Lazar Lagin - The Old Genie Hottabych

And Hottabych replied, tearing at his clothes:

“O most treasured of youths, O most pleasing of all, do not vent your rightful anger upon me! I cannot rid you of your beard! I forgot how to do it!”

“Have a heart!” someone hissed. “You’ll talk it all over at home. You’re bothering us. Do you want me to call the usher?”

“Such disgrace has fallen upon my old head!” Hottabych whimpered. “To forget such simple magic! And who is it that forgot it? Me, Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab, the most powerful of all Genies — me, the very same Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab whom even Sulayman son of David (on the twain be peace!) could not subdue for twenty years!”

“Stop whining!” Volka whispered with unconcealed scorn. “Tell me honestly: how much longer will I have to go around with this beard?”

“Oh, calm your fears, my young master! Luckily, I only used small magic. In two days your face will be as smooth as that of a new-born babe. Perhaps I’ll even remember how to break small magic spells before that.”

Just then, the many credits which usually precede a film flashed off the screen and were replaced by people who moved and spoke. Hottabych whispered smugly:

“Hm! This is all quite clear. And very simple. All these people have appeared through the wall. You can’t surprise me with that sort of stuff. I can do that myself.”

“You don’t understand a thing,” Volka said with a smile, upon hearing such nonsense. “If you really want to know, films are based on the principle…”

There was hissing from all sides now, and Volka’s explanations were cut short. For a moment Hottabych seemed entranced. Then he began squirming nervously, turning round ever so often to look at the ninth row and the two movie actors sitting there. He became convinced that they were sitting quietly behind him and, at the same time, galloping at top speed in front of him on the only lighted wall in this most mysterious building.

He became pale with fear. He raised his eyebrows and whispered, “Look behind us, O fearless Volka ibn Alyosha!”

“Sure, those are the actors. They play the leads and have come to see how the audience likes their acting.”

“I don’t like it!” Hottabych informed him quickly. “I don’t like people to split in two. Even I don’t know how to sit in a chair with my arms folded and gallop away as fast as the wind — and all at one and the same time! Even Sulayman, son of David (on the twain be peace!), could not do such a thing. And that’s why I’m frightened.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Volka said patronizingly. “Look at everyone else. See? No one’s afraid. I’ll explain what it’s all about later.”

Suddenly, the mighty roar of a locomotive cut through the stillness. Hottabych grabbed Volka’s arm.

“O royal Volka!” he whispered, breaking out in a cold sweat. “I recognize that voice. It’s the voice of Jirjis, the ruler of all Genies! Let’s flee before it’s too late!”

“What nonsense! Sit still! Nothing’s threatening us.”

“I hear and I obey,” Hottabych mumbled obediently, though he continued to tremble.

But a split-second later, when a thundering locomotive seemed to be rushing off the screen and right into the audience, a scream of terror rent the projection room.

“Let’s flee! Let’s flee!” Hottabych shrieked as he dashed off.

At the exit he remembered about Volka and in several leaps returned, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him to the door.

“Let’s flee, O Volka ibn Alyosha! Let’s flee before it’s too late!”

“Now, wait a minute. …” the usher began, appearing in front of them. However, she immediately did a long, graceful loop in the air and landed on the stage in front of the screen.

“What were you screeching about? What was all the panic about?” Volka asked angrily when they were out in the street again.

“How can I help shouting when the most terrifying of all dangers was threatening you! The great Jirjis, son of Rejmus, grandson of the Aunt of Ikrash, was heading straight for us, spitting fire and death!”

“What Jirjis? Which aunt? It was just an ordinary locomotive!”

“Has my young master decided to teach his old Genie Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab what a Shaitan is?” Hottabych asked acidly.

Volka realized that it would take much more than five minutes and much more than an hour to tell him what a movie and a locomotive were.

After Hottabych recovered his breath, he asked mildly, “What would you desire now, O treasured apple of my eye?”

“As if you didn’t know. I want to get rid of my beard!”

“Alas,” the old man sighed, “I am as yet helpless to fulfil your wish. But perhaps you’d like something else instead? Just tell me, and you’ll have it in a flash.”

“I’d like to have a shave. And as quickly as possible.” A few minutes later they entered a barbershop. Ten minutes later a tired barber stuck his head into the waiting room and shouted:

“Next!”

Then, from a corner near the coat-rack, rose a boy whose face was wrapped in an expensive silk scarf. He hurriedly sat down in the barber’s chair.

“You want a hair-cut?” the barber asked. “No, a shave!” the boy answered in a hollow voice and removed the scarf that had covered most of his face.

It was a good thing Volka didn’t have dark hair. Zhenya Bogorad, for instance, would certainly have had a blue shadow on his cheeks after having been shaved, but Volka’s cheeks after he left the barbershop were no different from those of his friends. It was after seven, but it was still light outdoors and very hot. “Is there any place in your blessed city where they sell sherbets or cold drinks like sherbet and where we could quench our thirst?” Hottabych asked.

“Why, that’s an idea! A glass of cold lemonade would really be grand.”

Entering the first juice and mineral water shop they saw, they took a table.

“We’d like two bottles of lemonade, please,” Volka said. The waitress nodded and headed towards the counter. Hottabych called her back angrily.

“You come right back, unworthy servant! I don’t like the way you responded to the orders of my young friend and master.”

“Hottabych, stop it! Do you hear! Stop…” Volka began to whisper.

But Hottabych covered the boy’s mouth gently with his hand.

“At least don’t interfere when I defend your honour, since your kind heart prevents you from scolding her yourself.”

“You don’t understand,” Volka protested. He was really becoming frightened. “Hottabych, can’t you see…”

Suddenly, he froze, for he felt he had lost the gift of speech. He wanted to throw himself between the old man and the still unsuspecting waitress, but found he could not move a finger.

It was all Hottabych’s doing. To prevent Volka from interfering in something he considered a matter of honour, he had lightly pinched his ear lobe between the first two fingers of his left hand and had thus condemned the boy to silence and immobility.

“How did you reply to the order my young master gave you?” he repeated.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” the waitress answered politely. “It was not an order, it was a request, and I went to fulfil it. And, in the second place, it’s customary to speak politely to strangers. All I can say is that I’m surprised you don’t know such a thing, though every cultured person should.”

“Don’t tell me you want to teach me manners!” Hottabych shouted. “On your knees, or I’ll turn you to dust!”

“Shame on you!” the cashier said. She was the only witness of the disgraceful scene, for there was no one besides Volka and Hottabych in the cafe. “How can you be so rude? And especially a person your age!”