Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

Jamaleldin watched David’s face transform; he saw his hand for the briefest of moments grip his revolver and then let go. ‘Is the imam withdrawing his word after he has given it? Can he even count up to a million? I challenge him on that.’

Hassan frowned. ‘There is no need for insults.’

‘Well, I cannot add another kopek. It is forty thousand roubles or nothing.’

Hassan shrugged. ‘Write this down for Shamil Imam and we will take it to him.’

‘I will not write another letter,’ David shouted. ‘Tell him he is lucky I offered forty. I should have said twenty but I didn’t think the emperor would permit Jamaleldin’s return.’

The wording struck Jamaleldin. It was true, the emperor had permitted his return. Reflect on the decision, sacrifice yourself to save the princess — all an illusion. The truth was that he had been a hostage all these years held by elastic constraints. A rubber band that allowed him to join a regiment, dance in a ball, ask for the hand of Daria Semyonovich. Humiliation pumped through his blood. He could no longer hear David, who continued to shout. The room, the biggest one in the District Commission, began to seem strange, full of eerie sounds and people who were unaware of each other. The aides-de-camp, interpreters, orderlies on the side — all appeared to him as crooked as puppets. He felt someone nudging him; it was Hassan turning towards him with a smile that was itself like a word in a foreign language. ‘Don’t worry, brother, that’s just our way of negotiating. We’ll get you out of here soon. Don’t worry.’

It was too much. The tears rose to his eyes. ‘Worry? You think I’m worried. You don’t understand, do you, that I’m not even happy I’m returning. I’m no longer one of you. I’ve forgotten how to be. If I could, I would turn round and go back to what I know.’

Suddenly David was in front of them, eyes blazing at Hassan, the vein on his forehead stretched blue-grey, spit forming on the corners of his mouth. He pitched in, ‘And I will take Jamaleldin back to Petersburg, see if I don’t. If by Saturday you don’t bring me an acceptance of my offer, I swear by my Creator both of us will leave Khasavyurt. Listen to me. Listen to me well: I will not be played with. Shamil can do what he likes with my family. Yes, he can. Do you understand me? If he makes my wife his slave then she is no longer my wife. She is not. I will renounce her.’

When news of Jamaleldin’s arrival in Khasavyurt first reached Dargo, it was greeted with celebration. Gunshots were heard throughout the aoul and there was much chanting and thanksgiving. Chuanat rushed into Anna’s room to congratulate her and Madame Drancy sank to her knees in gratitude. But it was Zeidat’s reaction that turned out to be the most accurate. She stood at the doorway with arms folded and said, ‘I don’t understand why you’re so happy. Does Shamil Imam only have one son? The boy’s return is not enough. You will not be released for less than a million.’

It was in itself a torture, this unknown future, this hope that now dangled close. Anna might believe that Shamil truly wanted his son back but Zeidat and the naibs were winning the argument. How much could they get out of David Chavchavadze was the question they were asking themselves. They would push him to the limit. He was doing everything he could — mortgaging, selling and borrowing, but it might not be enough.

And what would become of her if she stayed? More and more often she was thinking along these lines. Anna Elinichna, Queen of Georgia — Shamil had won her with these words, courted her with a dream. These days she was imagining what would have been preposterous months ago. It was a seductive, repulsive path. She would join Shamil’s resistance. She would fight with the Chechens for a free Georgia. The prospect was thrilling. It filled her with a dislike of herself but still she could not stop weaving the fantasy. It often threw up surprises. She would contact those relations of hers who had been exiled by the tsar, who had never submitted wholeheartedly to the annexation of their country. David, cautious and pro-Russia, had always urged her to steer clear of them; now she would seek them with an offer of her own. And here in this household there would have to be changes too; the delicious toppling of Zeidat, and Madame Drancy would definitely have to go. Madame Drancy did not believe that Muslims worshipped the same God she did. She would consider Alexander a Christian soul lost to Islam. She would become reproachful and ultimately insubordinate. Her position as governess or even companion would become untenable. It would be necessary to move her to another aoul or seek some way for her to individually secure her own ransom. Unlikely, but there was no other option.

The mountains were filled with the displaced. Here among Shamil’s men were captives and deserters. Their wellbeing was a function of how much they integrated or made themselves useful. In Georgia and in Russia, there were also Chechens who had gone over to the Russians. Their survival, too, depended on how easily they fitted in and how valuable they could be. Each with their personal heartache, each with their individual story. The only common thing being that their loyalty would always be suspect, their loved ones far away, their aura tinged with the shame of defection.

One of Shamil’s men was a Georgian who had in his childhood been made prisoner. Abid was esteemed by Shamil because of his intelligence and natural fighting skills. His story fascinated Anna. One of the older women in the household had fallen in love with Abid. Shamil approved the marriage in order to strengthen Abid’s attachment. If his wife and children were now part of Dargo-Veddin, Abid was less likely to escape. On one occasion when a battle had turned unfavourable, Shamil and Abid were separated from the rest of the troops. Pursued, they galloped until they came very near to the Russian border. ‘I have always felt that one day you will leave me,’ Shamil said to him. ‘If you wish to return to the Russians here is the opportunity. Don’t be afraid. No one will follow you.’ Abid was adamant that his loyalty was to the imam. Yet he was fated to leave. Years later he fell in love with a Georgian prisoner and when she was, only last month, ransomed by her people, he followed her. Now his children would grow up with a father who had deserted them, a mother who was lamenting her fate. Anna wondered how successful Abid would be back in Georgia. She doubted that he would rise to a position as high as that of being Shamil’s arms-bearer.

Alexander came into the room to find her dozing. She was neither healthy nor ill; neither calm nor energetic. ‘Mama,’ he tugged at her sleeve. She sat up and stroked his hair. He was taller now, less cuddly, less precious.

‘Zeidat took me to her room,’ he said. ‘She gave me sweets and told me that Papa doesn’t love me any more. She said it would be better for me if I stayed here. Is it true what she said?’

‘No.’ She held him by the shoulders. ‘No, it is not true. Papa loves you and he is doing all he can to bring us home. And soon we will go home. I promise you.’

He looked relieved. She hugged him to herself and close to her neck he whispered, ‘I don’t remember which is our house in Tiflis and which is Tsinondali. They are two houses but I think they are one house.’

She went over the differences between them. She jogged his memory. They spent a successful hour regaining their past, shutting out the present. Until a cry was heard from outside and Alexander rushed out to join the domestic drama caused by the mischievous Muhammad-Sheffi breaking the lock of his grandmother’s room.