5. KHASAVYURT, MARCH 1855
The news of the tsar’s death did not surprise Jamaleldin. It only intensified the feeling of an ending. With the rest of the troops, he raised his hand and swore an oath to the new tsar, Alexander II. Jamaleldin was returning to his father without confidence in the success of the highlanders. Mighty Russia would ultimately win the war in the Caucasus. It was one of the few things he was certain about.
David gave him his sabre as a parting gift. ‘Do not cut any of our people with it,’ he said.
‘Neither yours nor ours.’ Close now to the mountains he could not ignore the cold-blooded policy with which aouls were razed down to every last chicken and cooking utensil. No wonder the tsar had denied him active service in the Caucasus.
‘I hope you will be a bridge between the two sides,’ said David.
Jamaleldin’s heart sank. A bridge was solid, dependable. Whereas he was like a wafer that could break any minute.
‘Talk to your father about peace,’ David continued. ‘Convince him.’
Just the thought of meeting his father after all these years dismayed him. But, yes, he would talk to him of peace because he would not be able to talk to him about war. Peace was a more dignified version of defeat. He turned away. ‘Have the carts been loaded?’ It had taken two of his father’s men a whole twenty-four hours to count the money. When he asked them if they were afraid that they were being short-changed, their reply surprised him. They were afraid that there was deliberately more money than had been agreed upon, paving the way for accusations of treachery.
David said, ‘All is according to plan. The carts have been loaded. Only thirty men from each side will be present at the actual exchange. The rest will stay in their positions.’
The day itself was bright and strange in that it coincided with the funeral of the tsar. In Petersburg they were burying his putrefied, perfumed body, the streets filled with crowds. If it wasn’t for all this, Jamaleldin would have been at the lying-in. Instead he was riding out towards the mountains. On the banks of the river Michik, the troops took positions. David was determined that nothing should raise the suspicions of the highlanders but the infantry was ordered to be ready to cross the river and fire if need be. Bayonets in place and the officers raised their field glasses. Through his, Jamaleldin saw the high black banners and what looked like thousands of Chechens. There under that tree the exchange would take place. He saw a horseman gallop towards the tree and when he reached it he waved a pennon. This was the signal. Jamaleldin, David and thirty others proceeded forward with the carts. The dip in the land obstructed the corresponding thirty highlanders who had crossed the river. Jamaleldin could not see his destination. He felt as if he was riding towards nothing. Just more sky, grass, rocks. Slowly, not a word, not a whisper, just the sound of the swallows, horses and the wheels of the carts.
It was time to ride uphill and suddenly there they were. It was their unexpected beauty that caught at his throat. Surreal and timeless. Graceful men on small horses, their guns resting on their right thighs. Their swords decked in silver and gold, insubstantial in comparison to the mountains behind them. The highlanders had sprouted from this soil, this place and nowhere else; men sleek with home, lustrous with what they believed in. And here was their leader moving straight towards him. A young man all in white as if the peaks had anointed his fur hat, tunic and horse with snow. He was smiling at Jamaleldin, he was swinging down from his horse. It was him. It was Ghazi and Jamaleldin found himself hugging him tight, the men cheering, and his brother’s face in his hands. It’s you, it’s you, little brother. I knew it was you.
With reluctance, Jamaleldin turned to see the wagon with the captives. Women covered in black veils, impossible to tell who was who. A child’s voice called out. ‘It’s Papa, it’s Papa!’
Ghazi pulled away from Jamaleldin; he went back and lifted Alexander off the wagon and brought him to his father. David held the boy tight, sank his head in his hair. Then he started to walk towards the wagon but Ghazi blocked his path. Ghazi struck a pose and was now giving a speech through the interpreter. Jamaleldin was arrested by the sight and sound of his brother, his slight nervousness, the marks on his skin but still the full cheeks that he remembered as a child pinching until they became red. Ghazi said, ‘Prince David, we are not people of treachery and haram behaviour. We are warriors, true believers. My father Shamil Imam gave me orders to inform you that he took care of your family as if they were his own. He is now returning them to you pure as the lilies, sheltered from all eyes, like the gazelles of the desert.’
