Lazar Lagin: The Old Genie Hottabych

“But what about the evenings and nights?” Volka asked maliciously. “What about the night, when there’s no sun in the sky?”

“At night people must surrender themselves to sleep, and not look at their watches,” Hottabych snapped. He had to control himself not to teach the insolent youth a good lesson. “All right then, tell me whether you like that man’s watch. If you do, you shall have it.”

“What do you mean? It belongs to him. Don’t tell me you are going to…”

“Don’t worry, O Volka ibn Alyosha. I won’t touch a hair on his head. He’ll offer you the watch himself, for you are certainly worthy of receiving the most treasured gifts.”

“You’ll force him to and then he’ll…”

“And he’ll be overjoyed that I did not wipe him off the face of the Earth, or change him into a foul rat, or a cockroach hiding in a crack of a hovel, or the last beggar…”

“That’s real blackmail,” Volka said angrily. “Tricks like that send a man to jail, my friend. And you’ll well deserve it.”

“Send me to jail?!” the old man flared up. “Me?! Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab? And does he know, that most despicable of all passers-by, who J am? Ask the first Genie, or Ifrit, or Shaitan you see, and they’ll tell you, as they tremble from fear, that Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab is the chief of all Genie bodyguards. My army consists of 72 tribes, with 72,000 warriors in each tribe; every warrior rules over one thousand Marids and every Marid rules over a thousand Aides and every Aide rules over a thousand Shaitans and every Shaitan rules over a thousand Genies. I rule over them all and none can disobey me! If only this thrice-miserable of all most miserable passers-by tries to…”

Meanwhile, the man in question was strolling down the street, glancing at the shop windows, and in no way aware of the terrible danger hanging over him because of an ordinary watch glittering on his wrist.

’ “Why, I’ll…” Hottabych raged on in his boastfulness, “why, if you only so desire, I’ll turn him into a…”

Each second counted. Volka shouted:

“Don’t!”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t touch that man! I don’t need a watch! I don’t need anything!”

“Nothing at all?” the old man asked doubtfully, quickly calming down. The only sun watch in the world disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

“Nothing at all,” said Volka. He heaved such a sigh that Hottabych realized he must apply himself to cheering up his young saviour and dispelling his gloomy thoughts.

Volka was in the dumps. Hottabych sensed that something was wrong. He never dreamed he had done the boy such a bad turn during the exam, but it was all too clear that Volka was upset. And the one to blame, apparently, was none other than himself, Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab.

“Would you, O moon-like, feel inclined to listen to stories of most unusual and strange adventures?” he asked slyly. “For instance, do you know the story of the Baghdad barber’s three black roosters and his lame son? Or the one about the copper camel with a silver hump? Or about the water-carrier Ahmet and his magic pail?”

Volka kept on frowning. This did not stop the old man, and he began hurriedly:

“Be it known to you, O most wonderful of all secondary school pupils, that once upon a time in Baghdad there lived a skilled barber named Selim who had three roosters and a lame son named Tub. It so happened that Caliph Harun al Rashid once passed his shop. But, O most attentive of all youths, I suggest we sit down on this bench in order that your young legs don’t tire during this long and most educational story.”

Volka agreed. They sat down in the shade of an old linden tree.

For three long hours Hottabych went on and on with the truly interesting story. He finally ended it with these crafty words:

“But more marvellous still is the story of the copper camel with a silver hump,” and immediately proceeded with it. When he came to the part: “Then the stranger took a piece of coal from the brazier and drew the outline of a camel on the wall. The camel waved its tail, nodded its head, walked off the wall and onto the cobblestones…” — he stopped to enjoy the impression his story of a drawing coming to life had made on his young listener.

But Hottabych was in for some disappointment, because Volka had seen enough cartoons in his life. However, the old man’s words gave him an idea.

“You know what? Let’s go to the movies. You can finish the story after.”

“Your every word is my command, O Volka ibn Alyosha,” the old man replied obediently. “But do me a favour and tell me what you mean by ‘the movies’? Is it a bath-house? Or, perhaps, that’s what you call the market-place, where one can stroll and chat with friends and acquaintances?”

“Well! Any child can tell you what a movie is. It’s a…” At this, Volka waved his hands around vaguely and added, “Well, anyway, you’ll see when we get there.”

Over the Saturn Theatre box-office was a sign that read:

“Children under sixteen not admitted to evening performances.”

“What’s the matter, O most handsome of all handsome youths?” Hottabych inquired anxiously, noticing that Volka had become gloomy again.

“Nothing much. It’s just that we’re late for the last day-time performance! You have to be sixteen to get in now. I really don’t know what to do, ’cause I don’t feel like going home.”

“You won’t go home!” Hottabych cried. “In a twinkling of an eye they’ll let us through, surrounded by the respect your truly endless capabilities command! I’ll just have a peek at those bits of paper everyone’s handing that stern-looking woman at the entrance.”

“That old braggart!” Volka thought irritably. Suddenly, he felt two tickets in his right fist.

“Come!” Hottabych called, beaming again. “Come, they’ll let you through now!”

“Are you sure?”

“Just as positive as that a great future awaits you!”

He nudged Volka towards a mirror hanging nearby. A boy with a bushy blond beard on his healthy freckled face looked back from the mirror at a shocked and gaping Volka.

A triumphant Hottabych dragged Volka up the stairs to the second-floor foyer. At the entrance to the projection room stood Zhenya Bogorad, the envy of every pupil of 6B. This darling of fate was the theatre manager’s nephew and therefore permitted to attend evening performances. But today, instead of being the happiest of boys, he was suffering terribly. He was suffering from loneliness. He was dying to have a companion, someone he could talk to about Volka Kostylkov’s behaviour at the morning’s geography examination. Alas! There was not a familiar face in sight.

He then decided to go downstairs, in the hope that Luck would send him someone. At the landing he was nearly knocked off his feet by an old man in a white suit and embroidered morocco slippers who was dragging along — whom do you think? — Volka Kostylkov, in person! For reasons unknown, Volka was covering his face with his hands.

“Volka!” Bogorad shouted happily. “Kostylkov!”

Unlike Zhenya, Volka did not seem at all pleased at the encounter. In fact, he even pretended not to have recognized his best friend. He darted into the thick of the crowd which stood listening to an orchestra while awaiting the next showing.

“Don’t think I care!” Zhenya said in an offended tone and went off to buy an ice-cream.

That is why he didn’t see the people gathering round the strange old man and Volka. Later, when he tried to push his way through to the spot which was attracting so many eager eyes, his friend was already surrounded by a rapidly-growing crowd. He could hear the folding seats hitting against the backs of the chairs as those who were listening to the orchestra rushed off. Soon the musicians were playing to rows of empty seats.