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be envious of: it was Goga who had barked! It all began while he was washing
up for supper. He was very anxious to tell his mother a long and elaborate
story about how his classmate and neighbour, Volka Kostylkov, had made a
fool of himself at the examination that morning. And it was then that he
started barking. Goga didn't bark all the time-some words were real
words-but instead of very many other ones, he was surprised and horrified to
hear a genuine dog's bark issue from his mouth.
He wanted to say that Volka suddenly began to talk such nonsense at the
exam and that Varvara Stepanovna je-ee-st crashed her fist down on the table
and je-ee-st screamed, "What nonsense you're babbling, you fool! Why, you
hooligan, I'll leave you back another term for this!"
But this is what Goga said instead:
"And suddenly Volka je-ee-st began to bow-wow-wow ... and Varvara
Stepanovna je-ee-st crashed her bow-wow-wow!"
Goga was struck dumb with surprise. He was silent for a moment, then he
took a deep breath and tried to repeat the sentence. But instead of saying
the rude words, this little liar and tattle-tale wanted to ascribe to
Varvara Stepanovna, he began to bark again.
"Oh, Mummie!" he wailed. "Mummie dear!"
"What's the matter with you, darling?" his mother asked anxiously. "You
look terrible!"
"I wanted to say that bow-wow-wow.... Oh, Mummie, what's the matter?"
Goga had really turned blue from fright.
"Stop barking, dearest! Please stop, my darling, my sweet!"
"I'm not doing it on purpose," Goga whined. "I only wanted to say...."
And once again, instead of human speech, all he could do was to produce
an irritable bark.
"Darling! My pet, don't frighten me!" his poor mother pleaded, as the
tears ran down her kind face. "Don't bark! I beg you, don't bark!"
At this point Goga could think of nothing better to do than to become
angry at his mother. And since he was not used to choosing his words on such
occasions, he began barking so fiercely that someone shouted from the next
balcony:
"Tell your boy to stop teasing that dog! It's a shame! You've spoiled
your child beyond all reason!"
With the tears still pouring down her cheeks, Goga's mother rushed to
close the windows. Then she tried to feel Goga's forehead, but this only
brought on a new attack of angry barking.
She finally put a completely frightened Goga to bed, wrapped him up in
a heavy quilt, though it was a hot summer evening, and ran down to the
telephone booth to call an ambulance.
Since she should not tell them the truth, she was forced to say that
her son had a very high fever and was delirious.
Soon a doctor arrived. He was a stout, middle-aged man with a grey
moustache, many years of experience and an unruffled manner.
The first thing he did, naturally, was to feel Goga's forehead. He
discovered the boy had no fever at all. This made him angry, but he did not
show it, since the boy's mother looked so terribly grief-stricken. He sighed
and sat down on a chair by the bed. Then he asked Goga's mother to explain
why she had called an ambulance instead of her regular doctor.
She told him the truth.
The doctor shrugged. He asked her to repeat her story from the
beginning. Then he shrugged again, thinking that if this were really true,
she should have called a psychiatrist and not a general practitioner.
"Perhaps you think you are a dog?" he asked Goga, as if casually.
Goga shook his head.
"Well, that's something," the doctor thought. "At least it isn't a
mania when people imagine they're dogs."
Naturally, he did not say this aloud, so as not to frighten the patient
or his mother, but it was obvious that the doctor was feeling more cheerful.
"Stick out your tongue," he said.
Goga stuck out his tongue.
"It's a very normal-looking tongue. And now, young man, let me listen
to your heart. Ah, an excellent heart. His lungs are clear. And how is his
stomach?" . "His stomach's fine," his mother said.
"And has he been uh ... barking a long time?"
"For over two hours. I just don't know what to do."
"First of all, calm down. I don't see anything terrible yet. Now, young
man, won't you tell me how it all began?"
"Well, it all began from nothing," Goga complained in a small voice. "I
was just telling my mother how Volka Kostylkov .bow-wow-wow."
