The Kindness of Enemies: A Novel (27 page)
For an instant, Jamaleldin’s sense of superiority flared. Who was this boorish highlander to disrespect him? An air of forest and swamp came from Mikail, the smear of mud where he had pressed his forehead on the ground, those nostrils flaring like an animal.
‘We must go now,’ Younis said. ‘There are others. You will see them soon. They are in charge of the negotiations. I am here tonight only because Shamil Imam specifically wanted someone who knew you from when you were young.’
He embraced Jamaleldin one last time and the magic returned, the dream come true. ‘We must go. Our work is done.’
The two stole back into the night. Unlike in the dream, they must leave him behind. He stood watching them leave; he kept standing even after he couldn’t see them any more. The moon disappeared behind a cloud, the shadows shifted. He could hear frogs and from further away the howl of a wolf. A powder puff of snow blew from the mountains. The cold seeped through his uniform. Unbearable to return to the ball; this starlight was enough.
His father had sent spies who watched him through the window. What were they saying about him now?
‘Do we report, Uncle, the wine drinking and the dancing?’
‘We report.’
‘And Shamil Imam cuts our tongues off?’
‘Fool. He will order us to pray for his soul.’
‘He’s not one of us. Russian, I swear. Can’t see any difference between him and an infidel.’
‘Mikhail, I will be the one to cut your tongue out if you say this again.’
First semester examinations began that week and brought more normality. I found the daily routine of invigilation soothing and welcomed the concentration needed to start marking students’ papers. My colleagues, busy themselves, oscillated between sincere shows of solidarity against last week’s police search of my office and the natural instinct to keep their distance. I wanted nothing more than to pretend that everything was normal. In the staff room I found a stash of pro-life leaflets, identical to the one put on my desk. Fiona Ingram said they had been left there by a pro-life student and distributed to all the classrooms. She showed me Gaynor Stead’s paper, which she had been marking. She had tried, she said with a straight face, but could not give her more than a four out of twenty. Last year I had given her a zero. ‘That girl does not belong in a university,’ I said and Fiona sighed because she did wish all her students well. The news that another of my papers had been accepted for publication (with only minor revisions) arrived as a much-needed boost to my confidence. Iain was pleased but it did not stop him from saying, ‘Let me have that report on Oz Raja by the end of the week, latest.’ This was the moment I should have
said no. This was a chance to back out, but now that things were settling, I did not want to rock the boat.
Wheels were set in motion for the needed repairs to my flat and for the insurance payment to kick in. The workmen would only come after the New Year and I had to face the task of finding a temporary place to stay. Luckily, Fiona knew an elderly couple willing to take in a lodger. I drove out to visit them. The room was small but sunny and I would not have to share a bathroom. I agreed to take it straight away and was disappointed when they said I could only move in after the holidays as they had family members spending Christmas with them. They were happy, though, for me to move some of my things in and this eased my situation a little.
In the hotel, I stayed up marking exam papers and putting off writing the report about Oz. I brooded over where I would spend Christmas. Put up with Kornelia in Fraserburgh or try, at this late stage, to find an alternative? All my friends had other arrangements and to impose on them would entail a fee of confiding my latest troubles. Now that I had my mum’s laptop, I surfed for last-minute Christmas travel deals and considered what I could afford of sunshine and seafood. There was still also my urge to visit the Caucasus. In the museum in Makhachkala I would be able to see Shamil’s saddle covered in crimson velvet and the medals sent to him by the Ottomans. He never wore any but he gave them to his naibs to signify their rank. For a long time I gazed at pictures of the mountains and the Caspian Sea but I was unable to commit to anything.
On Wednesday I found myself invigilating a class in which Gaynor sat next to Oz’s friend, the girl in hijab, whose name I never learnt because I had never taught her. Gaynor was diligently writing away, her greasy hair falling over the paper, blocking the light necessary for her to write in. She was her own worst enemy. She looked up suddenly and caught my gaze; it made me nervous. I turned away and walked to the back of the room.
