The Kindness of Enemies: A Novel (16 page)

Anna noticed a small swelling in her breast. Despite expressing every day, the milk had clotted and now her skin burned. Feverish, she started to ask again, ‘Have you seen my baby?’ But she asked in a feeble voice as if she was not expecting a reply, as if the words were a lament rather than a question. At long last there came news from the search party Ghazi had sent out. Servants from the estate had picked up Lydia’s body. She was buried in the neighbouring church of St George, one of the few buildings that had escaped the burning and looting.

The truth was a blow even though a part of her had expected it; a part of her had longed to be free from the daily tussle with hope. She wept continuously without any sound. Tears flowed freely until she could scarcely see ahead of her. Stumbling in a mix of sweat from the fever and pain from the news. Dragged tottering across a tree bridge, she lost her footing and had to be carried the rest of the day. Alexander needed her; she must be stronger than this. There he was, eating handfuls of snow, chewing on rhododendron leaves. His hair was riddled with vermin but he did not seem to care.

‘I wonder if my mother knows that we’ve been kidnapped,’ Madame Drancy was saying as she put a wet rag on Anna’s forehead to bring down the fever. ‘I have never let a week pass without writing to her.’ Anna hung on to every word. Conversation and prayers were the route to normality. ‘The news must have reached France by now. We’ve been climbing this mountain for nearly a month.’

They had set up camp at night and when Anna woke up, weak and clammy but no longer burning, she found herself in an area of absurd beauty. Waterfalls and ferns, vineyards and herds of healthy cattle. Madame Drancy and Alexander picked nosegays and azaleas, bunches of perfume and silky texture for Anna to bury her face in. When she washed her hair, when she finally changed into the clean loose trousers that they had been given, she felt more refreshed. It was as if every drop of liquid had drained from her body in tears and milk; she was now as dry and as light as a piece of cotton.

‘Why have we stopped?’ she asked Madame Drancy.

‘They are waiting for confirmation that Imam Shamil has reached Dargo-Veddin. It would be wrong according to their customs for us to arrive there first.’

They could see the aoul now above them, the rock fortress embedded in the mountain, so much a part of it that it was almost invisible. Why did Shamil leave this green area and huddle inside an ugly gated stronghold? But she did not want to think of the future, of the entry into this prison and whether they would come out again. For two strange days, she let go of the past and the
future. She pushed away death and surrendered to her five senses. The colour green, the sound of a waterfall, Alexander sitting by her side. Nothing made sense except existence, feeling the grass beneath her bare feet, the sun on her hair, the taste of water through her parched lips.

But too soon it was time to climb again. The dreaded burkas, new black silk to cover their faces and soon enough the gates of Dargo closed behind them. A world made of stone, houses like caves, hardly any two at the same level. The villagers crowded to look at them and to welcome home their fighters. Imam Shamil had ordered that they be housed in his own home, among the women of his family. They were to be, like Ghazi had promised, guests in the harem.

A tall woman in veils and Turkish trousers led them to their quarters. Anna entered a long dark low-ceilinged room that did not have a single item of furniture. A felt rug was spread on the ground and piles of bedding were folded up on shelves that ran around the walls. There was one small window, with shutters instead of glass. This was a prison even though it opened out into a gallery that, she found out later, adjoined the rooms of the other women. Their rooms were just as bare, their windows just as small. Anna could hear a raven outside and the sudden call to prayer from the mosque.

Their hostess lifted up her black veil. Her movements were graceful and economical. Her lips did not stretch into a welcoming smile but there was a glow in her heavy-lidded eyes, an almost masculine strength in her prominent nose. ‘My name is Zeidat,’ she said in careful Russian. ‘I am Imam Shamil’s first wife and head of the household.’

Behind her, two other women stood at the doorway. Their faces were lit up with curiosity as they almost tumbled into the room, giggling and flouncy in wide white and blue trousers, rainbow veils and ankle bracelets. ‘You are very welcome, Your Highness,’ said
the older, plump one, bobbing down in a clumsy curtsey. She held out a box of sweets. ‘All the way from Tollet, really. Please have some.’ Her name was Chuanat and she was the most beautiful of the three.

Ameena was the youngest. She had excessive kohl around her eyes. When she took Anna’s arm, her grip was light but clingy. ‘It is so nice to have company – you must tell me all about Russian life. We can become friends.’ Her use of Russian was fluent, confident.

