Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

Recently, the editor of Kavkas, the leading newspaper in Tiflis, published a book-length account of the incident. He had conscientiously interviewed her for a good number of days and written down everything she said, even providing an illustration of Shamil’s household. He also did well in correcting many errors published in Germany and elsewhere. She had been mistakenly quoted as saying, ‘The highlanders are not human beings, they are wild beasts.’ Neither she nor Madame Drancy, before she returned to Paris, had ever expressed such a sentiment. A Prussian author claimed that ‘Shamil’s people held daggers over the princess’s head to force her to write letters to the tsar.’ This had never taken place either.

The gentleman seated next to her at dinner, a retired general, spoke highly of Madame Drancy’s book. ‘For the first time ever, the world is getting a glimpse of the elusive highlanders and the mysterious Shamil.’

Anna sipped her soup. ‘Madame Drancy was always exact.’

‘The description of the harem is fascinating.’

‘She was always taking notes. I am happy that she succeeded in her goal and managed to publish her book.’

‘What is astonishing is that you give Shamil a far higher character than anyone ever had done. Even his supporters in Britain.’

‘It is all true. No embellishments.’

‘But what did he give you in return?’ Belligerence took over from curiosity, keener than the fascination of the exotic. ‘What did Shamil do to you? Eh? Eight months of captivity. Your property destroyed, you little girl lost for ever.’

She broke down then and there. One minute she was enjoying her soup, the next minute David was helping her out of the room. People’s curiosity made them wearisome and thoughtless. She should, really, not accept any more dinner invitations.

In his study, David sat hunched over the accounts. She had come in to ask him if he would like to join her for a walk. It was a clear day and the air smelt of snow. If they went out now they might enjoy a few hours of sunshine. But just looking at his face, she guessed he was not in a good mood.

‘Do you know what happened to the forty thousand roubles I raised?’

This was a rhetorical question. He would tell her now and start to tremble with rage. She sat on his lap in the hope that her pregnant weight would restrain him. He did not seem to notice. ‘This is how the money was divided. A fifth went to Shamil’s treasury. And the rest was distributed among the men who actually took part in the raid! The ones who looted Tsinondali. The ones who broke through and captured my family and burnt — ’

She put her fingers on his lips. There was no need for him to get agitated. She worried about him when he did. ‘They also have burnt villages and felled trees and crops destroyed. They will use the money to rebuild their villages.’

‘Why don’t they talk peace, then? It is not as if they have not been given ample opportunities. Instead they are as stubborn as mules, as hard-headed as the rocks they live on.’

Anna heard him but she also heard Zeidat. ‘… you Russians roll our men’s heads like melons on the ground … you shit inside our houses to humiliate us …’ She did not want to hear Zeidat’s voice, to remember her taunts or the looted diamond ring flashing on her finger. Anna felt the blood thicken in her veins, her stomach contract around the baby. She took a deep breath in. ‘David, leave them alone.’

He thumped the table. ‘Leave them alone! If you imagine that Shamil will be left alone, then you are dreaming …’

She heaved herself off his lap. It had been a mistake to speak to him. She could have been outdoors by now in her coat and muff.

David’s voice rose, following her as she left the room. ‘We might have suffered in the Crimea but the Caucasus is still of vital importance. Shamil will be captured. His own men are beginning to tire of this war. Believe me, he can’t last long.’

Outdoors, she walked slowly, careful not to slip on any unexpected ice patches. The garden lay before her, bare and attractive. Near the greenhouse, she could look up and see the mountains. They were there now, Chuanat and her baby; Bahou and Ameena. She missed them, she could not help it; there was an appetite inside her for them. She wanted them to know that she was going to be confined soon and that Alexander still chanted ‘la ilaha illa Allah’.

The snow on the peaks was the colour of cream. When will blood cease to flow in the mountains … After all these years, would Shamil finally be defeated? She had dreamt again of him last night. She often did. Most of the dreams had neither a setting nor a plot. They were just dreams of his presence. And in his presence was a force, a fullness that was sufficient, an end in itself. Sometimes in the dreams, she did actually see his face. But more often than not there was only his silhouette.

A rumour was going around that the Russians had given Jamaleldin a slow-acting poison. They had given it to him before his release and only now were its effects showing. He was losing weight rapidly and was always coughing. Too weak to go out riding, he spent most of his time lying down.

Jamaleldin knew better. He knew the first time he coughed and a glob of blood fell on the snow, melting it a little, seeping into a lighter red. It had been the first clear day of spring and he had gone out riding with Ghazi. They carried their falcons on their wrists. He felt the weakness overcome him, a dizziness as if he had not eaten, even though he had. He stopped over the plains and let Ghazi ride on without him. I do not want to hunt, he realised. Frost all around him but he felt hot. He veered his horse towards the north and stared down the slopes, out towards Georgia. His other life was there, all the things he knew and missed. But he felt too tired to yearn, the bird heavy on his arm. He slipped down from the saddle and was seized by a violent fit of coughing. The falcon grew restless, it fluttered its wings. His chest was tight; all this mountain air around him and it was a struggle to inhale even a little of it. Perspiration broke throughout his body. He saw the blood on the snow.

‘Father, this is not a poison working through me. It is a disease called tuberculosis. I have come across it in the Russian army. There is no cure for it. Because it is contagious. I need to leave Dargo. I have to be alone. It takes a year or so to run its course …’ He did not add, ‘… it usually ends in a painful death.’ He would break down if he did and a man of the Caucasus must not be seen to cry.

Shamil arranged for him to move to Soul-Kadi, an aoul hidden behind the massive peaks that made up the Gates of Andi. He gave him a young Georgian prisoner-of-war to nurse him and five armed guards. Shamil was always fearful that Jamaleldin would be recaptured by the Russians; he would not take any chances.

In Soul-Kadi, Jamaleldin found the solitude not only bearable but welcome. The villagers made no demands on him. They left roses at his door, baskets of food. The house he was in was small and bare but it had a roof and when he had the energy, he climbed up and dozed in the fresh air. At night he slept on a cot rather than on the floor — a Russian habit, and when he was weak, that cot was carried up to the roof. On his back he would watch the clouds moving, trailed by the winds.

His father put aside his pride and sent down to the military fort in Khasavyurt for medicine. The medicine came but did not help. It surprised Jamaleldin that his father still had hope. Love clouded his vision. Or else he was simply a powerful man who did not easily give up.

In the middle of winter, Ghazi came to visit. He hung up his gun and slipped down to sit cross-legged on the floor. He sat far away from the cot because Jamaleldin insisted. Ghazi’s good health lit up the room with a rude glow. His strength was like a force of nature contained indoors. Jamaleldin kept roses in the room to overpower the smell of illness. Ghazi brought in other smells, of sweat, horses and clothes damp from rain.