The Mingrelian Conspiracy (3 page)

‘Other countries!’ said the major dismissively.

‘I agree, sir,’ said Shearer. ‘The Army will look after that!’

‘One of the complaints,’ said McPhee, ‘came from the Russian Chargé.’

‘Russian Chargé!’ said Paul.

‘Apparently the soldiers assaulted him.’

‘God Almighty!’ said Paul. ‘It’s already an international incident!’

‘Gentlemen. We should not lose our heads—’ began Shearer.

‘Heads?’ said Paul. ‘Heads? And what do you think will happen to yours when the Commander-in-Chief, the Prime Minister back in London, learns that the country’s been committed to war through the actions of a junior captain?’

‘Perhaps we should think again,’ said the major. ‘Maybe it would be best after all if the whole thing was handled informally.’

‘Too late,’ said Paul. ‘It’s in the hands of the Parquet now. The Nationalists will have us over a barrel. They’ll exploit it internationally. Even your ambassador can’t walk along the street without being bloody jumped on by British soldiers.’

‘We’ll confine them to barracks,’ said the major. ‘Keep them off the streets for a time. Can’t we hush this thing up?’

‘Not a chance!’ said Paul, beginning to enjoy himself. ‘The Parquet’s Nationalist. It’s rubbing its hands at all the trouble it’ll be able to cause.’

‘It wouldn’t be possible—would it—to get the Chargé to withdraw his complaint?’ said the major desperately. ‘I mean, they wouldn’t be able to go ahead then, would they? They’d have to, well, drop it.’

Paul affected to consider.

‘I could go and grovel to the Chargé, I suppose,’ he said unwillingly.

‘Well, look—’

‘I could give it a go. There’d have to be a written apology, of course.’

‘You could manage that, couldn’t you?’

‘It wouldn’t have to be from me. It would have to be from you.’

‘The Army?’ The major swallowed; swallowed again. ‘I think that could be arranged.’

‘And Captain Shearer withdraws his request?’

‘In the circumstances,’ mumbled Shearer.

‘Right, then!’ said Paul, triumphant, beginning to gather his papers. ‘We—’

‘Excuse me,’ said McPhee, the Deputy Commandant, with his usual slightly anxious old-world courtesy, ‘haven’t you forgotten something? There was another complaint.’

‘My God!’ said Paul. ‘It’s all Europe now!’

‘No, no,’ said McPhee seriously. ‘It’s not from the Diplomatic this time.’

‘Who is it, then?’

‘The leader of the Mingrelian community.’

There was a little silence.

‘What did you say?’

‘Mingrelian.’

‘Oh, Mingrelian, Mingrelian!’ said Paul, starting up. ‘My God!’ he said, catching Owen’s eye, ‘Mingrelian!’

‘Mingrelian!’ responded Owen loyally, seeing that something of the sort was required but not, however, having the faintest idea what it was all about, never, indeed, having heard of anything Mingrelian before. ‘Mingrelian!’ he said, shaking his head.

‘Them above all!’ said Paul, all dejection.

‘Look,’ said the major apprehensively, ‘if they’re a particularly difficult lot—’

‘Difficult!’ said Paul. ‘Difficult! Not content with having provoked a world war, you bring out on to the streets the most bloodthirsty, intransigent—’

‘Armed uprising?’ said Shearer. ‘We can handle them!’

‘Both of them?’ said Paul. ‘At once?’

‘We’ll cope,’ said the major. ‘We’ll cope.’ He looked, however, distinctly worried. ‘Two fronts,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘Don’t like it,’ he said.

‘None of us like it,’ said Paul bravely. ‘We have to look issues in the face, though. There may be still time, however. I’ll go straight to the Russian Chargé and grovel. Oh, no, wait a minute. First, we need a letter of apology.’

‘I’ll see to it,’ said the major.

‘Right. Then keep your men off the streets—’

‘Lie low for a bit. Right, I get the picture,’ said Shearer.

‘And persuade the Army to refrain, at least for a time, from assaulting the minority of the population it hasn’t so far assaulted.’

‘Right,’ said the major.

Paul looked pleased.

‘That’s it, then?’

‘The complaint from the Mingrelians,’ McPhee gently prompted.

‘Ah, yes. Well,’ said Paul, looking at Owen; ‘something for the Mamur Zapt, isn’t it?’

‘Thanks very much,’ said Owen.

‘Paul,’ he said worriedly, as they walked away together. ‘Who the hell are the Mingrelians?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ said Paul. ‘Never heard of them.’

‘Just bring me the Mingrelian file, will you?’ said Owen casually, glancing up at Nikos as the Official Clerk entered the room.

‘The what file?’

‘Mingrelian.’

Nikos stood for a moment, stunned. He liked to claim he had a file on everything. He believed he had the universe under control. Now the earth had moved.

‘Mingrelian. Oh yes, Mingrelian,’ he said, recovering quickly. He stopped in the doorway. ‘It may take a bit of time,’ he warned.

‘I’ll bet,’ said Owen.

Nikos went out grim-faced.

‘Do you realize what you’ve done?’ demanded Georgiades.

‘He hasn’t got a file!’ chortled Owen.

‘He’ll have one soon. Those people were happily getting on with their lives unknown to the world. Now you’ve dragged them into history!’

‘Ever heard of them?’

Georgiades rubbed his chin. There was a faint rasp. It was difficult to shave close in the heat.

‘The name seems vaguely familiar. Something to do with the Church?’

‘The Church!’ said McPhee, shocked. ‘Really, Owen! And you the son of a minister! It is true that they are members of the Orthodox communion at one remove, so to speak, since the Georgian Church is autocephalous—’

‘Georgia? Is that where they come from?’

‘The Caucasus, rather. They are a separate linguistic community. Linguistic, not religious. How could you think, Owen—?’ said McPhee reproachfully.

Later in the morning Owen took pity on Nikos.

‘There’s been a complaint, apparently, about the behaviour of some British soldiers last night. It came from the leader of the Mingrelian community. Can you get me the details? At least the name.’

‘The Parquet?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll go directly to them,’ said Nikos, straight-faced. ‘It’ll be quicker than finding the file.’

Owen guessed that he was getting near the place when he began to see increasing numbers of Albanians and Montenegrins standing about at street corners wearing national dress. It was not that the Caucasus was part of the Balkans, just that in Cairo certain groups of communities 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, surely, is recognition?’

‘Surely courtesy requires recognition, too,’ said the girl. ‘And what has become of hospitality?’

The old man smote himself on the temple.

‘She does right to remind me!’ he said.

He went to sit down on the divan but then, with an apology, left it to Owen and sat down on another divan opposite him. The girl stirred the coffee and poured out two little cups, one for her grandfather, one for Owen.

‘Both courtesy and hospitality,’ said Owen, ‘require thanks.’ The girl smiled at him and went out to replenish the coffee. ‘A good girl,’ said the old man, watching her fondly, ‘and with a mind of her own! Just like her grandmother.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘A disappointment, though!’

‘Oh, come—’

‘No, no. It’s true. Twenty-one and not married! In no time at all she’ll be past child-bearing—’

‘Plenty of time for that, surely?’ said Owen.

‘Well, yes, you’re quite right. In theory. But the years soon go. You know that when you’re as old as I am. And you’ve got to manage more than two. Two only replaces; you’ve got to do better than that if you want to expand. Four! Four children is what we’ve got to aim for. At least!’