Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

Chuanat looked at her as if she was gauging her understanding, as if pondering how much to share. ‘I could have left if I had wanted to. It’s a long story. I will tell it to you another day.’

‘No, it’s not a long story,’ Ameena contradicted her. ‘It is straightforward. Hannah, as she was called then, fell in love.’

‘Ameena!’ Chuanat reproached her. ‘I said I would tell her myself in my own time. Besides, when are you going to learn to practise some discretion? You’re no longer a child.’

‘Don’t try to sound like Zeidat.’ Ameena helped herself to some of the sweets. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

Anna turned to her and said, ‘Well, Ameena, maybe you can tell me about yourself.’

‘Very well,’ she spoke with her mouth full, the sweetness sticking to her teeth. ‘My family are originally from Bavaria. But I was brought up in Imam Shamil’s household.’

‘Spoilt and pampered, if I may say so,’ Chuanat added.

Ameena sounded more thoughtful. ‘He treated me just like one of his children. They were my playmates.’ She turned with a mischievous look towards Anna. ‘Then, as you can see, I matured and turned into a striking beauty.’

Chuanat rolled her eyes and Anna laughed. She had not done so for a long time. It made her feel generous towards the young girl. ‘I agree. I have been admiring you since you came in and took off your veil.’

Ameena narrowed her eyes. ‘But it was my beauty that ended my childhood. Imam Shamil could hardly pretend that he couldn’t notice me and so he took me for his third wife.’

‘Still she was such a baby that she kept crying and saying “I miss my mother”,’ Chuanat said.

Ameena laughed. ‘Shamil Imam brought her here for me. She is always with me now and I am well looked after.’

All this sounded strange to Anna. A part of her recoiled, a part of her noted the frankness. Their friendliness and their difference made her conscious of herself. Who she was and what she looked like. She must rid her hair of the lice. She must look presentable. They believed in her as a princess and they were right to do so, that was who she was.

‘But Anna … Can I call you Anna? You will have to tell us your story too. All your experiences at court.’

‘Yes, please,’ Chuanat added. ‘We know you were lady-in-waiting for the tsarina.’

It was such a long time ago, before she was married. An adventure of bright nights and the grandest buildings, dresses and jewels, Moscow balls and all the thrills of coming out into society. Even though she was homesick for Georgia, even though she knew that she did not belong at court, she had revelled in the music and the dancing. The steps came naturally to her, the fluid movements, her gown lifting, the music passing through her skin, flushed afterwards, pretty and thirsty, reaching for a drink. She tried to remember herself then, what her body felt like before it was touched by David, before her stomach filled out strong and large with babies. But she must not let her mind wander in this particular direction. Only mention the tsarina’s diamonds, officers with sideburns, a morning spent ice-skating.

‘Did you ever see Jamaleldin?’ asked Ameena.

Anna could not see that there could possibly be any connection between an acquaintance of Ameena’s and the Winter Palace.

‘Imam Shamil’s eldest son,’ explained Chuanat. She lowered her voice. ‘He is the tsar’s godson.’

A figure, a name, a face shaped itself in the shadows of Anna’s Petersburg memories. Had she known then that he was Shamil’s son? Perhaps she had and the knowledge had not interested her, had not mattered, except to explain that he was ‘Asiatic’. He was different, but not different enough — eyes that were not like hers, but nothing in his manners, his speech or his conduct that set him apart. He was certainly not a highlander; he was certainly not the enemy. ‘Yes, of course, he is an officer,’ she said. ‘I danced the Mazurka with him once.’

Ameena gasped, her face alight with excitement. ‘Oh this is shocking. Imam Shamil’s son attending parties and dancing with strange women!’

‘What is so strange about me?’

Ameena laughed, ‘There is nothing strange. You are perfect. By strange I meant you’re not related to him. You’re not his wife or his sister.’

‘But these are our customs and Jamaleldin is a Russian gentleman.’

Chuanat turned towards her with soft eyes. ‘This is not how Imam Shamil sees it. You will understand when you meet him tomorrow. He will explain everything to you and you can ask as many questions as you like. Today, though, you must rest. How exhausted and hungry you must be!’

She was hungry but the meal provided disgusted her. Goat’s cheese that smelt too strong and bread baked in such a way that it had an outer layer of thick grease covering the crust. She had to pare off the crust in order to reach the crumb. Even the tea tasted odd, smoky and strong. Hunger, or the stale-smelling mattress, was keeping her awake. Madame Drancy had spent a long time saying her prayers and was now fast asleep. Alexander tossed and turned, sometimes whimpering, sometimes thrashing his arms as if he was fighting. It was hot in the room. Anna stood up and opened the shutters but the ventilation was poor. A tree blocked the air and up through its leaves she caught a glimpse of the night sky. The staccato sounds of the mountains pressed in, frogs and insects, a jackal howling for its mate, but instead of posing a threat, the animal sounded distressed. She put both of her arms through the window. It would be possible for the three of them to squeeze through one after the other and then what? She could hear the footsteps of the sentries, back and forth at a leisurely rate. They might have lacked military precision but they were wide awake.

She found herself pacing the room. The treatment she had been given for her head lice, a mixture of butter and brimstone, was starting to melt over her face and neck. The smell was unpleasant but it was worth it if it would rid her of all the irritation and scratching. She found herself measuring the room: length eighteen shoes, width twelve. She pressed her palms against the stone wall. Such thick walls, only a cannon could burst them. The thought of a Russian attack filled her with dread. She did not want to remember their last attempt at rescue, if it was such, its failure and huge cost.

The next morning she met Shamil. He did not consider it polite to come into her room and impose on her privacy so a chair was placed for him in the gallery. Anna saw him through the face veil she and Madame Drancy were instructed to wear. It was as if a film of smoke dimmed her eyesight. Shamil was accompanied by his steward and a Russian defector who was to act as their translator. Shamil’s white turban contrasted with the darkness of his thick eyebrows and beard. He was unarmed, wearing the highlanders’ long cherkesska over leggings, his feet in leather slip-ons that were stretched tight over the arches of his feet. Afterwards Madame Drancy would describe Shamil as a lion with eyes in the shape of scimitars. Anna’s impression was of a tall, slim man hemmed in by his surroundings, forced into an extraordinary stillness, a pooling of shadows and energy, a lull of density and strength.

‘Anna, Princess of Georgia.’ He looked at her when he said her name. The rest of his speech was translated. ‘I have captured you for a specific reason. Usually I employ prisoners to build or repair roads or to work in the quarry but you are valuable.’

Though she knew that he had more to say, she spoke up. ‘I have been dragged here against my will. I lost my daughter.’ She paused but the translator did not translate. So the imam could understand her. He was deliberately choosing not to use her language.