The Mingrelian Conspiracy

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‘Rice Pudding?’ said the Chief of Police warningly.

‘It was a long time ago,’ said the storyteller defensively.

‘Very well. Proceed.’

‘And suddenly she saw, down in the street below, a dervish looking very important and wearing round his neck a huge necklace made of the spouts off clay water jars strung together like beads. “What do you have for sale?” she called down to him. “Names,” he said. “How much does a name cost?” “A hundred piastres.” Now-’

‘Perhaps you could just tell me,’ suggested the Chief of Police, ‘where you had got to?’

‘He had got to the bit,’ said one of the bystanders helpfully, ‘when she had lost her new name and a blind man had found it and tied it up in a sack-’

‘Hey!’ said the storyteller angrily. ‘Who’s telling the story? You or me?’

‘And was just about to carry it up the stairs-’

‘When Mustapha cried out,’ said the constable excitedly, unable to keep quiet any longer.

‘Mustapha?’ said the Chief of the Secret Police, who was having difficulties.

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