Lazar Lagin: The Old Genie Hottabych

“What happened?” Zhenya asked, vainly trying to elbow his way through. “If there’s been an accident, I can phone for help. My uncle’s the manager here. What’s the matter?”

But no one seemed to know what the matter was. And, since hardly anyone could see anything and everyone wanted to know what was going on inside the circle, they all kept asking each other questions and demanding sensible answers, until they raised such a ruckus they began to drown out the music, though the musicians were playing as loud as they could.

Zhenya’s uncle finally appeared, climbed on a chair and shouted, “Everyone please disperse! What’s the matter? Haven’t you ever seen a bearded child before?”

The moment these words reached the snack bar, everyone there rushed to see the bearded child.

“Volka!” Zhenya yelled at the top of his voice, despairing of ever getting through the crowd. “I can’t see anything! Can you see? Does he have a big beard?”

“Golly!” the unfortunate Volka wailed. “What if he…”

“Poor child!” the curious onlookers sighed.

“What a pity!”

“Is science helpless in his case?”

At first, Hottabych misunderstood the attention his young friend was attracting. He thought the people were crowding round to express their respect for Volka. Then he began to get angry.

“Disperse, my good people!” he shouted, drowning out the noise of the crowd and the band. “Disperse, or I’ll do something terrible to all of you!”

A timid girl gasped from fear, but the others only laughed. Really now, what was there to fear from such a funny old man in silly pink slippers? Why, if someone as much as touched him, he’d probably fall to pieces!

No, no one took his threats seriously. However, the old man was used to having people tremble at his words. He felt that he and Volka were being insulted and was becoming more and more enraged. There is no telling how it all could have ended, if the first bell had not rung just then.

The doors to the projection room were thrown open and everyone rushed to take their seats. Zhenya thought this was his chance to get a peek at the weird boy. But the same crowd that had blocked his view now caught him up and carried him into the projection room.

No sooner had he found a seat in the first row than the lights went out.

“Whew!” Zhenya breathed. “Just in time. I’ll still be able to see the bearded boy on the way out.” Nonetheless, he kept fidgeting in his seat, trying to catch a glimpse of the freak who was sitting somewhere behind him.

“Stop fidgeting! You’re bothering us!” the man next to him said. “Sit still!” However, to his utter amazement, the fidgety boy suddenly disappeared.

Volka and Hottabych were the last to enter the darkened projection room. To tell the truth, Volka was so upset he was ready to leave without seeing the film.

Hottabych pleaded:

“If you’re so displeased with the beard I thought you’d appreciate, I’ll free you of it the moment we find our seats. That’s easy enough. Let’s follow the others in, for I’m impatient to discover what a ‘movie’ is. It must indeed be something wonderful, if even grown men attend it on such a hot summer day!”

When they were seated, Hottabych snapped the fingers of his left hand. Contrary to his promises, nothing happened to Volka’s beard.

“Why is it taking you so long? Remember how you boasted!”

“I wasn’t boasting, O most wonderful of 6B pupils. Fortunately, I changed my mind in time. If you don’t have a beard, you’ll be turned out of the movie which is so dear to your heart.”

It soon became clear that this was merely a cunning excuse. Volka was not yet aware of the old man’s craftiness.

“That’s all right, they won’t turn me out of here,” he said.

Hottabych pretended not to have heard him. Volka repeated his words. Once again, Hottabych played deaf. Then Volka raised his voice:

“Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab!”

“I’m listening, O my young master,” the old man answered obediently.

“Sh-h-h!” someone hissed.

Volka continued in a whisper, bending close to his friend who suddenly looked very sad.

“Do something to make this stupid beard disappear immediately!”

“It’s not a bit stupid,” the old man whispered back. “It is a most grand and noble beard.”

“This very second! Do you hear? This very second!”

“I hear and I obey,” Hottabych muttered and began whispering again, snapping his fingers.

The hairy growth on Volka’s face remained unchanged.

“Well?”

“One moment, O most blessed Volka ibn Alyosha,” the old man replied, still whispering and snapping his fingers nervously.

The beard on Volka’s chin remained where it was.

“Look! Look who’s sitting in the ninth row!” Volka whispered, forgetting his great misfortune for the moment.

As far as Hottabych could see, the two men in the ninth row appeared in no way remarkable.

“They’re famous actors,” Volka explained and told Hottabych their names, which, though they were very well known, meant nothing to him.

“Do you mean they’re performers?” the old man asked condescendingly. “Are they tight-rope walkers?”

“They’re movie actors! They’re the most famous movie actors, that’s who they are!”

“Then why aren’t they doing anything? Why are they sitting back doing nothing?” Hottabych demanded critically. “They’re probably very lazy performers. It pains me to see you praising them so thoughtlessly, O movie of my heart.”

“Ha, ha!” Volka laughed. “Movie actors never act in a theatre. Movie actors act in studios.”

“Does that mean we are going to see some others, and not movie actors, perform?”

“No, we’ll see movie actors. Don’t you understand, they act in a studio, but we see their acting here, in a theatre. Why, any child knows that.”

“Pray forgive me, but what you’re saying is a lot of nonsense,” Hottabych reproached him sternly. “However, I’m not angry at you, because I don’t think you meant to play a trick on your most obedient servant. You seem to be affected by the heat in this building. Unfortunately, I don’t see a single window which could be opened to let in some fresh air.”

Volka realized that in the few remaining minutes before the beginning of the film he would never be able to explain a movie actor’s work to the old man. He decided to put off all explanations till later, and especially since he suddenly recalled his terrible misfortune.

“Dear, dear Hottabych, it’s really no trouble to you — please, can’t you do something right now?”

The old man heaved a sigh, yanked a hair from his beard, then a second, and a third, and, finally, in great anger, a whole bunch together. He began tearing them to bits savagely, muttering something with his eyes fixed on Volka’s face. There was no change whatsoever. Then Hottabych began snapping his fingers in the most varied combinations: first two fingers at a time, then all five fingers of the right hand, then the left hand, then all ten fingers together, then once with the right and twice with the left, then the other way round — but all to no avail. Finally, he began ripping off his clothes.

“Are you mad?” Volka cried. “What’re you doing?”

“Woe is me!” Hottabych replied in a whisper and began scratching his face. “Woe is me! The centuries I spent in that accursed vessel have — alas! — left their mark! A lack of practice has been extremely detrimental to my profession. Forgive me, O my young saviour, but I can do nothing with your beard! O woe is me, poor Genie Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab that I am!”

“What are you whispering?” Volka asked. “Say it louder, I can’t make out a word.”