Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

And there was no reprieve. His father had banned music throughout his territories; anyone caught fermenting grapes or drinking wine was flogged. This was to harden the men for fighting. Entertainment, Shamil believed, would make them soft. Jamaleldin felt this particular deprivation keenly. It was strange not to listen to Chopin, not to visit the theatre or dance in a ball; not even to play billiards or dominos or cards. The day had too many hours; its tone was sombre. ‘You need a wife,’ everyone said — women being the only pleasure available and encouraged. Ghazi was already married and Jamaleldin was older. The daughter of one of his father’s closest naibs was nominated. Jamaleldin shuddered at the possibility that she would turn out to be like Zeidat, mocking his accent, pining for a real man, a warrior, who went out to kill Russians.

‘Oh yes, we’ll see you married off soon,’ he heard them say. Their talk bewildered him; it was an effort to figure out whether they were serious or cynical, whether they were speaking about the near or distant future. He found that he often preferred his own company and started to turn towards nature for relaxation. He spent considerable time looking at the mountains. On his own he could carry out the sort of conversations he could not have with anyone else. On the merits of Mozart over Schulhoff. On the French translation of ‘wide-sleeved linen blouse’. On which of his father’s horses could, theoretically, win the Krasnoye Selo steeplechase.

Through the summer and winter, he kept talking to his father about peace. Most of the latter, he spent ill with a fever. ‘Your first winter in the mountains,’ his grandmother said. ‘You will get used to it.’ It was only in April that he started to feel slightly better and able to spend more time outdoors. The fresh spring air reminded him of when he had first arrived the year before. Ironically, those first days had been the happiest. Now he was even more tentative, physically weak.

Today he felt a great need to see Shamil and late at night he waited for him outside the mosque. How did his father manage to survive on so little sleep? Long after Isha prayers, when the men dispersed Shamil would stay up with Sheikh Jamal el-Din for more zikr, more Qur’an recitation.

A full moon was burning on the horizon. Jamaleldin followed, with his eyes, the silver and grey shadows on the snow-capped peaks. They stirred in him a feeling of awe. Better still, the night took him out of himself, opened him up to tranquillity. A hand on his shoulder and there was his father next to him reciting, ‘Surely in the creation of the Heavens and the Earth, and the alteration of night and day, and the ship that runs in the sea with profit to mankind; and the water Allah sends down from heaven, thereby reviving the earth after it is dead, and His scattering abroad in it animals of all kind; and the ordinance of the winds, and the clouds compelled between heaven and earth — surely these are signs for a people who comprehend.’

Jamaleldin listened to Shamil explaining the verse and as he spoke, the images came closer and together they weaved their way through the words and out again. So that it was as if Jamaleldin sensed the power of creation; he saw the cargo perched on ships that miraculously stayed afloat. There was no sharper contrast than that between night and day, those long summer evenings and dark winter days. Where would they all be — humans and animals — without the rain? And if you stood still you would feel the change in the wind and know that clouds didn’t have free will. They were running their appointed courses, they were subservient and duty-bound; slaves trailed by the winds.

Father and son walked around the aoul. Everyone asleep and for them alone were the stars and the forests audibly breathing. Jamaleldin would have been happy for time to stand still, so that he could be sprayed with this sense of blessing. His father approved of his introspection, of his stillness and desire to spend time outdoors. Jamaleldin would never ride out to war with him. His fate lay elsewhere and he was relieved that his father understood.

If only his father would understand the need for peace. ‘Isn’t the situation different now?’ Jamaleldin asked. ‘Now that the treaty has been signed in Paris?’

Shamil nodded. ‘Sultan Abdelmajid has made peace with the Russians.’

‘Would he not want you to do the same?’

‘If he suggests it to me, I shall have no right to reject it.’

This was the best answer he had ever had. Jamaleldin felt a sense of hope. Shamil stopped walking and turned as if he had heard something. A dervish was walking towards them. Jamaleldin had seen him before in the mosque, swaying in ecstasy to the rhythms of the zikr. There were traces of handsomeness on his face but any wellbeing had been eroded by the all-consuming passion that broke off his tie to ordinary life. He neither went to war nor worked nor socialised in a normal way. People gave him plates of food and, once in a while, tossed him an unneeded garment. His clothes were torn, his hair dishevelled. Lurching towards Shamil, the dervish was inadequately protected against the cold, muttering to himself, absorbed in his other-worldly drunkenness. He did not seem to be aware that it was the middle of the night and he did not greet Shamil and Jamaleldin. But he must have known Shamil for he vibrated towards him, circled him a few times in a shambolic loop before veering suddenly into the dark.

‘He’s mad, isn’t he?’ Jamaleldin asked.

Shamil did not answer with a yes or a no. He said, ‘His inward eye was opened and what he saw was too much for him to carry. It is best to be inwardly intoxicated and outwardly sober.’

‘Are you, Father, inwardly intoxicated?’

Shamil smiled but he did not answer this question either. They said their goodnights and parted.

David helped her into the carriage. She was heavier than she had been in previous pregnancies even though there were still months to go before the birth. ‘I should stop accepting dinner invitations,’ she said when he settled next to her.

‘We have two more next week,’ he said. Since leaving the army, he had been spending more time at home, concentrating on the family finances with the aim of claiming back Tsinondali.

Anna felt the baby moving, a complete rotation of strong bones and muscles that felt heavy and reassuring. He, she would think of him as a he, a brother to Alexander. Last night’s dream still covered her. Shamil putting his hand on her stomach to bless the baby, telling her that his name was Ilia.

‘What do you think of Ilia as a name for the baby?’ she asked David. The wheels of the carriage rattled over a bump on the road. She held her stomach until the discomfort passed.

‘Ilia. Fine. What if it’s a girl?’

‘I don’t know.’ She didn’t believe that it would be a girl.

‘How about Tamar?’

‘Yes. I love the name Tamar.’

When they first returned home to Tiflis, the sight of Lydia’s toys and clothes had startled them. Anna walked into the nursery early the following morning to find David holding Lydia’s christening gown and sobbing. A part of her had almost forgotten that he was Lydia’s father, that he felt her loss too. But it was only once that he gave in to sadness. Most of the time, anger dominated him. He wanted revenge.

When they arrived at their destination, Anna moaned as she stepped out of the carriage. They walked towards the entrance with the wide door and the footman in shining boots. She surrendered to what had now become familiar. The desire for people to see her, to welcome her back, to crow over her. The summer immediately after her release was spent in Petersburg and Moscow. Paying respects and gratitude to the tsar, a ball in their honour, one thanksgiving service after another. More than a year later, and still the topic of the kidnapping was of interest. Every time it died down, something or other would revive it.