"You see, doctor?" his mother sobbed loudly. "It's terrible. Maybe he
needs some pills, or powders, or perhaps he needs a physic?"
The doctor frowned.
"Give me time to think, and I'll look through my books. It's a rare
case, a very rare case, indeed. Now, I want him to have a complete rest, no
getting off the bed, a light diet, just vegetables and milk products, no
coffee or cocoa, weak tea with milk, if desired. And by no means should he
go out."
"I couldn't drag him outside if I tried, he's so ashamed. .One of his
friends dropped in, and poor Goga barked so long and loud, I had a hard time
persuading the boy not to tell anyone about it. But don't you think he needs
a physic?"
"Well, a physic can't hurt him," the doctor said thoughtfully.
"And what about mustard plasters before he goes to bed?" she asked,
still sobbing.
"That's not bad, either. Mustard plasters are always helpful."
The doctor was about to pat Goga's head, but Pill, anticipating all the
bitter medicines he had prescribed, barked so viciously that the old doctor
jerked his hand away, frightened lest the unpleasant boy really bite him.
"By the way," he said, gaining control over himself, "why are all the
windows closed on such a hot day? The child needs fresh air."
Goga's mother reluctantly explained why she had closed the windows.
"Hm.... A rare case, a very rare case, indeed!" the doctor repeated.
Then he wrote out a prescription and left, promising to come back the next
day.
Morning dawned bright and beautiful.
At 6:30 a.m. Grandma opened the door softly, tiptoed to the window and
opened it wide. Cool, invigorating air rushed into the room. This was the
beginning of a cheerful, noisy, busy Moscow morning. But Volka would not
have awakened had not his blanket slipped off the bed.
The first thing he did was to feel the bristles on his chin. He
realized there was no way out. The situation was hopeless. There could be no
question of his going out to greet his parents looking as he did. He
snuggled under the blanket again and began to think of what to do.
"Volka! Come on, Volka! Get up!" he heard his father calling from the
dining room. He pretended to be asleep and did not answer. "I don't see how
anyone can sleep on a morning like this!"
Then he heard his grandmother say:
"Someone should make you take examinations, Alyosha, and then wake you
up at the crack of dawn!"
"Well, let him sleep then," his father grumbled. "But don't you worry,
he'll get up as soon as he's hungry."
Was it Volka who was supposed not to be hungry?! Why, he kept catching
himself thinking about an omlette and a chunk of bread more than about the
reddish bristle on his cheeks. But common sense triumphed over hunger, and
Volka remained in bed until his father had left for work and his mother had
gone shopping.
"Here goes," he decided, hearing the outside door click shut. "I'll
tell Grandma everything. We'll think of something together."
Volka stretched, yawned and headed toward the door. As he was passing
the aquarium, he glanced at it absently . .. and stopped dead in his tracks.
During the night, something had happened in this small, four-cornered glass
reservoir, a mysterious event which could in no way be explained from a
scientific point of view: yesterday, there were three fishes swimming around
inside, but this morning there were four. There was a new fish, a large, fat
goldfish which was waving its bright red fins solemnly. When a startled
Volka looked at it through the thick glass wall he was nearly certain the
fish winked at him slyly.
"Gosh!" he mumbled, forgetting his beard for the moment.
He stuck his hand into the water to catch the mysterious fish, and it
seemed that this was just what it was waiting for. The fish slapped its tail
against the water, jumped out of the aquarium and turned into Hottabych.
"Whew!" the old man said, shaking off the water and wiping his beard
with a magnificent towel embroidered with gold and silver roosters which had
appeared from thin air. "I've been waiting to offer my respects all morning,
but you wouldn't wake up and I didn't have the heart to waken you. So I had
to spend the night with these pretty fishes, 0 most happy Volka ibn
Alyosha!"
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself for making fun of me!" Volka said
angrily. "It's really a poor joke to call a boy with a beard happy!"
