Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

Jamal el-Din sat back, gesturing for Shamil to wipe clean the dish. ‘The man turned to his slave and said, “You have gained your freedom. Go now as you please.”’

Shamil fetched water and a basin so that they could rinse their hands. He would drink tea later with Chuanat. She always had the samovar ready by her side.

‘You did not consult me on the kidnapping of the princess,’ Jamal el-Din said.

Shamil bristled but he understood now why he had been drawn here, to face the disapproval he had suspected. ‘With due respect my master, but I do not usually go over with you every raid and operation.’

‘If you had asked my permission I would not have given it. And that is why you did not ask my permission.’

Shamil felt young, like a child caught out. He expected to receive a loving reprimand, a chuff on the shoulder, a gentle tug to his ear. ‘She is valuable,’ he said. ‘High enough to shake the tsar.’

Jamal el-Din’s eyes widened. He leaned forward. ‘You’re not going to ask me why I would have withheld my permission.’

‘It is too late to ask.’ His voice was louder than he expected it to be.

‘This is a new arrogance in you, Shamil.’

‘I want my son back.’

‘You want your son back?’

‘Yes, I want him with me where he belongs.’

‘You want. You want. Weakness lies in desire.’

‘I see no harm in trying, in making another attempt.’

Jam el-Din raised his voice. ‘All this and no harm.’

Shamil flinched. ‘I was appalled at how much she suffered on the journey. And the loss of the daughter was unfortunate to an extreme. But now she is in my house, living with the same amenities as my family. I have ordered my wives to treat her as a guest.’

Jamal el-Din interrupted him with wide eyes, his tone slightly mocking. ‘You entrusted my daughter as a hostess!’ He knew Zeidat’s faults, indeed they were well known. How the gentlest of men could father a shrew, how an upbringing steeped in wisdom and compassion could produce a fanatic, was in itself a curiosity to puzzle over.

Shamil’s voice took on a more defensive edge. ‘I myself make sure that the princess gets good food. Her son was ill and I fetched him the rarest herbs but they didn’t cure him. At last I sent down into Tiflis for medicine. What more can I do?’ He was speaking too much and he was conscious of his voice getting louder. ‘If Her Highness continues to suffer it is not my fault but the fault of the pampered lifestyle she has been accustomed to.’

‘I see no blessing in this risk you are taking. My heart is not at ease.’

Shamil glanced at his old teacher, the delicacy in him that came from a life of peace, eyes toned by books, tongue moist from reciting the praises of Allah, sensitive fingers that tended plants, milked goats, folded prayer rugs. He said, ‘Sheikh, leave warfare to me. I know more about it.’

‘Who is the go-between in this?’

‘Isaac Gramoff, an Armenian interpreter serving in the Russian army. He knows our dialect.’

‘From where?’

‘He’s lived among the mountain tribes all his life.’

Jamal el-Din sat back and closed his eyes. ‘Return her to her husband.’

Shamil lifted up his hands in exasperation.

Jamal el-Din opened his eyes, pointed his finger and raised his voice. ‘I am telling you: return her to her husband.’

It was a direct order and Shamil stood up. ‘No.’

Jamal el-Din looked up at him with eyes that still requested, that still held out. ‘What do you mean, “no”?’

‘Until my son comes back, she is staying.’ He picked up his gun, which was hanging on the nail on the wall, and walked out of the door.

He walked out of the door without kissing his teacher’s hand, without begging as he had always done these past thirty years for blessings, for support, for prayers to grant continuous triumph in battle, without humbling himself to kiss his sheikh’s feet, knowing that only in this humility, in this love could the spray of a miracle reach him, to anoint him invincible in the face of the enemy. He walked out of the door into heat, haste and darkness; it was several yards before he stopped and collected his bearings. The night was dense, moonless. The crescent to herald the new month, a sacred one, had not yet appeared. Autumn was holding off this year — usually by now the nights were pleasant. He needed a bath but a bath would not resolve the angry sadness he had landed in. This grappling with ugliness, this touch of inner disease. There was no merit in a student defying his teacher, no sweetness in a murid disobeying his sheikh. In his own aoul, his wives five minutes away, his children waiting and yet he veered into exile.

Decades ago Shamil had sworn allegiance to Sheikh Jamal el-Din. He had soaked up the sheikh’s Sufi teachings, eager for enlightenment, eager for the grace and strength that came from the Creator. Ghazi Muhammad al-Ghimrawi, too, had been a disciple. Together they had stood up in prayer and gone into seclusion; together they chanted and studied. And they had known that perfection could not be reached without the instructions of a master; they were seekers and Sheikh Jamal el-Din their spiritual guide. Keeping company with him yielded more than reading one thousand books; loving him was the gate to a higher love. Yet Ghazi Muhammad al-Ghimrawi dared to stand up to his teacher, opting for action when the older man favoured passivity. Al-Ghimrawi threatened the tribes that did not implement the Sharia; he raised the banner for jihad against the Russians. After his death, Shamil had succeeded him; by then the foundation of resistance had been laid down, the jihad in full swing.

Now stopping on the outskirts of the aoul, feet away from the sentry who would think he was inspecting them, he tried to calm himself with this thought. Jamal el-Din had always disliked war and hostage-taking; he had always turned away from conflict and strife. But I have a son who belongs with me, I have a son in need of rescue.

He could retrace his footsteps now and continue to reason with Jamal el-Din. He could beg for forgiveness and then explain. But what was there to explain and why was it that Jamaleldin’s return was an urgent priority only for him? It was the pressure from the naibs for a high ransom that was stalling the negotiations. If it were up to Shamil, it would be a straight hostage exchange. And yet his hands were tied; the community privileged over the individual, and the People’s Council was in need of funds. ‘Be patient and fear Allah in the hope that you will flourish and He will remove the evil with which the infidels oppress you.’ Is that not what he told his men? ‘Do not lose heart and do not grieve, for you are the exalted. We are servants of Allah, all-powerful Victor over all, who resists those who oppose his Sharia. Peace be upon those who hear the word and follow its best meaning.’

He turned and started to walk home, still troubled. Fear did not usually steal into him so easily and yet here it was. It had slung itself around his neck as soon as he left Jamal el-Din’s home. If the sheikh now held off his spiritual support, would Jamaleldin not come home? Would the hostage negotiations fail? Until now there had been not been a single word from St Petersburg about the return of Jamaleldin. Shamil walked faster to shrug off the pessimism. He was driven to succeed and through Allah’s will he would succeed. He must not contemplate failure.

It was Zeidat who met him at the door. He said, ‘I will inspect the guest quarters now. Announce me.’

‘There is no one there. The Russian is visiting Chuanat. Have a bite to eat first while I heat up the water for your bath.’ She tossed the invitation out with more efficiency than concern. He knew that the usual wifely duties held no interest for her. Dishevelled more often than not, jingling her keys and bossing the servants, she was more fulfilled priming his pistols and sharpening his sabre. Nothing pleased her more than sitting with him to mull over the administration of his troops or to assess the merits of a particular naib. She had sharp opinions on everything from battle tactics to who should be promoted and who should be punished. With time, the care of their permanently disabled child had, thankfully, mellowed and restrained her, thickening also the bond between them. He loved her best when she stirred his resolve with eloquent elegies of the martyrs; her fine eyes, the only likeness to her father, glowing and sincere. But not today.