Zeidat gave her a cold stare. ‘Since when do we make friends with infidels, Ameena!’ She spoke Russian deliberately, with a quick sideways look at Anna.

‘They are Imam Shamil’s guests and he is furious at the way they’ve been treated. We have to make amends, or have you forgotten his orders?’

‘I never forget his orders.’ Zeidat turned to scrutinise Anna. ‘But I think that no matter how well we treat the princess, it will not be good enough. It will not be at the standard Her Highness is accustomed to. I did say to him, “Husband, pampered Russian royalty can hardly be expected to accept the austere conditions we’re accustomed to.”’

Anna struggled to understand their accent when they spoke among themselves: clusters of foreign words, repetitions and hand gestures. She relied on their facial expressions, their ages to gauge their hierarchy. Chuanat stood out, European, the only one fluent in Georgian. With her box of sweets, she was stroking Alexander’s hair and urging him to have more. Several children came into the room now and they absorbed the attention of Alexander and Madame Drancy.

‘It is nice for us to have company,’ Ameena persisted. ‘And such a special guest too.’ Ameena squeezed Anna’s arm and gestured towards an array of cushions laid out against the wall. Was she sixteen or seventeen? Not more than a child, but the eyes were quick and knowing, unstable too.

Zeidat, with one deft, unexpected movement, picked up a louse from Anna’s hair. Anna flinched and stepped back. Indignation melted into embarrassment as Zeidat squeezed the insect between her fingers. ‘You will need to help your new friend clean up,’ she smiled at her young co-wife. ‘Lice are contagious.’

‘This is not good manners,’ Ameena’s voice rose. ‘Zeidat, you know this is not how you are meant to behave!’

Zeidat turned to leave the room. ‘Imam Shamil won’t be in Dargo for long and when he goes away I will know best how to treat this Russian captive.’

Chuanat gestured for Anna to sit down next to her. She had quickly made herself comfortable on the ground with her back against the wall and her legs crossed in front of her. ‘Don’t let Zeidat frighten you. She can be bossy and harsh but there is no evil in her.’

Ameena flung herself on the ground next to them. ‘Oh indeed! You are the angel who refuses to see badness in anyone. Zeidat is a shrew and what makes her more bitter is that she knows Imam Shamil doesn’t love her. He only married her because of her father.’

Chuanat shook her head, ‘You’re such a gossip! You know very well Imam Shamil treats us all equally. Besides, you’re disturbing Princess Anna with details of our personal life.’

Instead all this was a welcome diversion.

‘You must be exhausted after all you have gone through.’ Chuanat’s eyes were misty. ‘I am so sorry for all you have endured. I was a captive once too, long ago and …’ She faltered, lost for words. Instead she loosened her veil and her thick auburn hair fell around her cheeks.

‘You are not Chechen, are you?’ Anna’s voice sounded to her ears as if she were in a drawing room making polite conversation.

‘No, I’m Armenian. Years ago, I was captured in a raid with all my family. They returned but I stayed on.’

‘I’m so sorry for this.’ No, she was certainly not in a drawing room sipping tea. The fear was all too close. A captive that couldn’t
escape, was never rescued, never returned. That must be the saddest of fates.

Ameena laughed. ‘Oh, Chuanat does not deserve your pity. She
wanted
to stay. Her family raised a ransom for her, they went through all the hardship of negotiations and her poor cousin risked his life climbing up these mountains to rescue her. Remember what he said about passing the Russian lines?’ She turned to Chuanat. So much ease between these two.

Chuanat smiled, ‘The Russian sentries crossed themselves and spat on the ground when they saw my cousin riding up the mountains to meet Shamil Imam’s horsemen. They thought they would never see him alive again. Instead he returned with gifts including a fine Arabian mare.’

‘But why didn’t you leave with him? Or were you not allowed?’

Chuanat looked at her as if she was gauging her understanding, as if pondering how much to share. ‘I could have left if I had wanted to. It’s a long story. I will tell it to you another day.’

‘No, it’s not a long story,’ Ameena contradicted her. ‘It is straightforward. Hannah, as she was called then, fell in love.’

‘Ameena!’ Chuanat reproached her. ‘I said I would tell her myself in my own time. Besides, when are you going to learn to practise some discretion? You’re no longer a child.’

‘Don’t try to sound like Zeidat.’ Ameena helped herself to some of the sweets. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

Anna turned to her and said, ‘Well, Ameena, maybe you can tell me about yourself.’

