraph. It was an article about Queen Victoria granting sums of money to the Crimean War.

  ‘See,’ said Zeidat. ‘This is proof that such big sums of money do exist. If the Empress of England can pay millions so can the Empress of Russia. You were her lady-in-waiting. She will pay if you ask her.’

  Anna wondered if Zeidat was serious or merely bluffing. ‘The empress will not be fooled into paying such exorbitant sums.’

  ‘Well, your family can. Today I spoke to the mother of a man who has been to your estate in Tsinondali. Such riches and trees and gardens. With all this evidence I will put pressure on Shamil Imam to raise the ransom to sixty thousand roubles. And his naibs will support this. See if they won’t!’

  ‘Do you understand these figures you are talking about? No one has so much money.’

  Zeidat stabbed the newspaper. ‘It’s right here.’ She sat down cross-legged on the floor and lowered her voice into a whisper. ‘Listen, Imam Shamil wants his son back but we’ve been hearing reports about Jamaleldin. What good is a man who drinks wine and dances with half-naked women? What kind of fighter will he be? I cannot say this to my husband but I am telling you now, woman to woman: what use would Jamal
eldin be to us? I say better a larger ransom than such a son.’

  Anna tried to hide her dismay, to sound calm and confident. ‘My husband will not be able to raise sixty thousand roubles.’

  Zeidat folded up the newspaper. ‘You think I am an ignorant tribeswoman, don’t you? You think I can’t think and I don’t know. But I do. Your husband married his sister off to none other than the Prince of Mingrelia – so tell me that you are poor!’

  Anna sighed. ‘The Prince of Mingrelia is an honorary title. It does not mean he is wealthy. You might find this hard to believe but I am telling you the truth.’

  ‘The truth,’ Zeidat snorted. ‘The truth is your husband is not eager to have you back. Unlike you, he is completely Westernised. He has acquired all these Russian tastes and you were unable to keep up with him.’

  ‘How dare you talk about my private life!’ She stood up. ‘Get out of here. At once.’

  It worked. Zeidat did leave the room and later Ameena tossed the words out in passing, as if they were not poison, as if they did not turn the day inside out, ‘She’s jealous of you. That’s why. She knows what’s on Shamil Imam’s mind. If the ransom isn’t paid, he will keep you for himself.’

  She dreams of Georgia. All of it. Its Alazani river, gardens, Tsinondali. Riches spread before her. Vines, grass plateaus, forests. She can see it all because she sits on a cloud. It is comfortable, voluptuous. She hovers over this beauty knowing that she is part of it. She dangles her feet, she rolls. She moves her body without the fear of falling. One time running her fingers through the river, one time picking up a flower with her toes. The cloud holds her up with the most gentle of pressure. It responds to her desire to rise or move. Time passes and there is only more to enjoy, more to look at. The silver, blue, grey, cream colours of the water, the breath of air. There can be no doubt. Only Georgia smells like this, feels like this, has these shapes and sounds and tones. Her presence here is enough, without language or tasks or aspirations. Without hunger. Only harmony. Only light. Time passes as it would for a child. Everything is close, larger, infinitely interesting. Jasmine, fruit, fish. There is no gap between herself and her surroundings. The fibres of her body, her skin, her pulse, her blood spring from this water and soil. It is the longest dream she has ever had.

  When he came back, she wanted to thank him but did not get the chance. He was superficially wounded but many of the other fighters were in a more serious condition. The hushed atmosphere of the aoul, the intermittent wailing from families who had lost lives, the darkening of Zeidat’s face could only mean that the battle had not gone well. ‘Their loss, our gain,’ Madame Drancy whispered and Anna wished it was as simple as that. Was anyone really winning? Yours kill ours – ours kill yours. What would it take to raise the white flag of peace? Madame Drancy was keeping a close watch over the dates. Unless she had miscalculated, Christmas Day was next week.

  Ameena was unlike herself. She no longer played with the children. Anna tried to cajole her. ‘What’s wrong? You have not sung to us for a long time. Nor are you climbing to the roof or playing with Alexander.’

  ‘Shamil offered me my freedom,’ she said. ‘A divorce. This is because I told him I was not happy. I told him I would rather be with someone my age.’

  Anna was taken aback. ‘He must have been furious.’

  ‘No,’ Ameena said. ‘He was very gentle. We’ve been married for four years and still no children. He said I could go back to my tribe but I really don’t want to go away. I want to stay here in Dargo.’

  The arrival of Ghazi Muhammad brought more cheer to the household. Anna had disliked him when they first met at Polahi but now she was ready to reconsider. Arms were fired in his honour, the villagers vied to kiss his hand and he strode into the house full of smiles. His grandmother, sisters and stepmothers were all eager to see him and there was much coming and going, gifts shown off and special meals cooked. The marks on Ghazi’s face that had given him a rough appearance were scars from the pox. He might have resembled Shamil physically but his disposition was considerably jollier. Like his father too, Ghazi had a talent for winning the affection of children. Alexander was soon following him around. One clear afternoon, he dragged Anna off to watch Ghazi give the youth a fencing lesson. Soon, Shamil joined them and stood next to Anna, watching the young men.

