The Mingrelian Conspiracy. Michael Pearce

tended to stick together and the nationalities of the Eastern Mediterranean constituted one such group. Not all of them, however, insisted on wearing national dress. That was a peculiarity of the Albanians and Montenegrins, adopted, Owen thought, chiefly because it was a lot less strenuous to stand about all day in picturesque dress in front of the tourists’ hotels charging for photographs than to work for a living. Anyway, they looked splendid chaps in their high boots and their billowing trousers and with a whole armoury stuck in their belts.

      ‘The house of Sorgos?’

      The Montenegrin thought for a moment and then took Owen familiarly by the arm and led him down a narrow alley and out into a small close of very old houses, so old that they were threatening to slide into each other and their heavy, wooden meshrebiya windows bowed down almost to the ground. The Montenegrin stopped before the door of one of them.

      ‘The house of Sorgos,’ he said, saluted and left.

      Owen knocked on the door.

      It was opened by one of the most beautiful women Owen had ever seen.

      He was quite taken aback, firstly because he had expected the door to be opened by a servant – few houses were so poor as to be without a servant of some sort – and secondly because she was unveiled. He had grown so used to women being in veils that now he was disconcerted to see one without one. What sort of woman would come to the door without a veil on?

      Not that sort of woman, he realized at once. This one was soberly dressed and serious looking.

      Yes?’

      ‘The house of Sorgos?’

      She nodded.

      ‘Is he at home?’

      ‘No. What is your business?’

      ‘I am the Mamur Zapt. I would like to talk to him.’

      ‘He is not at home,’ she said, ‘but he will be back soon. Would you like to come in?’

      She led him into a small room sparely furnished in the Eastern style, with marble tiles on the floor and carpets on the walls. He sat down on a low divan with various bits of brassware on a table before him.

      ‘I will bring some coffee.’

      Unusually, there were books. They were scattered everywhere, on the tables, on the floor, in the little niches where there should have been pots, in piles against the walls.

      ‘My father collects stories,’ she said, pulling up a brazier and putting the pot down beside him.

      ‘Collects them?’

      ‘Yes. The original manuscripts if he can, early printed versions if he can’t.’

      ‘And they are to do with what?’

      ‘Folk stories, epics, wonder tales.’

       ‘The Arabian Nights?’

      ‘He would like to think so. My father is in Paris now.’

      ‘Buying?’

      ‘Selling.’

      ‘Oh!’

      ‘He hates it. He hates parting. But obviously we have to live. And anyway, we have the story.’

      ‘In what language?’

      ‘Any language.’

      ‘It was just that – you are Mingrelian, aren’t you?’

      ‘Yes.’ She was a little surprised. ‘How did you know? Oh, my grandfather!’

      ‘You don’t confine yourselves to stories of the Caucasus?’

      ‘The Caucasus was long ago,’ she said, ‘and my grandfather does not like to talk about it. We have been in Cairo now for thirty years. Longer, even, than the British!’

      The serious face suddenly dissolved. Owen was enchanted. But still uncomfortable.

      ‘You are Christian, of course?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘I was missing the veil.’

      ‘I do wear a veil when I go out. It saves trouble with the neighbours. But not at home.’

      ‘Your grandfather allows you considerable freedom,’ he observed.

      It wasn’t just the Muslims who liked to keep their women private. It was the Italians, the Greeks, the Levantines, the Albanians, all the Balkan countries. You could live in Egypt forever and never meet a single woman socially. Until he had met Zeinab, Owen had felt very deprived.

      ‘He believes in freedom,’ she said. ‘That, of course, is why we left Russia. As they call our country now.’

      ‘I hadn’t realized there was such a community of you here.’

      ‘Well, it isn’t such a community really. There are only about sixty families. When you are as small as that you have to fight very hard in order to survive. Marriage becomes important. Children become important. You must not let the language die out.’

      ‘And you? Are you married?’

      She laughed.

      ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘The problem is, you have to marry a Mingrelian.’

      ‘The trouble with freedom,’ said Owen, ‘is that it broadens the outlook.’

      He heard someone come in through the outer door and rose to his feet.

      ‘You have a visitor. Grandfather,’ said the girl. ‘The Mamur Zapt!’

      An old man came into the room. Owen knew, of course, that he must be old; but that was not the immediate impression he gave. He had the same handsome features as the girl and his hair still retained some of the same striking black. He strode vigorously across the room and clasped Owen by the hand.

      ‘The Mamur Zapt! To what do I owe this honour?’

      ‘I have come to apologize,’ said Owen, ‘for the boorish behaviour of some British soldiers.’

      The old man started to wave the issue away but then his hand stopped.

      ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it was an insult, and the Mingrelians cannot accept insults. The Mingrelians above all! When you are a small community you have to fight. Otherwise they will break you down.’

      ‘There is no desire in any way to do that. The Mingrelian community is much respected. The Sirdar and the Consul-General’ – this was stretching it a bit – ‘have asked me to present their personal apologies. Those responsible will be sought out and punished.’

      ‘It is the slight to our honour that must be redressed.’

      ‘Quite so.’

      ‘We are a small nation but we have our pride.’

      ‘Absolutely.’

      ‘Some would say we are not even a nation!’

      ‘Oh, surely no one would say –’

      ‘Well, they do. They do. They say, how can you be a nation when you haven’t got a country? And I say, we had a country once, only it was taken from us. But, in any case, I say, a nation is more than land. It is spirit. And that spirit we, in our small way, must keep alive even in Cairo!’

      ‘Absolutely!’

      ‘And so,’ said the old man, ‘we must defend our honour!’

      ‘Quite so,’ said Owen, and then, more cautiously: ‘up to a point.’

      ‘No!’ roared the old man, hammering his fist on the end of the divan. ‘No! On honour there are no half measures!’

      ‘It is right to resent an affront,’ said Owen, ‘but wrong, after an apology, to nurse a grievance. All that honour requires,