Lazar Lagin - The Old Genie Hottabych

They had a momentary glimpse of a beautiful bridge thrown over a deep, narrow valley.

Then they were grazing the tree-tops. It seemed as if they could touch them if they leaned over.

Then they flew over a sanatorium with a high escalator which took the bathers up from the beach in a pretty little car.

Several minutes later, amidst a shower of spray, the carpet plunged into the swimming pool of another sanatorium. The place was quiet and deserted, as it was supper time and all the vacationers were in the dining room. Shedding water and puffing, our ill-fated travellers climbed out of the pool.

“It could have been worse,” Volka said, looking around curiously.

“Sure,” Zhenya agreed. “We could have crashed into a building just as easy as pie. Or into a mountain.”

It was a good thing there was no one close by. The travellers sat down on beach chairs placed near the pool. They undressed, wrung out their wet clothes, pulled them on again, shivering and groaning with cold, and then left the swimming enclosure.

“If only I could dry my beard, everything would be just lovely,” Hottabych said with concern and touched it, just to make sure. “Ah, me! It’s quite damp!”

“Let’s look for the kitchen,” Zhenya suggested. “Maybe they’ll let you dry it near the stove. Boy, what wouldn’t I give for a big chunk of bread and some sausage!”

“Or some fried potatoes,” Volka added.

“You’re breaking my heart, O my young friends,” Hottabych cried woefully. “It’s all my fault that you…” .

“No, it’s not your fault at all,” Volka consoled him. “Let’s go look for the kitchen.”

They passed the deserted tennis court, went down a paved path under a high arch and found themselves before the majestic, snow-white columns of a miners’ sanatorium. A circular fountain with a pool as big as a dance floor shot up foaming sprays of water, right to the third-storey windows. All the windows of the main building were brightly lit.

“Our end has come!” Hottabych gasped. “We’re in the palace of a most wealthy and mighty potentate. His guards will be on us any minute and chop off our heads, and I’m the only one to blame! O woe! Oh, such terrible shame on my old grey head!”

Zhenya giggled. Volka nudged him, to make him still and not tease the old man.

“What guards? Which heads?” Volka asked with annoyance. “It’s a very ordinary sanatorium. What I mean is, not very ordinary, but very nice. Though I think they’re all the same here in Sochi .”

“I was an expert on palaces, O Volka, when your great-great-great-grandfather wasn’t even born, and I, for one, certainly know that guards will come running any minute and… O woe is us! Here they come!”

The boys also heard the sounds of running feet on the staircase of the main building.

“Jafar!” someone hanging over the banister shouted from above. “We’ll look for them together after supper! They can’t disappear this late at night! Jafar!”

“Did you hear him?” Hottabych cried, grabbing the boys’ hands. He dragged them off to a side path as fast as he could and from there into the nearest bushes.

“Did you hear him? That was the Sergeant of the Guard shouting. They’ll go looking for us after supper, and they’ll certainly find us. But my beard has soaked up as much water as a sponge, and I’m as helpless as a babe!”

Just then he happened to glance at two towels hanging over the back of a park bench.

“Allah be praised!” he cried excitedly, running towards the towels. “These will help me dry my beard! Then we won’t have to fear any guards in the world.”

He picked up first one and then the other towel and groaned:

“O Allah! They are quite damp! And the guards are so close!”

Nevertheless, he hurriedly began to dry his beard.

It was while he was drying it that an Azerbaijanian of tremendous height, dressed in a dark red robe, came upon them. He appeared from behind the pink bushes as unexpectedly as a Jack-in-the-box.

“Aha!” he said rather calmly. “Here they are. Tell me, my dear man, is this your towel?”

“Spare us, O mighty ruler!” Hottabych cried, falling to his knees. “You can chop off my head, but these youths are in no way guilty. Let them go free! They have lived but such a short while!”

“Hottabych, get up and don’t make a fool of yourself!” Volka said in great embarrassment. “What kind of a ruler are you talking about? He’s just a very ordinary man here on a holiday.”

“I won’t get up until this wonderful and merciful sultan promises to spare your lives, O my young friends!”

The Azerbaijanian shrugged his mighty shoulders and said, “My dear citizen, why are you insulting me? What kind of a sultan am I? I’m an ordinary Soviet citizen.” He puffed out his chest and added, “I’m Jafar Alt Muhammedov, a drilling foreman. Do you know where Baku is?”

Hottabych shook his head.

“Do you know where Bibi-Aibat is?”

Hottabych shook his head again.

“Don’t you read the papers? Now, what are you kneeling for? That’s shameful. Oh, how very shameful and embarrassing, my dear man!” Muhammedov pulled the old man to his feet.

“Wait a minute!” Volka whispered like a conspirator, taking Muhammedov off to a side. “Don’t pay any attention to the old man. He’s off his rocker. And the worst part of it is, we’re so wet.”

“Ah! Did you get caught in the rain in the mountains too? I came back as wet as a mouse. Vai, vai! The old man may catch cold. Dear man,” he said, catching Hottabych under the arms as he was about to fall to his knees again. “You look very familiar. Are you from Gandji? You look like my father, except that he’s older. My father’s going on eighty-three.”

“Then know ye, O mighty ruler, that I am going on three thousand seven hundred and thirty-three!” Hottabych replied hotly.

It was only to Muhammedov’s credit that he didn’t bat an eyelid upon hearing these words. He merely nodded understandingly to Volka, who was winking hard from behind Hottabych’s back.

Pressing his right hand to his heart, the drilling foreman answered Hottabych politely, “Of course, my good man, of course. But you’re so well preserved. Let’s go and warm up. We’ll have something to eat and rest or else you might catch cold. Va, how you remind me of my father!” -

“I don’t dare disobey, O mighty ruler,” Hottabych answered fawningly, touching his beard ever so often. Alas! It was still very, very damp.

Oh, how restless his soul was! All his many years’ experience rose up against the fact that the owner of the palace should invite a strange old man and two young boys — all dressed in a far from elaborate fashion — to share his meal. That meant there was some mischief to be expected. Perhaps this Jafar Alt ibn Mohammed was trying to coax them into his palace in order to play a joke on them and then, having had his fill of torturing them, would order his servants to chop off their heads, or throw them into cages with wild beasts. Oh, how cautious he had to be!

So thought Hottabych as he and his young friends ascended the broad stairway to the first block of dormitories.

They encountered no one, either on the stairs or in the hall, and this but served to confirm Hottabych’s suspicions. Muhammedov took them to his room, induced the old man to change into a pair of pyjamas, and left, telling them to make themselves at home. “I’ll be back soon, after I give a few orders. I’ll be right back.”

“Aha! We know to whom you’ll give those orders and what they’ll be about, you crafty, two-faced ruler!” Hottabych thought. “You have a heart of stone, one that is immune to mercy. To chop off such noble boys’ heads!”