This wonderful morning Stepan Stepanych Pivoraki decided to combine two
joys at once. He decided to shave, while taking in the picturesque view of
the Moskva River. He moved the little table with his shaving things close to
the window and began to lather his cheeks as he hummed a merry tune. We'd
like to pause here and say a few words about our new acquaintance.
Pivoraki was a very talkative man, a trait which often made him, though
he was actually no fool and very well read, extremely tiresome, even to his
best friends.
On the whole, however, he was a nice person and a great master of his
trade-which was pattern-making.
When he had finished lathering his cheeks, Stepan Stepanych picked up
his razor, drew it back and forth over his palm, and then began to shave
with the greatest ease and skill. When he had finished shaving, he sprayed
some "Magnolia" cologne on his face and then began to wipe his razor clean.
Suddenly, an old man in a white suit and gold-embroidered, petal-pink
morocco slippers with queer turned-up toes appeared beside him.
"Are you a barber?" the old man asked a flabbergasted Stepan Stepanych
in a stern voice.
"No, I'm not a professional barber. However, on the other hand, I can
truthfully say I am a barber, because, while I am not actually a barber, I
am a match for any professional barber, for not a single barber can outdo
me. And do you know why? Because, while a professional barber...."
The old man interrupted the chattering Pivoraki rudely:
"Can you, 0 unnecessarily talkative barber, shave a young man well and
without cutting him once, although you are not even worthy of kissing the
dust beneath his feet?"
"As to the essence of your question, I would say...."
He was about to continue his speech, but here the old man silently
gathered up his shaving equipment, took Stepan Stepanych, who was still
going a mile a minute, by the scruff of his neck and, without further ado,
flew out the window with him, headed for parts unknown.
Soon they flew into a familiar room, where Volka Kostylkov sat sadly on
his bed, moaning every time he looked at himself and his bristly chin in the
mirror.
"Happiness and luck accompany you in all your undertakings, 0 my young
master!" Hottabych announced triumphantly, still holding on to the kicking
Stepan Stepanych. "I was about to despair of ever finding you a barber when
I suddenly came upon this unusually talkative man, and I brought him along
to this room beneath the blessed roof of your house. Here he is before you,
with everything necessary for shaving. And now," he said to Pivoraki who was
gaping at the bristly boy, "lay out your tools properly and shave this
honourable youth so that his cheeks become as smooth as those of a young
maiden."
Pivoraki stopped struggling. The razor glistened in his skilled hand
and a few minutes later Volka was excellently shaved.
"Now put away your tools," the old man said. "I'll fly over for you
again early tomorrow morning, and you'll shave this youth once more."
"I can't come tomorrow," Pivoraki objected in a tired voice. "I'm in
the morning shift tomorrow."
"That doesn't concern me in the least," Hottabych replied icily. A
heavy silence fell on the room. Suddenly, Stepan Stepanych had a bright
idea.
"Why don't you try a Tbilisi preparation? It's an excellent remedy."
"Is that some kind of a powder?" Volka interrupted. "Isn't that a
greyish powder? I heard about it, or read something about it...."
"Yes, that's it! A greyish powder!" Pivoraki cried happily. "It's made
in Georgia, a wonderful and sunny land. I personally am crazy about Georgia.
I've travelled back and forth across all the roads in the country during my
many vacations. Sukhumi, Tbilisi, Kutaisi... . There's no better place for a
rest! From the bottom of my heart and from my own experience, I highly
recommend that you visit.... Pardon me, I seem to have drifted off the
point. Anyway, getting back to the powder.... All you have to do is apply it
to your cheeks, and the heaviest beard disappears without a trace.
Naturally, it'll grow back again after a while."
"It won't grow back in my young friend's case," Hottabych interrupted.
"Are you positive?"
Hottabych assumed a haughty expression and said nothing. He considered
it beneath his dignity to take a lowly barber into his confidence.
A short minute later, an old man wearing an old-fashioned straw
-boater, a white linen suit and pink morocco slippers with turned-up toes
was seen in the locker room of a local bath-house in Tbilisi.