We were only halfway through the allotted time and Oz’s friend had her head on the table. She had pushed her paper to the side
and laid her cheek on the desk. Her eyes were closed. I went up to her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I have a bad headache,’ she said, looking up. ‘I can’t focus.’
‘Do you want to go out for a short break?’
There were dark shadows under her eyes. ‘I’d rather stay here and rest a bit more. Maybe I will be okay in a few minutes.’
I could hear Gaynor behind me starting to mutter. We were disturbing her. She might complain about me afterwards. It would be like her to do so.
‘Let me know if you need to leave the room,’ I said to the girl. ‘Raise your hand.’ I would then have to call the Registry to send in an escort to supervise her until she returned.
Thursday was only a week since Oz’s arrest, though it felt like a month. I started to feel uneasy that I had not yet written the report. I met the girl as I came in through the car park. ‘Feeling better?’
She smiled. ‘Yes, fine. Exam tension, I suppose.’
I started to walk away when she said, ‘Do you have any news about Oz?’
I repeated what Malak had told me but it did not seem new to her.
‘He missed the exams.’ This was said in such a poignant tone as if it alone underlined the seriousness of his predicament.
‘He can resit them,’ I reassured her.
‘The police questioned me,’ she said. ‘They questioned all of his friends.’ She told me the details, speaking in a matter-of-fact way as if she was neither intimidated nor surprised. But her voice hardened when she said, ‘My parents told me to unfriend him on Facebook and not even to try to get in touch.’
‘They’re concerned about you.’
She rolled her eyes.
It was gratifying that she was open with me. ‘Was Oz very active in the Muslim Students’ Society?’
‘Not really. He’s different from everyone else.’
‘In what way?’
‘The way he was brought up. His mother’s an actor and for a lot in the MSS that’s not how a good Muslim woman should be. I remember, once, an invited speaker came to give a talk and afterwards Oz was one of those who took him back to the station. Apparently he spent the whole ride telling Oz that it was his duty as a son to convince his mother to quit her job! He got to him so much that he was almost crying.’
I could imagine the scene, the packed car, shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee. The colour rising to Oz’s face, the clenched fists. ‘But Oz and his mother are descended from Imam Shamil. Surely that counts.’
She gave a little laugh. ‘Not to that lot. They hate the Sufis.’
She was putting it bluntly. Theologically, Sufism’s veneration of its saints and the belief in their mystical powers was problematic. In modern times as Political Islam embraced transnationalism and activism, the Sufis were perceived to be not only passive and traditional, but often, also, reactionary and neo-cons.
‘That speaker shouldn’t have been invited in the first place,’ she was saying. ‘He’s on some list or other.’
‘What was his talk about?’
She made a face. ‘I don’t know. I arrived late, slipped into the first free seat on the front row and he suddenly stops talking and says to me, ‘Move to the back with the other sisters.’ It was so embarrassing. Everyone turned to look at me. I hadn’t even noticed that the seating was segregated! I felt like an idiot so I just got up and left. But he’s not going to say anything controversial in a lecture hall, is he? They save that kind of thing for private meetings in peoples’ homes.’
‘Could Oz have gone to such a meeting?’
‘Maybe. Do you think that’s why he’s in trouble? But why him? There are others.’
Perhaps he did something rash as a way of showing off, just because he was keen to fit in, to prove himself. He had struck me as being proud of Shamil, deeply loyal to Malak. Still, I knew that ache to belong. When you’re young, it could drag you against your better judgement.
I wrote the report that night. I could not put it off any further. On Friday morning I dithered before emailing it to Iain. Three hours later I clicked the send button. Then I waited for something to happen. I wanted something to happen. A penalty. Not this silence. Sometimes we do get what we want. My mobile phone rang. It was Grusha from Sudan. I had previously texted her so that we would stay in touch. Although she said the same thing she had said before – ‘Your father is getting worse. Can you come and see him?’ – this time I answered differently. I said yes, I would be there as soon as I could.
My request for compassionate leave was granted. Now that Iain had his report he inclined towards generosity. There was one more week to go before the holidays. Fiona would take over my hours of invigilation. As always, because her output was poor, he threw every extra administrative and teaching task onto her.
