Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

The mandatory black veil covering her face. Alexander sitting on one side, Madame Drancy on the other. She was truly leaving. From the inner to the outer court, they passed through the gate and out of the aoul. They were accompanied by hundreds of men led by Ghazi Muhammad and youths led by Muhammad-Sheffi. No more wooden houses now, no stone towers. She felt the wagon lurch forward, Madame Drancy squealed and they began to descend the mountain. She gripped Alexander’s hand. It was one of the first fine days of spring. She lifted up her veil to see flocks of swallows and new green on the mountainside.

Ditches to go over, steep cliffs where they had to temporarily abandon the wagon and go on horseback. A drawbridge and times when they paused for rests. Halfway down the mountain they were joined by Shamil and more of his men. They were in their best clothes, glittering arms and their finest horses. He rode next to her and said, ‘According to our custom a father must not go out to meet his son. It should be the other way round. I am here to accompany my guest and prevent any disorder among my men.’

She hid that tether of anxiety that had kept her awake last night. The fear that something would go wrong. Yet he was the one who said, ‘I could not sleep last night thinking about my son. I kept praying that everything would go smoothly without treachery.’

Madam Drancy was dozing next to her, Alexander on the horse of one of the men. Whatever she wanted to say she could say now. Whatever she wanted to ask. Instead she said, ‘There was another negotiating meeting held last night. What was it about?’

‘A request for us not to fire our guns in celebration.’

‘Was that all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you for the costume you gave Alexander. He will remember it all his life.’ She had seen him lift her son up to kiss him goodbye, she had seen him bless him.

‘And Anna, Queen of Georgia. Will she remember all this too?’

She would not be addressed like this again. It blurred the question that he asked. She said, ‘There was indeed once long ago a Queen of Georgia.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘Queen Tamar. You are like her in many ways.’

She would not be in the company of one who knew the secrets she even hid from herself. Knew the thoughts before they formed into words or wants.

He said, ‘I want to tell you that I tried to take care of you as if you were my own … my own family. It was not my intention that you suffer. You suffered because of my ignorance in how to treat such a noble lady as yourself and my lack of means.’

She must not spoil things by crying. Even her voice must be clear like that of a princess, if not a queen. ‘You kept your word, Imam Shamil. I trusted you and you did not let me down.’

The wagon shuddered over a rock and next to her Madame Drancy woke up with a jolt and looked out. ‘It’s the Russian army,’ she cried. There they were, visible across the river, lines and lines of them, a whole regiment. Anna saw a sight that was familiar and should be reassuring. David’s army; strong and disciplined, as if they would never tire of war. When she turned her head back towards Shamil, he was gone.

The news of the tsar’s death did not surprise Jamaleldin. It only intensified the feeling of an ending. With the rest of the troops, he raised his hand and swore an oath to the new tsar, Alexander II. Jamaleldin was returning to his father without confidence in the success of the highlanders. Mighty Russia would ultimately win the war in the Caucasus. It was one of the few things he was certain about.

David gave him his sabre as a parting gift. ‘Do not cut any of our people with it,’ he said.

‘Neither yours nor ours.’ Close now to the mountains he could not ignore the cold-blooded policy with which aouls were razed down to every last chicken and cooking utensil. No wonder the tsar had denied him active service in the Caucasus.

‘I hope you will be a bridge between the two sides,’ said David.

Jamaleldin’s heart sank. A bridge was solid, dependable. Whereas he was like a wafer that could break any minute.

‘Talk to your father about peace,’ David continued. ‘Convince him.’

Just the thought of meeting his father after all these years dismayed him. But, yes, he would talk to him of peace because he would not be able to talk to him about war. Peace was a more dignified version of defeat. He turned away. ‘Have the carts been loaded?’ It had taken two of his father’s men a whole twenty-four hours to count the money. When he asked them if they were afraid that they were being short-changed, their reply surprised him. They were afraid that there was deliberately more money than had been agreed upon, paving the way for accusations of treachery.

David said, ‘All is according to plan. The carts have been loaded. Only thirty men from each side will be present at the actual exchange. The rest will stay in their positions.’

The day itself was bright and strange in that it coincided with the funeral of the tsar. In Petersburg they were burying his putrefied, perfumed body, the streets filled with crowds. If it wasn’t for all this, Jamaleldin would have been at the lying-in. Instead he was riding out towards the mountains. On the banks of the river Michik, the troops took positions. David was determined that nothing should raise the suspicions of the highlanders but the infantry was ordered to be ready to cross the river and fire if need be. Bayonets in place and the officers raised their field glasses. Through his, Jamaleldin saw the high black banners and what looked like thousands of Chechens. There under that tree the exchange would take place. He saw a horseman gallop towards the tree and when he reached it he waved a pennon. This was the signal. Jamaleldin, David and thirty others proceeded forward with the carts. The dip in the land obstructed the corresponding thirty highlanders who had crossed the river. Jamaleldin could not see his destination. He felt as if he was riding towards nothing. Just more sky, grass, rocks. Slowly, not a word, not a whisper, just the sound of the swallows, horses and the wheels of the carts.

It was time to ride uphill and suddenly there they were. It was their unexpected beauty that caught at his throat. Surreal and timeless. Graceful men on small horses, their guns resting on their right thighs. Their swords decked in silver and gold, insubstantial in comparison to the mountains behind them. The highlanders had sprouted from this soil, this place and nowhere else; men sleek with home, lustrous with what they believed in. And here was their leader moving straight towards him. A young man all in white as if the peaks had anointed his fur hat, tunic and horse with snow. He was smiling at Jamaleldin, he was swinging down from his horse. It was him. It was Ghazi and Jamaleldin found himself hugging him tight, the men cheering, and his brother’s face in his hands. It’s you, it’s you, little brother. I knew it was you.

With reluctance, Jamaleldin turned to see the wagon with the captives. Women covered in black veils, impossible to tell who was who. A child’s voice called out. ‘It’s Papa, it’s Papa!’

Ghazi pulled away from Jamaleldin; he went back and lifted Alexander off the wagon and brought him to his father. David held the boy tight, sank his head in his hair. Then he started to walk towards the wagon but Ghazi blocked his path. Ghazi struck a pose and was now giving a speech through the interpreter. Jamaleldin was arrested by the sight and sound of his brother, his slight nervousness, the marks on his skin but still the full cheeks that he remembered as a child pinching until they became red. Ghazi said, ‘Prince David, we are not people of treachery and haram behaviour. We are warriors, true believers. My father Shamil Imam gave me orders to inform you that he took care of your family as if they were his own. He is now returning them to you pure as the lilies, sheltered from all eyes, like the gazelles of the desert.’