Lazar Lagin - The Old Genie Hottabych

The old man snorted so loudly that the entire contents of the bowl rose in a cloud and settled on his hair, eyebrows, moustache and beard, but he was too furious to bother shaking it off.

“You shouldn’t be so angry, Genatsvale,” the attendant laughed. “Just add some water and you’ll have the salve you longed for.”

The old man realized he was shouting for nothing and became embarrassed.

“It’s hot,” he mumbled in some confusion. “May this tiring heat be no more!” and he added very softly: “and while my beard is wet, may my magic powers remain in my fingers… And so, may this tiresome heat be no more!”

“I’m sorry, but that’s something I’ve no power over,” Vano said and shrugged.

“But I have,” Hottabych (naturally, it was he) muttered through clenched teeth and snapped the fingers of his left hand.

The attendant gasped. And no wonder: he felt an icy chill coming from where the strange old man stood; the wet floor became covered with a thin sheet of ice and clouds of hot steam from the entire room were drawn towards the cold pole which had formed over Hottabych’s head; there, they turned into rain clouds and came down in a drizzle over his head.

“This is much better,” he said with pleasure. “Nothing is so refreshing as a cool shower on a hot day.”

After enjoying this both unnatural and natural shower for a few minutes, he snapped the fingers of his right hand. The current of cold air was cut off immediately, while the ice melted. Once again clouds of hot steam filled the room.

“And so,” Hottabych said, pleased at the impression these unaccountable changes of temperature had made on the other patrons, “and so, let us return to the ‘taro.’ I am inclined to believe that the powder will really turn into the salve I have come in search of if one adds water to it. I want you to bring me a barrel of this marvellous potion, for I do not have much time at my disposal.”

“A barrel?!”

“Even two.”

“Oh, Genatsvdle! One bowl-full will be more than enough for even the heaviest beard!”

“All right then, bring me five bowls of it.”

“In a second!” Vano said, disappearing into an adjoining room. He reappeared in a moment with a heavy bottle stopped with a cork. “There are at least twenty portions here. Good luck.”

“Beware, O bath attendant, for I’d not wish anyone to be in your boots if you have tricked me!”

“How could you even think of such a thing,” Vano protested. “Would I ever dare trick such a respectable old man as you! Why, I would never…”

He stood there and gaped, for the amazing, quarrelsome old man had suddenly disappeared into thin air.

Exactly a minute later, a bald old man without eyebrows, a moustache or a beard and dressed in a straw boater, a linen suit and pink slippers with turned-up toes touched Volka Kostylkov’s shoulder as the boy was sadly devouring a huge piece of jam tart.

Volka turned round, looked at him, and nearly choked on the cake in amazement.

“Dear Hottabych, what’s happened to you?”

Hottabych looked at himself in the wall mirror and forced a laugh. “I suppose it would be exaggerating things to say I look handsome. You may consider me punished for lack of trust and you won’t be wrong. I snorted when I was kind-heartedly offered a bowl of ‘taro’ powder in that far-off bath-house. The powder settled on my eyebrows, moustache and beard. The rain which I called forth in that justly famous place turned the powder into mush, and the rain I was caught in on the way back to Moscow washed off the mush together with my beard, moustache, and eyebrows. But don’t worry about my appearance. Let’s better worry about yours.” Then he sprinkled some powder into a plate.

When Volka’s beard and moustache were disposed of, Hottabych snapped the fingers of his left hand and once again assumed his previous appearance.

Now he looked at himself in the mirror with true satisfaction. He stroked his recovered beard and twisted the ends of his moustache jauntily. Then he passed his hand over his hair, smoothed his eyebrows and sighed with relief.

“Excellent ! Now both our faces are back to normal again.”

As concerns Stepan Stepanych Pivoraki, who will never again appear on the pages of our extremely truthful story, it is a known fact that he became a changed man after the events described above. Why, it seems only yesterday that his friends, who suffered so acutely from his talkativeness, named every chatter-box “Pivoraki.” However, he has now become so sparing with his words, weighing each one carefully beforehand, that it is a joy to talk to him and listen to him speak at meetings.

Just think what an effect this incident had on him!

Zhenya Bogorad’s parents were up all night. They telephoned all their friends and, taking a cab, made the rounds of every militia station in the city, and of every hospital. They even stopped off at the criminal court, but all to no avail. Zhenya had disappeared without a trace.

The following morning the principal of the school called in Zhenya’s classmates, including Volka, and questioned each one.

Volka told the principal about meeting Zhenya at the movies the night before, though he quite naturally said nothing about his beard. The boy who sat next to Zhenya in class recalled that he had seen him on Pushkin Street close to six o’clock the previous evening, that he was in high spirits and was rushing to the movies. Other children said the same, but this was of no help.

Suddenly, one boy remembered Zhenya said he wanted to go swimming too.

In half an hour’s time every volunteer life guard in the city was searching for Zhenya Bogorad’s body. The river was dragged within the city limits, but yielded nothing. Divers traversed the entire river-bed, paying special attention to holes and depressions, but they, too, found nothing.

The fiery blaze of sunset was slowly sinking beyond the river, a faint breeze carried the low sounds of a siren from the recreation park, a signal that the second act of the evening’s play at the summer theatre was about to begin, but the dark silhouettes of the river boats could still be seen on the water. The search was still on.

This cool, quiet evening Volka was too restless to sit at home. Terrifying thoughts of Zhenya’s fate gave him no peace. He decided to go back to school, perhaps there was some news there. As he was leaving the school yard, Hottabych joined him silently at the gate, appearing from nowhere at all. The old man saw Volka was upset, yet he was too tactful to annoy him with his questions. Thus, they continued on in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Soon they were walking down the wide granite embankment of the Moskva River .

“What kind of strange-headed people are standing in those frail vessels?” the old man asked, pointing to the river boats.

“Those are divers,” Volka answered sadly.

“Peace be with you, O noble diver,” Hottabych said grandly to one of the divers climbing out of a boat near the bank. “What are you searching for on the bottom of this beautiful river?”

“A boy drowned,” the diver answered and hurried up the steps of the first-aid station.

“I have no more questions, O highly respected diver,” Hottabych said to his disappearing back.

Then he returned to Volka, bowed low and exclaimed:

“I kiss the ground beneath your feet, O most noble student of Secondary School No. 245!”

“Huh?” Volka started, shaken from his unhappy thoughts.

“Am I correct in understanding that this diver is searching for the youth who has the great honour of being your classmate?”

Volka nodded silently and heaved a great sigh.