Without bothering to get undressed, he entered the steam room. The
smell of sulphur stung his nostrils, but this was to be expected, as these
were the famous Tbilisi sulphur baths. However, a person entering the
crowded, steam-filled room fully dressed could not but attract the attention
of the other patrons.
Curious eyes followed him as he slowly made his way towards a
bright-eyed attendant. He halted within a few steps of the attendant, whose
name was Vano, and began to remove his linen coat with an unhurried gesture.
"Genatsvale" (A friendly form of address (Georgian)., Vano said
affably, "you are supposed to. get undressed in the locker room. This is
where you wash."
The old man smirked. He had no intention of washing. It was just that
he felt a bit warm with his coat on.
"Come over here!" he said to Vano and fanned himself languidly with his
hat. "But hurry, if you value your life."
The attendant smiled pleasantly.
"Genatsvale, on such a lovely morning one values one's life more than
ever. What would you like, Grandfather?"
The old man addressed him in a stern voice:
"Tell me nothing but the truth, 0 bath attendant. Are these really the
very famous Tbilisi Baths, of which I've heard so much worthy of amazement?"
"Yes, they're the very same ones," Vano said with pride. "You can
travel all over the world, but you'll never find another bath-house like
this. I take it you're a stranger here."
The haughty old man let the question go unanswered.
"Well, if these are the very same baths I've been looking for, why
don't I see any of that truly magic salve which people who know and are
worthy of trust say removes human hair without a trace?"
"Ah, so that's what it's all about!" Vano cried happily. "You want some
'taro.' You should have said so right away."
"All right, if it's called 'taro,' then bring me some 'taro,' but hurry
if you...."
"I know, I know: if I value my life. I'm off!"
The experienced bath attendant had met many a queer character in his
life and he knew that the wisest thing to do was never to argue.
He returned with a clay bowl filled with something that looked like
ashes.
"Here," he said, panting heavily as he handed the old man the bowl. "No
place in the world will you find such a wonderful powder. You can take the
word of a bath-house attendant!"
The old man's face turned purple with rage.
"You're making a fool of me, 0 most despicable of all bath-house
attendants!" he said in a voice terrible in all its softness. "You promised
to bring me a wonderful salve, but like a marketplace crook, you want to
pass off an old dish of powder the colour of a sick mouse!"
The old man snorted so loudly that the entire contents of the bowl rose
in a cloud and settled on his hair, eyebrows, moustache and beard, but he
was too furious to bother shaking it off.
"You shouldn't be so angry, Genatsvale," the attendant laughed. "Just
add some water and you'll have the salve you longed for."
The old man realized he was shouting for nothing and became
embarrassed.
"It's hot," he mumbled in some confusion. "May this tiring heat be no
more!" and he added very softly: "and while my beard is wet, may my magic
powers remain in my fingers.... And so, may this tiresome heat be no more!"
"I'm sorry, but that's something I've no power over," Vano said and
shrugged.
"But I have," Hottabych (naturally, it was he) muttered through
clenched teeth and snapped the fingers of his left hand.
The attendant gasped. And no wonder: he felt an icy chill coming from
where the strange old man stood; the wet floor became covered with a thin
sheet of ice and clouds of hot steam from the entire room were drawn towards
the cold pole which had formed over Hottabych's head; there, they turned
into rain clouds and came down in a drizzle over his head.
"This is much better," he said with pleasure. "Nothing is so refreshing
as a cool shower on a hot day."
After enjoying this both unnatural and natural shower for a few
minutes, he snapped the fingers of his right hand. The current of cold air
was cut off immediately, while the ice melted. Once again clouds of hot
steam filled the room.
"And so," Hottabych said, pleased at the impression these unaccountable
changes of temperature had made on the other patrons, "and so, let us return
to the 'taro.' I am inclined to believe that the powder will really turn
into the salve I have come in search of if one adds water to it. I want you
to bring me a barrel of this marvellous potion, for I do not have much time
at my disposal."
