Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

I said, ‘We should go. I don’t want you to miss your train.’

She picked up the house keys. Her movements were a little nervous, her shoulders dropping. Despite the effort over her appearance, she looked the slightest bit gaunt, she looked her age. ‘I’ve got an appointment with a London lawyer who specialises in terrorist arrests. He’s coming up to Glasgow to meet me and talk to Oz. They haven’t charged him with anything yet.’

It was when she started talking about Oz that I guessed the part she was dressed up for: activist mum campaigning for the release of her son.

I gave her my new mobile number, she gave me her house phone and the number of the hotel she was staying at in Glasgow. We would be in touch from now on. I drove slowly, wanting her company but unable to tell her about the last few days.

‘I was in denial when he was first arrested,’ she said. ‘Then I told myself I have to help him in every way, every possible way. I have to get him out of this mess. I can’t just sit back and cry. What good would it do? Yes, it’s been a shock for me but it’s not about me now, it’s about him.’

Light was beginning to gather around us but below the clouds I could still see the full moon. It looked like a sun. ‘I haven’t spoken to him,’ she said in reply to my question. ‘They wouldn’t let me. And they wouldn’t let me take him anything. No change of clothes, no food, no nothing. I called his father in Cape Town.’ She sounded breathless, maybe because she was speaking too fast. ‘Instead of getting on the next plane, he says, “They might drag me into it and then what use would I be to him?” Can you believe it!’

Yes, I could believe it, but I kept my eyes on the road. She sighed and touched her forehead. ‘So I’m on my own now in this. But I know people in London. I know people in the media and in human rights groups and I am not going to take this lying down.’

We were inside Montrose now, passing the caravan park, empty now, nothing like in the summer. She said, ‘You don’t look well, Natasha. You look like you haven’t been sleeping properly.’

I told her about my flat and the nights in hotels. I told her why I couldn’t stay with Tony any more.

‘Come and stay with me,’ she said. ‘When I get back. I mean it.’

It touched me, this not unexpected invitation, but I would need somewhere closer to the university. I felt heavy with what I couldn’t tell her — the mistakes I had made; my conversation with Iain, all the reports I had written on the ‘vulnerable students’. I stopped the car in the parking bay of the train station. She undid her seat belt.

I wanted to tell her that the days I had spent with her and Oz were special. Days in which I needed neither drink nor medication. Days in which I liked myself — no, that was not what it was; it was days in which I was free of the burden of myself. Instead I blurted out, ‘Malak, I’ve committed a sin.’ Since when did I use such language! Gaynor’s pro-life leaflet had hit me where it hurt.

She laughed and turned towards me, touched my arm. ‘Only one? You’re lucky.’

I pressed my lips together. The impulse to confess passed.

Her voice changed. ‘Don’t do it again.’

I looked at her dark eyes, not fierce like Shamil’s, not as wise, not as profound, but still there was something weighty there, the smallest remnant of power, just for me. I asked her, ‘Don’t do what again?’

‘What you believe is a sin. And don’t even talk about it. Let it go. Many things in life are out of our control but our egos insist that they are leaders.’ She stepped out of the car, the first rays of sun making her hair gleam. ‘Better a sin that leaves us broken-hearted, than a virtuous act that puffs us up with pride,’ she quoted. In this small Scottish station there were, directed at her, a few glances of surprise, glances of not quite admiration but an acknowledgement of that special quality she carried.

In spite of the fog, she insisted on her regular walk on the roof. Exercise was the cure for her restlessness, the outdoors an escape from the smoky chimney, the sound of the wind banging the doors and windows. But today the mountains were not visible. Holding Alexander’s hand, they could only see a few feet in front of them. Enough for a slower than usual walk, not too brisk, not like the other time when they ran a race. It made them feel as if they were entirely alone, in the kind of privacy they had been accustomed to in their life in Georgia and were now, as captives, deprived of.

The fog thinned and Anna could see the curved edges of dense clouds trapped between the lower peaks. Then all became grey again. We could be anywhere, she thought. This silvery blindness was a neutral surface she could impose her imagination on. The garden in Tsinondali, Alexander in his summer hat. She must talk to him about home so that he did not forget. She must talk to him about his father.

But Alexander could not be pinned down to the subject of home. He surprised her by asking, ‘Is Baby Lydia in Heaven now?’

It had been a long time since he had mentioned his sister. ‘Yes,’ Anna replied. ‘Yes she is.’

‘Is she happy?’

‘Yes, she is well and happy.’ She squeezed her son’s shoulder. When he looked up, she bent down and gave him a kiss. It was a comfort to her that, despite everything, he was well and happy. Her own hair was falling out; all she had to do was run her fingers through it for strands to loosen and fall. Dampness had crept into her chest so that she often coughed and wheezed through the night. A heavy downpour the previous week had caused the courtyard to flood; all became mud and dirt, dankness a smell she couldn’t shake off. Since Shamil’s arrival, their food had increased but it continued to be unappetising and limited in variety.

‘Imam Shamil said he would let me ride his horse tomorrow,’ Alexander was saying. ‘If the weather is good. He really said that. He promised.’

‘Aren’t you afraid of him?’ She was a little. The stories his wives liked to recount of his mystical abilities made her nervous. At first she had mocked them saying, ‘If he were so holy, he would bring my daughter back to me,’ but the way he looked at her on the few times they met made her feel that he knew more than he should.

‘Why should I be afraid of him? He gave me sweets today,’ Alexander said. ‘He gave all the children sweets. We had to stand in line. And I got extra because I was a guest.’

‘Lucky you.’ She meant it. Sometimes the craving for toffees and chocolates made her dizzy. At other times she desired nothing, her body arid and flat as paper. In the Eid al Adha oxen and sheep were slaughtered and there was enough meat for all. But the smell of the meat had made her crave wine and the feast did not feel like a feast without it.

Alexander said, ‘When he is not speaking, he looks like a lion.’

‘So you are afraid of him?’ She could just make out the stairs, which meant they had come full circle. For the sake of variety, she switched sides with Alexander. He was now on her left.

‘No I’m not. A lion who is very quiet. You almost think he’s asleep.’

She smiled. ‘When did you ever see a lion?’

‘In a picture book.’

‘Poor Alexander, you must miss all your books and toys.’ She wanted him to talk about his playthings but he suddenly cried out because he had seen something that she couldn’t. He let go of her hand and surged into the milky space ahead. The sound of an unfamiliar laugh as Shamil lifted him up off the ground. This is what Anna could see now. Shamil, with one arm, holding Alexander up high. His hand supported her son’s chest. Alexander lifted his arms out to the side, his legs straight out behind him. ‘Look Mama, I’m flying like an eagle!’ She caught the pleasure in his voice and laughed out loud as Shamil bent so that Alexander swooped down and Shamil twisted and moved so that Alexander, the eagle, veered left and right, weightless and free.