Jamaleldin understood why David clenched his fist even as he gave a stiff bow. The vein on his forehead was more pronounced than ever. He was furious; the expression in his eyes was straightforward hatred and the desire for revenge. Jamaleldin turned to join Ghazi but the little brother, now turned commander, gestured for him to remain. Not yet.
The wagon with the princess and Madame Drancy rolled closer and the two women took off their veils. He recognised Anna straight away. She held herself rigid, the veil still clutched between her fingers. Their eyes locked. It was as if she knew that his reluctance was due to regret; a part of him had always yearned to return. Her eyes turned towards David and softened, her chin trembled as if she were years older, scoured and undone. It was now possible for Jamaleldin and his party to proceed forward. The three carts with the money, the Chechen prisoners who were part of the exchange, Ghazi and his men, Jamaleldin still flanked by two Russian officers and another aide-de-camp, all crossed the Michik river. Above them were the bulk of his father’s troops but no sign of his father.
Ghazi touched his arm. ‘He will not see you in these clothes. You must change.’
Jamaleldin was not sure if he understood. Ghazi tugged at his jacket. Another highlander held out a bundle of native clothes.
‘Shamil Imam’s orders,’ Ghazi grinned. ‘Time to strip.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t.’
Ghazi burst out laughing. ‘We’ll cover you.’
They formed a circle around him, giving him their backs. He tugged off his boots, he unbuttoned, he pulled down. The cold air on his skin, the snow-capped mountains above and a Russian military uniform fell into a heap on the grass. Here he was between one dress and the other, neither Russian nor Chechen, just naked and human. It was a restful place to be with sun on his back and grass between his toes. He shivered and pulled on the familiar-unfamiliar clothes. Someone had gone through considerable effort to guess his size, to provide the best cloth, the most elegant cut. The long dark cherkesska made him feel regal and feminine, humble and yet daring, supported but unrestricted; the white lambskin papakh reminded him of the one he wore long ago when he left Akhulgo. His feet without the heaviness of boots felt vulnerable, the leather insoles put him in touch again with grass and rocks.
‘Are you going to keep us till sunset?’ joked Ghazi.
‘Don’t look.’
‘Bashful as a maiden, are you?’
When the circle opened and he emerged, a large number of highlanders broke from their ranks and surged towards him. They shoved and pushed to kiss his hand, the hem of his cherkesska, to get a better look at him. Because I am his son they think I am special, they think I am more than what I am. The mob pressed more closely; there was confusion and aggressive jostling. He worried about the Russians around him – they were completely outnumbered, face to face with men who would be happy, at any other time, to slit their throats. The highlanders gazed at the Russians with curiosity; one of them touched the eye-glass of the oldest officer, one of them examined his pistols. With gestures and the little bit of Avar that he could remember Jamaleldin ordered them to step back. It surprised him that they obeyed almost instantly.
Ghazi barged through what had become a mob, swiping away at the men as if he was pushing aside the low branches of trees blocking his path. Another highlander followed with a whip. Some of the men were hagga
rd and painfully thin, their faces scarred with old and new wounds. Some were little more than youths who should be at their lessons instead of in campaigns. But here they were, full of trust. His father’s flock. His people, for what else was this soreness and shame building inside him other than the recognition that they looked like him and that he was of them. They were lashing him with the weight of their expectations. He trembled because any minute now he would have to bear his father’s eyes on him.
Shamil had retreated under a tree further up from the river. After making sure that the wagon with the princess had crossed safely, he wanted to be alone. He sat and faced the direction of Makkah. He bent and pressed his forehead to the ground. This was a time to feel small and weak in front of the magnanimity of the Almighty. His son was coming home. All the years of waiting and hoping, of feeling helpless and betrayed. All the frustrations of failed attempts and prisoners not valuable enough for an exchange. Soon he would hold him in his arms, soon he would look and look at him again, marvel at the child-to-manhood changes. This was a day to give thanks and because he could not give enough thanks, because no words would be eloquent enough, no amount of praise would be adequate, he wept. Subhan Allah wa bi hamdu. Subhan Allah wa bi hamdu. Years ago in Akhulgo when he gave Jamaleldin up to the Russians he had lifted up his palms and called out for all to witness, ‘Lord, You raised up Your prophet Moses, upon him be peace, when he was in the hands of Pharaoh. Here is my son. If I formally hand him over to the infidels, then he is under Your trust and charge. You are the best of guardians.’
