Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

Zeidat stood up. ‘Haughty, haughty. Do you think I believe such nonsense? Sell, borrow, steal, we don’t care. We want both: Jamaleldin and the money. Otherwise what will happen? You asked Shamil Imam this when you were presented to him and what did he say? He said “Our ordinary laws and customs will apply.” Did you understand what he meant? Of course you didn’t. Well let me explain. It means no more of the “guest” nonsense. It means you are a prisoner-of-war, like any prisoner. How do you treat us, you Russians, when our men fall into your hands? When our women fall into your hands?’ She squatted down again close to Anna. ‘Let me tell you, I lost sisters in Akhulgo dear to me, one a cousin and another a close friend. When the village fell, they could see the Russian soldiers climbing up, coming close, they could not escape and so they knew the Russians were going to capture them; do you know what they did? They covered their faces with their veils and jumped from the cliffs.’ Zeidat’s voice rose to a pitch. ‘Because being captured by the Russians is worse for a woman than death. Do you understand what I am saying? If the negotiations fail, you, Anna, would become a prisoner-of-war. You would be tossed out of my home and I would do it gladly. If the money isn’t paid, if Shamil Imam doesn’t get his son back, he will hand you over as a gift to his favourite naib. You understand, Anna, what I mean by the word “gift” — of course, you are not a child. That is our custom. Already every day now one of his naibs approaches him with an offer to purchase you. So write to the tsar.’

Anna pressed her hands together to hide their tremble. Her fingers were slippery. ‘I will not write to the tsar asking for a ransom and if you refuse to take the lead from Imam Shamil and treat me as a guest, then the least you can do is address me as he does, by my title.’

Zeidat picked up Alexander’s netting and stood up. It was one agile movement, a smoothness in her voice. ‘Maybe when your son is itching and crying, you will start to see sense.’

In this room, which was poorly lit even in the daytime, Anna had strained her eyes repairing the bigger holes in the netting. She now watched Zeidat carry the material out of the room. The sewing materials were one of the few things David had been able to send. Along with combs, soap, towels and a shawl. A serf from Tsinondali had made the perilous journey and had been allowed to speak to her for a few minutes, though not in private. He reassured her that David and all their friends were doing all they could to secure her release. No doubt the serf would go back and report on how thin she had become. She gave him a letter to David but she was only allowed to write about the ransom, nothing else. With a wooden pen and piece of wool soaked in ink (the only writing materials provided), she had managed a few stilted sentences, no information about their life, except that they were in good health, well looked after.

She read David’s letter only once. It made her stay awake at night, silently shouting at him. On the day of the kidnapping, he said — I thought you had escaped to the woods when I saw the flames rising up from the direction of Tsinondali. Why he had not rushed back home — the correct military procedure was to lie in ambush waiting for the enemy’s return . Why he had not attempted to save her — I know from experience that they prefer to slaughter, God forbid, their prisoners rather than loose them, I could not take such a risk. How the serfs found Lydia — they recognized the lace shawl … Where she was buried — in the Church of St George which has escaped the fire. When he found out about the burial and the kidnapping — two days later, when it was safe for me to leave the fort.

When it was safe for me to leave the fort.

The lace shawl.

She had wanted to tear up the letter. But she had controlled herself. Why make Zeidat laugh at her? Why upset Alexander? She had not torn it up but she had not read it again. David was telling the truth, she knew, when he said, I am doing everything I can to secure your release but, strangely enough, she did not believe in him. Nor did she doubt him, or question his abilities. He was telling her the truth but the truth did not always inspire faith. That was what she lacked often these days after the denial and the extravagant hope had passed, especially after the ransom sums were bandied about, more extortionate, it seemed, by the minute. Was it greed or compensation? She was not sure. Crops burnt, villages destroyed, forests felled … why? Her faith was wavering, not only that they would go back to Georgia but in who was right, who was winning; what was it all for?

Madame Drancy was better than her in this respect. She impressed Anna with her determination to be a true Christian, patiently carrying her cross. She would read aloud from the Imitation de Jesus-Christ, the only book that managed to reach them. ‘This is my true comfort,’ she would say, a little dramatically, tears in her eyes. Often she gave in to sobs and hysterics whenever she missed her mother or fell ill. These easy feminine tears made Anna envious. She was all dried up after Lydia, too angry to cry.

Of course David was doing everything he could to secure her release, but every day he seemed further away, detached from this strange new life. She would not even want to tell him about it, ashamed of what she had been reduced to. But again, his letter should have given her nourishment. One would think, she mused, that such a letter would be my lifeline, my consolation, my link. Instead its words rattled rather than soothed her, kept her awake, her body lengthened with passion, her dreams, when they finally came, carnal and unfulfilling. The nights were hot and the room poorly ventilated. Thighs stuck together, sweat pooling under her breasts, her hair damp on the pillow. Last night she had sensed a familiar tug that folded into a gentle ache, a promise of a trickle. It had been more than a year since she had leaked this monthly blood, since first carrying Lydia. Welcome old friend. To reassure her that she was still fertile. To promise her future princes and princesses.

When they had first arrived in Dargo, it was stifling nights following long empty days. Total imprisonment in this one room for at least two weeks. ‘Is this how you treat your guests, Imam Shamil?’ she had berated him the next time they met, finding herself matching his tone, using his words. ‘No fresh air, no sunlight, no exercise. No wonder we are poorly.’ He relented immediately; Anna and Madame Drancy to have full and free access to all of the women’s quarters, Alexander to play outdoors with the children of the aoul, even all day if he wanted to.

What did they do with themselves, Shamil’s women? Anna’s hosts were themselves like prisoners huddled in these quarters. Rooms of stone that opened into a gallery, screened by a high wooden fence, through which they could look out at the rest of their household. Shamil had his own separate building adjoining the mosque, a reception room in which he conducted meetings and received visitors. His rooms, which roused Anna’s mild curiosity, were not shared by any of his wives. Instead he visited them in turn, knocking on their door, waiting for permission to come in.

‘Is it true,’ she asked Chuanat, who arrived sneaking in another netting for Alexander, cake and tea for his mother, ‘that you ransomed yourself to Shamil to save your family?’

Chuanat smiled with her usual warmth. ‘That’s what I wanted them to believe but, no, I fell in love with him. I could not leave him.’ When they had first arrived in Dargo, Anna had noticed that Chuanat was plump. In fact she was pregnant and now due to give birth. Her trousers were hitched above her bulge; she needed extra pillows to lean upon.