"A barrel?!"
"Even two."
"Oh, Genatsvdle! One bowl-full will be more than enough for even the
heaviest beard!"
"All right then, bring me five bowls of it."
"In a second!" Vano said, disappearing into an adjoining room. He
reappeared in a moment with a heavy bottle stopped with a cork. "There are
at least twenty portions here. Good luck."
"Beware, 0 bath attendant, for I'd not wish anyone to be in your boots
if you have tricked me!"
"How could you even think of such a thing," Vano protested. "Would I
ever dare trick such a respectable old man as you! Why, I would never...."
He stood there and gaped, for the amazing, quarrelsome old man had
suddenly disappeared into thin air.
Exactly a minute later, a bald old man without eyebrows, a moustache or
a beard and dressed in a straw boater, a linen suit and pink slippers with
turned-up toes touched Volka Kostylkov's shoulder as the boy was sadly
devouring a huge piece of jam tart.
Volka turned round, looked at him, and nearly choked on the cake in
amazement.
"Dear Hottabych, what's happened to you?"
Hottabych looked at himself in the wall mirror and forced a laugh. "I
suppose it would be exaggerating things to say I look handsome. You may
consider me punished for lack of trust and you won't be wrong. I snorted
when I was kind-heartedly offered a bowl of 'taro' powder in that far-off
bath-house. The powder settled on my eyebrows, moustache and beard. The rain
which I called forth in that justly famous place turned the powder into
mush, and the rain I was caught in on the way back to Moscow washed off the
mush together with my beard, moustache, and eyebrows. But don't worry about
my appearance. Let's better worry about yours." Then he sprinkled some
powder into a plate.
When Volka's beard and moustache were disposed of, Hottabych snapped
the fingers of his left hand and once again assumed his previous appearance.
Now he looked at himself in the mirror with true satisfaction. He
stroked his recovered beard and twisted the ends of his moustache jauntily.
Then he passed his hand over his hair, smoothed his eyebrows and sighed with
relief.
"Excellent ! Now both our faces are back to normal again."
As concerns Stepan Stepanych Pivoraki, who will never again appear on
the pages of our extremely truthful story, it is a known fact that he became
a changed man after the events described above. Why, it seems only yesterday
that his friends, who suffered so acutely from his talkativeness, named
every chatter-box "Pivoraki." However, he has now become so sparing with his
words, weighing each one carefully beforehand, that it is a joy to talk to
him and listen to him speak at meetings.
Just think what an effect this incident had on him!
Zhenya Bogorad's parents were up all night. They telephoned all their
friends and, taking a cab, made the rounds of every militia station in the
city, and of every hospital. They even stopped off at the criminal court,
but all to no avail. Zhenya had disappeared without a trace.
The following morning the principal of the school called in Zhenya's
classmates, including Volka, and questioned each one.
Volka told the principal about meeting Zhenya at the movies the night
before, though he quite naturally said nothing about his beard. The boy who
sat next to Zhenya in class recalled that he had seen him on Pushkin Street
close to six o'clock the previous evening, that he was in high spirits and
was rushing to the movies. Other children said the same, but this was of no
help.
Suddenly, one boy remembered Zhenya said he wanted to go swimming too.
In half an hour's time every volunteer life guard in the city was
searching for Zhenya Bogorad's body. The river was dragged within the city
limits, but yielded nothing. Divers traversed the entire river-bed, paying
special attention to holes and depressions, but they, too, found nothing.
The fiery blaze of sunset was slowly sinking beyond the river, a faint
breeze carried the low sounds of a siren from the recreation park, a signal
that the second act of the evening's play at the summer theatre was about to
begin, but the dark silhouettes of the river boats could still be seen on
the water. The search was still on.
This cool, quiet evening Volka was too restless to sit at home.
