Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

She dreams of Georgia. All of it. Its Alazani river, gardens, Tsinondali. Riches spread before her. Vines, grass plateaus, forests. She can see it all because she sits on a cloud. It is comfortable, voluptuous. She hovers over this beauty knowing that she is part of it. She dangles her feet, she rolls. She moves her body without the fear of falling. One time running her fingers through the river, one time picking up a flower with her toes. The cloud holds her up with the most gentle of pressure. It responds to her desire to rise or move. Time passes and there is only more to enjoy, more to look at. The silver, blue, grey, cream colours of the water, the breath of air. There can be no doubt. Only Georgia smells like this, feels like this, has these shapes and sounds and tones. Her presence here is enough, without language or tasks or aspirations. Without hunger. Only harmony. Only light. Time passes as it would for a child. Everything is close, larger, infinitely interesting. Jasmine, fruit, fish. There is no gap between herself and her surroundings. The fibres of her body, her skin, her pulse, her blood spring from this water and soil. It is the longest dream she has ever had.

When he came back, she wanted to thank him but did not get the chance. He was superficially wounded but many of the other fighters were in a more serious condition. The hushed atmosphere of the aoul, the intermittent wailing from families who had lost lives, the darkening of Zeidat’s face could only mean that the battle had not gone well. ‘Their loss, our gain,’ Madame Drancy whispered and Anna wished it was as simple as that. Was anyone really winning? Yours kill ours — ours kill yours. What would it take to raise the white flag of peace? Madame Drancy was keeping a close watch over the dates. Unless she had miscalculated, Christmas Day was next week.

Ameena was unlike herself. She no longer played with the children. Anna tried to cajole her. ‘What’s wrong? You have not sung to us for a long time. Nor are you climbing to the roof or playing with Alexander.’

‘Shamil offered me my freedom,’ she said. ‘A divorce. This is because I told him I was not happy. I told him I would rather be with someone my age.’

Anna was taken aback. ‘He must have been furious.’

‘No,’ Ameena said. ‘He was very gentle. We’ve been married for four years and still no children. He said I could go back to my tribe but I really don’t want to go away. I want to stay here in Dargo.’

The arrival of Ghazi Muhammad brought more cheer to the household. Anna had disliked him when they first met at Polahi but now she was ready to reconsider. Arms were fired in his honour, the villagers vied to kiss his hand and he strode into the house full of smiles. His grandmother, sisters and stepmothers were all eager to see him and there was much coming and going, gifts shown off and special meals cooked. The marks on Ghazi’s face that had given him a rough appearance were scars from the pox. He might have resembled Shamil physically but his disposition was considerably jollier. Like his father too, Ghazi had a talent for winning the affection of children. Alexander was soon following him around. One clear afternoon, he dragged Anna off to watch Ghazi give the youth a fencing lesson. Soon, Shamil joined them and stood next to Anna, watching the young men.

At last she had the opportunity to say it. ‘Thank you for the gift.’

‘The gift?’

The clink of sabre against sabre and her face started to go hot. He had forgotten? She had conjured it all herself? And now to explain by saying, ‘Thank you for the dream,’ would be utter folly.

‘Ah,’ he had remembered. ‘A throne for Anna to sit on.’

Relief made her limbs loose, the start of a laugh in her throat. ‘Oh no, it was a cloud.’

He heard her but did not hear her. Instead he turned his back to the lesson. Eyes to eyes, like a pledge. He said, ‘The throne of Georgia is for you. We defeat the Russians and then there would be justice. What they have taken would come back to us. And you too would be lifted up high. To become Anna Elinichna, Queen of Georgia.’

She felt herself fall, even though she remained standing. Alexander thrusting his body in imitation of Ghazi, the sunny shine of steel, the snow-capped mountains — all folded back like a curtain and there was only a glittering darkness. He had excavated an ambition from deep down. He had picked out one nebulous desire and given it a name. The throne back to Georgia, as it should be. Georgia, free and autonomous, as it should be. And she would be the one to make this happen. She would be worthy of it. Anna Elinichna, Queen of Georgia. She could feel Shamil place the crown on her head — the weight of one hundred and forty-five diamonds, fifty-eight rubies, twenty-four emeralds. Russia was losing the Crimean War, he explained. Soon, the Allies would take over the Black Sea Coast and drive the Russians out of Georgia. The throne would be restored.

She should know better. There was another name for this kind of talk and these kinds of alliances. Treason. For centuries Georgia was a Christian nation at the mercy of its aggressive neighbours, the Persians and the Ottomans who were, like him, Muslim. She should know better than to trust him.

Jamaleldin sat by the tsar’s bedside. The figure on the bed was wasted, eyes sunken into dark sockets, wisps of white hair on the satin pillow. Jamaleldin had been told that Emperor Nicholas was ill, possibly dying, but it was still a shock to see the alteration, this accelerated aging, said to be exacerbated by the bad reports coming from the Crimea. The familiar scent of the tsar’s eau de cologne struggled to mask the odours of a sick room. Jamaleldin wished he was somewhere else. He needed fresh air and brightness.

With tremendous effort, Nicholas was telling Jamaleldin the story of the kidnapping. He was croaking it out as if his health depended upon it. Jamaleldin, who already knew the details, flinched at every mention of his father’s name. The tsar’s attendants and nurses glanced at their patient from time to time, followed the inflection of his voice for signs of agitation or deterioration. He was a vulnerable man, at the mercy of bad news from the front. The war he had passionately believed in had played out in such a way that the admiral of the British ship that reached Kronstadt was boasting that, come May, he would be toasting Queen Victoria’s birthday in the Winter Palace. Nicholas raised his head and attempted to sit up higher. The nurse rushed to rearrange the pillows. Jamaleldin moved, pressing his back against the chair.

‘David Chavchavadze came to see me,’ Nicholas said. ‘He is mortgaging his estate to pay for the ransom. But the ransom is not enough. Shamil wants you. I told David I cannot order you to make such a sacrifice. It is too much.’

Jamaleldin said, ‘I was not given a choice when I came here. I do not have a choice now.’

Nicholas’s fingers grabbed at the sheets. He tossed his head impatiently from side to side and moaned. ‘Show more gratitude. It took David a long time to approach me. He knows how dear you are to me. He did try to rescue his family but failed.’

Jamaleldin felt conscious of his well-shined boots, his leather gloves that lay across his knees. The distance between him and Nicholas was growing. There was a time when it had all been much simpler. He rescued from the wild, Nicholas the benevolent godfather. He the pet, Nicholas the mighty. He the puppet, Nicholas the conductor, the thrower of crumbs, the arranger of roles, the changer of destinies. Jamaleldin the chess piece, and now Shamil had changed the rules of the game.

‘Sire,’ Jamaleldin said, wanting more than anything to stretch his legs, to run down the stairs. ‘I will not shy away from my duty.’