Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

Weren’t these the words I had longed to hear? Where did I have to go that was better than here? But the warning said get away, don’t get dragged further into this — it’s bad enough that you’re already involved; save your skin. I recognised this pragmatism, these tropes of survival. It made me grab my coat and head towards the door. Malak stood up and followed me. Her movements were slow and tentative; she was not herself. In a high querulous voice she repeated, ‘It’s all a mistake. They’ve made a mistake. They’ve got the wrong person I’m sure.’

I didn’t allow myself to speak, I didn’t look at her. Guilty, I got into the car and drove straight to work.

She walked through grass that reached her waist. It tickled her arms and almost covered Alexander to the brim of his straw summer hat. He let go of her hand and ran in the direction of the soldier galloping towards them. Anna opened her mouth to call him back then closed it again; she shaded her eyes from the sun. These maternal flickers of anxiety flared with varying degrees of intensity through every stage of his life. Sometimes they were justified, often they weren’t, but cats had nine lives and children didn’t. What if the soldier didn’t see Alexander or Alexander didn’t stop running early enough? At the same time she did not want him to be timid, to be tied to her apron strings as no boy should be. So she must grit her teeth as he exposed himself to a thousand and one dangers.

During her pregnancy with Lydia she had been less alert, and after the birth too, she was immersed in that satisfaction that only comes to mothers with copious milk and a healthy feeding baby. In that period Alexander had flourished, benefiting from less of her attention, venturing further away from the radius of her vision. Here in the countryside, he had grown fitter and more hardy. Apart from Madame Drancy’s lessons and the requirement to speak to her in French at all times, he was allowed to do as he liked. It was as carefree as a summer should be, despite the rumours that Shamil’s men were set to descend from the mountains. Such an invasion had never taken place throughout history and was, Anna believed, just as unlikely to happen now.

The horseman had seen Alexander. She could tell by the way he straightened up in his saddle. Anna could breathe more easily now, continue walking towards them for surely the soldier was bringing a message from David. She was conscious of the fullness of her body in last summer’s dress, aware of the absence of Lydia, neither inside her nor in her arms, and still it was a surprise. She felt less weighed down but at the same time incomplete; the distance from the garden to the nursery where the baby was sleeping seemed excessively large. If Lydia woke up and cried now, she would not hear her. Her ears, though, strained for that familiar high note and now it felt as if she was playing truant, exploring the furthest end of the leash that tied her to her daughter. The gardener, Gregov, reached the rider first and turned to bring her the message. Despite the white in his hair, he was strong and quick in his movements. She must ask him why he had delayed cutting the grass. It had not rained yesterday.

Gregov gripped his hat in one hand and handed her the message. ‘Should he wait for a reply?’

She hesitated before saying, ‘Yes.’ It meant cutting her walk and returning to the house. She preferred writing leisurely long letters in the evening. Now it would have to be a hurried note. Still, David would want her to reassure him.

Gregov hovered over her as she read the message. His avuncular right or just a natural eagerness for news from the local militia? There is no occasion for uneasiness. The sentence was underlined and she read it first. Then she went back to the beginning.

She said to Gregov, ‘The fortress at Shildi was attacked by a large number of Lezgins but they were repulsed and they took heavy losses.’

‘Shildi must have been Shamil’s target then.’ He twisted his hat in his hands.

‘Would that explain the campfires on the mountains?’ There were four of them last night and Madame Drancy even more edgy. ‘How far is Shildi from here?’

‘A good thirty miles. The Lezgins are the most lawless of the tribes that follow Shamil.’ Gregov shook his head. ‘My cousin was taken by them as prisoner. They threaded horse-hairs through his heels.’

‘Whatever for?’

Gregov narrowed his eyes and replied coolly, ‘So that he wouldn’t escape, ma’am. The wounds fester and make walking horribly painful.’

She looked towards Alexander. He seemed to be enjoying a new friendship with the soldier, who now dismounted and lifted him up to take his place.

‘The Lezgins keep their prisoners in pits,’ Gregov continued. ‘What would they know of Christian compassion?’

Anna turned away from him. Sometimes she felt like she was part of a great charade. An essential pretence that Russia was winning the Caucasus, that every encounter with Shamil was a resounding victory. And yet thousands of lives were being lost and the mountains still did not belong to the tsar. David too, talked this optimistic language. He had to, he had no choice. This awareness of the pressures he was under caused a rush of love for him. This and the relief that he had not fallen into the hands of the Lezgins swept her back to the house and into writing him an effusive message urging him to come as soon as he could, even though they were all safe and well.

In the evening as she was putting Lydia to bed, Madame Drancy came in to say that Gregov wanted to talk to her. Lydia was not fully asleep — her eyes fluttered open as soon as Anna put her down in the cot. She tiptoed out of the room, Drancy close behind her. It was on the tip of her tongue to say, ‘Stay with Lydia until she is deeply asleep,’ but Madame Drancy bristled whenever she was asked to do anything that remotely resembled a nursery maid’s duty. Besides, she was clearly eager to hear what Gregov had to say. He had never asked to see Anna at this time in the evening.

‘There is a man at the gate asking permission to spend the night,’ Gregov said. ‘He is an Armenian merchant.’

‘Where did he come from?’

‘He says he swam the Alazani.’ Gregov stressed the word ‘says’ as if he didn’t believe it.

Neither did Anna. Most travellers were heading in the opposite direction.

‘He says he was evading Shamil’s men and he’s soaked to the skin.’ Gregov’s tone softened.

Madame Drancy, hovering behind Anna, blurted out, ‘At a time like this? We certainly should not trust him!’

Her outburst made the two Georgians close rank. ‘We can’t turn him away, Madame Drancy. It is not our custom.’ She turned to Gregov. ‘Give him supper too, but watch him.’

‘I will disarm him,’ said Gregov. ‘And if he tries to escape, I will shoot him.’

She had been brave in front of Madame Drancy but she did not feel comfortable with the thought of the stranger spending the night on the estate. Sleep eluded her and at last when she drifted off, she heard a shot. It could well have been a dream but Madame Drancy banged into the room without knocking.

‘Princess Anna, wake up!’

She scrambled to her feet. ‘Did you hear that?’

Madame Drancy’s face was visible in the bright strips of moonlight that bordered the curtains, ‘Yes, I was walking in the garden. I just couldn’t sleep. It’s so hot. I saw a man — the traveller who was spending the night. He had a gun — he must have hidden it from Gregov. I saw him make for the woods.’

Anna put on her dressing gown. ‘He must have fired that shot.’

‘Why? What does it mean?’