The Mingrelian Conspiracy Read Online Free PDF Page B

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