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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.
HOTTABYCH'S SECOND SERVICE
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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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.
"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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 my young saviour, but I can do
nothing with your beard! 0 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."
And Hottabych replied, tearing at his clothes:
"0 most treasured of youths, 0 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, 0 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.
"0 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, 0 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, 0 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!"
"On your knees!" Hottabych roared. "And you get down on your knees,
too," he added, pointing to the cashier. "And you!" he shouted to another
waitress who was rushing to the rescue. "All three of you, get down on your
knees immediately, and beg my young friend's pardon!" At this, Hottabych
suddenly began to grow bigger and bigger until finally his head touched the
ceiling. It was a strange and terrible sight. The cashier and the second
waitress both fainted, but the first waitress only paled and said calmly,
"Shame on you! You should behave properly in public. And if you're a decent
sort of hypnotist..."
(She thought the old man was practising hypnotic tricks on them.)
"On your knees!" Hottabych bellowed. "Didn't you hear me- on your
knees?!"
In all his three thousand seven hundred and thirty-two years, this was
the first time ordinary mortals had refused to obey him. Hottabych felt the
boy would lose respect for him, and he was terribly anxious to have Volka
respect him and treasure his friendship.
"Down, 0 despicable one, if you value your life!"
"That's entirely out of the question," the brave waitress answered in a
trembling voice. "I can't understand why you're raising your voice. If you
think something's wrong, you can ask the cashier for the 'Complaints and
Suggestions Book.' Anyone can have it. And I'd like to add that the most
famous hypnotists and mesmerists visit our cafe, but none have ever behaved
like you. Aren't I right, Katya?" she said, turning to her friend who had by
then come to.
"How d'you like that!" Katya sniffled. "He wants us to get down on our
knees! It's outrageous!"
"Is that so?!" Hottabych yelled, losing his temper completely. "Is that
how insolent you are? Well, you have only yourselves to blame!"
With a practised gesture he yanked three hairs from his beard and let
go of Volka's ear to tear them to bits. To the old man's annoyance, Volka
regained his power of speech and the freedom to move his limbs at will the
moment he let go. The first thing he did was to grab Hottabych's hand and
cry:
"Oh, no, Hottabych! What do you want to do?"
"I want to punish them, 0 Volka. I'm ashamed to admit I was about to
strike them down with thunder. Something even the most worthless Ifrit can
do!"
Despite the gravity of the situation, Volka felt he had to stand up for
science.
"A clap of thunder cannot kill anyone," he said, thinking feverishly of
how to ward off the danger now hanging over the poor waitresses. "What kills
people is lightning-a charge of atmospheric electricity. Thunder is
harmless, it's only a sound."
"I wouldn't be so sure," Hottabych answered dryly, not wishing to lower
himself to an argument with such an inexperienced youth. "I don't think
you're right. But I've changed my mind. I won't strike them with thunder,
I'll change them into sparrows instead. Yes, that's the best thing to do."
"But why?"
"I must punish them, 0 Volka. Evil must always be punished."
"There's no reason to punish them! Do you hear!"
Volka tugged at Hottabych's hand, for the old man was about to tear the
hairs, and then it would really be too late. But the hairs which he had
knocked out of his hand miraculously returned to Hottabych's rough dark
palm.
"Just you try!" Volka shouted, seeing that the old man was about to
tear them anyway. "You can turn me into a sparrow, too! Or into a toad! Or
into anything you want! And you can consider our friendship dissolved as of
this minute. I don't like your ways, that's what. Go on, turn me into a
sparrow! And I hope the first cat that sees me gobbles me up!"
The old man was dismayed.
"Can't you see, I'm only doing this to prevent anyone from ever
approaching you without the great respect your endless merits call for?"
"No, I can't, and I don't want to!"
"Your every word is my command," Hottabych replied obediently,
sincerely puzzled at his saviour's strange softheartedness. "All right,
then. I won't turn them into sparrows."
"Nor into anything else!"
"Nor into anything else," the old man agreed meekly. However, he
gathered up the hairs with the obvious intention of tearing them to bits.
"Why do you want to tear them?" Volka cried. ; "I'll turn all the
goods, all the tables and all the equipment of this despicable shop into
dust!"
"You're mad!" Volka said, really angry by now. "Don't you know that's
government property, you dope!"
"And may I inquire, 0 diamond of my soul, what you mean by the strange
word 'dope'?" Hottabych asked.
Volka turned as red as a beet.
"Well you see. . . What I mean is.... Uh... . Well, anyway, 'dope' is a
sort of wise man."
Hottabych decided to remember the word, in order to use it in some
future conversation.
"But. .." he began.
"No buts! I'll count to three. If, after I say 'three,' you don't leave
this cafe alone, we'll call off our friendship and.. . I'm counting: one!
two! th...."
Volka did not finish. Shrugging sadly, the old man resumed his usual
appearance and muttered in a gloomy voice:
"All right, have it your way. Your good graces are more precious to me
than the pupils of my eyes."
"Well, there you are! Now all you have to do is to apologize and we can
leave."
