Jamaleldin watched David’s face transform; he saw his hand for the briefest of moments grip his revolver and then let go. ‘Is the imam withdrawing his word after he has given it? Can he even count up to a million? I challenge him on that.’
Hassan frowned. ‘There is no need for insults.’
‘Well, I cannot add another kopek. It is forty thousand roubles or nothing.’
Hassan shrugged. ‘Write this down for Shamil Imam and we will take it to him.’
‘I will not write another letter,’ David shouted. ‘Tell him he is lucky I offered forty. I should have said twenty but I didn’t think the emperor would permit Jamaleldin’s return.’
The wording struck Jamaleldin. It was true, the emperor had permitted his return. Reflect on the decision, sacrifice yourself to save the princess – all an illusion. The truth was that he had been a hostage all these years held by elastic constraints. A rubber band that allowed him to join a regiment, dance in a ball, ask for the hand of Daria Semyonovich. Humiliation pumped through his blood. He could no longer hear David, who continued to shout. The room, the biggest one in the District Commission, began to seem strange, full of eerie sounds and people who were unaware of each other. The aides-de-camp, interpreters, orderlies on the side – all appeared to him as crooked as puppets. He felt someone nudging him; it was Hassan turning towards him with a smile that was itself like a word in a foreign language. ‘Don’t worry, brother, that’s just our way of negotiating. We’ll get you out of here soon. Don’t worry.’
It was too much. The tears rose to his eyes. ‘Worry? You think I’m worried. You don’t understand, do you, that I’m not even happy I’m returning. I’m no longer one of you. I’ve forgotten how to be. If I could, I would turn round and go back to what I know.’
Suddenly David was in front of them, eyes blazing at Hassan, the vein on his forehead stretched blue-grey, spit forming on the corners of his mouth. He pitched in, ‘And I will take Jamaleldin
back to Petersburg, see if I don’t. If by Saturday you don’t bring me an acceptance of my offer, I swear by my Creator both of us will leave Khasavyurt. Listen to me. Listen to me well: I will not be played with. Shamil can do what he likes with my family. Yes, he can. Do you understand me? If he makes my wife his slave then she is no longer my wife. She is not. I will renounce her.’
When news of Jamaleldin’s arrival in Khasavyurt first reached Dargo, it was greeted with celebration. Gunshots were heard throughout the aoul and there was much chanting and thanksgiving. Chuanat rushed into Anna’s room to congratulate her and Madame Drancy sank to her knees in gratitude. But it was Zeidat’s reaction that turned out to be the most accurate. She stood at the doorway with arms folded and said, ‘I don’t understand why you’re so happy. Does Shamil Imam only have one son? The boy’s return is not enough. You will not be released for less than a million.’
It was in itself a torture, this unknown future, this hope that now dangled close. Anna might believe that Shamil truly wanted his son back but Zeidat and the naibs were winning the argument. How much could they get out of David Chavchavadze was the question they were asking themselves. They would push him to the limit. He was doing everything he could – mortgaging, selling and borrowing, but it might not be enough.
And what would become of her if she stayed? More and more often she was thinking along these lines. Anna Elinichna, Queen of Georgia – Shamil had won her with these words, courted her
with a dream. These days she was imagining what would have been preposterous months ago. It was a seductive, repulsive path. She would join Shamil’s resistance. She would fight with the Chechens for a free Georgia. The prospect was thrilling. It filled her with a dislike of herself but still she could not stop weaving the fantasy. It often threw up surprises. She would contact those relations of hers who had been exiled by the tsar, who had never submitted wholeheartedly to the annexation of their country. David, cautious and pro-Russia, had always urged her to steer clear of them; now she would seek them with an offer of her own. And here in this household there would have to be changes too; the delicious toppling of Zeidat, and Madame Drancy would definitely have to go. Madame Drancy did not believe that Muslims worshipped the same God she did. She would consider Alexander a Christian soul lost to Islam. She would become reproachful and ultimately insubordinate. Her position as governess or even companion would become untenable. It would be necessary to move her to another aoul or seek some way for her to individually secure her own ransom. Unlikely, but there was no other option.