Terrifying thoughts of Zhenya's fate gave him no peace. He decided to go
back to school, perhaps there was some news there. As he was leaving the
school yard, Hottabych joined him silently at the gate, appearing from
nowhere at all. The old man saw Volka was upset, yet he was too tactful to
annoy him with his questions. Thus, they continued on in silence, each lost
in his own thoughts. Soon they were walking down the wide granite embankment
of the Moskva River.
"What kind of strange-headed people are standing in those frail
vessels?" the old man asked, pointing to the river boats.
"Those are divers," Volka answered sadly.
"Peace be with you, 0 noble diver," Hottabych said grandly to one of
the divers climbing out of a boat near the bank. "What are you searching for
on the bottom of this beautiful river?"
"A boy drowned," the diver answered and hurried up the steps of the
first-aid station.
"I have no more questions, 0 highly respected diver," Hottabych said to
his disappearing back.
Then he returned to Volka, bowed low and exclaimed:
"I kiss the ground beneath your feet, 0 most noble student of Secondary
School No. 245!"
"Huh?" Volka started, shaken from his unhappy thoughts.
"Am I correct in understanding that this diver is searching for the
youth who has the great honour of being your classmate?"
Volka nodded silently and heaved a great sigh.
"Is he round of face, sturdy of body, snub of nose and sporting a
haircut unbecoming to a boy?"
"Yes, that was Zhenya. He had a haircut like a real dandy," Volka said
and sighed heavily again.
"Did we see him in the movies? Was it he who shouted something to you
and made you sad, because he'd tell everyone you had such a beard?"
"Yes. How did you know what I was thinking then?"
"Because that's what you mumbled when you tried to conceal your
honourable and most beautiful face from him," the old man continued. "Don't
fear, he won't tell!"
"That's not true!" Volka said angrily. "That doesn't bother me at all.
On the contrary, I'm sad because Zhenya drowned."
Hottabych smirked triumphantly.
"He didn't drown!"
"What do you mean? How d'you know he didn't drown?"
"Certainly I am the one to know," Hottabych said. "I lay in wait for
him near the first row in the dark room and I said to myself in great anger,
'No, you will tell nothing, 0 Zhenya! Nothing which is unpleasant to your
great, wise friend Volka ibn Alyosha, for never again will you see anyone
who will believe you or will be interested in such news!' That's what I said
to myself as I tossed him far away to the East, right to where the edge of
the Earth meets the edge of the Heavens and where, I assume, he has already
been sold into slavery. There he can tell whomever he wants to about your
beard."
"What do you mean-slavery?! Sell Zhenya Bogorad into slavery?!" a
shaken Volka asked.
The old man saw that something had gone wrong again, an his face became
very sour.
"It's very simple. It's quite usual. Just like they always sell people
into slavery," he mumbled, rubbing his hands together nervously and avoiding
Volka's eyes. "That's so he won't babble for nothing, 0 most pleasant dope
in the world."
The old man was very pleased at having been able to put the new word he
had learned from Volka the night before into the conversation. But his young
saviour was so upset by the terrible news that he really didn't pay
attention to having been called dope for nothing.
"That's horrible!" Volka cried, holding his head. "Hottabych, d'you
realize what you've done?"
"Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab always realizes what he does!"
"Like hell you do! For no reason at all, you're ready to turn good
people into sparrows or sell them into slavery. Bring Zhenya back here
immediately!"
"No!" Hottabych shook his head. "Don't demand the impossible of me!"
"But do you find it possible to sell people into slavery? Golly, you
can't even imagine what I'll do if you don't bring Zhenya right back!"
To tell the truth, Volka himself had no idea what he could do -s to
save Zhenya from the clutches of unknown slave dealers, but he would have
thought of something. He would have written to some ministry or other. But
which ministry? And what was he to say?
By now the readers of this book know Volka well enough to agree that
he's no cry-baby. But this was too much, even for Volka. Yes, our
courageous, fearless Volka sat down on the edge of the first bench he came
upon and broke into tears of helpless rage.
The old man asked anxiously:
"What is the meaning of this crying that has overcome you? Answer me,
and do not tear my heart apart, 0 my young saviour."