"You should be forever grateful to your young saviour," Hottabych
shouted sternly to the waitresses, and Volka realized he would never be able
to pry an apology from the old man's lips.
"Please excuse us," he said. "And I wish you wouldn't be too angry at
this old man. He's a foreigner and doesn't know our ways yet. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye," the waitresses answered politely.
They were still rather upset and were both puzzled and frightened. But,
of course, they never dreamed how great a danger they had avoided. They
followed Hottabych and Volka out and watched the curious old man in an
ancient straw boater go down the street and disappear around the corner.
"I can't imagine where such naughty old men come from," Katya sighed
and wiped a tear.
"I suppose he's an old-time hypnotist," her brave friend said
compassionately. "He's probably a pensioner. Maybe he's just lonely."
"It's no fun to be old," the cashier joined in. "Come on back in,
girls."
The day's mischief was not to end there. As Hottabych and Volka reached
Gorky Street, they were blinded by an automobile's headlights. A large
ambulance, its screaming siren piercing the calm of twilight, seemed to be
rushing straight at them.
Hottabych changed colour and wailed loudly:
"Oh, woe is me, an old, unfortunate Genie! Jirjis, the mighty,
merciless king of all Shaitans and Ifrits, has not forgotten our ancient
feud and has sent his most awful monster after me!"
With these words he shot straight up from the pavement and, somewhere
on the level of the third or fourth storey, he took off his hat, waved it to
Volka, and slowly dissolved in the air, shouting:
"I'll find you again, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha! I kiss the dust beneath your
feet! Good-bye!"
To tell the truth, Volka was happy the old man had vanished. Other
things were pressing on his mind, and he felt faint at the thought of having
to return home.
Really now, try to imagine yourself in his place. He had left the house
in the morning to take a geography examination, then go to the movies and be
back for supper as expected, at six-thirty. Instead, he was returning after
nine, having failed his examination miserably, and, what was most horrible,
with shaved cheeks! And him not even thirteen yet! No matter how he racked
his brains, he could not find a solution. Thus, without having thought of
anything, he dragged his feet back to his quiet side street, now full of
long evening shadows.
He walked past the surprised janitor, entered the downstairs hall,
climbed a flight of stairs and, with a heavy sigh, pressed the bell. He
could hear someone's steps, and a strange voice asked through the door:
"Who's there?"
"It's me," Volka wanted to say, but suddenly remembered that, as of
this morning, he didn't live there any more.
Without answering the new tenant, he ran downstairs, marched by the
still puzzled janitor nonchalantly, reached the main street, and boarded a
trolley-bus. This certainly was his unlucky day: somewhere, most probably at
the movies, he had lost his change-purse, so he had to get out and walk
home.
Least of all, Volka wanted to meet a classmate, but most unbearable was
the thought that he would have to face Goga-the-Pill. Sly Fate had added
insult to injury: from this day forth they were both to live in the same
house.
Sure enough, no sooner did he enter the yard of his new house than an
unbearable, familiar voice shouted:
"Hi, nutty! Who was the old bird you left school with today?"
Goga-the-Pill ran up to Volka, winking insolently and pulling the most
insulting faces.
"He wasn't an old bird, he was a nice old man," Volka said peaceably,
as he didn't want to end the day with a fight. "He's ... he's my father's
friend from Tashkent."
"What if I je-ee-st go to your father and je-ee-st tell him about your
monkey-business at the exam!"
"Oh, Pill, you've gone crying for a beating too long!" Volka flared up,
imagining what an impression Pill's words would have on his parents. "Why,
you dirty tattle-tale! I'll push your face in!"
"Now, now, take it easy! A person can't even joke any more. You're
really a nut!"
Fearing Volka's fists, which, after several encounters, Goga chose to
avoid, he dashed headlong into the entrance of the house in which he was now
to live in dangerous closeness to Volka, whose new apartment was on the same
landing.
"Bald people! A country of bald people!" Goga shouted, sticking his
head out the front door. He showed Volka his tongue and, fearing the other's
righteous anger, flew up the stairs, two at a time, to his own door.
However, he was distracted by the mysterious behaviour of a huge
Siberian cat from apartment 43. The cat, named "Homych" in honour of the
popular football goalie, was standing on the stairs with his back arched and
hissing at nothing at all.
Goga's first thought was that the cat had gone mad. He reflected again
and was nearly certain that mad cats kept their tails between their legs,
while Homych's tail was sticking up straight, and in all other respects the
animal looked quite healthy.
Goga kicked it-just in case. Homych's yowl of pain, surprise and hurt
could be heard on the tenth floor. He jumped so high and gracefully that his
famous namesake could have been proud of such a leap.
Then something completely unexpected happened.
A good half yard from the wall, Homych yowled again and flew back in
the opposite direction, straight at Goga, just as though the unfortunate
animal had hit an invisible but very hard rubber wall. At the same time a
gasp could be heard nearby, as if someone had trodden very hard on another
person's foot. Courage had never been one of Goga's outstanding virtues, but
now he nearly died of fright.
"Oh-h-h!" he moaned softly, feeling all numb. Finally, tearing his
leaden feet from the stairs, he made a dash for his flat.
