Not among the Copts, said Nikos. The Copts, who had survived through the centuries by keeping their heads down, were not going to stick them up for the sake of parvenus. And not among the Greeks, either, said Georgiades.
It was on the others that Georgiades had concentrated his enquiries and he had very soon found out the men Sorgos had recently been seeing.
He went round the lot, Serbs, Albanians, Caucasians, and most of them were prepared to join him on the platform for that first meeting. It was after the meeting that the problems began. They couldnt work together. In the end he walked out in disgust.
It was the Georgians, mostly, who had walked with him. Their wrongs were fresher in their minds, the wounds inflicted by the Russians still raw. The men were younger; and in Djugashvili, the man who had run after Sorgos when that first public meeting had ended, Georgiades thought that they might have found a leader.
Just a minute, said Nikos, frowning, have you got anything definite?
No, said Georgiades. It was just that when I asked, everyone said that he was the man the Georgians naturally turned to.
He wasnt on the platform, said Owen.
No. They dont really amount to a sizeable community. There are even fewer of them than there are of the Mingrelians. And there doesnt seem to be any community leader. The fact is, said Georgiades, I dont think they want to become a community. They want to go back to Georgia.
So the war against Russia is still real to them?
Thats right. So far as they are concerned, its never ended. Retreat to Egypt is just a temporary tactical withdrawal.
And the Grand Duke fair game?
Undoubtedly.
Theres still nothing definite, said Nikos.
Georgiades turned to him.
The gold? he said. Isnt that definite?
All we know, said Nikos, is that Sorgos is buying gold dust. Which might or might not be used to buy explosives. Whats the connection with the Georgians?
They provide the excuse. Sorgos would never have thought of it. It had to be someone who knew about working on ikons. And these people do.
Its not enough, said Owen. Yet.
Why are you pursuing me? demanded Katarina.
Im not pursuing you, said Owen.
Its just an accident that youre here, is it?
Thats right. There are a lot of them about.
Katarina moved on to the next stall and began to finger the water melons.
Is he bothering you, lady? asked the stallkeeper.
Im her brother, Owen assured him.
Katarina tossed her head indignantly. She was dressed in shapeless black but the shapelessness failed to deny entirely the shape that was beneath and it was this, perhaps, though he hoped not, that had originally caught his attention. Her hair, that most provocative of features for the Muslim, was completely covered and she wore a long veil over the lower part of her face. However independently she might dress at home, going to the suk she took care to dress in exactly the same way as her sisters. Invisibility, at least in public, was what was required of women.
Naturally enough, in the circumstances, they all observed it. The suk was full of at first sight indistinguishable black-clad forms. Naturally, too, though, most of them subtly denied it. If their hair was covered, their ankles were bare and, as in the goldsmiths bazaar, around every shapely ankle was a ton of hardware. Not, of course, in the case of Katarina, and was the face quite as fully covered as in the case of the other women? It was her eyes which, close to, had finally given her away.
Somewhat to Owens surprise, another man approached her as she stood at the stall. He appeared to know her, for he greeted her warmly.
You havent been to see us for a long time, Abbas, she chided him.
Well, no. Ive not been working anywhere near the shop, and with your father away-
Owen had worked out now that he was a storyteller. He wore the mukleh, the unusually wide, rather formal turban which in old times had marked out the men of letters, a status which storytellers, sometimes unjustifiably, always claimed, but other items of his dress, the rather worn farageeyah, or top robe, suggested a man of letters fallen on hard times.
Are things going well?
People are interested, all right. They like the stories. Theyre a bit of a change. Only the old lot with their romances are so well established that its hard to get a foot in. Theres a lot of resistance, I can tell you.
Youll just have to keep at it.
Yes, I know. Your father was right. Its the only way.
Are you all right for stories?
The man fumbled beneath his robes and produced a handful of rather tattered papers.
Excellent! said Katarina. Well, when you need some more-
The storyteller bowed politely and moved away.
Shameless! said the stallkeeper indignantly. Allowing herself to be spoken to by men!
I know! said Owen. Thats the problem, really. Thats why I, as her brother-
Katarina gave him a furious glance and stalked off, head held high.
Owen followed her, at a distance, as she went round the stalls completing her shopping. When she had finished, he stepped up to her.
Carry your bags, miss?
Katarina looked at him levelly.
