Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

The tsar raised his hand. ‘You do not have to give me your decision now. Go away and reflect on the sacrifice that is asked of you. I will give you two days.’

To reflect — was that to realise that he would not be entering the military academy, that he would never serve on the staff, that in terms of his career in the Russian army this was the end? Or to reflect that if he did not buy an atlas and take it with him, he would never see one again? Or to attend the ballet one last time, really the very last time? Or alternatively to think “I will see Ghazi again” and laugh out loud in a rush of elation? Or to reflect that if he fell ill in Dargo, there would be nothing but herbal concoctions and superstition? But these recent pangs of hunger to hug his little brother again — how else could they be subdued? No, he did not want two days to reflect. He could not visit this sick bed again.

Jamaleldin fell to his knees. ‘There is only one right thing to do. I will use the two days to prepare for the journey and say my goodbyes.’

The tsar blessed him and gave him a parting gift, words to keep hearing in the mountains. ‘Never forget that I made you a civilised man.’

He walked down the stairway, of course, he did not run. The palace was gloomy; for some time now there had been no balls, no receptions, just echoes of better days. Near the archway, Jamaleldin had a sudden memory of Anna. Ever since he had heard the news, he had searched his mind for a recollection of her, sure that he must have met her at one point. Now her face and figure slotted into place under this particular chandelier. Slightly older than him, too beautiful to be considered dowdy, but still the provincial had cast a pall over her. He had danced the mazurka with her once and found her distracted, a little awkward, not Russian enough. She did not fit in and this had lowered her instinctively in his estimation. Perhaps she reminded him of himself, perhaps in his competitive desire for court approval he surmised that her acquaintance could not be an asset. And now, exponentially, she would be his downfall. But blaming her was hardly chivalrous, let alone logical. His father. This was all about his father. His father’s love had done all this. But what took you so long? Why not after six months or a year or even two, when I stayed up at night listening out for your men’s footsteps then cried myself to sleep. Before I forgot your language.

Once in his first week at the Kadetsky Corpus, on a particularly windy night, the branches of the tree kept tapping on the dorm window. Jamaleldin had imagined it as a code. He crept out of bed and crouched by the window. ‘Younis,’ he had whispered and then in the Avar language, ‘Is it you?’ until the cold sense of his foolishness sent him back between the sheets to dream of the last highlander he had seen, the teacher who gingerly made his way down the mountains, passed the Russian lines and visited him in the garrison at Akhulgo, to lead him in prayer and continue with the Qur’an lessons. Younis, who left one day saying, ‘We will continue tomorrow insh’Allah’, but by tomorrow Jamaleldin was on his way to Moscow, without ever saying a proper goodbye. At cadet school the following day, hardened and grateful that no one had seen or heard him talking to a window, he plunged into the race to prove himself. No time to be homesick, no time for memories. So why now, after all these years? Because Anna Chavchavadze had not heeded the military governor’s warning and stayed in Tiflis. Or because, when the raiders came, she didn’t escape to the woods in time. Or because, as his father would no doubt say, it was Allah’s will and nothing could be done to change it.

Jamaleldin packed his drawing materials, he packed books and what he reckoned he would not find in Dargo, what people carried from civilisation to the back of beyond. A clock, a globe, a music box. The tsar signed a travel order, a small group of Cossacks of the imperial escort were gathered, a troika with a bearskin rug was prepared and Jamaleldin sat in it. The journey south, via Moscow, took him along the river Don. When the Caucasus came into view, the awe he felt was mixed with oppression. The peaks were higher than he remembered, barren, stony. The troika, rendered fragile by the landscape, was exchanged for a tarantass. On and on, he travelled. It took a month to reach Vladikavkaz. There David Chavchavadze was waiting to meet him and say, ‘I cannot thank you enough.’

Jamaleldin noticed the anxiety and pain on the prince’s face. He was tall and rangy, too direct to be clumsy and too socially aware to be deep. Ironically he had recently been awarded the Order of St Anna and raised to the rank of colonel for his heroic defence of the river forts against Shamil’s invading army. That very same invasion which had carried off his family and killed his daughter. Entering David’s solicitous care and companionship, Jamaleldin could not help but think that it was only these peculiar circumstances that had thrown them together. Ordinarily he would not merit the prince’s attention or presume upon his time.

During a walk by the Terek river, David updated him on the negotiation process. He said, ‘Your father has been informed that you are on the way.’ Six months since the princess was kidnapped, one month on the journey and five in Dargo. ‘She is suffering,’ David said and Jamaleldin did not want to hear the details, did not want to dwell on the spot she would be giving up for him.

In the evening a dinner at the commanding officer’s house was arranged in Jamaleldin’s honour. Thirty ladies and gentlemen, lulled by the monotony of this outpost, deprived of the pleasures of the metropolis, seized on the diversion of Jamaleldin’s arrival. They were curious too and he sensed the hush when he and David walked into the drawing room, noticed the plump red-headed woman who turned away from the window. Soft introductions and then time to walk into dinner where instead of sitting on the far end of the table with the other young aides-de-camp and officials, he was seated in the middle of the long side. Prince David was across from him. Next to David was the wife of a general, a tall, heavily bejewelled woman. Jamaleldin took note of all that was to pass away: the footmen in their livery, the silver tureen and the shifting breasts of the red-headed woman inches away from his left elbow.

The conversation looped reluctantly around the tsar’s health, the further bad news from the Crimea, until the general launched into a first-hand description of Hadji Murat’s defection in 1851, lauding the highlander’s courage and humanity. It must have been a story he had told often before or it was familiar enough to his audience, because no one paid much attention. It was only when Jamaleldin spoke out that everyone turned and gave him their full attention.

‘After failing in a mission, Hadji Murat was removed from office by my father, who also publicly forgave him. Instead of accepting this decree, however, Hadji Murat defected. This show of ingratitude brought down on him the charge of apostasy.’

‘An unfair charge,’ said the general, moustache bristling. ‘Everyone who was with him could see that Hadji Murat was fastidious in performing his prayers. He did not give up his religion.’

‘A pragmatic man then,’ said Prince David. ‘An opportunist who shifted his alliances when necessary.’

The general launched into an account of Hadji Murat’s unfortunate demise and Jamaleldin wished he hadn’t spoken out. He was able to give them extra information, the view from Shamil’s side, but they preferred their own speculations and opinions. They knew best. Jamaleldin turned to the lovely lady next to him and whispered, ‘I am a condemned man. But it is worth it for the pleasure of sitting next to you.’