When the apartment door banged shut behind him, Hottabych became
visible. He was writhing with pain and examining his left leg, which had
been severely scratched by the cat's claws.
"Oh, cursed youth!" Hottabych groaned, after first making sure he was
alone on the stairs. "Oh, dog among boys!"
He fell silent and listened. Coming slowly up the stairs, lost in the
most grievous thoughts, was his young saviour, Volka Kostylkov.
The sly old man did not want the boy to see him and so dissolved
quickly in the air.
No matter how tempting it is to present Volka Kostylkov as a boy
without faults, the well-known truthfulness of the author of this tale won't
permit him to do so. And if envy is to be justly considered a fault, then,
to our great sorrow, we must admit that at times Volka experienced this
feeling keenly. During the last few days he had been very envious of Goga.
Long before their exams had begun, Goga boasted that his mother had promised
him an Alsatian puppy as soon as he was promoted to the 7th grade.
"Sure, you just wait!" Volka had sniffed at the time, feeling that he
was turning cold from envy.
In his heart of hearts, he had to admit that Pill's words certainly
resembled the truth. The whole class knew that Goga's mother never skimped
on anything for her little darling. She'd refuse herself the bare
necessities of life, but she'd get Goga a present that would leave them all
speechless.
"She'll certainly get me a puppy," Goga persisted. "If you want to
know, my mother never refuses me anything. If she promised, it means she'll
buy me one. If the worst comes to the worst, she'll borrow some money and
buy it. You don't know how highly they think of her at the factory!"
That was true. Goga's mother was greatly respected at the factory. She
was the senior draughtsman and was a modest, hard-working and cheerful
person. Everyone liked her, both her fellow-workers and her neighbours at
home. Even Goga was fond of her in his own way. And she really doted on
Goga. Anyway, if she had promised to buy him a puppy, it meant she would.
Perhaps, at this sorrowful moment, when Volka, crushed by all he had
gone through that day, was slowly mounting the stairs, Goga-the-Pill, the
very same Pill who deserved such happiness less than anyone else in their
class, in their school, or even in all of Moscow, was playing with a
magnificent, happy, furry puppy right next door, in apartment 37.
Such were Volka's thoughts. The only consideration that afforded him
some solace was that it was highly unlikely that Goga's mother, even though
she really and truly intended to buy her son a dog, had done so already.
After all, Goga had only taken his last exam several hours before, and it's
not so easy to buy a puppy. You don't walk into a pet shop and say, "Please
wrap up that puppy for me." You have to look long and hard for a good dog.
The very moment Volka's grandmother opened the door, he heard the
high-pitched, squeaky yelping of a puppy coming from behind the closed door
of apartment 37.
"So she bought it after all!" he thought bitterly. "An Alsatian.... or
maybe even a Boxer...."
It was more than he could bear, to imagine Goga the proud owner of a
real, live service dog. Volka slammed the door shut to blot out the
exciting, unimaginably wonderful, magical barking of a dog.
He also heard the frightened exclamation which escaped Goga's mother.
The puppy had probably bitten him. But even this could not console our young
hero.
Volka's father had not yet returned, as he was staying late at a
meeting. His mother had apparently called for him at the factory after her
evening classes.
Despite all his efforts to appear calm and happy, Volka looked so
gloomy that his grandmother decided to give him supper first and then start
asking him questions.
"Well, how are things, Volka dear?" she asked hesitantly, when her only
grandchild had made quick work of his supper.
"Uh, you see.. ." he said vaguely, pulling off his polo shirt and
heading towards his room.
His grandmother followed him with a sorrowful and kindly gaze that was
full of silent sympathy. There was no need to ask him any questions.
Everything was all too clear.
Volka sighed and got undressed. Then he stretched out under the clean
cool sheet. Still, he was restless.
On the night table near his bed lay a large, thick volume in a
brightly-coloured dust-cover. Volka's heart skipped a beat. Yes, that was
it, the longed-for astronomy book! On the frontispiece in a large familiar
hand were the words:
"To Vladimir Kostylkov, the Highly Educated 7th-Grade Student and
Acting Member of the Astronomy Club of the Moscow Planetarium, from his
Loving Grandma."
What a funny inscription! Grandma always invented something funny. But
why didn't it make Volka smile? Oh, why didn't it! And imagine, he wasn't at
all happy to have finally received such a fascinating book, the one he had
wished for for so long. Grief was eating out his heart. He felt a great
weight on his chest.... It was unbearable!
"Grandma!" he shouted, turning away from the book. "Grandma, would you
come here a minute?"
"Well, what do you want, mischief-maker?" his grandmother answered,
pretending to be angry, but really pleased that she'd have a chance to talk
to him before he went to sleep. "Why, the Sandman can't even cope with you,
you astronomer! You night owl!"
"Grandma," Volka whispered fervently, "close the door and come sit on
my bed. I have to tell you something terribly important."
"Perhaps we'd better put off such an important conversation till
morning," his grandmother answered, though she was consumed with curiosity
as to what it was all about.
"No, right now. This very minute. I ... Grandma, I wasn't promoted, I
mean, I wasn't yet. I didn't pass the exam."
