Read Online In Xanadu by William Dalrymple - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Dalrymple
Tags: Travel, Non-Fiction
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We dropped off our rucksacks at Krikor's brother's house (in the curiously named Sulenaniye Hawaii Telephone Street) then headed for the Bekerion shoe factory in the Aleppo souk.
The souk was straight out of Sheherazade. We followed Krikor into the vaulted half-light squeezing past donkeys, beggars and wooden-wheeled barrows. The only illumination came from portholes cut into the roof, and from these shafts of light streamed down, illuminating some stall holders like prima donnas, and leaving their neighbours in near darkness. On either side, sitting cross-legged in arcaded booths, vendors shrieked at us to stop and look and buy. As in a mediaeval European market, each trade was organized into a distinct area, and we would pass lines of Arabs slowly stirring sinister-looking vats of liquid soap then turn a comer and find ourselves amid the spice vendors, and the air heavy with cumin and tumeric, cardamoms and peppers, saffron and aniseed. I paused by one shop and sniffed in the sacks. Krikor stopped and hissed at me: These men are Muslims.'
'I know, but what's this?' I said, pointing to a sack of white powder.
Krikor frowned and asked the spice seller. 'It is camomile.' 'And this?'
Krikor again asked the merchant, then translated:
'Rosehip.'
And this?'
I pointed at a jar of grey-brown crystals, with the same consistency as Floris bath salts.
'It is the ground testicle of Jacob's sheep. The Muslims think it helps them please their women.'
Passing through the silk and linen merchants, the carpet sellers and butchers we arrived at the Armenian area of the souk - the Streets of the Jewellers, the Ironmongers, and the Cobblers. Suddenly everyone knew Krikor. Men rushed out from stalls gabbling in Armenian - a language that makes German sound soft and cadent - and, hugging him to their breasts, gave him the Armenian kiss, a peck on each cheek followed by three more on the lips.
'These people love me,' said Krikor modestly. 'All are glad to see me.'
It did appear to be true. A large, loud, jostling, gossiping crowd gathered around us trying alternately to fete us down the cobbles, load us with presents (I was given a fez of bright pillar-box red), and drag us into booths to ply us with thick, sweet cups of Turkish coffee.
But we were soon brought back to earth. Never have I seen a place like the Bekarion shoe factory outside textbook pictures of sweat-shops in the Industrial Revolution. It lay at the bottom of a flight of stairs in the Street of the Cobblers; we left our escort at ground level and descended into the hot, hammering depths. Krikor's brother - older, fatter and more corrupt-looking than Krikor - sat like a Mogul on a raised dais at one end of the room, while all around him machines whirled and lasts clattered. The floor was littered with old pieces of cut leather, and half-made or discarded shoes cluttered the bench tops. Around the debris buzzed a workforce of ragged children. Apart from Krikor's brother and a pockmarked foreman with a cadaverous grin, none of the factory's staff had yet reached puberty. I asked Krikor who the children were.
They are the children of Muslims.' Why aren't they at school?' Because my brother has bought them.' Bought them?'
Yes. Their parents are poor and they want money for raki. So they lease their children to my brother for one year.' And does your brother pay them?'
Don't be stupid. If he paid them there would be no profit.'
But that's slavery.'
Krikor shrugged his shoulders.
They like it here. My brother feeds them, and they enjoy themselves. Look they are all happy.'
A little boy came up with two cups of Turkish coffee and a saucer full of salted melon seeds. He looked absolutely miserable.
It's disgraceful,' said Laura. It's profit,' said Krikor.
* * *
We left Krikor and agreed to meet in Sulemaniye Hawaii Telephone Street later that evening. Wandering back through the souk it seemed as if Krikor's remarks were a
The souk was straight out of Sheherazade. We followed Krikor into the vaulted half-light squeezing past donkeys, beggars and wooden-wheeled barrows. The only illumination came from portholes cut into the roof, and from these shafts of light streamed down, illuminating some stall holders like prima donnas, and leaving their neighbours in near darkness. On either side, sitting cross-legged in arcaded booths, vendors shrieked at us to stop and look and buy. As in a mediaeval European market, each trade was organized into a distinct area, and we would pass lines of Arabs slowly stirring sinister-looking vats of liquid soap then turn a comer and find ourselves amid the spice vendors, and the air heavy with cumin and tumeric, cardamoms and peppers, saffron and aniseed. I paused by one shop and sniffed in the sacks. Krikor stopped and hissed at me: These men are Muslims.'
'I know, but what's this?' I said, pointing to a sack of white powder.
Krikor frowned and asked the spice seller. 'It is camomile.' 'And this?'
Krikor again asked the merchant, then translated:
'Rosehip.'
And this?'
I pointed at a jar of grey-brown crystals, with the same consistency as Floris bath salts.
'It is the ground testicle of Jacob's sheep. The Muslims think it helps them please their women.'
Passing through the silk and linen merchants, the carpet sellers and butchers we arrived at the Armenian area of the souk - the Streets of the Jewellers, the Ironmongers, and the Cobblers. Suddenly everyone knew Krikor. Men rushed out from stalls gabbling in Armenian - a language that makes German sound soft and cadent - and, hugging him to their breasts, gave him the Armenian kiss, a peck on each cheek followed by three more on the lips.
'These people love me,' said Krikor modestly. 'All are glad to see me.'
It did appear to be true. A large, loud, jostling, gossiping crowd gathered around us trying alternately to fete us down the cobbles, load us with presents (I was given a fez of bright pillar-box red), and drag us into booths to ply us with thick, sweet cups of Turkish coffee.
But we were soon brought back to earth. Never have I seen a place like the Bekarion shoe factory outside textbook pictures of sweat-shops in the Industrial Revolution. It lay at the bottom of a flight of stairs in the Street of the Cobblers; we left our escort at ground level and descended into the hot, hammering depths. Krikor's brother - older, fatter and more corrupt-looking than Krikor - sat like a Mogul on a raised dais at one end of the room, while all around him machines whirled and lasts clattered. The floor was littered with old pieces of cut leather, and half-made or discarded shoes cluttered the bench tops. Around the debris buzzed a workforce of ragged children. Apart from Krikor's brother and a pockmarked foreman with a cadaverous grin, none of the factory's staff had yet reached puberty. I asked Krikor who the children were.
They are the children of Muslims.' Why aren't they at school?' Because my brother has bought them.' Bought them?'
Yes. Their parents are poor and they want money for raki. So they lease their children to my brother for one year.' And does your brother pay them?'
Don't be stupid. If he paid them there would be no profit.'
But that's slavery.'
Krikor shrugged his shoulders.
They like it here. My brother feeds them, and they enjoy themselves. Look they are all happy.'
A little boy came up with two cups of Turkish coffee and a saucer full of salted melon seeds. He looked absolutely miserable.
It's disgraceful,' said Laura. It's profit,' said Krikor.
* * *
We left Krikor and agreed to meet in Sulemaniye Hawaii Telephone Street later that evening. Wandering back through the souk it seemed as if Krikor's remarks were a
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