The history of Aleppo is terrible stuff: a long succession of massacres and sieges disappearing into the mists of Syrian prehistory. First held by the Hittites, it was captured in turn by the Philistines, Assyrians, Babylonians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, Persians (again), Byzantines, Arabs, Mongols and Ottomans, each of whom vied to outdo the carnage of their predecessors. The Assyrians were the most imaginatively sadistic: they impaled the town's menfolk on their spears and feasted for two days while their victims groaned to a slow death.
In between invasions Aleppo was ruled by a succession of aristocratic thugs who exacted outrageous taxes and perfected ingenious ways of bankrupting their burghers.
In all the town's history there are only two cheering anecdotes. The first tells of the Arabs who captured Aleppo by dressing up as goats and nibbling their way into the city; the
second
concerns Abraham, who is supposed to have milked his cow on the citadel's summit. It is not much in ten thousand years of history, especially when the one story ends in a massacre (after the Arabs killed the guards and opened the city gates to their friends) and 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 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 you.'
'Sir, you like Turkey?'
'It's wonderful. Jesus Christ, what time is it?' This time is seven clocks and fifteen minutes. Good sir, my friend, what is your business?' 'I'm an aspiring writer.' 'Good sir! Are you famous?' 'No. What do you want?'