"Did you fail?" his grandmother gasped.
"No, I didn't fail. I didn't pass, but I didn't fail, either. I started
to tell them what the ancients thought about India, the horizon, and all
kinds of things. Everything I said was right. But I just couldn't tell them
about the scientific point of view. I began to feel very bad and Varvara
Stepanovna said I should come back after I had had a good rest."
Even now, he could not bring himself to talk about Hottabych, not even
to his grandma. Anyway, she'd never believe him and would think he was
really ill.
"At first, I didn't want to say anything. I wanted to tell you after I
took the exam again, but I felt ashamed. D'you understand?"
"What's there to understand! A person's conscience is a great thing.
There's nothing worse than doing something that's against your conscience.
Now go to sleep, my dear astronomer!"
"You can take the book back meanwhile," Volka suggested in a trembling
voice.
"Nonsense! And where would I put it? Let's consider that I've given it
to you for safe-keeping for the time being. Go to sleep now, will you?"
"Yes," Volka answered. A load had fallen from his chest. "And I promise
you, upon my word of honour, that I'll get an 'A' in geography. D'you
believe me?"
"Certainly, I do. Now go to sleep and get strong. What about Father and
Mother? Shall I tell them, or will you tell them yourself?"
"You'd better tell them."
"Well, good night." Grandma kissed him good night, turned off the
light, and left the room.
For some while after, Volka lay in the darkness, holding his breath,
waiting to hear his grandma tell his mother and father the sad news.
However, he fell asleep before they came home.
Before an hour passed, however, he was suddenly awakened by the ringing
of the telephone in the hall.
His father answered the phone:
"Hello. Yes. Who? Good evening, Varvara Stepanovna?... I'm fine, thank
you. And you? ... Volka? He's asleep.... I think he's quite well. He had a
very big supper... . Yes, I know. He told us.... I'm terribly surprised
myself.... Yes, that's probably the only answer.. ,. Certainly, he should
rest a while, if you have no objections.... Thank you very much.... Varvara
Stepanovna sends you her regards," his father said to his mother. "She
wanted to know how Volka is. She said not to worry, because they think very
highly of him, and she suggests he have a good rest."
Volka strained his ears listening to what his parents were talking
about, but unable to make anything out, he fell asleep. This time he slept
no longer than fifteen minutes. The telephone rang again.
"Yes, speaking," he heard his father's muffled voice. "Yes.... Good
evening.... What?... No, he's not here.... Yes, he's at home.... Certainly
he's at home.... That's quite all right.... Good-bye."
"Who was it?" Volka's mother called from the kitchen. "It was Zhenya
Bogorad's father. He sounded very worried. Zhenya's not home yet. He wanted
to know whether he was here and if Volka was at home."
"In my time," Grandma said, "only hussars came home this late, but when
a child...."
Half an hour later the ringing of the telephone interrupted Volka's
sleep for the third time that troubled night. It was Zhenya's mother. He had
still not returned. She wanted them to ask Volka if he knew where he was.
"Volka!" his father called, opening the door. "Zhenya's mother wants to
know where you saw him last." "At the movies this evening." "And after the
movie?" "I didn't see him after that." "Did he say where he was going
afterwards?" "No."
For a long, long time after that, Volka waited for the grown-ups to
stop talking about Zhenya's disappearance (he himself was not the least bit
worried, since he was sure Zhenya had gone to the circus in the recreation
park to celebrate), but he fell asleep again before they did. This time till
morning.
Soon there was a soft splash in the corner. Then the patter of wet bare
feet could be heard. Footprints appeared and quickly dried on the floor.
Someone invisible was silently pacing the room, humming a plaintive Eastern
melody.
The footprints headed towards the table where an alarm clock was
ticking away. There was the sound of lips smacking together with pleasure.
Then the alarm clock floated into the air, and for a while it hung suspended
between the ceiling and the floor. Then it returned to the table and the
footprints headed towards the aquarium. Once again there was a splash. Then
all was quiet.
Late that night it began to rain. The raindrops pattered on the window,
they rustled the leaves of the trees and gurgled in the drain-pipes. At
times the rain would die down, and then one could hear the large drops
falling into the rain barrel below with a loud, ringing splash. Then, as if
having gathered its. strength, the rain would again pour down in torrents.
Towards morning, when the sky was nearly clear of clouds, someone
tapped Volka lightly on the shoulder. He was sound asleep and did not waken.
Then, whoever it was who had tried to awaken him, sighed sadly, mumbled, and
shuffled towards the high stand with Volka's aquarium. There was a faint
splash. Once again a sleepy quiet fell on the room.
Goga's mother had not bought him a dog after all. She had not had the
time to, and later on she never got him one, for after the fantastic events
of that terrible evening, both Goga and his mother lost all interest in
Man's oldest and truest friend.
But Volka had clearly heard a dog barking m apartment 37. Could he have
been mistaken?
No, he was not mistaken.
And yet, there had been no dog in apartment 37 that evening. If you
want to know, not so much as a dog's paw entered their house after that
evening.
Truly, Volka had no reason to be envious of Goga. There was nothing to
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.
