Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

Talking to Alexander had restored her to herself. She felt stronger, her head cleared as if she was waking up from the most vivid of dreams. The promise she made to her son must not be in vain. All that she had told him was the truth. David loved them both and they had a home and a life to go back to. She must not give in to confusion and this sidling astray. Some connections were too deep to be realised, too subtle to be convincing. She was not the Queen of Georgia. She would never be. She was David Chavchavadze’s wife, mother of Alexander, and she did not belong here. Her life was on hold. She must speak out and fight; she must say it again and again to break up this deadlock. ‘My family do not have a million roubles.’

She went to Chuanat’s room and asked for her help. ‘I must speak to Sheikh Jamal el-Din. He is the only one who has the strongest influence over Imam Shamil.’

Shamil was surprised to see his teacher coming into his room. He stood up and moved forward to kiss his hand. They had not been alone together since that night they had argued about Princess Anna. Every day he prayed behind him in the mosque and on Thursday nights they sat next to each other in the zikr circle, but they had not exchanged more than greetings and the day-to-day administrative discussions and correspondence that Jamal el-Din was involved in. Seeing him now venerable and grey with his intelligent expression and compassionate eyes, Shamil felt a pang of nostalgia, a longing for their former closeness. He should have been the one to make the first move. Even if he was not ready to apologise, he should have traversed the distance and at least expressed in action, if not in words, some penitence. He bent down now and kissed his teacher’s feet. To say out loud that he was honoured by this visit would be to sound formal and formality in itself was undesirable when it was intimacy that was due.

When he was seated cross-legged on the floor and after the customary refreshments, Jamal el-Din asked, ‘Are you going to reply to Colonel Williams’ letter?’

Colonel Williams, based in Anatolia, was the British commissioner to the Ottoman forces. He had sent a strongly worded reprimand against fighting women and children and demanded the immediate release of the captives. Shamil said, ‘I will explain my position and ask him why they did not support me last spring when I intended to march into Tiflis. We could have seized Georgia together. I fear that the Sublime Porte has forgotten us. All we are getting from the Ottomans are medallions and flags!’

‘They make the men happy.’

‘Yes, but we need more.’

‘Unlike Lord Palmerston, the British ambassador to Turkey has never been our steadfast friend. Do not underestimate his power over the sultan. Now he has seized on this business of the kidnapping to label you a barbarian not worthy of association.’

Shamil pondered on this analysis. He would do anything to rebuke the Ottoman sultan face to face. Georgia could have been taken and still it might. If only the Allies would advance onto the Caucasus instead of putting all their effort into the Black Sea. He looked up when his teacher called his name.

‘Shamil, I have spoken to your captive. She has assured me that a million roubles will not be raised by her husband.’

So this was why he was here. Shamil became more alert. ‘Will not or cannot?’

‘Even if Prince David has a million roubles, the tsar will not permit him to give you such a sum. Are they now in the business of financing us so that we can fight them even more?’

‘He is offering forty thousand.’

‘A huge sum.’

Shamil paused. He did not want to sound contradictory. ‘It would be best to receive more.’

Jamal el-Din sighed. ‘And if you cannot receive more and there is no exchange — what will you end up with — the princess as your fourth wife? Is this what you want?’

The princess as his fourth wife. Is this what he wanted? Shamil paused again but this time for a different reason. He might have disagreed with his teacher but he had never lied to him. He would not lie to him now. ‘I want my son.’

Jamal el-Din smiled. ‘Yes, you do. My namesake. Son of Fatima, may Allah grant her mercy. Son of the Imam of Chechnya and Dagestan. Brother of Ghazi Muhammad, brother of Muhammad-Sheffi. The boy belongs here with us.’

Shamil’s voice had a catch. ‘They tell me he does not speak a word of our language.’

‘This is natural. Years he has been away. You must not hold it against him. And he can learn. Be easy on him and when he comes back, insh’Allah, you must let him live as he likes.’

‘I will. To have him again safe from the infidels and their crooked ways is all I want.’

‘Well, you should be content with the position you forced your enemies into.’

Shamil bent his head. He knew the enemy better than Jamal el-Din did. This was an enemy that could never deliver contentment, a relentless enemy, a force that quickened and grew and devoured like fire. ‘What about my naibs? They must not think that I favour my son more than the cause.’

‘Your naibs are greedy. They need to be taught a lesson. Money is like grass. It withers.’

‘True.’

Jamal el-Din went on, ‘We do not serve money, we serve Allah.’

‘I know this. But expectations have been raised. I am in an awkward position.’

‘One in which you put yourself. Be decisive. Gather the people, tell them that money withers but our deeds last for ever. Strengthen their souls with a gathering of zikr. Remind them that we serve Allah and not our desires.’

Shamil sighed. ‘Would you talk to your daughter? Zeidat does not understand compromise.’

Jamal el-Din smiled. ‘When a man cannot control his wife it must be the end of Time coming upon us.’

She was going home. It was true. Ameena and Chuanat crowding around her, Madame Drancy in tears, the elderly Bahou hobbling into their room with toothless, wet smiles to babble apologies, to thank them again and again and kiss Anna’s hand. It was a miracle, she insisted on explaining as Chuanat translated, Allah had prolonged her life so that she would see her first grandson come home again. Fatima’s boy whom she had rocked to sleep and for whom she had chewed the first solid food to pop into his tiny mouth. My daughter Fatima died waiting for him, she explained to Anna and shuffled back to her room, touching the walls for balance, her eyesight dim with tears.

Chuanat insisted on a goodbye party. A gathering in her room of tea and sweets. ‘You will forget me, Anna, but I will think of you every day,’ she said without reproach. ‘You will go back to your busy life and we will be here as we are.’

Anna’s head ached from the tension. The fear of even more dashed hopes. Everything to say and nothing to say. Sheikh Jamal el-Din, when he had come to visit her said, ‘Child, why are you doing this to yourself? We told you that no harm would come to you. So why all the despair?’ He had been taken aback by how poorly she looked, how thin. Now she would go back to David in this state only nine months away but looking nine years older.

And was it real? Would this optimism last? The sight of a splendid white horse in the courtyard was real enough. The children crowded around it. Alexander was given a ride. The stallion with a black star on its forehead was for Jamaleldin’s journey home. Everyone in the aoul wanted to touch it.

Men sent to Khasavyurt to count the silver roubles returned satisfied. Shamil decided the day for the exchange. Thursday 11th March.

‘You have been so kind to me, Chuanat.’

‘You brought us the outside world.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Ameena. ‘You two are turning this into a gloomy affair.’ She was young enough to believe in happiness. ‘Look, Anna. Look at the wagon being prepared for you.’ It was pulled by horses instead of oxen and the drivers were dressed like Russian coachmen. Carpets were placed at the bottom; a stock of bread and fruit for the journey.