Lazar Lagin: The Old Genie Hottabych

“Why, I had no intention of fooling you,” Zhenya lied in a shaky voice, feeling that now he was a goner for sure.

“Hurry and choose what manner of death you will die and detain me no longer, for I am weary of all this talk!”

“All right,” Zhenya said after thinking a bit. “But promise me that I’ll die in exactly the way I choose.”

“I swear!” the Genie promised solemnly and his eyes burnt with a devilish fire.

“Well, then,” Zhenya said and swallowed hard. “Well then… I want to die of old age.”

“Good for you!” Volka shouted.

The Genie turned purple from rage and cried, “But your old age is still very far off. You are still so young!”

“That’s all right,” Zhenya answered courageously, “I can wait.”

When Volka heard this, he laughed happily, but the Genie began to curse in Arabic as he dashed back and forth in the cabin, tossing aside everything in his way in helpless rage.

This went on for a good five minutes until he finally seemed to come to a decision. He laughed so fiendishly as to give the boys goose-pimples. Standing before Zhenya, he said maliciously:

“There is no denying it, you are cunning. But Omar Asaf ibn Hottab is more cunning than you, O despicable one.”

“Omar Asaf ibn Hottab?” the boys cried in unison. The Genie was trembling with wrath and bellowed:

“Silence! Or I’ll destroy you immediately! Yes, I am Omar Asaf ibn Hottab, and I am more cunning than this brat! I’ll fulfil his wish and he will surely die of old age. But,” he said, looking at the boys triumphantly, “his old age will come upon him before you count to a hundred!”

“Help!” Zhenya cried in his usual voice. “Help!” he groaned in a deep basso a few seconds later. “Help!” he squeaked in a trembling old man’s voice a few” moment’s later. “Help! I’m dying!”

Volka looked on horror-struck as Zhenya quickly turned into a youth, then into a grown man with a long black beard; then his beard turned to grey and he became middle-aged; and, finally, he became a bald, bony, scrawny old man. All would have been over in a few seconds if Omar Asaf, who was gleefully watching Zhenya’s quick deterioration, had not exclaimed:

“Oh, if my unfortunate brother were only here now! How happy he would be at my triumph!”

“Wait!” Volka shouted. “Tell me, was your brother’s name Hassan Abdurrakhman?”

“How did you discover that?” Omar Asaf asked in amazement. “Do not remind me of him, for my heart is rent at the memory of poor Hassan. Yes, I had a brother named so, but all the worse for you, for reopening my terrible wounds!”

“If I tell you your brother is alive and bring him to you, alive and healthy, will you spare Zhenya then?”

“Oh, if I could only see my dear Hassan! Oh, then your friend would remain alive until he aged naturally and that will not happen for many and many a year. But if you deceive me … I swear, neither of you will escape my rightful wrath!”

“Then wait a minute, just one minute!” Volka shouted.

A few moments later, he rushed into the lounge where Hottabych was engrossed in his game of chess with the captain.

“Dear Hottabych, hurry! Let’s run back to the cabin, there’s a great joy awaiting you there.”

“I can think of no greater joy than to check-mate my sweetest friend, the captain,” Hottabych replied solemnly, studying the board intently.

“Hottabych, we can’t spare a minute! I beg you, come below with me!”

“All right,” Hottabych replied and moved his castle. “Check! Run along, Volka. I’ll be with you as soon as I win, and, according to my calculations, this will be in about three more moves.”

“We’ll see about that yet,” the captain replied cheerfully. “Three moves indeed! Just you let me see…”

“Yes, yes, do see,” the old man chuckled. “You won’t think of anything anyway. I can wait. I’ll be only too happy to wait.”

“We’ve no time to wait!” Volka wailed in despair, and knocked all the figures off the board. “If you don’t come below with me this minute, both Zhenya and I will die a horrible death! Hurry! Run!”

“You’re behaving atrociously,” Hottabych grumbled, but followed Volka out nonetheless.

“That means it’s a draw!” the captain shouted happily, pleased to have escaped a completely hopeless situation.

“No, sir! What do you mean a draw?” Hottabych objected and was ready to turn back.

But Volka shouted angrily:

“Sure it’s a draw! It’s a typical draw!” and shoved the old man into their cabin, where Omar Asaf was about to fulfil his terrible threat.

“Who’s the old man?” Hottabych asked, seeing a decrepit old man moaning on the berth. Actually, but a few short moments ago, he had been a thirteen-year-old boy named Zhenya Bogorad. “And who’s that other old man?” he continued, noticing Omar Asaf. Suddenly he turned pale. Not trusting his eyes, he took several hesitant steps forward and whispered, “Salaam, sweet Omar!”

“Is that you, O my dear Hassan Abdurrakhman?” Omar Asaf cried.

The brothers fell into each other’s arms, for they had been separated for nearly three thousand years.

At first, Volka was so touched by this unusual meeting of brothers in the midst of the Arctic icebergs, and so happy for Hottabych’s sake, that he completely forgot about the unfortunate Zhenya. Soon a barely audible groan from the berth reminded him that urgent aid was needed.

“Help!” he cried and rushed to separate Hottab’s two sons. “A person’s dying and they…”

“Help, I’m dying! “the old man Zhenya croaked, as if to corroborate Volka’s words. Hottabych looked at him in surprise and asked:

“Who is this white-haired old man, and how does he come to be lying in our friend Zhenya’s bed?”

“But this is Zhenya,” Volka wailed. “Save him, Hottabych!”

“I beg your pardon, O dearest Hassan,” Omar Asaf said irritably to his newly-found brother. “I shall have to interrupt these pleasant moments of reunion in order to fulfil my promise.”

With these words he went over to the berth, touched Zhenya’s shoulder, and hissed:

“Ask forgiveness before it is too late.”

“Forgiveness? Of whom?” the old man Zhenya croaked.

“Of me, O despicable youth!”

“What for?”

“For trying to trick me.”

“You should ask my forgiveness,” Zhenya objected. “I saved you and you want to kill me for it. I won’t ask your forgiveness!”

“Be it as you wish,” Omar Asaf agreed maliciously. “I do not insist. But bear in mind that you shall die in a few seconds if you do not.”

“So what? Who cares?” Zhenya whispered proudly if weakly, though he certainly did care.

“Omar, my sweet!” Hottabych interrupted kindly but firmly. “Don’t cloud our long-awaited reunion by a dishonest act. You must immediately and unconditionally fulfil the promise given to my precious friend, Volka ibn Alyosha. And please bear in mind that the most noble Zhenya is a very good friend of mine to.”

Omar Asaf ground his teeth in helpless rage. Yet, he took hold of himself and muttered:

“Change, O insolent youth, and be as you were before!” “Now you’re talking,” Zhenya said.

Everyone present had the pleasure of witnessing a most unusual sight: a dying old man turned into a thirteen-year-old boy.

First, his withered, sunken cheeks became rosy; then, his bald head was covered with white hair which soon turned black, as did his heavy beard. Feeling stronger, Zhenya hopped off the berth and winked at his friends happily. Standing before them was a husky man of forty, who differed from other men of his age in that his beard kept on shrinking until it finally turned into a barely noticeable fringe of fluff which soon disappeared completely. The man was becoming smaller in height and narrower in the shoulders. Finally, he took on Zhenya Bogorad’s usual appearance.