HOTTABYCH'S SECOND SERVICE
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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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.
"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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 my young saviour, but I can do
nothing with your beard! 0 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."
And Hottabych replied, tearing at his clothes:
"0 most treasured of youths, 0 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, 0 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.
"0 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, 0 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, 0 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!"
"On your knees!" Hottabych roared. "And you get down on your knees,
too," he added, pointing to the cashier. "And you!" he shouted to another
waitress who was rushing to the rescue. "All three of you, get down on your
knees immediately, and beg my young friend's pardon!" At this, Hottabych
suddenly began to grow bigger and bigger until finally his head touched the
ceiling. It was a strange and terrible sight. The cashier and the second
waitress both fainted, but the first waitress only paled and said calmly,
"Shame on you! You should behave properly in public. And if you're a decent
sort of hypnotist..."
(She thought the old man was practising hypnotic tricks on them.)
"On your knees!" Hottabych bellowed. "Didn't you hear me- on your
knees?!"
In all his three thousand seven hundred and thirty-two years, this was
the first time ordinary mortals had refused to obey him. Hottabych felt the
boy would lose respect for him, and he was terribly anxious to have Volka
respect him and treasure his friendship.
"Down, 0 despicable one, if you value your life!"
"That's entirely out of the question," the brave waitress answered in a
trembling voice. "I can't understand why you're raising your voice. If you
think something's wrong, you can ask the cashier for the 'Complaints and
Suggestions Book.' Anyone can have it. And I'd like to add that the most
famous hypnotists and mesmerists visit our cafe, but none have ever behaved
like you. Aren't I right, Katya?" she said, turning to her friend who had by
then come to.
"How d'you like that!" Katya sniffled. "He wants us to get down on our
knees! It's outrageous!"
"Is that so?!" Hottabych yelled, losing his temper completely. "Is that
how insolent you are? Well, you have only yourselves to blame!"
With a practised gesture he yanked three hairs from his beard and let
go of Volka's ear to tear them to bits. To the old man's annoyance, Volka
regained his power of speech and the freedom to move his limbs at will the
moment he let go. The first thing he did was to grab Hottabych's hand and
cry:
"Oh, no, Hottabych! What do you want to do?"
"I want to punish them, 0 Volka. I'm ashamed to admit I was about to
strike them down with thunder. Something even the most worthless Ifrit can
do!"
Despite the gravity of the situation, Volka felt he had to stand up for
science.
"A clap of thunder cannot kill anyone," he said, thinking feverishly of
how to ward off the danger now hanging over the poor waitresses. "What kills
people is lightning-a charge of atmospheric electricity. Thunder is
harmless, it's only a sound."
"I wouldn't be so sure," Hottabych answered dryly, not wishing to lower
himself to an argument with such an inexperienced youth. "I don't think
you're right. But I've changed my mind. I won't strike them with thunder,
I'll change them into sparrows instead. Yes, that's the best thing to do."
"But why?"
"I must punish them, 0 Volka. Evil must always be punished."
"There's no reason to punish them! Do you hear!"
Volka tugged at Hottabych's hand, for the old man was about to tear the
hairs, and then it would really be too late. But the hairs which he had
knocked out of his hand miraculously returned to Hottabych's rough dark
palm.
"Just you try!" Volka shouted, seeing that the old man was about to
tear them anyway. "You can turn me into a sparrow, too! Or into a toad! Or
into anything you want! And you can consider our friendship dissolved as of
this minute. I don't like your ways, that's what. Go on, turn me into a
sparrow! And I hope the first cat that sees me gobbles me up!"
The old man was dismayed.
"Can't you see, I'm only doing this to prevent anyone from ever
approaching you without the great respect your endless merits call for?"
"No, I can't, and I don't want to!"
"Your every word is my command," Hottabych replied obediently,
sincerely puzzled at his saviour's strange softheartedness. "All right,
then. I won't turn them into sparrows."
"Nor into anything else!"
"Nor into anything else," the old man agreed meekly. However, he
gathered up the hairs with the obvious intention of tearing them to bits.
"Why do you want to tear them?" Volka cried. ; "I'll turn all the
goods, all the tables and all the equipment of this despicable shop into
dust!"
"You're mad!" Volka said, really angry by now. "Don't you know that's
government property, you dope!"
"And may I inquire, 0 diamond of my soul, what you mean by the strange
word 'dope'?" Hottabych asked.
Volka turned as red as a beet.
"Well you see. . . What I mean is.... Uh... . Well, anyway, 'dope' is a
sort of wise man."
Hottabych decided to remember the word, in order to use it in some
future conversation.
"But. .." he began.
"No buts! I'll count to three. If, after I say 'three,' you don't leave
this cafe alone, we'll call off our friendship and.. . I'm counting: one!
two! th...."
Volka did not finish. Shrugging sadly, the old man resumed his usual
appearance and muttered in a gloomy voice:
"All right, have it your way. Your good graces are more precious to me
than the pupils of my eyes."
"Well, there you are! Now all you have to do is to apologize and we can
leave."