The mountains were filled with the displaced. Here among Shamil’s men were captives and deserters. Their wellbeing was a function of how much they integrated or made themselves useful. In Georgia and in Russia, there were also Chechens who had gone over to the Russians. Their survival, too, depended on how easily they fitted in and how valuable they could be. Each with their personal heartache, each with their individual story. The only common thing being that their loyalty would always be suspect, their loved ones far away, their aura tinged with the shame of defection.
One of Shamil’s men was a Georgian who had in his childhood been made prisoner. Abid was esteemed by Shamil because of his intelligence and natural fighting skills. His story fascinated Anna. One of the older women in the household had fallen in love with Abid. Shamil approved the marriage in order to strengthen Abid’s attachment. If his wife and children were now part of Dargo-Veddin,
Abid was less likely to escape. On one occasion when a battle had turned unfavourable, Shamil and Abid were separated from the rest of the troops. Pursued, they galloped until they came very near to the Russian border. ‘I have always felt that one day you will leave me,’ Shamil said to him. ‘If you wish to return to the Russians here is the opportunity. Don’t be afraid. No one will follow you.’ Abid was adamant that his loyalty was to the imam. Yet he was fated to leave. Years later he fell in love with a Georgian prisoner and when she was, only last month, ransomed by her people, he followed her. Now his children would grow up with a father who had deserted them, a mother who was lamenting her fate. Anna wondered how successful Abid would be back in Georgia. She doubted that he would rise to a position as high as that of being Shamil’s arms-bearer.
Alexander came into the room to find her dozing. She was neither healthy nor ill; neither calm nor energetic. ‘Mama,’ he tugged at her sleeve. She sat up and stroked his hair. He was taller now, less cuddly, less precious.
‘Zeidat took me to her room,’ he said. ‘She gave me sweets and told me that Papa doesn’t love me any more. She said it would be better for me if I stayed here. Is it true what she said?’
‘No.’ She held him by the shoulders. ‘No, it is not true. Papa loves you and he is doing all he can to bring us home. And soon we will go home. I promise you.’
He looked relieved. She hugged him to herself and close to her neck he whispered, ‘I don’t remember which is our house in Tiflis and which is Tsinondali. They are two houses but I think they are one house.’
She went over the differences between them. She jogged his memory. They spent a successful hour regaining their past, shutting out the present. Until a cry was heard from outside and Alexander rushed out to join the domestic drama caused by the mischievous Muhammad-Sheffi breaking the lock of his grandmother’s room.
Talking to Alexander had restored her to herself. She felt stronger, her head cleared as if she was waking up from the most vivid
of dreams. The promise she made to her son must not be in vain. All that she had told him was the truth. David loved them both and they had a home and a life to go back to. She must not give in to confusion and this sidling astray. Some connections were too deep to be realised, too subtle to be convincing. She was not the Queen of Georgia. She would never be. She was David Chavchavadze’s wife, mother of Alexander, and she did not belong here. Her life was on hold. She must speak out and fight; she must say it again and again to break up this deadlock. ‘My family do not have a million roubles.’
She went to Chuanat’s room and asked for her help. ‘I must speak to Sheikh Jamal el-Din. He is the only one who has the strongest influence over Imam Shamil.’
Shamil was surprised to see his teacher coming into his room. He stood up and moved forward to kiss his hand. They had not been alone together since that night they had argued about Princess Anna. Every day he prayed behind him in the mosque and on Thursday nights they sat next to each other in the zikr circle, but they had not exchanged more than greetings and the day-to-day administrative discussions and correspondence that Jamal el-Din was involved in. Seeing him now venerable and grey with his intelligent expression and compassionate eyes, Shamil felt a pang of nostalgia, a longing for their former closeness. He should have been the one to make the first move. Even if he was not ready to apologise, he should have traversed the distance and at least expressed in action, if not in words, some penitence. He bent down now and kissed his teacher’s feet. To say out loud that he was honoured by this visit would be to sound formal and formality in itself was undesirable when it was intimacy that was due.
When he was seated cross-legged on the floor and after the customary refreshments, Jamal el-Din asked, ‘Are you going to reply to Colonel Williams’ letter?’