The boy was coming back from the hands of the enemy. Jamaleldin had been watched over all along, he had been protected all along. Shamil begged forgiveness for every flicker of doubt, for every moment of impatience, for every flirtation with despair. He cried until his beard became wet.
When he heard the men’s cheers, he rose and joined the naibs who had gathered in a wide circle. Shamil sat and waited for his son. At last, there he was, haloed, vulnerable, one of the most beautiful sights Shamil had ever seen. He must not rise and rush towards him. The son should come to the father. Jamaleldin drew near. Shamil saw his mother Fatima in him, saw his resemblance to his brothers. Jamaleldin’s face had matured but not changed. He stepped onto the carpet. He knelt and kissed his father’s hand. Jamaleldin must greet the others first, all the naibs and elders, Sheikh Jamal el-Din too, he must show his appreciation for the honour they were bestowing upon him by leaving their homes and coming here to welcome him.
At last Shamil took his son in his arms. To have his fill of holding him, to have his fill of looking at him. This was more than an earthly delight, this was a whiff of Paradise. Alhamdulilah, alhamdulilah. I thank Allah Almighty for protecting my son.
VIII
A Thistle Twisted to One Side
1. KHARTOUM, DECEMBER 2010
Grusha and Yasha were waiting for me at the airport. I saw them as soon as I rolled my suitcase outside the arrivals hall. Among the crowd they were the only white middle-aged woman and light-skinned son. Besides, they were watching me, searching my face, waiting for the click of recognition, ready to smile. Earlier, when the plane had started its descent, I had been able to make out in the fading light the Nile looping through the desert. By the time we got off the plane, though, it was pitch-dark and I was struck by the inadequacy of the lighting. Even inside the terminal, I was reminded of the flattering candlelight found in romantic restaurants. The exterior of the airport was also dimly lit. Grusha and Yasha did not look at all like I remembered them, so much so that I hesitated in greeting them. The Aunty Grusha in my head dressed like Thatcher. The one in front of me now looked like Hilary Clinton. I thought trousers were outlawed in Sudan? And Yasha, if this was Yasha and he must be, was trapped within layers and mounds of fat. They covered him like a suit of armour. My first boyfriend, nimble and lanky, had become obese.
He took my suitcase and Grusha took my arm. We made our way to their car, a four-wheel-drive that was surprisingly parked only a few steps away, right outside the arrivals gate. I watched Yasha squeeze into the front seat. Beads of sweat on his forehead, his belly pushed against the steering wheel. I looked away. Grusha had aged of course, a slackness in her chin and the way she heaved herself into the car next to Yasha. From the back seat I asked, ‘How is Papa?’
They both had their backs turned; I could not see the expression on their faces. Yasha started the engine. ‘Not good,’ Grusha said at last. I did not want to know more. Not yet. It would come and already the effect was sinking in. I looked out of the window. More traffic than I remembered, a whole row of fast-food chains. Novel to be in a city that didn’t have a Starbucks.
Grusha’s house was how I remembered it to be. It was neat because Aunty Grusha always kept a mercilessly clean house. We sat in the living room. She said that my father had died the previous night. Mid-morning today he was buried.
I didn’t recognise this feeling of disappointment. The sheepishness of arriving too late. ‘I needn’t have come then.’
Yasha looked down at his hands. His bulk spread over the sofa, immense girth, each thigh as wide as a human being. He would not be able to travel in Economy. I remembered him in swimming trunks, the ripped muscles of his stomach, his thin neck. Now even his face was flattened, his features as if pushed through a slab of dough. It was sadly fascinating. That defeat could manifest itself in such a way brought tears to my eyes.
Grusha put her arm around me. ‘At first we didn’t know what to do – to catch you before you set out or to tell you in the middle of your travels. Then we decided it would be better if you heard the news from us in person rather than on the telephone.’
