Paul affected to consider.
‘I could go and grovel to the Charge, 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 Charge 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.’