Free In Xanadu by William Dalrymple

the other is a legend, and untrue. It is the result of a misunderstood derivation of the town's (Arabic) name Haleb, which comes not from the Arabic for milk (halib) but a much older word, possibly Assyrian, connected with the mechanics of child abuse.
     
     
    As promised, Krikor took us to his cousin's nightclub. I don't know what we expected, perhaps some dark cavern filled with belly dancers and Moroccans in white tuxedos, but it surprised us both. It lay a fifteen-minute taxi drive outside Aleppo, a vast open-air amphitheatre cut out of the hillside. On terraces along the raised back ridge were placed table and chairs for a thousand people separated by climbing vines weaving through trellising, orange trees, and pots of hollyhocks and azaleas. At the bottom, in the old orchestra well, was a sunken dance floor. On the stage, an Armenian band was backing a wailing chanteuse. Her song, plainly a tragedy, combined all the drama of a Verdi aria with the ear-splitting torture of loud feedback. She moaned and groaned, writhed, sobbed and screeched her way towards some searing, long-awaited climax. It was a horrible sound. We took our seats and watched.
    'Lovely, lovely,' said Krikor. 'This is famous Armenian song about the massacre in Van. Ees very, very beautiful.'
    'Weeeeeeaaaggh' sang the singer. 'Croooooosk unkph weeeeagh.'
    I had never heard a language less suited to singing than Armenian. 'Skrooooo Vonskum Vwvaaaaaaaaaaaan.' 'It's nice here,' said Laura. Krikor shook his head lyrically.
    'Lovely,' he said. 'I tell you this place makes good business. Big profit.'
    As we chatted, moustached waiters in fancy dress ('traditional national costume') came up with a bucket of hot coals and a clutch of hookahs. They put one beside Krikor and me, stuffed the end with tobacco and hot coals, then took our orders. They returned a few minutes later with a selection of kebabs, a substantial glass of raki for Krikor, some weak Syrian beer for me and a glass of whisky for Laura.
    'My cousin has another restaurant like this outside Beirut. Makes big profit too. Ees a lovely place. At night you can watch the rockets going over.'
'Fireworks?' asked Laura.
    'No,' said Krikor. 'Killing rockets. Lovely, lovely sight. When they explode there are sparks everywhere. Ees very good view from my cousin's restaurant.'
'Isn't it awfully dangerous?' asked Laura.
    'No, the restaurant is very safe. Beirut is a good town. Many nightclubs, many girls, much dancing. There are some problems - bombs, kidnapping, gun fights, but nothing serious.'
'You are brave.'
    'No brave. Always I carry two guns and a grenade. But I don't often use them.' Often?' 'Not often.' 'Only sometimes?'
    'Occasionally. Last time I went to Lebanon some Arabs made problem for my friend. They wanted to kill him. So I shot them both.'
You killed them?'
    Sure. It's no big deal. But it's important to be armed. Even here I carry this.'
    Out of his pocket he produced a pistol. It was small and black with a short, snub nose.
How long have you been carrying that?'
Always I carry.'
    That is very foolish,' said Laura. 'It might go off in your pocket one of these days.'
Krikor smiled. Come on,' he said. 'Have some raki.'
    We got quite drunk. Krikor told us aboul the roses he used to cultivate in his garden in Beinit. He loved roses, he said, and he started on a long joke about roses, two homosexual Turkish gardeners and a spade, but it didn't translate well (the punchline hinged on the similarity of the Armenian words for digging and buggery) and instead we talked about Krikor's restaurant in Athens. I said I didn't like Athens; you couldn't get a proper breakfast, only soft biscuits and weak coffee. Krikor said he never got up before lunch so he didn't find that a problem.
    'Have another drink,' he said, rearranging the coals on top of his hookah with a pair of copper tongs. Soon we were dancing to Django Reinhardt songs played by the Armenian band. The chanteuse had disappeared, and the centre