Yasha started to speak about my father’s last hours but I couldn’t focus on what he was saying. I stared at his mouth, the route to his fatness; I heard his voice and it was not the voice of a young man but someone who was confident, experienced, almost jaded. Perhaps I would only rarely see him during my visit. He was a busy man and probably did not spend a lot of time with his mother even though they lived in the same house.
‘Your father was proud of you,’ Grusha said. ‘When you got your PhD, we never heard the end of it.’
It was hard to believe this but she would not lie. We sat in silence. I cried quietly, almost soundlessly. I had wanted to see him again. It was true. I had wanted to argue with him and listen to him rant. He had made me angry on the telephone but when the anger died I was left with the thrill of his honesty. ‘I just could not stand the sight of you.’ That was exactly what I remembered during the divorce, his hurt that made him repulsive and also frightening, his eyes that looked straight through me as if I didn’t exist, all the days and weeks when he didn’t speak to me, when he couldn’t speak to me, not even hello or good morning or do this or do that. My mother had betrayed him and I was her daughter and he had not been able to rise above that.
I started to feel hot. I peeled off my cardigan, pulled away the scarf looped around my neck. My newly bought dowdy skirt reached my ankles. It irritated me. If Grusha was wearing trousers, then why couldn’t I too, and why had that journalist, last year, been fined for wearing them? Or was Grusha exempt because she was Russian? This was one of the irksome things about being an outsider – one never knew the extent to which the rules could be bent. I wanted to initiate this conversation but it was not the right time.
Yasha said, ‘Tomorrow I could take you to the cemetery … if you like.’ My expression made him falter. To see that freshly dug grave, the still-moist earth piled over it. The idea did not appeal to me at all.
‘Tomorrow we will go to your father’s house so that you can pay your condolences,’ Grusha said firmly. ‘You must meet your brother. He is twelve, I think. Or eleven.’
I had a half-brother who I never thought about, didn’t know what he looked like. ‘What is his name?’
‘Mekki.’
‘Mekki. I can’t remember the last time I spoke to a child.’
Neither Grusha
nor Yasha responded and I suddenly felt self-conscious. Maybe these were the sort of comments that reminded Yasha of his late daughter. Afterwards, I glanced around for a photo of her, on top of the piano, on the walls, but there were none. I was conscious of the house around me and how familiar it was. Little had been done to make it look modern but as Grusha explained, there was an added separate flat for Yasha upstairs. ‘It has its own entrance,’ she said. He must have moved in there after he lost his wife and daughter.
When I woke up the following morning, the house was empty. Grusha and Yasha had already gone to work. I set about connecting myself to the internet. Yasha’s upstairs flat, I had been told, had the stronger connection, but it did not feel right to try to gain access to it while he was out. After a few attempts, I found that the speed was not bad and after I checked my emails, I started to write to Malak asking how things were, telling her my news, but I lost the connection before I clicked Send. I waited, hoping it would come back but it didn’t. After a while I gave up and went in search of breakfast.
In the kitchen a maid was washing the dishes. I chatted to her for a while though my mind was on Malak and Oz. The maid was Ethiopian and had been working here for five years. ‘Shall I make you breakfast?’ she asked and looked surprised when I said that I would get it myself.
I sat on the veranda with my mug of tea. After the bitterest Scottish winter, the heat and the light felt defiantly foreign, excessive. The small garden was full of flowers and in it stood a large guava tree. I could hear beyond its walls, the sounds of people walking past, the rumble of traffic. All this had existed while I was away. Khartoum as a city, its people, those who had never known me and those who had forgotten me. My mother and I had simply dropped off the radar. After the scandal we had been talked about less and less until, with time, our absence came to be considered the most natural of outcomes. Childhood psychologists say that the first five years are the most formative. I had spent them all here. My mother and father young and in love, easy-going, hopeful. Our day-to-day life an extension of their Cold War romance, as promising as the prospects of an African engineer with a PhD from a Russian university. My father taking me to the river, getting on a boat, afterwards buying peanuts and candy floss; my mother visiting Grusha, the two of them complaining, in Russian, about the weather. My father, during a power cut, peeing in the garden instead of making his way indoors in the dark. My mother lifting her hair to rub an ice cube on the back of her neck. I would always carry this. All the other layers on top could not obliterate this core.
The Kindness of Enemies Page 24