The Kindness of Enemies: A Novel (31 page)
Anna’s head ached from the tension. The fear of even more dashed hopes. Everything to say and nothing to say. Sheikh Jamal el-Din, when he had come to visit her said, ‘Child, why are you doing this to yourself? We told you that no harm would come to you. So why all the despair?’ He had been taken aback by how poorly she looked, how thin. Now she would go back to David in this state only nine months away but looking nine years older.
And was it real? Would this optimism last? The sight of a splendid white horse in the courtyard was real enough. The children crowded around it. Alexander was given a ride. The stallion with a black star on its forehead was for Jamaleldin’s journey home. Everyone in the aoul wanted to touch it.
Men sent to Khasavyurt to count the silver roubles returned satisfied. Shamil decided the day for the exchange. Thursday 11th March.
‘You have been so kind to me, Chuanat.’
‘You brought us the outside world.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Ameena. ‘You two are turning this into a gloomy affair.’ She was young enough to believe in happiness. ‘Look, Anna. Look at the wagon being prepared for you.’ It was pulled by horses instead of oxen and the drivers were dressed like Russian coachmen. Carpets were placed at the bottom; a stock of bread and fruit for the journey.
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.’
Jamaleldin understood why David clenched his fist even as he gave a stiff bow. The vein on his forehead was more pronounced than ever. He was furious; the expression in his eyes was straightforward hatred and the desire for revenge. Jamaleldin turned to join Ghazi but the little brother, now turned commander, gestured for him to remain. Not yet.
The wagon with the princess and Madame Drancy rolled closer and the two women took off their veils. He recognised Anna straight away. She held herself rigid, the veil still clutched between her fingers. Their eyes locked. It was as if she knew that his reluctance
was due to regret; a part of him had always yearned to return. Her eyes turned towards David and softened, her chin trembled as if she were years older, scoured and undone. It was now possible for Jamaleldin and his party to proceed forward. The three carts with the money, the Chechen prisoners who were part of the exchange, Ghazi and his men, Jamaleldin still flanked by two Russian officers and another aide-de-camp, all crossed the Michik river. Above them were the bulk of his father’s troops but no sign of his father.
Ghazi touched his arm. ‘He will not see you in these clothes. You must change.’
Jamaleldin was not sure if he understood. Ghazi tugged at his jacket. Another highlander held out a bundle of native clothes.
‘Shamil Imam’s orders,’ Ghazi grinned. ‘Time to strip.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t.’
Ghazi burst out laughing. ‘We’ll cover you.’
They formed a circle around him, giving him their backs. He tugged off his boots, he unbuttoned, he pulled down. The cold air on his skin, the snow-capped mountains above and a Russian military uniform fell into a heap on the grass. Here he was between one dress and the other, neither Russian nor Chechen, just naked and human. It was a restful place to be with sun on his back and grass between his toes. He shivered and pulled on the familiar-unfamiliar clothes. Someone had gone through considerable effort to guess his size, to provide the best cloth, the most elegant cut. The long dark cherkesska made him feel regal and feminine, humble and yet daring, supported but unrestricted; the white lambskin papakh reminded him of the one he wore long ago when he left Akhulgo. His feet without the heaviness of boots felt vulnerable, the leather insoles put him in touch again with grass and rocks.
‘Are you going to keep us till sunset?’ joked Ghazi.
‘Don’t look.’
‘Bashful as a maiden, are you?’
When the circle opened and he emerged, a large number of highlanders broke from their ranks and surged towards him. They shoved and pushed to kiss his hand, the hem of his cherkesska, to get a better look at him.
Because I am his son they think I am special, they think I am more than what I am.
The mob pressed more closely; there was confusion and aggressive jostling. He worried about the Russians around him – they were completely outnumbered, face to face with men who would be happy, at any other time, to slit their throats. The highlanders gazed at the Russians with curiosity; one of them touched the eye-glass of the oldest officer, one of them examined his pistols. With gestures and the little bit of Avar that he could remember Jamaleldin ordered them to step back. It surprised him that they obeyed almost instantly.
Ghazi barged through what had become a mob, swiping away at the men as if he was pushing aside the low branches of trees blocking his path. Another highlander followed with a whip. Some of the men were haggard and painfully thin, their faces scarred with old and new wounds. Some were little more than youths who should be at their lessons instead of in campaigns. But here they were, full of trust. His father’s flock. His people, for what else was this soreness and shame building inside him other than the recognition that they looked like him and that he was of them. They were lashing him with the weight of their expectations. He trembled because any minute now he would have to bear his father’s eyes on him.
Shamil had retreated under a tree further up from the river. After making sure that the wagon with the princess had crossed safely, he wanted to be alone. He sat and faced the direction of Makkah. He bent and pressed his forehead to the ground. This was a time to feel small and weak in front of the magnanimity of the Almighty. His son was coming home. All the years of waiting and hoping, of feeling helpless and betrayed. All the frustrations of failed attempts and prisoners not valuable enough for an exchange. Soon he would hold him in his arms, soon he would look and look at him again, marvel at the child-to-manhood changes. This was a
day to give thanks and because he could not give enough thanks, because no words would be eloquent enough, no amount of praise would be adequate, he wept. Subhan Allah wa bi hamdu. Subhan Allah wa bi hamdu. Years ago in Akhulgo when he gave Jamaleldin up to the Russians he had lifted up his palms and called out for all to witness, ‘Lord, You raised up Your prophet Moses, upon him be peace, when he was in the hands of Pharaoh. Here is my son. If I formally hand him over to the infidels, then he is under Your trust and charge. You are the best of guardians.’
