Read Online The Mingrelian Conspiracy by Michael Pearce - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Pearce
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recited a litany of atrocities.
It took him quite a while to work out where each speaker was from. Armenia, yes, that was fairly clear, and Georgia— there seemed a lot of Georgians about, judging by the applause. Azerbaijan, well, yes, just about; but Dagestan? Dagestan! And Abkhaz? Where the hell was Abkhaz? What the hell was Abkhaz, come to that!
And now someone else was coming forward, someone who seemed vaguely familiar—God, it was Sorgos!
He stood for a moment looking down at the crowd. He had discarded his stick and looked years younger. A torch nearby lit up the sharp face and the thin bony hands clutching the edges of the rostrum. He seemed like some great eagle standing there. He now raised one of the hands.
‘The task,’ he said, ‘is not to complain about what has been done to us; but to avenge it!’
The whole front of the crowd jumped to its feet and began applauding vigorously. For several minutes Sorgos was unable to speak. Then he raised his hand again. The noise died away.
‘I had a house once,’ he said. ‘I had a family, I had a village. And I prayed that the Russians would not come and visit it. But one day they did. And then I had a different prayer. It was that they would come again. Only this time I would be waiting. And I would know what to do!’
He paused for a moment, breathing heavily. His audience was silent, gripped.
‘And now my prayer has been answered,’ he said quietly. ‘The Russian is coming; and I know what to do.’
The strength seemed suddenly to leave his body. He turned away from the rostrum. Friends rushed forward to help him back to his seat.
But meanwhile the crowd had erupted. Everyone was on their feet shouting and waving. There was pandemonium. The front of the crowd surged forwards. Others pushed in behind them. And now, looking round, Owen saw that the square was packed and everywhere, in the torchlight, faces were contorted and crying. Over to one side some men were trying to climb on to the platform and beside them a man in boots had scrambled up some scaffolding and was half turned towards the crowd, shaking his fist and screaming.
And then Owen lost sight of the platform altogether as the crowd around him eddied forward and took him with them and he had to concentrate on keeping his footing.
The man who had opened the meeting was standing up at the rostrum and pleading with the crowd to keep order. Others on the platform had got out of their seats and come forward to the edge from where they were trying to shout to their supporters. There were stewards, but they were helpless as the crowd swirled to and fro about them.
In a way it was fortunate both that the square was small and that the crowd was now so tightly packed as to make it hard to fall. Owen was trying to fight his way forward to the platform but everyone else was trying to do the same. He was afraid that at any moment someone would go down and then within seconds it would be frightful. He levered himself up on someone’s shoulder and began to shout commands; one or two faces turned towards him but in the uproar most of his words were lost.
And then suddenly, by chance, probably, the tumult died down and the chairman was able to make himself heard. He was a doctor or something and had some presence or at least experience of chairing meetings. Gradually he cajoled the meeting back to order.
‘Calm, friends, calm!’ he cried. ‘Let us resume the meeting! There is work to be done!’
From over to one side, the side where the men had climbed on to the platform, he received sudden support.
‘Order! Order! There is work to be done!’ bellowed a loud voice.
‘Let’s get on with it!’ shouted someone near him.
The swirls steadied and the noise dropped.
‘I call on Mr. Karamajoric!’ cried the chairman, and Mr. Karamajoric came forward. The mood of the meeting had changed, however, and no one wanted to listen any more to another litany of grievances. The chairman, realizing this,
It took him quite a while to work out where each speaker was from. Armenia, yes, that was fairly clear, and Georgia— there seemed a lot of Georgians about, judging by the applause. Azerbaijan, well, yes, just about; but Dagestan? Dagestan! And Abkhaz? Where the hell was Abkhaz? What the hell was Abkhaz, come to that!
And now someone else was coming forward, someone who seemed vaguely familiar—God, it was Sorgos!
He stood for a moment looking down at the crowd. He had discarded his stick and looked years younger. A torch nearby lit up the sharp face and the thin bony hands clutching the edges of the rostrum. He seemed like some great eagle standing there. He now raised one of the hands.
‘The task,’ he said, ‘is not to complain about what has been done to us; but to avenge it!’
The whole front of the crowd jumped to its feet and began applauding vigorously. For several minutes Sorgos was unable to speak. Then he raised his hand again. The noise died away.
‘I had a house once,’ he said. ‘I had a family, I had a village. And I prayed that the Russians would not come and visit it. But one day they did. And then I had a different prayer. It was that they would come again. Only this time I would be waiting. And I would know what to do!’
He paused for a moment, breathing heavily. His audience was silent, gripped.
‘And now my prayer has been answered,’ he said quietly. ‘The Russian is coming; and I know what to do.’
The strength seemed suddenly to leave his body. He turned away from the rostrum. Friends rushed forward to help him back to his seat.
But meanwhile the crowd had erupted. Everyone was on their feet shouting and waving. There was pandemonium. The front of the crowd surged forwards. Others pushed in behind them. And now, looking round, Owen saw that the square was packed and everywhere, in the torchlight, faces were contorted and crying. Over to one side some men were trying to climb on to the platform and beside them a man in boots had scrambled up some scaffolding and was half turned towards the crowd, shaking his fist and screaming.
And then Owen lost sight of the platform altogether as the crowd around him eddied forward and took him with them and he had to concentrate on keeping his footing.
The man who had opened the meeting was standing up at the rostrum and pleading with the crowd to keep order. Others on the platform had got out of their seats and come forward to the edge from where they were trying to shout to their supporters. There were stewards, but they were helpless as the crowd swirled to and fro about them.
In a way it was fortunate both that the square was small and that the crowd was now so tightly packed as to make it hard to fall. Owen was trying to fight his way forward to the platform but everyone else was trying to do the same. He was afraid that at any moment someone would go down and then within seconds it would be frightful. He levered himself up on someone’s shoulder and began to shout commands; one or two faces turned towards him but in the uproar most of his words were lost.
And then suddenly, by chance, probably, the tumult died down and the chairman was able to make himself heard. He was a doctor or something and had some presence or at least experience of chairing meetings. Gradually he cajoled the meeting back to order.
‘Calm, friends, calm!’ he cried. ‘Let us resume the meeting! There is work to be done!’
From over to one side, the side where the men had climbed on to the platform, he received sudden support.
‘Order! Order! There is work to be done!’ bellowed a loud voice.
‘Let’s get on with it!’ shouted someone near him.
The swirls steadied and the noise dropped.
‘I call on Mr. Karamajoric!’ cried the chairman, and Mr. Karamajoric came forward. The mood of the meeting had changed, however, and no one wanted to listen any more to another litany of grievances. The chairman, realizing this,
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