Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

Shamil, impressed by the wonders of St Petersburg, the towering achievements of Russian industry, a visit to the planetarium and the Zoological Gardens, a visit to see the Crown Jewels, a visit to a sugar factory.

Massive crowds camped in front of his hotel (the thought of him in a hotel of all places was in itself bizarre), but here it was in print, crowds waiting just to catch a glimpse of the Lion of Dagestan.

Shamil and his entourage driving up for a gala performance. His son, Ghazi, in tears after the performance of Les Naiades, deeply moved by the ballet’s sentimental story of unrequited love.

Shamil saying that if he could be born again he would devote his life in service to the empire.

Anna was finding it all more incredible by the minute. ‘Are we to believe that now in captivity he loves everything Russian? That he regrets all these years of war?’

David, puffing on his pipe, assured her that she was being unreasonable. ‘In his own words Shamil was expecting to be tortured or executed. Now he is getting a taste of Christian mercy and he is grateful.’

‘Grateful to be treated like an exotic pet for people to gaze at? And don’t tell me that there aren’t ulterior motives behind this. They want something from him, David. These people don’t give something for nothing.’

This time he agreed with her. ‘Yes. They want the whole Caucasus to submit behind him. They want no more challenges.’

She heard Tamar crying and left him to go to the nursery. Her steps quickened as the cries mounted in volume and intensity. It was a joy that she could make her stop crying just by calling out her name, just by picking her up, feeling her dampness, looking into her eyes. Such true need, such anguish. A glistening tear wetting the smallest of lashes. One little tear. Tamar, named after Queen Tamar the Great, the first woman to rule Georgia in her own right. ‘Tamar, Princess of Georgia,’ she said. ‘I’m here. Don’t cry.’

Six months later, she found herself in Moscow. ‘When the tsar invites you to dinner, how can you refuse?’ David said. ‘What excuse can you give?’ The ball was held in Shamil’s honour. A reconciliation between him and the Chavchavadzes, a forging of bonds must be witnessed. Petersburg society would appreciate such a scene. Anna dressed as she would dress to attend a funeral except that she wore all her jewels. Diamonds on black. It aged her but she did not want to look attractive. She did not want to look happy. Why pretend? David’s enthusiasm was due to a monetary gift promised by the tsar, a much-needed boost to regain Tsinondali. It had not been easy for him to convince her to travel. They had argued, and because he had won the argument he did not criticise her choice of clothes. If this was a whim, he would humour it.

Shamil looked out of place amidst the wine and dancing. As much as she had been out of place in the aoul at Dargo. He looked fatigued, as if everyone’s eyes on him were casting a net to hold him in place. If only they would not gape, these jaded couriers. If only these Asiatic mountain princes, who had switched allegiances to Russia long ago, would not gloat so openly. She could hear them whispering. ‘Are there no children for him to play with today?’ they sniggered. He survived these functions by withdrawing himself from the adults to spend time with those who were instinctive and pure.

When she walked towards him she sensed his ache for the mountains. The minder by his side, a Russian official, assumed that he must initiate an introduction, jog a memory. But Shamil did not need reminding of who she was. ‘Anna, Queen of Georgia,’ he said. His voice had not changed, nor his tone.

It was not the correct form of address and the Russian official with all good intention said, ‘Princess Anna,’ in such a way as to suggest that Shamil should repeat it. A silence as everyone waited for the repetition. The longest moment of silence when she stood like a queen and breathed like a queen, a moment in which Georgia was its own kingdom, not annexed to Russia. This continued until awkwardness interrupted. The air bristled, skirts rustled and someone was clearing his throat. Next to Anna, an aged general changed the subject and drew Shamil away. The guests mingled, saying that Shamil had become hard of hearing and forgetful. And she went home knowing better.

From the upstairs window Shamil could see a church and beyond it the railway station. The houses were in even rows, built on a flat road, tame under a blanket of snow. There were no peaks, no jagged rocks; beyond the hills the forests were pine instead of birch. He had known all along that Russia was vast and different but to find himself living in it was still a surprise.

In this provincial town, south of Moscow, he had been given a three-storey house. For the first few months he was alone without his family, pacing the empty rooms, sensing his minder hovering just outside the door, policing him but not wanting to intrude. Shamil had formed a favourable impression of his pristav, Runovsky. The officer was well-mannered and sensitive, genuinely interested in his charge. He wrote down the things that Shamil said and answered his questions about Russian life. It could have been worse, Shamil knew, but he was still wary, understanding that he was now fulfilling a role in his adversary’s agenda, a role that was still unclear. All this largess was for the sake of illustration. And once they were done with him, they would change in some way that he could not yet predict.

He told Runovsky how much he admired the Russians for their treatment of him in captivity; they were neither angry nor intent on harming him. The crowds that swarmed to see him off at the railway platform in Petersburg had made him put his hand on his heart and nod to them to express his thanks. He responded to their sincerity, sensed their simple, difficult lives. They hailed him as a hero against oppression because they knew only too well what oppression was. He told Runovsky that he had expected abuse and humiliation. His own men in the Caucasus would hurl dirt on the Russian prisoners and kill them given half the chance. Shamil had prided himself in treating Princess Anna like a guest, but he realised now that from her point of view, he must have been only doing what was right.

It was interesting to discover that Runovsky had served in the Caucasus for several years. Together they went over details of fortresses under siege and battles lost and won. To hear the perspective of his former enemies was illuminating. To recount history in parallel was intellectually fulfilling. And it was not only Runovsky; officers and soldiers who had served in the Caucasus wanted to meet him. Most of them were respectful; even those who had been prisoners of war would bend and kiss his hand as they used to do in their time of captivity. A few, though, made him angry when they told lies. When one lieutenant boasted that he had been given the St George’s cross for storming the aoul of Kitouri and capturing the naib Magamoi, Shamil rose to his feet and shouted that Magamoi was already dead by the time Kitouri surrendered. A martyr’s name must not be sullied and Shamil trembled as he strode out of the room. That such falsehood could be repeated and believed made him feel old.

Runovsky, in charge of the household, issued Shamil an allowance. It was too much money and every time he went for a walk, he would give it away to the beggars he passed. As the weeks went by, the beggars of Kaluga came to wait for him. He never turned them away empty-handed. Runovsky took him to task for this. They would only spend it on vodka, he said. ‘But if I give them too little I would be mocking them,’ Shamil replied. ‘It says in my Book to help the poor. Does it not say that also in yours?’