"You should be forever grateful to your young saviour," Hottabych
shouted sternly to the waitresses, and Volka realized he would never be able
to pry an apology from the old man's lips.
"Please excuse us," he said. "And I wish you wouldn't be too angry at
this old man. He's a foreigner and doesn't know our ways yet. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye," the waitresses answered politely.
They were still rather upset and were both puzzled and frightened. But,
of course, they never dreamed how great a danger they had avoided. They
followed Hottabych and Volka out and watched the curious old man in an
ancient straw boater go down the street and disappear around the corner.
"I can't imagine where such naughty old men come from," Katya sighed
and wiped a tear.
"I suppose he's an old-time hypnotist," her brave friend said
compassionately. "He's probably a pensioner. Maybe he's just lonely."
"It's no fun to be old," the cashier joined in. "Come on back in,
girls."
The day's mischief was not to end there. As Hottabych and Volka reached
Gorky Street, they were blinded by an automobile's headlights. A large
ambulance, its screaming siren piercing the calm of twilight, seemed to be
rushing straight at them.
Hottabych changed colour and wailed loudly:
"Oh, woe is me, an old, unfortunate Genie! Jirjis, the mighty,
merciless king of all Shaitans and Ifrits, has not forgotten our ancient
feud and has sent his most awful monster after me!"
With these words he shot straight up from the pavement and, somewhere
on the level of the third or fourth storey, he took off his hat, waved it to
Volka, and slowly dissolved in the air, shouting:
"I'll find you again, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha! I kiss the dust beneath your
feet! Good-bye!"
To tell the truth, Volka was happy the old man had vanished. Other
things were pressing on his mind, and he felt faint at the thought of having
to return home.
Really now, try to imagine yourself in his place. He had left the house
in the morning to take a geography examination, then go to the movies and be
back for supper as expected, at six-thirty. Instead, he was returning after
nine, having failed his examination miserably, and, what was most horrible,
with shaved cheeks! And him not even thirteen yet! No matter how he racked
his brains, he could not find a solution. Thus, without having thought of
anything, he dragged his feet back to his quiet side street, now full of
long evening shadows.
He walked past the surprised janitor, entered the downstairs hall,
climbed a flight of stairs and, with a heavy sigh, pressed the bell. He
could hear someone's steps, and a strange voice asked through the door:
"Who's there?"
"It's me," Volka wanted to say, but suddenly remembered that, as of
this morning, he didn't live there any more.
Without answering the new tenant, he ran downstairs, marched by the
still puzzled janitor nonchalantly, reached the main street, and boarded a
trolley-bus. This certainly was his unlucky day: somewhere, most probably at
the movies, he had lost his change-purse, so he had to get out and walk
home.
Least of all, Volka wanted to meet a classmate, but most unbearable was
the thought that he would have to face Goga-the-Pill. Sly Fate had added
insult to injury: from this day forth they were both to live in the same
house.
Sure enough, no sooner did he enter the yard of his new house than an
unbearable, familiar voice shouted:
"Hi, nutty! Who was the old bird you left school with today?"
Goga-the-Pill ran up to Volka, winking insolently and pulling the most
insulting faces.
"He wasn't an old bird, he was a nice old man," Volka said peaceably,
as he didn't want to end the day with a fight. "He's ... he's my father's
friend from Tashkent."
"What if I je-ee-st go to your father and je-ee-st tell him about your
monkey-business at the exam!"
"Oh, Pill, you've gone crying for a beating too long!" Volka flared up,
imagining what an impression Pill's words would have on his parents. "Why,
you dirty tattle-tale! I'll push your face in!"
"Now, now, take it easy! A person can't even joke any more. You're
really a nut!"
Fearing Volka's fists, which, after several encounters, Goga chose to
avoid, he dashed headlong into the entrance of the house in which he was now
to live in dangerous closeness to Volka, whose new apartment was on the same
landing.
"Bald people! A country of bald people!" Goga shouted, sticking his
head out the front door. He showed Volka his tongue and, fearing the other's
righteous anger, flew up the stairs, two at a time, to his own door.
However, he was distracted by the mysterious behaviour of a huge
Siberian cat from apartment 43. The cat, named "Homych" in honour of the
popular football goalie, was standing on the stairs with his back arched and
hissing at nothing at all.
Goga's first thought was that the cat had gone mad. He reflected again
and was nearly certain that mad cats kept their tails between their legs,
while Homych's tail was sticking up straight, and in all other respects the
animal looked quite healthy.
Goga kicked it-just in case. Homych's yowl of pain, surprise and hurt
could be heard on the tenth floor. He jumped so high and gracefully that his
famous namesake could have been proud of such a leap.
Then something completely unexpected happened.
A good half yard from the wall, Homych yowled again and flew back in
the opposite direction, straight at Goga, just as though the unfortunate
animal had hit an invisible but very hard rubber wall. At the same time a
gasp could be heard nearby, as if someone had trodden very hard on another
person's foot. Courage had never been one of Goga's outstanding virtues, but
now he nearly died of fright.
"Oh-h-h!" he moaned softly, feeling all numb. Finally, tearing his
leaden feet from the stairs, he made a dash for his flat.
