Lazar Lagin - The Old Genie Hottabych

Then he made his elephant kneel and he took Zhenya up beside him. The whole cavalcade, swaying majestically, continued towards the village.

On the way they met several children.

The man shouted something to them; they gaped and stared at the real-life Soviet boy. Then they dashed back to the village, shouting and skipping. By the time Zhenya Bogorad, a 7B pupil of Moscow Secondary School No. 245, arrived in the village riding the head elephant, its entire population had poured out into the narrow single street.

What a welcome it was!

Zhenya was helped down respectfully, he was led into a room and offered food, which was more than welcome, since he found that even in his sleep he was hungry. Imagine, what a real dream he was having! Then people approached him and shook his hand, then everybody sang a long and plaintive Indian song. Zhenya sang along with them as best he could and everyone was terribly pleased. Then Zhenya sang the democratic youth song and some boys and girls joined in, while the rest sang along as best they could. Then everyone began coaxing a young Hindu youth and he finally gave in and began another song, which Zhenya recognized as “Katyusha.” He joined in enthusiastically, while everyone else clapped in rhythm to the song. Then they shook his hand again and everyone shouted Hindi Rusi bhai, bhai!

When things settled down a bit, the whole village began a conversation with Zhenya. However, since neither he nor the villagers knew very much English, it took a long time for them to discover whether Zhenya was in a hurry to get to Delhi and the Soviet Embassy. But Zhenya was in no special rush. Why should a person hurry when he’s having such an interesting and pleasant dream?

In no time, delegates from a neighbouring village arrived to lead the honoured guest to their village. In this village and in the three others he visited during that wonderful day the scene which had taken place in the first village was repeated again and again.

He spent the night in the fourth village. At day-break delegates from a fifth village were awaiting him. This was when Zhenya began to moan a bit.

Just try not to moan when hundreds of friendly arms toss you up to the accompaniment of: Hindi Rusi bhai, bhai and overflowing emotions make them toss you as high as the clouds.

Luckily for him, they soon heard the rumbling of a small truck which was going past the closest railway station and which was to take Zhenya along.

Smiling villagers surrounded the perspiring boy, they shook his hands and embraced him. Two girls came running up with a large wreath of flowers and put it around his neck. The young guest blushed. Three boys and their schoolteacher brought him a gift of a large bunch of bananas. On behalf of all the villagers, the teacher wished Zhenya a happy journey. The children asked him to say hello to the children of Moscow from the children of India and they also asked for his autograph, just as if he had been a famous person. Naturally, he could not refuse.

Clutching the bunch of bananas with both hands and bowing to all sides, Zhenya was being helped onto the running board when suddenly he … disappeared. He simply vanished!

This in itself was worthy of great amazement, but more amazing still was the fact that not a single villager was surprised at this. They were not surprised, because they immediately and completely forgot all about Zhenya. But we, dear reader, should by no means be surprised that they forgot about him so quickly.

There is nothing more dangerous than falling asleep on a magic carpet without having first taken the necessary precautions.

Tired from all their experiences and lulled to sleep by the complete quiet that surrounded them, Hottabych and Volka did not notice how they dozed off under the warm quilted robes that had appeared from nowheres.

Volka had curled up cosily and slept a dreamless sleep, but Hottabych, who had fallen asleep sitting up uncomfortably, with his chest pressed against his sharp old knees, had a terrible dream.

He dreamt that the servants of Sulayman, son of David, led by the Vizier Asaf ibn Barakhiya, were once again about to imprison him in a clay vessel and that they had stuffed him halfway in already, but that he was struggling desperately, pressing his chest against the mouth of the bottle. He dreamt that his wonderful young friend and saviour was about to be stuffed into another vessel and then neither of them would ever be rescued, while poor Zhenya would have to suffer the slave’s lot to the end of his days, with no one to save him. Worst of all, someone had a firm hold on Hottabych’s arms so that he was unable to yank a single hair from his beard and therefore was unable to use his magic powers to save himself and Volka. Realizing that it would be too late to do anything in a few more moments, Hottabych exerted all his energy. In great despair he plunged sideways, forcefully enough to fall completely out of the vessel. Before really waking up, he slipped off the carpet into the cold black void below.

Fortunately, his shout awakened Volka. The boy was just able to grab his left arm. Now it was Hottabych’s turn to fly in tow behind the carpet. However, the tow was not very firm: the old man was too heavy for Volka. They would probably have plunged downwards from this great height to the unseen Earth below, if Hottabych had not managed to yank a whole batch of hair from his beard with his free hand and rattle off the necessary magic words.

Suddenly, Volka found he could pull the old man up quite easily.

Our young fellow’s happiness would have been complete, had not Hottabych been bellowing, “Aha, O Volka! Everything’s in top shape, O my precious one!” and trying to sing something and laughing with such wild glee all the while Volka was pulling him up that he really became worried: what if the old man had lost his mind from fright? True, once Hottabych found himself on the carpet, he stopped singing. Yet, he could think of nothing better to do than begin a jig. And this in the middle of the night! On a shabby, threadbare old magic carpet!

“Tra-la-la, O Volka! Tra-la-la, O ibn Alyosha!” Hottabych yelled in the darkness, raising his long skinny legs high and constantly running the danger of falling off the carpet again.

Finally, he gave in to Volka’s pleas and stopped dancing. Instead, he began to sing again. At first he sang “When Your Far-off Friend is Singing,” terribly off-key and then went on to mutilate an old Gypsy love song called “Open the Garden Gate,” which he had heard goodness knows where. All at once, he stopped singing, crouched, and yanked several hairs from his beard. Volka guessed what he was doing by the slight crystal tinkling.

In a word, if you ever forget something very important and just can’t recall it, there’s no better remedy than to fall off a magic carpet, if even for a second. Such a fall really clears one’s memory. At least it helped Hottabych recall how to break spells he himself had cast.

Now there was no need to continue the difficult and dangerous flight to rescue the unfortunate Zhenya Bogorad from slavery. Indeed, the sound of crystal tinkling was still in the air when Zhenya fell out of the darkness and onto the magic carpet, clutching a twenty-pound bunch of bananas.

“Zhenya!” Volka shouted happily.

The magic carpet could not withstand the extra weight and plunged downward with a whistling sound. Suddenly, it became damp and chilly. The stars shining overhead disappeared. They had entered a cloud bank.

“Hottabych!” Volka shouted. “We have to get out of here, up over the clouds!”

But Hottabych did not answer. Through the heavy fog they could barely make out the shrivelled figure with his collar turned up. The old man was hurriedly yanking one hair after another from his beard. There was a sound like plink, like a tightly stretched string on a home-made children’s balalaika. With a moan of despair, Hottabych would throw out the hair and yank out another. Once again they’d hear the plink, once again the moan of despair, and the despondent mumbling of the old Genie.