two foreign men; there’s something not right about that. He puts his camera on the sofa’s armrest and points his lens in our direction. And then it happens: two, three flashes follow each other agonisingly slowly. In a second Angela stands up, walks round the man, looks at her telephone and runs outside. She makes a call and comes back. ‘Why are you bothering us and taking photos?’ she says to the man. ‘What do you want?’ asks the man. From a position of defence, the man chooses attack. Men are worth more here than women, and a traditional culture of humility, modesty and servitude reigns, Angela tells us later. She comes and sits with us again, quivering with rage and humiliation. ‘I’ve never been this insulted,’ she says. Meanwhile, the flash on the camera continues to go off. For the next five minutes an unpleasant tension hangs in the air. The men continue to pester us, and our conversation is now worthless. The bartenders – two women – look at us pityingly but don’t do anything. We don’t dare to do anything either, not knowing what kind of wasp’s nest we would be sticking our hand into. Angela is clearly on tenterhooks. This insult has to be avenged.
G
The four men suddenly leap off the sofa as if a shot had been fired. They instantly hurry outside, outside the gate. Four other men stride towards them. The eight of them become a shapeless mass of black jackets, black caps, black hair. Angela pushes through them and hauls her brother out of the group. She quickly explains what has happened. The brother pulls the offending photographer out of the group and confers briefly with him. Then he walks inside with a friend and comes towards us. He does so grandly, with back straight, chin high, and quick but decisive stride. Here comes the macho to take care of everything. He shakes our hands perfunctorily and explains to Angela that peace has been restored. Angela becomes noticeably calmer. ‘Alright, I’m satisfied,’ she says. ‘They’ve offered a sort of apology.’ That evening we have dinner with Angela in Sukhum’s Japanese restaurant, another one of those post-independence acquisitions. It is an unlikely place, with DJs, rich Abkhazians and reasonable food and drink. ‘I hope that one day we will be like Japan,’ Angela sighs. ‘Very modern, but also loyal to our own traditions.’ Her phone rings again. She is called every ten minutes by men,
The Abkhazian renaissance
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