When the apartment door banged shut behind him, Hottabych became
visible. He was writhing with pain and examining his left leg, which had
been severely scratched by the cat's claws.
"Oh, cursed youth!" Hottabych groaned, after first making sure he was
alone on the stairs. "Oh, dog among boys!"
He fell silent and listened. Coming slowly up the stairs, lost in the
most grievous thoughts, was his young saviour, Volka Kostylkov.
The sly old man did not want the boy to see him and so dissolved
quickly in the air.
No matter how tempting it is to present Volka Kostylkov as a boy
without faults, the well-known truthfulness of the author of this tale won't
permit him to do so. And if envy is to be justly considered a fault, then,
to our great sorrow, we must admit that at times Volka experienced this
feeling keenly. During the last few days he had been very envious of Goga.
Long before their exams had begun, Goga boasted that his mother had promised
him an Alsatian puppy as soon as he was promoted to the 7th grade.
"Sure, you just wait!" Volka had sniffed at the time, feeling that he
was turning cold from envy.
In his heart of hearts, he had to admit that Pill's words certainly
resembled the truth. The whole class knew that Goga's mother never skimped
on anything for her little darling. She'd refuse herself the bare
necessities of life, but she'd get Goga a present that would leave them all
speechless.
"She'll certainly get me a puppy," Goga persisted. "If you want to
know, my mother never refuses me anything. If she promised, it means she'll
buy me one. If the worst comes to the worst, she'll borrow some money and
buy it. You don't know how highly they think of her at the factory!"
That was true. Goga's mother was greatly respected at the factory. She
was the senior draughtsman and was a modest, hard-working and cheerful
person. Everyone liked her, both her fellow-workers and her neighbours at
home. Even Goga was fond of her in his own way. And she really doted on
Goga. Anyway, if she had promised to buy him a puppy, it meant she would.
Perhaps, at this sorrowful moment, when Volka, crushed by all he had
gone through that day, was slowly mounting the stairs, Goga-the-Pill, the
very same Pill who deserved such happiness less than anyone else in their
class, in their school, or even in all of Moscow, was playing with a
magnificent, happy, furry puppy right next door, in apartment 37.
Such were Volka's thoughts. The only consideration that afforded him
some solace was that it was highly unlikely that Goga's mother, even though
she really and truly intended to buy her son a dog, had done so already.
After all, Goga had only taken his last exam several hours before, and it's
not so easy to buy a puppy. You don't walk into a pet shop and say, "Please
wrap up that puppy for me." You have to look long and hard for a good dog.
The very moment Volka's grandmother opened the door, he heard the
high-pitched, squeaky yelping of a puppy coming from behind the closed door
of apartment 37.
"So she bought it after all!" he thought bitterly. "An Alsatian.... or
maybe even a Boxer...."
It was more than he could bear, to imagine Goga the proud owner of a
real, live service dog. Volka slammed the door shut to blot out the
exciting, unimaginably wonderful, magical barking of a dog.
He also heard the frightened exclamation which escaped Goga's mother.
The puppy had probably bitten him. But even this could not console our young
hero.
Volka's father had not yet returned, as he was staying late at a
meeting. His mother had apparently called for him at the factory after her
evening classes.
Despite all his efforts to appear calm and happy, Volka looked so
gloomy that his grandmother decided to give him supper first and then start
asking him questions.
"Well, how are things, Volka dear?" she asked hesitantly, when her only
grandchild had made quick work of his supper.
"Uh, you see.. ." he said vaguely, pulling off his polo shirt and
heading towards his room.
His grandmother followed him with a sorrowful and kindly gaze that was
full of silent sympathy. There was no need to ask him any questions.
Everything was all too clear.
Volka sighed and got undressed. Then he stretched out under the clean
cool sheet. Still, he was restless.
On the night table near his bed lay a large, thick volume in a
brightly-coloured dust-cover. Volka's heart skipped a beat. Yes, that was
it, the longed-for astronomy book! On the frontispiece in a large familiar
hand were the words:
"To Vladimir Kostylkov, the Highly Educated 7th-Grade Student and
Acting Member of the Astronomy Club of the Moscow Planetarium, from his
Loving Grandma."
What a funny inscription! Grandma always invented something funny. But
why didn't it make Volka smile? Oh, why didn't it! And imagine, he wasn't at
all happy to have finally received such a fascinating book, the one he had
wished for for so long. Grief was eating out his heart. He felt a great
weight on his chest.... It was unbearable!
"Grandma!" he shouted, turning away from the book. "Grandma, would you
come here a minute?"
"Well, what do you want, mischief-maker?" his grandmother answered,
pretending to be angry, but really pleased that she'd have a chance to talk
to him before he went to sleep. "Why, the Sandman can't even cope with you,
you astronomer! You night owl!"
"Grandma," Volka whispered fervently, "close the door and come sit on
my bed. I have to tell you something terribly important."
"Perhaps we'd better put off such an important conversation till
morning," his grandmother answered, though she was consumed with curiosity
as to what it was all about.
"No, right now. This very minute. I ... Grandma, I wasn't promoted, I
mean, I wasn't yet. I didn't pass the exam."