‘Very well,’ she spoke with her mouth full, the sweetness sticking to her teeth. ‘My family are originally from Bavaria. But I was brought up in Imam Shamil’s household.’

‘Spoilt and pampered, if I may say so,’ Chuanat added.

Ameena sounded more thoughtful. ‘He treated me just like one of his children. They were my playmates.’ She turned with a mischievous look towards Anna. ‘Then, as you can see, I matured and turned into a striking beauty.’

Chuanat rolled her eyes and Anna laughed. She had not done so for a long time. It made her feel generous towards the young girl. ‘I agree. I have been admiring you since you came in and took off your veil.’

Ameena narrowed her eyes. ‘But it was my beauty that ended my childhood. Imam Shamil could hardly pretend that he couldn’t notice me and so he took me for his third wife.’

‘Still she was such a baby that she kept crying and saying “I miss my mother”,’ Chuanat said.

Ameena laughed. ‘Shamil Imam brought her here for me. She is always with me now and I am well looked after.’

All this sounded strange to Anna. A part of her recoiled, a part of her noted the frankness. Their friendliness and their difference made her conscious of herself. Who she was and what she looked like. She must rid her hair of the lice. She must look presentable. They believed in her as a princess and they were right to do so, that was who she was.

‘But Anna … Can I call you Anna? You will have to tell us your story too. All your experiences at court.’

‘Yes, please,’ Chuanat added. ‘We know you were lady-in-waiting for the tsarina.’

It was such a long time ago, before she was married. An adventure of bright nights and the grandest buildings, dresses and jewels, Moscow balls and all the thrills of coming out into society. Even though she was homesick for Georgia, even though she knew that she did not belong at court, she had revelled in the music and the dancing. The steps came naturally to her, the fluid movements, her gown lifting, the music passing through her skin, flushed afterwards, pretty and thirsty, reaching for a drink. She tried to remember herself then, what her body felt like before it was touched by David, before her stomach filled out strong and large with babies. But she must not let her mind wander in this particular direction. Only mention the tsarina’s diamonds, officers with sideburns, a morning spent ice-skating.

‘Did you ever see Jamaleldin?’ asked Ameena.

Anna could not see that there could possibly be any connection between an acquaintance of Ameena’s and the Winter Palace.

‘Imam Shamil’s eldest son,’ explained Chuanat. She lowered her voice. ‘He is the tsar’s godson.’

A figure, a name, a face shaped itself in the shadows of Anna’s Petersburg memories. Had she known then that he was Shamil’s son? Perhaps she had and the knowledge had not interested her, had not mattered, except to explain that he was ‘Asiatic’. He was different, but not different enough – eyes that were not like hers, but nothing in his manners, his speech or his conduct that set him apart. He was certainly not a highlander; he was certainly not the enemy. ‘Yes, of course, he is an officer,’ she said. ‘I danced the Mazurka with him once.’

Ameena gasped, her face alight with excitement. ‘Oh this is shocking. Imam Shamil’s son attending parties and dancing with strange women!’

‘What is so strange about me?’

Ameena laughed, ‘There is nothing strange. You are perfect. By strange I meant you’re not related to him. You’re not his wife or his sister.’

‘But these are our customs and Jamaleldin is a Russian gentleman.’

Chuanat turned towards her with soft eyes. ‘This is not how Imam Shamil sees it. You will understand when you meet him tomorrow. He will explain everything to you and you can ask as many questions as you like. Today, though, you must rest. How exhausted and hungry you must be!’

She was hungry but the meal provided disgusted her. Goat’s cheese that smelt too strong and bread baked in such a way that it had an outer layer of thick grease covering the crust. She had to pare off the crust in order to reach the crumb. Even the tea tasted odd, smoky and strong. Hunger, or the stale-smelling mattress, was
keeping her awake. Madame Drancy had spent a long time saying her prayers and was now fast asleep. Alexander tossed and turned, sometimes whimpering, sometimes thrashing his arms as if he was fighting. It was hot in the room. Anna stood up and opened the shutters but the ventilation was poor. A tree blocked the air and up through its leaves she caught a glimpse of the night sky. The staccato sounds of the mountains pressed in, frogs and insects, a jackal howling for its mate, but instead of posing a threat, the animal sounded distressed. She put both of her arms through the window. It would be possible for the three of them to squeeze through one after the other and then what? She could hear the footsteps of the sentries, back and forth at a leisurely rate. They might have lacked military precision but they were wide awake.