Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

Anna had plenty of questions. How could Chuanat bear this life? Did she not mind sharing Shamil with Zeidat and Ameena? Does not love wane after years of marriage and children?

‘When he comes back safe from battle, I am so relieved. It is as if I am seeing him again for the first time, fresh feelings and we start all over again. He is so handsome, I sometimes think he has bewitched me. If the story about the mountain lion is true, then it would be easy for him to ensnare a young girl. The first day I saw him, the way he looked at me, it was as if he knew everything about me and I didn’t have to explain myself. I was young when I was captured. Treated fairly well on the journey, no one laid a finger on me, but I cried for my family. Then he became my family. He replaced everything I lost, and more. He never asked me to change my religion. ‘Chuanat, my Christian wife’, he made everyone say it, like him, with respect. ‘We worship the same God,’ he told me, ‘and when you are ready I will show you shorter, quicker, more direct routes to Him. I will lead you.’ My mother had wanted to give me to the church. Yes, I had been destined for the Armenian Church — but I had my own misgivings though I kept them to myself. I loved my Lord and wanted to serve Him; I even liked how the nuns lived, how peaceful they were and orderly. I liked their clean life removed from the bustle of the markets, away from the competition and envy and always wanting more. But I wanted children, I imagined myself a mother and that made me think that I would be out of place in the convent, I wouldn’t be able to keep up with the other nuns, somehow, I would let them down. Now here I have everything I wanted.’ She laid a hand on the bulge of her stomach. ‘They are all inseparable, the baby and the prayers.’

‘But it is so basic, this life. How can you bear it? No music, no rides, no books. These stone rooms. The food is horrible, the clothes are horrible.’

Chuanat nodded, ‘Yes, I wish Shamil would permit us to dress better. A bonnet and a cloak — I would like that. But not the other things, not at all. It would have been basic too in the convent. Now I feel I have plenty. The outside world doesn’t interest me. When I pray behind him I am happy. I am peaceful. Shamil has brought me closer to God, because he is close to Him. And there is such a blessing in being with him, in serving him. It is a kind of intoxication that does not diminish or become stale. It is as close as I can get to Heaven. He is gentle with us. Have you seen him with the children? He always gives them fruit and toffees.’

Anna had seen him once carrying a pretty girl, while her crippled leg hung over his arms. She was his daughter, from Zeidat. His two older daughters were from the late Fatima; they were thirteen and ten.

‘He is one thing at home and another outside. He has never raised a hand against any of us. He knows when I am tired, he knows when I am remembering my family; he understands when someone has upset me.’

‘And the others?’ Anna prodded. Polygamy disgusted her but at such close quarters it was interesting.

‘Zeidat’s father is Sheikh Jamal el-Din, Shamil Imam’s teacher. Zeidat could not find a husband because of her sharp temper and difficult ways — so in gratitude to his teacher and to ease his mind, Shamil married her. I did get jealous when he married Ameena. But she is too young, she does not appreciate him. I don’t know what is wrong with this girl, she is moody and doesn’t know what she wants. You know she once set fire to Zeidat’s room! Over a quarrel about a piece of silk! She flew into a rage and burnt all of Zeidat’s clothes. And Imam Shamil did not punish her.’

Ameena visited Anna later that day. She often did, keen to hear stories about Petersburg and the tsar’s court or to ask Madame Drancy about Paris. Anna found her a harmless distraction as well as a welcome source of information about the household. It was Ameena who told her that the elderly lady, Bahou, was Jamaleldin and Ghazi’s maternal grandmother, mother of the deceased Fatima. The one who looked like Ameena was her mother, the middle-aged Tartar was the governess of Shamil’s daughters, the steward’s wife, a visitor and so on. Today Ameena took Anna by the arm. ‘Come, let me show you something special.’

They walked through the gallery to the building that housed Shamil’s quarters. Anna began to feel wary even though she knew he was away. Curiosity kept her from turning around. Ameena pushed open a door and they were in Shamil’s room. In the dim light Anna smelt cloves or camphor. When her eyes adjusted she saw, hanging over the fireplace, a scimitar, a sword and some pistols. The pistols were Georgian, mounted in silver. The sword had an Ottoman cartouche and there was gold Arabic calligraphy inscribed on the blade. The hilt was of animal horn and there were vegetal decorations on the crossbar.

The walls of the room were a simple white and there were a few Caucasian rugs on the floor, a wooden trunk pushed against the wall, a copper basin and jug. What surprised Anna most were the books, manuscripts and journals lining the shelves of more than one wall. There was a stack of the St Petersburg paper, the Russki Invalid. It was a simple room, no opulent chair, no desk, no clocks or cigar boxes, no globes and no decoration. And yet she wanted to linger, to absorb the solemn atmosphere, the stillness that almost had a colour. She looked more closely at the books, their Arabic script, a stack of letters, ledgers full of accounts. Ameena moved towards the trunk and said, ‘Come and see his clothes.’

Anna shook her head but Ameena had already lifted the lid of the trunk open. Anna looked down at green and brown woollen cloaks folded neatly, the heavy twisted white that made up his turban. She flushed because she was snooping and she should not be. She had told him that first time, My rank and upbringing forbid me to lie. I will not trick you. Ameena was naive to bring her here; perhaps she would be punished for it.

‘Let us go back.’ She turned to see Ameena holding a pistol in her hand. There was a strange expression on her face. She pointed it at Anna. It could not be loaded, but the sudden fear made her whole body tingle. ‘Put it back, Ameena.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it is not yours.’

‘Or because your life is worth thousands of roubles? How much do you think my life is worth? One thousand, five hundred? How much is a childless wife worth?’

She did not feel frightened any more. ‘You are still young, Ameena, there is plenty of time for you to have children.’

Ameena mounted the pistol back on the wall. ‘I was teasing you,’ she said. She linked arms with Anna as they left the room. ‘But you weren’t afraid at all. If this were Drancy, I would have laughed my fill at her hysterics.’

The next day Chuanat gave birth to a girl. She lay propped up on cushions, dark shadows under her eyes but smiling, the baby swaddled in her arms. Her room filled up with women and a tray of rubbery Turkish Delight was passed around. The celebration would have been bigger had it been a boy. ‘We are waiting for her father to name her,’ Chuanat smiled. ‘I have already sent a message to him. Would you like to hold her, Anna?’

She could not refuse, though it brought back gusts of disbelief, one battering memory after the other. She had crooked her arm in exactly the same way, made sure Lydia’s head was supported, felt her own body large in comparison, a bulwark against harm. All babies were alike but not identical. There was the delicate skin, dewy, sometimes flaky, hair on the arms like threads. There were the exquisite movements, the slight toss of the head, mouth open rooting for milk, a yawn, a push of the elbow, a drawing in of the knee; these exact same movements the mother had felt in the womb. And then there were their eyes, large and steady because they held knowledge of other worlds. Later, in a few years’ time, they would carry names that defined them; they would find out on which side of the war they belonged. Later they would learn the legends and the proverbs, hear them from an older cousin or a younger aunt. When will blood stop flowing on the mountains? When the sugarcane grows in snow. But not yet, in these early days of their life — they were above it all, pure and holy.