Lazar Lagin - The Old Genie Hottabych

“Whew!” the old man said, shaking off the water and wiping his beard with a magnificent towel embroidered with gold and silver roosters which had appeared from thin air. “I’ve been waiting to offer my respects all morning, but you wouldn’t wake up and I didn’t have the heart to waken you. So I had to spend the night with these pretty fishes, O most happy Volka ibn Alyosha!”

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for making fun of me!” Volka said angrily. “It’s really a poor joke to call a boy with a beard happy!”

This wonderful morning Stepan Stepanych Pivoraki decided to combine two joys at once. He decided to shave, while taking in the picturesque view of the Moskva River . He moved the little table with his shaving things close to the window and began to lather his cheeks as he hummed a merry tune. We’d like to pause here and say a few words about our new acquaintance.

Pivoraki was a very talkative man, a trait which often made him, though he was actually no fool and very well read, extremely tiresome, even to his best friends.

On the whole, however, he was a nice person and a great master of his trade — which was pattern-making.

When he had finished lathering his cheeks, Stepan Stepanych picked up his razor, drew it back and forth over his palm, and then began to shave with the greatest ease and skill. When he had finished shaving, he sprayed some “Magnolia” cologne on his face and then began to wipe his razor clean. Suddenly, an old man in a white suit and gold-embroidered, petal-pink morocco slippers with queer turned-up toes appeared beside him.

“Are you a barber?” the old man asked a flabbergasted Stepan Stepanych in a stern voice.

“No, I’m not a professional barber. However, on the other hand, I can truthfully say I am a barber, because, while I am not actually a barber, I am a match for any professional barber, for not a single barber can outdo me. And do you know why? Because, while a professional barber…”

The old man interrupted the chattering Pivoraki rudely:

“Can you, O unnecessarily talkative barber, shave a young man well and without cutting him once, although you are not even worthy of kissing the dust beneath his feet?”

“As to the essence of your question, I would say…”

He was about to continue his speech, but here the old man silently gathered up his shaving equipment, took Stepan Stepanych, who was still going a mile a minute, by the scruff of his neck and, without further ado, flew out the window with him, headed for parts unknown.

Soon they flew into a familiar room, where Volka Kostylkov sat sadly on his bed, moaning every time he looked at himself and his bristly chin in the mirror.

“Happiness and luck accompany you in all your undertakings, O my young master!” Hottabych announced triumphantly, still holding on to the kicking Stepan Stepanych. “I was about to despair of ever finding you a barber when I suddenly came upon this unusually talkative man, and I brought him along to this room beneath the blessed roof of your house. Here he is before you, with everything necessary for shaving. And now,” he said to Pivoraki who was gaping at the bristly boy, “lay out your tools properly and shave this honourable youth so that his cheeks become as smooth as those of a young maiden.”

Pivoraki stopped struggling. The razor glistened in his skilled hand and a few minutes later Volka was excellently shaved.

“Now put away your tools,” the old man said. “I’ll fly over for you again early tomorrow morning, and you’ll shave this youth once more.”

“I can’t come tomorrow,” Pivoraki objected in a tired voice. “I’m in the morning shift tomorrow.”

“That doesn’t concern me in the least,” Hottabych replied icily. A heavy silence fell on the room. Suddenly, Stepan Stepanych had a bright idea.

“Why don’t you try a Tbilisi preparation? It’s an excellent remedy.”

“Is that some kind of a powder?” Volka interrupted. “Isn’t that a greyish powder? I heard about it, or read something about it…”

“Yes, that’s it! A greyish powder!” Pivoraki cried happily. “It’s made in Georgia , a wonderful and sunny land. I personally am crazy about Georgia . I’ve travelled back and forth across all the roads in the country during my many vacations. Sukhumi , Tbilisi , Kutaisi … There’s no better place for a rest! From the bottom of my heart and from my own experience, I highly recommend that you visit… Pardon me, I seem to have drifted off the point. Anyway, getting back to the powder… All you have to do is apply it to your cheeks, and the heaviest beard disappears without a trace. Naturally, it’ll grow back again after a while.”

“It won’t grow back in my young friend’s case,” Hottabych interrupted.

“Are you positive?”

Hottabych assumed a haughty expression and said nothing. He considered it beneath his dignity to take a lowly barber into his confidence.

A short minute later, an old man wearing an old-fashioned straw -boater, a white linen suit and pink morocco slippers with turned-up toes was seen in the locker room of a local bath-house in Tbilisi .

Without bothering to get undressed, he entered the steam room. The smell of sulphur stung his nostrils, but this was to be expected, as these were the famous Tbilisi sulphur baths. However, a person entering the crowded, steam-filled room fully dressed could not but attract the attention of the other patrons.

Curious eyes followed him as he slowly made his way towards a bright-eyed attendant. He halted within a few steps of the attendant, whose name was Vano, and began to remove his linen coat with an unhurried gesture.

“Genatsvale” (A friendly form of address (Georgian)., Vano said affably, “you are supposed to. get undressed in the locker room. This is where you wash.”

The old man smirked. He had no intention of washing. It was just that he felt a bit warm with his coat on.

“Come over here!” he said to Vano and fanned himself languidly with his hat. “But hurry, if you value your life.”

The attendant smiled pleasantly.

“Genatsvale, on such a lovely morning one values one’s life more than ever. What would you like, Grandfather?”

The old man addressed him in a stern voice:

“Tell me nothing but the truth, O bath attendant. Are these really the very famous Tbilisi Baths, of which I’ve heard so much worthy of amazement?”

“Yes, they’re the very same ones,” Vano said with pride. “You can travel all over the world, but you’ll never find another bath-house like this. I take it you’re a stranger here.”

The haughty old man let the question go unanswered.

“Well, if these are the very same baths I’ve been looking for, why don’t I see any of that truly magic salve which people who know and are worthy of trust say removes human hair without a trace?”

“Ah, so that’s what it’s all about!” Vano cried happily. “You want some ‘taro.’ You should have said so right away.”

“All right, if it’s called ‘taro,’ then bring me some ‘taro,’ but hurry if you…”

“I know, I know: if I value my life. I’m off!”

The experienced bath attendant had met many a queer character in his life and he knew that the wisest thing to do was never to argue.

He returned with a clay bowl filled with something that looked like ashes.

“Here,” he said, panting heavily as he handed the old man the bowl. “No place in the world will you find such a wonderful powder. You can take the word of a bath-house attendant!”

The old man’s face turned purple with rage.

“You’re making a fool of me, O most despicable of all bath-house attendants!” he said in a voice terrible in all its softness. “You promised to bring me a wonderful salve, but like a marketplace crook, you want to pass off an old dish of powder the colour of a sick mouse!”