But Volka, regarding the old man with hate-filled eyes;
pushed him away as he leaned over him with concern.
Hottabych looked at Volka closely, sucked his lips and said
thoughtfully:
"I'm really amazed. No matter what I do, it just doesn't seem to make
you happy. Though I'm trying my best to please you, all my efforts are in
vain. The most powerful potentates of the East and West would often appeal
to my magic powers, and there was not a single one among them who was not
grateful to me later and did not glorify my name in words and thoughts. And
look at me now! I'm trying to understand what's wrong, but I cannot. Is it
senility? Ah, I'm getting old!"
"Oh no, no, Hottabych, you still look very young," Volka said through
his tears.
And true enough, the old man was well preserved for being close on four
thousand years of age. No one would have ever given him more than seventy or
seventy-five. Any of our readers would have looked much older at his age.
"You flatter me," Hottabych smiled and added: "No, it is not within my
powers to return your friend Zhenya immediately."
Volka's face turned ashen from grief.
"But," the old man continued significantly, "if his absence upsets you
so, we can fly over and fetch him."
"Fly?! So far away? How?"
"How? Not on a bird, of course," Hottabych answered craftily.
"Obviously, on a magic carpet, 0 greatest dope in the world."
This time Volka noticed that he had been called such an unflattering
name. "Whom did you call a dope?!" he flared.
"Why, you, of course, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha, for you are wise beyond your
years," Hottabych replied, being extremely pleased that he was again able to
use his new word so successfully in a conversation.
Volka was about to feel offended. However, he blushed as he recalled
that he had no one to blame but himself. Avoiding the old man's honest eyes,
he asked him never again to call him a dope, for he was not worthy of such a
great honour.
"I praise your modesty, 0 priceless Volka ibn Alyosha," Hottabych said
with great respect.
"When can we start?" Volka asked, still unable to overcome his
embarrassment.
"Right now, if you wish."
"Then let's be off!" However, he added anxiously, "I don't know what to
do about Father and Mother. They'll worry if I fly away without telling
them, but if I tell them, they won't let me go."
"Let it worry you no more," the old man said. "I'll cast a spell on
them and they won't think of you once during our absence."
"You don't know my parents!"
"And you don't know Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab!"
In one corner of the magic carpet the pile was rather worn, most
probably due to moths. On the whole, however, it was wonderfully preserved
and the fringes were as good as new. Volka thought he had seen exactly the
same kind of carpet before, but he could not recall whether it was in
Zhenya's house or in the Teachers' Room at school.
They took off from the river bank without a single witness to their
departure. Hottabych took Volka's hand and stood him in the middle of the
carpet beside himself; he then yanked three hairs from his beard, blew on
them, and whispered something, rolling his eyes skyward. The carpet
trembled. One after the other, all four tassled corners rose. Then the edges
buckled and rose, but the middle remained on the grass, weighted down by the
two heavy passengers. After fluttering a bit, the carpet became motionless.
The old man bustled about in confusion.
"Excuse me, 0 kind Volka. There's been a mistake somewheres. I'll fix
everything in a minute."
Hottabych was quiet as he did some complex figuring on his fingers. He
apparently got the right answer, because he beamed. Then he yanked six more
hairs from his beard, tore off half of one hair and threw it away, and then
blew on the others, saying the magic words and rolling his eyes skyward. Now
the carpet ' straightened out and became as flat and as hard as a staircase
landing. It soared upwards, carrying off a smiling Hottabych and Volka, who
was dizzy from exhilaration, or the height, or from both together.
The carpet rose over the highest trees, over the highest houses, over
the highest factory stacks and sailed over the city that was blinking with a
million lights below. They could hear muffled voices, automobile horns,
people singing in row boats on the river and the far-off music of a band.
The city was plunged in twilight, but here, high up in the air, they
could still see the crimson ball of the sun sinking slowly beyond the
horizon.
"I wonder how high up we are now?" Volka said thoughtfully.