That would create a disturbance! she said. To have a man doing the carrying!
She marched through the stalls to the edge of the suk and then set off down a side street. Owen drew alongside her.
If you are going to insist- she said.
Just a word.
Youd better walk in front, then.
He drew two paces in front of her and she took up the womans customary position.
Id forgotten you were in the storytelling business.
Story-selling! she corrected. Not telling.
They come to you for stories?
Yes.
Well, I am disillusioned. I thought they all came from oral tradition.
The traditions died out. Were trying to revive it. The trouble is, they dont know the old stories. Not even Elf Leyleh wa-Leyleh.
The Arabian Nights? Not even that?
They rely on old manuscripts, or even fragments of old manuscripts. Many are so tattered and worn that they cant even be read now. My fathers been trying to get them together and make a collection of them. We take in old fragments, I copy them, and then we give them back and try to get them into more general circulation.
The Arabian Nights? Not even that?
They rely on old manuscripts, or even fragments of old manuscripts. Many are so tattered and worn that they cant even be read now. My fathers been trying to get them together and make a collection of them. We take in old fragments, I copy them, and then we give them back and try to get them into more general circulation.
It certainly seems to be livening up the world of storytelling.
As Katarina did not reply, Owen looked over his shoulder. She was still there.
Did you come to talk to me about that? she demanded.
No. I want to talk about your grandfather.
I am with him in everything he does.
Should you be?
Katarina was silent for a moment. Then she said: What are you saying?
Why is he buying gold?
I dont know. Why is he?
To buy explosives.
There was a long silence and again he looked round.
He knows what hes doing, she said, a little shakily, however.
Well, does he? Do you know what explosives do? They blow people up. And not just the people you want to blow up; other people, too. People who are nothing to do with it, children, perhaps. Innocent bystanders who only went there to see the fun.
The next alley on the right, instructed Katarina. That is, if youre still insisting.
Cant you hear what Im saying?
If you have action to take, said Katarina, still shaky but determined, then take it.
Im trying to prevent the need for action.
Why are you talking to me?
Because you can stop it.
I? Katarina laughed. I?
Yes. You. You could persuade him.
What makes you think he would listen to me?
He loves you.
He loves me, said Katarina, but he would not listen.
You must try.
Must I? said Katarina. You are forgetting: I am with him in everything he does. It was my people they killed. My family that they wiped out.
Youre the next generation, no, the generation after that, even. It may be right for him to remember but its not right for you.
What do you expect me to do? Betray him?
Dissuade him. Stop him from doing something that you know is not right.
I dont know it. I dont know what hes doing and I dont care.
You must care. There are others to think of as well as him. And I dont mean the Grand Duke. I dont care tuppence about the bloody Grand Duke. But I do care about the others, the ones who have nothing to do with it. And so ought you.
I am with my grandfather, said Katarina obstinately, in whatever he does.
Think for yourself!
I am thinking for myself.
Youre not. Youre shut up in that crazy house with him. You listen to him too much. Hes sucked you into his crazy dreams. You need to talk to someone else. I wish to hell your father was back here.
Do you? said Katarina, looking at him oddly. Do you?
Sorgos was very pleased to see him.
You arrive together? Or perhaps? Taking in Katarinas slightly flustered state. She immediately disappeared into the recesses of the house.
Together, said Owen.
Sorgos led him into what served in that small house as the mandarah, the reception room and saw him seated on a divan. Then he fussed off calling for Katarina. A little later he returned, carrying a small brazier and lighted coals, which he set down beside Owen.
I trouble you, said Owen.
No trouble at all, said Sorgos. Katarina came into the room with a brass tray on which there were two little cups, which she put down on a table in front of the divan.
You are well?
Thanks be to God! Sorgos responded automatically.
And your granddaughter?
Well, too, Sorgos beamed. A beautiful girl, isnt she? And healthy, too. There should be no problem about babies. His face clouded. Only shell have to get started soon. If she is going to have five.
Five?
Thats what she should be going for. Now, if she had five, and they were all girls, and then each of them had five- why, our problems would be solved in no time at all!
Im not sure you can bank on-
Girls are the key, you see. If you want to preserve the language. Ive been doing a lot of thinking about this. Language is imbibed with a mothers milk. Men are not so important. Of course, its a good thing if they have the language, too, but its not absolutely essential.