  At last she had the opportunity to say it. ‘Thank you for the gift.’

  ‘The gift?’

  The clink of sabre against sabre and her face started to go hot. He had forgotten? She had conjured it all herself? And now to explain by saying, ‘Thank you for the dream,’ would be utter folly.

  ‘Ah,’ he had remembered. ‘A throne for Anna to sit on.’

  Relief made her limbs loose, the start of a laugh in her throat. ‘Oh no, it was a cloud.’

  He heard her but did not hear her. Instead he turned his back to the lesson. Eyes to eyes, like a pledge. He said, ‘The throne of Georgia is for you. We defeat the Russians and then there would be justice. What they have taken would come back to us. And you too would be lifted up high. To become Anna Elinichna, Queen of Georgia.’

  She felt herself fall, even though she remained standing. Alexander thrusting his body in imitation of Ghazi, the sunny shine of steel, the snow-capped mountains – all folded back like a curtain and there was only a glittering darkness. He had excavated an ambition from deep down. He had picked out one nebulous desire and given it a name. The throne back to Georgia, as it should be. Georgia, free and autonomous, as it should be. And she would be the one to make this happen. She would be worthy of it. Anna Elinichna, Queen of Georgia. She could feel Shamil place the crown on her head – the weight of one hundred and forty-five diamonds, fifty-eight rubies, twenty-four emeralds. Russia was losing the Crimean War, he explained. Soon, the Allies would take over the Black Sea Coast and drive the Russians out of Georgia. The throne would be restored.

  She should know better. There was another name for this kind of talk and these kinds of alliances. Treason. For centuries Georgia was a Christian nation at the mercy of its aggressive neighbours, the Persians and the Ottomans who were, like him, Muslim. She should know better than to trust him.

  3. ST PETERSBURG, JANUARY 1855

  Jamaleldin sat by the tsar’s bedside. The figure on the bed was wasted, eyes sunken into dark sockets, wisps of white hair on the satin pillow. Jamaleldin had been told that Emperor Nicholas was ill, possibly dying, but it was still a shock to see the alteration, this accelerated aging, said to be exacerbated by the bad reports coming from the Crimea. The familiar scent of the tsar’s eau de cologne struggled to mask the odours of a sick room. Jamaleldin wished he was somewhere else. He needed fresh air and brightness.

  With tremendous effort, Nicholas was telling Jamaleldin the story of the kidnapping. He was croaking it out as if his health depended upon it. Jamaleldin, who already knew the details, flinched at every mention of his father’s name. The tsar’s attendants and nurses glanced at their patient from time to time, followed the inflection of his voice for signs of agitation or deterioration. He was a vulnerable man, at the mercy of bad news from the front. The war he had passionately believed in had played out in such a way that the admiral of the British ship that reached Kronstadt was boasting that, come May, he would be toasting Queen Victoria’s birthday in the Winter Palace. Nicholas raised his head and attempted to sit up higher. The nurse rushed to rearrange the pillows. Jamaleldin moved, pressing his back against the chair.

  ‘David Chavchavadze came to see me,’ Nicholas said. ‘He is mortgaging his estate to pay for the ransom. But the ransom is not enough. Shamil wants you. I told David I cannot order you to make such a sacrifice. It is too much.’

  Jamaleldin said, ‘I was not given a choice when I came here. I do not have a choice now.’

  Nicholas’s fingers grabbed at the sheets. He tossed his head impatiently from side to side and moaned. ‘Show more gratitude. It took David a long time to approach me. He knows how dear you are to me.
He did try to rescue his family but failed.’

  Jamaleldin felt conscious of his well-shined boots, his leather gloves that lay across his knees. The distance between him and Nicholas was growing. There was a time when it had all been much simpler. He rescued from the wild, Nicholas the benevolent godfather. He the pet, Nicholas the mighty. He the puppet, Nicholas the conductor, the thrower of crumbs, the arranger of roles, the changer of destinies. Jamaleldin the chess piece, and now Shamil had changed the rules of the game.

  ‘Sire,’ Jamaleldin said, wanting more than anything to stretch his legs, to run down the stairs. ‘I will not shy away from my duty.’

  The tsar raised his hand. ‘You do not have to give me your decision now. Go away and reflect on the sacrifice that is asked of you. I will give you two days.’

  To reflect – was that to realise that he would not be entering the military academy, that he would never serve on the staff, that in terms of his career in the Russian army this was the end? Or to reflect that if he did not buy an atlas and take it with him, he would never see one again? Or to attend the ballet one last time, really the very last time? Or alternatively to think “I will see Ghazi again” and laugh out loud in a rush of elation? Or to reflect that if he fell ill in Dargo, there would be nothing but herbal concoctions and superstition? But these recent pangs of hunger to hug his little brother again – how else could they be subdued? No, he did not want two days to reflect. He could not visit this sick bed again.