Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

David Chavchavadze walked into the room holding a letter. He was ruffled, not agitated. Jamaleldin could read his face now and judge his mood from the way he walked, the twitch of his moustache and the vein on his forehead. Whether it was visible or whether it throbbed was a good barometer. Now David was moderately engaged, which meant that the news was neither good nor bad. David stood tall and began reading out loud, somewhat gratuitously Jamaleldin thought, extracts from the latest letter to arrive from Princess Anna via one of the Georgian servants who had volunteered for the journey to Dargo-Veddin. ‘“It is impossible to reason with these people. I have failed to convince them that you cannot offer a greater sum … Today, David, I no longer believe that we are destined to meet again in this life. I try, I do try to submit to this trial with Christian humility and to hold on to the hope of that better future promised to the suffering. I will undergo with gratitude whatever may be in store for me here and I will constantly pray that Alexander’s fate is better than mine. May God strengthen you in your grief and reward you.” ’

David’s voice started to tremble. ‘She does not know that you are here,’ he said to Jamaleldin and folded up the letter. ‘If she did, she would not be despairing. But they should have heard by now that you are on your way.’ He began walking back and forth hemmed in by the shelves of books. ‘Delays, delays! First they ask for the sum in gold and I get that ready. Then Shamil changes his mind.’

Jamaleldin winced at the mention of his father’s name. He always did, as if it was something intimate that should not be exposed, at least not in that tone, not with that impatience. Yet the name was there, it had to be said. Shamil was the core of the matter. It made Jamaleldin dizzy.

‘And why does Shamil want silver instead of gold?’ David continued. ‘Because the amount would look more impressive were it in silver and presumably he must satisfy the mercenary hordes who seek to gain out of all this. They must be ignorant not to realise that there is no difference, gold or silver, it is the same sum. The trouble I went to find silver! A little bit from here, a little bit from there. It was not easy. I still have five thousand in gold. They had better accept it and not change their minds again.’

Jamaleldin wished he did not have to listen to this. He wished for a companion his age. Twenty-four hours a day he was in the company of David Chavchavadze. They even shared the same room. Was the prince afraid that he would abscond or put a pistol to his head? David certainly hid it well. He certainly conveyed a feeling of trust and gratitude. But why read Anna’s letter out to him? So that Jamaleldin would feel sorry for her plight instead of feeling sorry for himself.

‘When will this finally come to an end? Our men had to wait a whole month in Dargo because Shamil was away. Then they want to exchange other prisoners as well. That opens more doors of negotiations. Then they tell me: come to Dargo yourself for a visit. A visit! So that you could see your wife and son. And then what? I said. Come back empty-handed? I would not do that. Either they come back with me or not at all.’

Mistrust on all sides. Jamaleldin could see through them both. The Russians believed the Chechens were wily and suspicious. The Chechens believed the Russians were aggressive and treacherous. They were both right, they were both wrong. One led to the other.

‘My first offer to him was forty thousand roubles.’ David was still pacing up and down. His scalp shone through his receding hairline. ‘Would I conceal or keep back one shaour when my family’s liberty is at stake?’ He suddenly stopped and faced Jamaleldin, posing this disingenuous question.

For the sake of peace Jamaleldin replied, ‘You would not.’ He strained to remember what a shaour was. It was a Georgian coin valued at only five kopeks.

‘He has still not turned my offer down.’ David resumed his pacing. ‘Nor has he accepted it.’

A knock on the door and Jamaleldin was saved by a visit from a group of young officers who asked him to join them for a ride. He readily agreed. On a horse he felt more like himself. He could race and exert himself to the point where his muscles trembled and his heart beat louder than his thoughts. He could pretend that everything was normal. Not quite. The mountains were there, up ahead waiting for him. Their forests and snows, their steepness that this horse could not manage, though other horses could.

Why was he thinking of them all the time? Of him all the time? In the evenings when he knocked back schnapps and lost money playing cards, Shamil’s disapproval ruined his pleasure. He was a marked man. And yet there was the ache to thaw and he wanted more than anything to see how Ghazi looked now. With a brother one would be less lonely, one would stretch out and spar without needing to win. The prospects played out in his mind, secrets soft as dreams. He dreamt of his mother and woke up with the fresh realisation that she was dead. He would not be going back to her, he would not be going back to Akhulgo. The course of the war had altered and his father, who split a man vertically in two halves with one blow of his sword, who could out-run and out-jump friend and foe, must have aged, even if only a little.

On the following morning two highlanders came. They were the official negotiators sent by Shamil. One of them, Hassan, circled Jamaleldin asking him one question after the other. What did he remember from his childhood? What was the name of his mother, his uncle who was long-ago martyred, his father’s cook? What was the colour of his father’s horse? Jamaleldin’s answers were vague, the Avar language let him down. He needed an interpreter. He started to feel bored. There was no point to this interrogation. Hadn’t Younis vouched for him already?

Hassan exuded ambition. His thick eyebrows almost met. His copious beard was perfectly black. He was not as old as he wanted to look. ‘My commission is to ascertain whether you are really the son of our great imam. I need positive physical evidence. Please bare your right arm.’

Jamaleldin rolled up his sleeve. Hassan grabbed his arm. His hand was rough and warm. ‘Yes, I can see the scar.’ A smile entered his voice. His grip loosened. He looked Jamaleldin straight in the eye. ‘When you were very young, you fell from a mill and wounded your arm. It was the kind of deep cut that would leave a scar.’

Jamaleldin rolled down his sleeve. He did not remember falling from a mill and hurting his arm. The scar had once or twice roused his curiosity but it was neither ugly nor big enough to embarrass him. Now he could make up a story about himself climbing inside a mill in Akhulgo and falling on the straw. Little Ghazi frightened by the sight of blood, running off to tell their mother and Jamaleldin looking at the frazzled stained flesh and willing himself to be brave.

Hassan turned to David. ‘You have delighted us with the return of Shamil Imam’s son. On my honour, I can now assure you of the return of your family very soon.’

Jamaleldin could see the relief in David’s face, the restrained excitement. The highlanders promised they would convey the news to Shamil in Dargo and return in three days’ time. I am that close, Jamaleldin thought. Days, not weeks or months.

Hassan and his companion returned as promised but not with a message from Shamil concluding the exchange. Instead the letter read, ‘I thank you for keeping your word with regards to my son’s return from Russia but do not think that this will end the negotiations between us. Besides my son, I require a million roubles and a hundred and fifty of my men whom you now hold prisoners. Do not bargain with me. I will not take less.’