Colonel Williams, based in Anatolia, was the British commissioner to the Ottoman forces. He had sent a strongly worded reprimand against fighting women and children and demanded the immediate release of the captives. Shamil said, ‘I will explain my position and ask him why they did not support me last spring when I intended to march into Tiflis. We could have seized Georgia together. I fear that the Sublime Porte has forgotten us. All we are getting from the Ottomans are medallions and flags!’
‘They make the men happy.’
‘Yes, but we need more.’
‘Unlike Lord Palmerston, the British ambassador to Turkey has never been our steadfast friend. Do not underestimate his power over the sultan. Now he has seized on this business of the kidnapping to label you a barbarian not worthy of association.’
Shamil pondered on this analysis. He would do anything to rebuke the Ottoman sultan face to face. Georgia could have been taken and still it might. If only the Allies would advance onto the Caucasus instead of putting all their effort into the Black Sea. He looked up when his teacher called his name.
‘Shamil, I have spoken to your captive. She has assured me that a million roubles will not be raised by her husband.’
So this was why he was here. Shamil became more alert. ‘Will not or cannot?’
‘Even if Prince David has a million roubles, the tsar will not permit him to give you such a sum. Are they now in the business of financing us so that we can fight them even more?’
‘He is offering forty thousand.’
‘A huge sum.’
Shamil paused. He did not want to sound contradictory. ‘It would be best to receive more.’
Jamal el-Din sighed. ‘And if you cannot receive more and there is no exchange – what will you end up with – the princess as your fourth wife? Is this what you want?’
The princess as his fourth wife. Is this what he wanted? Shamil paused again but this time for a different reason. He might have disagreed with his teacher but he had never lied to him. He would not lie to him now. ‘I want my son.’
Jamal el-Din smiled. ‘Yes, you do. My namesake. Son of Fatima, may Allah grant her mercy. Son of the Imam of Chechnya and Dagestan. Brother of Ghazi Muhammad, brother of Muhammad-Sheffi. The boy belongs here with us.’
Shamil’s voice had a catch. ‘They tell me he does not speak a word of our language.’
‘This is natural. Years he has been away. You must not hold it against him. And he can learn. Be easy on him and when he comes back, insh’Allah, you must let him live as he likes.’
‘I will. To have him again safe from the infidels and their crooked ways is all I want.’
‘Well, you should be content with the position you forced your enemies into.’
Shamil bent his head. He knew the enemy better than Jamal el-Din did. This was an enemy that could never deliver contentment, a relentless enemy, a force that quickened and grew and devoured like fire. ‘What about my naibs? They must not think that I favour my son more than the cause.’
‘Your naibs are greedy. They need to be taught a lesson. Money is like grass. It withers.’
‘True.’
Jamal el-Din went on, ‘We do not serve money, we serve Allah.’
‘I know this. But expectations have been raised. I am in an awkward position.’
‘One in which you put yourself. Be decisive. Gather the people, tell them that money withers but our deeds last for ever. Strengthen their souls with a gathering of zikr. Remind them that we serve Allah and not our desires.’
Shamil sighed. ‘Would you talk to your daughter? Zeidat does not understand compromise.’
Jamal el-Din smiled. ‘When a man cannot control his wife it must be the end of Time coming upon us.’
She was going home. It was true. Ameena and Chuanat crowding around her, Madame Drancy in tears, the elderly Bahou hobbling into their room with toothless, wet smiles to babble apologies, to thank them again and again and kiss Anna’s hand. It was a miracle, she insisted on explaining as Chuanat translated, Allah had prolonged her life so that she would see her first grandson come home again. Fatima’s boy whom she had rocked to sleep and for whom she had chewed the first solid food to pop into his tiny mouth. My daughter Fatima died waiting for him, she explained to Anna and shuffled back to her room, touching the walls for balance, her eyesight dim with tears.
Chuanat insisted on a goodbye party. A gathering in her room of tea and sweets. ‘You will forget me, Anna, but I will think of you every day,’ she said without reproach. ‘You will go back to your busy life and we will be here as we are.’