I was just heading out for lunch when I found a voicemail message. ‘Natasha, it’s Malak. I’m back home, not in Glasgow. Oz was released yesterday. We’re home now. He’s not talking to me. He’s not leaving his room. He won’t eat … I don’t know what to do. Can you come over? Maybe he’ll talk to you.’
I drove to Brechin straight away. I still had time before I needed to catch the overnight train to London. I was lucky with the traffic. Oz was innocent and that made me smile to myself. I had sensed the relief in Malak’s voice despite the concern. The countryside was still covered in snow. It ceased to amaze and was now part of the landscape as if it had always been there. I
counted the days Oz had been held – eleven. They must have felt longer to him.
Malak opened the door. She was pleased to see me and her warm welcome lifted my spirit. ‘It took you no time to get here,’ she said. ‘Easy and smooth.’ This house had cause for celebration but she spoke in hushed tones, as if there was someone ill inside.
‘We came back yesterday,’ she explained. ‘I hired a car because he refused to take the train. He said he didn’t want to be around people. All the way in the car, he lay in the back seat. He wouldn’t speak to me. He said he wanted to sleep but I could tell he wasn’t asleep. I could tell he was just tense, staring in the dark. I put on the radio and he shouted at me to turn it off. Rudely. Not like himself at all. Then when we came back, he wouldn’t eat dinner. He wouldn’t shower. He just went to his room and stayed there. I knock, he doesn’t answer. But he is there. I hear him moving around. I eavesdropped.’ She ran her hand through her hair. She looked like she too hadn’t slept well.
‘You have to look after yourself,’ I said to her. ‘How can you take care of him, if you are in a state?’
She shook her head. ‘I need to take the rented car back into town. And the day after tomorrow I have to fly to London to record a radio play. How am I going to leave him like this?’
‘He’s had a bad experience. Give him time. Why don’t you grab yourself a bite to eat and I’ll stay here while you take the car back into town.’
‘Thank you, Natasha. I’ll pick up a few groceries for him too.’
I left her in the kitchen and went upstairs. I knocked on the door of his room. ‘Oz, it’s me, Natasha.’
There was no sound from inside. Perhaps he was asleep. I stood at the door not sure what to do next. Then I heard him moving, getting up from the bed, walking around. I knocked again. ‘Oz, I know you’re not feeling well. But do you think you’re up to coming downstairs and lying down on the sofa for a bit? I’ll wait for you downstairs. Your mum is just going into town for a bit.’
In the sitting room, I sat staring at the empty space on the wall where Shamil’s sword had been. The sun shone at an acute angle low in the sky. A flash of brilliance before the early darkness.
Oz came down in his pyjamas, wrapped in a blanket. Unshaven, his hair greasy, streaks of dark skin under his eyes. He sat on the sofa, drew his feet up underneath him and bunched up under the blanket. He lowered his head.
I told him about my father being ill and how I was going to Sudan. I spoke about the weather. He listened to me or at least to my voice. He emitted anger and some bewilderment.
When he finally spoke, he said, ‘I’m not going back to uni. If that’s why you’re here.’
It seemed an odd thing to say. I chose my words carefully. ‘There is no rush to go back to uni. You’ve missed the first week of the exams and I wouldn’t advise you to try and sit for the second week. What you would need to do is fill out an Extenuating Circumstances form –’
‘Extenuating circumstances!’ He looked straight at me for the first time and gave a forced laugh. ‘Oh yes, I was just pulled in for a whole ten days of fucking questions. One stupid question after another. They locked me up in a tiny room. I couldn’t even sleep. They were watching me every single minute of the day, writing things down, every little thing I said or did …’ He stopped abruptly and looked out of the window. A bird had flown past and made him nervous.
‘What sort of questions did they ask you?’
‘Don’t you start asking me questions! That’s what Malak was doing and I can’t stand it. One question after the other. What did they feed you? What did they say? What did you do to make them suspicious? I don’t want to answer any more questions. Enough.’ He put his head back on his bunched-up knees.
