Free In Xanadu by William Dalrymple Page A

stage was now held by two elderly Armenians, one playing some sort of accordian, the other propping up an enormous saz, a plucking instrument which looks like a cross between a double bass and a banjo. The dance floor was dominated by a wedding party and as we shuffled we were followed around by someone making a video of the wedding. He had a large camera, an assistant with a bright light and a long electric cable over which everybody fell. One of the wedding party asked Laura to dance and, scared 10 risk Armenian wrath by dancing with somebody's wife or girlfriend, I continued waltzing with Krikor. He seemed to feel less self-conscious about it than I did.
    We drank more Syrian beer and talked to an Armenian friend of Krikor's who said that he had been involved in the shooting of a Turkish diplomat in Paris. Krikor then danced with Laura and I talked to the friend.
'I hear you're from Edinburgh,' he said.
Yes.'
'Do you like Aleppo?' 'It's very pretty.'
'I hate it,' he replied. 'It's dirty, boring and full of Arabs.' He took a gulp of his raki.
    'I should never have left Paris,' he said somewhat theatrically.
    He had been happy in Paris. He had learned karate and jujitsu and had a French girlfriend. They had gone to Bruce Lee films together on the Champs-Elysees. He told me all the problems involved in killing diplomats in foreign countries. Like Krikor he was a keen gardener and I told him the joke about the spade, the Turkish homosexuals and the roses, but he didn't think it very funny either, and went on to tell me about new kinds of plastic explosive. He plied me with raki. and gradually he began to blur so that all that remained in focus were his huge, hairless hands which would fly into the air as he told of the bombs he had let off outside Turkish embassies around the world.
    When daylight came we decided to return home. Before I was shoved into a taxi I remember the amphitheatre describing wonderful circles around the heavens and the floor pitching to and fro beneath me. I broke into a rendering of 'The Bonny Earl of Moray'. Krikor said it sounded like an Armenian song. The Scots and the Armenians were brothers, he said. What about the English? said Laura. The English were our brothers too. We were all brothers. Of course we were. Ye highlands and ye lowlands oh whaur ha' ye been. Ees a good voice. Thanks. They've killed the Earl o' Moray and they've laid him on the green. Lang may his lady look frae the castle doon, till she . . . You're dribbling, William. Sorry. You never could take your drink. Till she sees the Earl o' Moray coom sound'ring through the toon. Lovely, lovely; ees really beautiful. Where are we, anyway? Nearly there.
    The taxi dropped us off and we stumbled around the streets of Aleppo searching dazedly for Sulemaniye Hawaii Telephone Street. I sang 'The Skye Boat Song' and Krikor clapped.
     
     
    After two hours' sleep we woke feeling like death. Krikor came to see us off. He gave us both an Armenian kiss and said goodbye.
    'What will you do today?' asked Laura. 'My brother will tell me about his shoes and I will be bored. Then I will sit alone in the flat and drink.' 'I'm sure it's not as bad as all that.' 'Do you think they have sick bags on these buses?' 'Shut up, William.'
     
    'Be careful with the Turks. They are bastards. Evil men. Bang! They kill. Rob money. Rape womens. Big problem.'
     
     
    We crossed the border without incident but just before Antioch I was sick, and sick again at Mersin. We reached Ayas soon after sunset, and went to sleep on the beach.
     
     
    THREE
     
     
     
    -

    Modern Turks are a far cry from the turbaned, sabre-wielding dervish - the Terrible Turk - who haunted Europe for so long. Today Turks tend to be curious, kind and slightly earnest; certainly that was the case with the Turkish student whom I found standing over us, clipboard in hand, when I awoke the following morning.
    Good sir,' he said. 'Tourists are my friends. Permit me to welcome you to Turkey.'
Thank