"Did you fail?" his grandmother gasped.
"No, I didn't fail. I didn't pass, but I didn't fail, either. I started
to tell them what the ancients thought about India, the horizon, and all
kinds of things. Everything I said was right. But I just couldn't tell them
about the scientific point of view. I began to feel very bad and Varvara
Stepanovna said I should come back after I had had a good rest."
Even now, he could not bring himself to talk about Hottabych, not even
to his grandma. Anyway, she'd never believe him and would think he was
really ill.
"At first, I didn't want to say anything. I wanted to tell you after I
took the exam again, but I felt ashamed. D'you understand?"
"What's there to understand! A person's conscience is a great thing.
There's nothing worse than doing something that's against your conscience.
Now go to sleep, my dear astronomer!"
"You can take the book back meanwhile," Volka suggested in a trembling
voice.
"Nonsense! And where would I put it? Let's consider that I've given it
to you for safe-keeping for the time being. Go to sleep now, will you?"
"Yes," Volka answered. A load had fallen from his chest. "And I promise
you, upon my word of honour, that I'll get an 'A' in geography. D'you
believe me?"
"Certainly, I do. Now go to sleep and get strong. What about Father and
Mother? Shall I tell them, or will you tell them yourself?"
"You'd better tell them."
"Well, good night." Grandma kissed him good night, turned off the
light, and left the room.
For some while after, Volka lay in the darkness, holding his breath,
waiting to hear his grandma tell his mother and father the sad news.
However, he fell asleep before they came home.
Before an hour passed, however, he was suddenly awakened by the ringing
of the telephone in the hall.
His father answered the phone:
"Hello. Yes. Who? Good evening, Varvara Stepanovna?... I'm fine, thank
you. And you? ... Volka? He's asleep.... I think he's quite well. He had a
very big supper... . Yes, I know. He told us.... I'm terribly surprised
myself.... Yes, that's probably the only answer.. ,. Certainly, he should
rest a while, if you have no objections.... Thank you very much.... Varvara
Stepanovna sends you her regards," his father said to his mother. "She
wanted to know how Volka is. She said not to worry, because they think very
highly of him, and she suggests he have a good rest."
Volka strained his ears listening to what his parents were talking
about, but unable to make anything out, he fell asleep. This time he slept
no longer than fifteen minutes. The telephone rang again.
"Yes, speaking," he heard his father's muffled voice. "Yes.... Good
evening.... What?... No, he's not here.... Yes, he's at home.... Certainly
he's at home.... That's quite all right.... Good-bye."
"Who was it?" Volka's mother called from the kitchen. "It was Zhenya
Bogorad's father. He sounded very worried. Zhenya's not home yet. He wanted
to know whether he was here and if Volka was at home."
"In my time," Grandma said, "only hussars came home this late, but when
a child...."
Half an hour later the ringing of the telephone interrupted Volka's
sleep for the third time that troubled night. It was Zhenya's mother. He had
still not returned. She wanted them to ask Volka if he knew where he was.
"Volka!" his father called, opening the door. "Zhenya's mother wants to
know where you saw him last." "At the movies this evening." "And after the
movie?" "I didn't see him after that." "Did he say where he was going
afterwards?" "No."
For a long, long time after that, Volka waited for the grown-ups to
stop talking about Zhenya's disappearance (he himself was not the least bit
worried, since he was sure Zhenya had gone to the circus in the recreation
park to celebrate), but he fell asleep again before they did. This time till
morning.
Soon there was a soft splash in the corner. Then the patter of wet bare
feet could be heard. Footprints appeared and quickly dried on the floor.
Someone invisible was silently pacing the room, humming a plaintive Eastern
melody.
The footprints headed towards the table where an alarm clock was
ticking away. There was the sound of lips smacking together with pleasure.
Then the alarm clock floated into the air, and for a while it hung suspended
between the ceiling and the floor. Then it returned to the table and the
footprints headed towards the aquarium. Once again there was a splash. Then
all was quiet.
Late that night it began to rain. The raindrops pattered on the window,
they rustled the leaves of the trees and gurgled in the drain-pipes. At
times the rain would die down, and then one could hear the large drops
falling into the rain barrel below with a loud, ringing splash. Then, as if
having gathered its. strength, the rain would again pour down in torrents.
Towards morning, when the sky was nearly clear of clouds, someone
tapped Volka lightly on the shoulder. He was sound asleep and did not waken.
Then, whoever it was who had tried to awaken him, sighed sadly, mumbled, and
shuffled towards the high stand with Volka's aquarium. There was a faint
splash. Once again a sleepy quiet fell on the room.
Goga's mother had not bought him a dog after all. She had not had the
time to, and later on she never got him one, for after the fantastic events
of that terrible evening, both Goga and his mother lost all interest in
Man's oldest and truest friend.
But Volka had clearly heard a dog barking m apartment 37. Could he have
been mistaken?
No, he was not mistaken.
And yet, there had been no dog in apartment 37 that evening. If you
want to know, not so much as a dog's paw entered their house after that
evening.
Truly, Volka had no reason to be envious of Goga. There was nothing to