The Kindness of Enemies: A Novel by Leila Aboulela Page A

and the Princess Daria Semyonovich. You are incompatible in status and background.’
    Jamaleldin flushed. It was as if Daria herself had scrunched his love like a handkerchief and thrown it in his face. He now wanted this audience to be over. He wanted to grab his dashed hopes and run away.
    Nicholas chuckled. ‘So Russian women are to your taste … eh? Well, go ahead, have as many as you like, why not? But marriage, no. You must marry from your own kind. A tribal chief’s daughter, perhaps. Or an emir’s. This would further increase your acceptance among the highlanders. Think of the future,’ he concluded with a flourish. ‘You will be my mouthpiece in the Caucasus. You will bring enlightenment to your own people. For this I have fashioned you.’

4. D ARGO, THE C AUCASUS , J UNE 1854
    In his teacher’s home, Shamil could put the war behind him, give up the burden of command and learn again. He reached out and took over the cleaning of Sheikh Jamal el-Din’s shoes. The elderly man’s long white beard rested on his chest, his bright penetrating eyes were sources of light. Outside in the night air an owl hooted.
    ‘The great Shamil is cleaning my shoes!’ There was a warm jocular tone to his voice, one that listeners never forgot.
    The two of them sat cross-legged on square cushions, a rug spread out in front of them on the earthen floor. The door of the house was open to let in the summer breeze and every once in a while it creaked on its hinges nudging shadows across the room. Shamil’s rifle and sword were hanging on a nail dug into the plastered wall. In any other house, they would have been next to the master of the house’s weapons but here there was only the washbasin and pitcher used for wudu.
    ‘In your presence, I am not great. I am the young boy who came to you in Yaraghl with neither knowledge in my head nor much strength in my body.’ These were sharp memories as all memories of awakenings are, that time when the swirl of unnamed desiressettles into the focus of purpose. Shamil had been a moody child with a sense of loneliness so acute that it resembled arrogance. The cheerful pastimes of others his age left him baffled and disdainful. When one day the neighbourhood boys ambushed him and left him bleeding from a dagger wound, he had been too proud to seek help. Instead he had staggered to a cave in the mountainside and fastened his torn skin with the mandibles of ants, applied crushed herbs and rested until his wound healed. But instead of returning home once he recovered, he set out to seek physical and spiritual strength. He found it in the mystic teachings of the Sufi sheikhs of the Naqshbandi Tariqa.
    ‘I recall,’ Jamal el-Din said, ‘that you had fight in your soul. You were disciplined, too. When it was time for books, you were studious and patient. When it was time for athletics, you were energetic and sturdy.’
    Shamil smiled. ‘I used to repeat the prayer you taught me. ‘Lord, make me grateful and make me patient. Make me small in my own eyes and great in the eyes of the people.’
    ‘And today the Ottoman sultan has nominated you as the Viceroy of Georgia.’
    Shamil laughed, ‘You have heard already. No news escapes you! Advise me. Shall I accept?’
    ‘It is only a fine title. The sultan is offering you what he doesn’t possess.’
    ‘He is anticipating victory.’ Shamil’s voice quickened. ‘If the Ottomans and their allies, Britain and France, launch an attack on Tiflis, I can attack from the east and cut off the Crimean peninsula from the rest of Russia.’
    ‘If they attack Tiflis …’ His teacher’s voice trailed off and then he started again. ‘Has Queen Victoria replied to your letter?’ Jamal el-Din had written the letter himself for his calligraphy was outstanding, and despite his age, his eyesight was strong. The letter would reach her through the British general-consul in Baghdad, who advocated supplying the mountain tribes with ammunitionagainst the