In Xanadu by William Dalrymple Read Free Book Online Page B

in frilly dresses, before being introduced to the mother who was known as Um-Aziz, mother of Aziz. She was a great beaming woman, still beautiful, with clear china-blue eyes shining out from an elaborate wimple. She said: 'saalam alekum, smiled again and slipped off into the kitchen.
My house is yours,' said Nizar.
    More to the point, his supper was ours. His mother returned wiih a tray full of Arab delicacies. As we sat on great camel-hair cushions the size of a large mattress, an undreamt-of spread of food was laid before us: white goats' cheese softened in boiling water, stuffed aubergines, curd, peppers, dates, tomatoes, green olives, houmos in sunflower oil, kidney beans, bowls of saffron and turmeric-coloured sauces, great sheets of flat, chapatti-like bread. We hadn't eaten for twenty-four hours and were ravenous. Nizar and his brothers joined us on the floor sitting cross-legged around the tray and scooping up the sauces with little corners of chapatti bread. It was a completely different concept to the Western idea of a meal, where everyone has their own separate portion. This was a communal meal – for the menfolk, at least. Laura was the only girl eating, and as we gorged the women waited on us, filling our glasses with more tea, and replenishing the bowls over and over again. When a boy wanted something he would clap his hands and a sister, or even his mother, would come scurrying from the kitchen.
    When the meal was over we lay back on the cushions and digested our meal with the help of yet more pots of scented tea. Were we full? Were we comfortable? Was our journey tiring? Could we bring ourselves to forgive this humble fare? Would we accept their apologies? No wonder the Arabs have endeared themselves to generations of European travellers. The conversation was slow, formal and courteous, so much so that it seemed somehow archaic, fabulous, as if we were eighteenth-century gentlemen on a grand tour, rather than grimy undergraduates on a long-vac jaunt.
    We reclined, and followed the example of the brothers. Some snoozed. Some played backgammon. Everyone belched. But before long Nizar went and fetched a new radio cassette recorder from his bedroom and my eighteenth-century fantasy evaporated. The first channel he picked up was a muezzin wailing despairingly to himself. Nizar looked embarrassed and turned the dial. We got a Turkish football report then some Changing-The-Guard-At-Buckingham-Palace music. Nizar blushed and turned the knob a little further.
‘... a very taut, sensitive study' said a voice on the radio.
Nizar smiled.
'London,' he said, pouting slightly.' "Kaleidoscope"."
He sat down and looked intently at the radio.
    '. . . wry ... sensitive .. . deeply poignant’ said the radio
'.. lesbianism ... warmly compassionate   '
    The learned ones of England discuss great literature’ said Nizar. 'Much is their wisdom.'
 
    The following day we visited some castles.
    The fortress at Masyaf is a wonderful ruin, straight out of one of the gloomier corners of a Burne-Jones canvas. It is grim, dark and brooding, with an air of Jack and the Beanstalk: 'Long ago there was a wicked ogre who lived in a big castle on a steep mountain.      
    It squats heavily on a pinnacle of rock above the town, framed on one side by the peaks of the Alawi mountains, on the other by a windbreak of cypress and the flapping felt tents of a Bedouin encampment. Its weak curtain and irregularly placed, irregularly shaped towers of rough-cut granite can never have been a very serious deterrent to an attacker, yet it is just the sort of castle you would expect an Assassin to live in.
    We skirted the walls, but the main gate was locked and the custodian would not let us in. He was an old man with skin like walnut bark and the left side of his face was drawn into a paralysed grin. Drawing on his hookah he coughed deep, choking coughs and spat the catarrh on the ground beside him. He sat in a little tin shack propped up against the