Lazar Lagin - The Old Genie Hottabych

“Is he round of face, sturdy of body, snub of nose and sporting a haircut unbecoming to a boy?”

“Yes, that was Zhenya. He had a haircut like a real dandy,” Volka said and sighed heavily again.

“Did we see him in the movies? Was it he who shouted something to you and made you sad, because he’d tell everyone you had such a beard?”

“Yes. How did you know what I was thinking then?”

“Because that’s what you mumbled when you tried to conceal your honourable and most beautiful face from him,” the old man continued. “Don’t fear, he won’t tell!”

“That’s not true!” Volka said angrily. “That doesn’t bother me at all. On the contrary, I’m sad because Zhenya drowned.”

Hottabych smirked triumphantly.

“He didn’t drown!”

“What do you mean? How d’you know he didn’t drown?”

“Certainly I am the one to know,” Hottabych said. “I lay in wait for him near the first row in the dark room and I said to myself in great anger, ‘No, you will tell nothing, O Zhenya! Nothing which is unpleasant to your great, wise friend Volka ibn Alyosha, for never again will you see anyone who will believe you or will be interested in such news!’ That’s what I said to myself as I tossed him far away to the East, right to where the edge of the Earth meets the edge of the Heavens and where, I assume, he has already been sold into slavery. There he can tell whomever he wants to about your beard.”

“What do you mean — slavery?! Sell Zhenya Bogorad into slavery?!” a shaken Volka asked.

The old man saw that something had gone wrong again, an his face became very sour.

“It’s very simple. It’s quite usual. Just like they always sell people into slavery,” he mumbled, rubbing his hands together nervously and avoiding Volka’s eyes. “That’s so he won’t babble for nothing, O most pleasant dope in the world.”

The old man was very pleased at having been able to put the new word he had learned from Volka the night before into the conversation. But his young saviour was so upset by the terrible news that he really didn’t pay attention to having been called dope for nothing.

“That’s horrible!” Volka cried, holding his head. “Hottabych, d’you realize what you’ve done?”

“Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab always realizes what he does!”

“Like hell you do! For no reason at all, you’re ready to turn good people into sparrows or sell them into slavery. Bring Zhenya back here immediately!”

“No!” Hottabych shook his head. “Don’t demand the impossible of me!”

“But do you find it possible to sell people into slavery? Golly, you can’t even imagine what I’ll do if you don’t bring Zhenya right back!”

To tell the truth, Volka himself had no idea what he could do -s to save Zhenya from the clutches of unknown slave dealers, but he would have thought of something. He would have written to some ministry or other. But which ministry? And what was he to say?

By now the readers of this book know Volka well enough to agree that he’s no cry-baby. But this was too much, even for Volka. Yes, our courageous, fearless Volka sat down on the edge of the first bench he came upon and broke into tears of helpless rage.

The old man asked anxiously:

“What is the meaning of this crying that has overcome you? Answer me, and do not tear my heart apart, O my young saviour.”

But Volka, regarding the old man with hate-filled eyes;

pushed him away as he leaned over him with concern.

Hottabych looked at Volka closely, sucked his lips and said thoughtfully:

“I’m really amazed. No matter what I do, it just doesn’t seem to make you happy. Though I’m trying my best to please you, all my efforts are in vain. The most powerful potentates of the East and West would often appeal to my magic powers, and there was not a single one among them who was not grateful to me later and did not glorify my name in words and thoughts. And look at me now! I’m trying to understand what’s wrong, but I cannot. Is it senility? Ah, I’m getting old!”

“Oh no, no, Hottabych, you still look very young,” Volka said through his tears.

And true enough, the old man was well preserved for being close on four thousand years of age. No one would have ever given him more than seventy or seventy-five. Any of our readers would have looked much older at his age.

“You flatter me,” Hottabych smiled and added: “No, it is not within my powers to return your friend Zhenya immediately.”

Volka’s face turned ashen from grief.

“But,” the old man continued significantly, “if his absence upsets you so, we can fly over and fetch him.”

“Fly?! So far away? How?”

“How? Not on a bird, of course,” Hottabych answered craftily. “Obviously, on a magic carpet, O greatest dope in the world.”

This time Volka noticed that he had been called such an unflattering name. “Whom did you call a dope?!” he flared.

“Why, you, of course, O Volka ibn Alyosha, for you are wise beyond your years,” Hottabych replied, being extremely pleased that he was again able to use his new word so successfully in a conversation.

Volka was about to feel offended. However, he blushed as he recalled that he had no one to blame but himself. Avoiding the old man’s honest eyes, he asked him never again to call him a dope, for he was not worthy of such a great honour.

“I praise your modesty, O priceless Volka ibn Alyosha,” Hottabych said with great respect.

“When can we start?” Volka asked, still unable to overcome his embarrassment.

“Right now, if you wish.”

“Then let’s be off!” However, he added anxiously, “I don’t know what to do about Father and Mother. They’ll worry if I fly away without telling them, but if I tell them, they won’t let me go.”

“Let it worry you no more,” the old man said. “I’ll cast a spell on them and they won’t think of you once during our absence.”

“You don’t know my parents!”

“And you don’t know Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab!”

In one corner of the magic carpet the pile was rather worn, most probably due to moths. On the whole, however, it was wonderfully preserved and the fringes were as good as new. Volka thought he had seen exactly the same kind of carpet before, but he could not recall whether it was in Zhenya’s house or in the Teachers’ Room at school.

They took off from the river bank without a single witness to their departure. Hottabych took Volka’s hand and stood him in the middle of the carpet beside himself; he then yanked three hairs from his beard, blew on them, and whispered something, rolling his eyes skyward. The carpet trembled. One after the other, all four tassled corners rose. Then the edges buckled and rose, but the middle remained on the grass, weighted down by the two heavy passengers. After fluttering a bit, the carpet became motionless.

The old man bustled about in confusion.

“Excuse me, O kind Volka. There’s been a mistake somewheres. I’ll fix everything in a minute.”

Hottabych was quiet as he did some complex figuring on his fingers. He apparently got the right answer, because he beamed. Then he yanked six more hairs from his beard, tore off half of one hair and threw it away, and then blew on the others, saying the magic words and rolling his eyes skyward. Now the carpet straightened out and became as flat and as hard as a staircase landing. It soared upwards, carrying off a smiling Hottabych and Volka, who was dizzy from exhilaration, or the height, or from both together.

The carpet rose over the highest trees, over the highest houses, over the highest factory stacks and sailed over the city that was blinking with a million lights below. They could hear muffled voices, automobile horns, people singing in row boats on the river and the far-off music of a band.