"About 600 or 700 elbows," Hottabych answered, still figuring out
something on his fingers.
Meanwhile, the carpet settled on its course, though still gaining
height. Hottabych sat down majestically, crossing his legs and holding on to
his hat. Volka tried to sit down cross-legged, as Hottabych had, but found
neither pleasure nor satisfaction from this position. He shut his eyes tight
to overcome his awful dizziness and sat down on the edge of the carpet,
dangling his legs over the side. Though this was more comfortable, the wind
tore at his legs mercilessly; it blew them off to a side and they were
constantly at a sharp angle to his body. He soon became convinced that this
method was no good either, and finally settled down with his legs stretched
out before him on the carpet.
In no time, he felt chilled to the bone. He thought sadly of his warm
jacket that was so far below in his closet at home, hundreds of miles away.
As a last resort, he decided to warm up the way cabbies used to do in
the olden days, long before he was born. His father once showed him how it
was done when they were out ice skating. Volka began to slap his shoulders
and sides in sweeping motions, and in the twinkling of an eye he slipped off
the carpet and into nothingness.
Needless to say, if he had not grabbed on to the fringes, our story
would have ended with this unusual air accident.
Hottabych did not even notice what had happened to his young friend. He
was sitting with his back to Volka, his legs tucked under him in Eastern
fashion and lost in thought. He was trying to recall how to break spells he
himself had cast.
"Hottabych!" Volka howled, feeling that he wouldn't last long, as he
hung on to the fringes. "Help, Hottabych!"
"0 woe is me!" the old man cried, seeing that Volka was flying through
the air. "Shame on my old grey head! I would have killed myself if you had
perished!"
Muttering and calling himself all kinds of names for being so careless,
he dragged a petrified Volka back up on the carpet, sat him down and put his
arm around the boy, firmly resolved not to let go of him until they landed.
"It would be g-g-good t-t-to h-h-have s-s-something w-w-warm to wear!"
Volka said wistfully through chattering teeth.
"S-s-sure, 0 gracious Volka ibn Alyosha!" Hottabych answered and
covered him with a quilted robe that appeared from nowhere.
It became dark. Now it was especially uncomfortable on the magic
carpet. Volka suggested that they rise another 500 elbows or so. "Then we'll
see the sun again."
Hottabych greatly doubted that they could see the sun before morning,
since it had already set, but he didn't argue.
You can imagine how surprised he was and how his esteem for Volka grew,
when, as they rose higher, they really saw the sun again! For a second time
its crimson edge was barely touching the black line of the far horizon.
"Oh, Volka, if only I had not promised myself faithfully to obey your
modest request, nothing would prevent me from calling you the greatest dope
in the world," Hottabych cried ecstatically. However, when he saw how
displeased Volka was, he quickly added, "but since you forbade it, I shall
limit myself to expressing my amazement at the unusual maturity of your
mind. I "promised never to call you a dope and I won't."
"And don't call anyone else by that name, either."
"All right, 0 Volka," Hottabych agreed obediently.
"Do you swear?"
"Yes, I do!"
"Now don't forget," Volka said in a tone of satisfaction that puzzled
Hottabych.
Far below them forests and fields, rivers and lakes, villages and
cities sailed by, adorned in softly glowing pearly strings of electric
lights. A sea of clouds with hard round edges appeared;
they darkened and disappeared in the blackness below, but the carpet
kept on flying farther and farther away to the south-east, closer and closer
to the strange land where the young prisoner
Zhenya Bogorad was probably already suffering at the hands of fierce
and terrible slave traders.
"To think that poor Zhenya's breaking his back at hard labour," Volka
said bitterly after a long silence.
A guilty Hottabych only grunted in reply.
"He's all alone in a strange land, without any friends or relatives.
The poor fellow's probably groaning," Volka continued sadly.
Hottabych again said nothing.
If only our travellers could have heard what was happening that very
minute, thousands of miles away to the East!
Far away in the East, Zhenya Bogorad was really groaning.
"Oh no, I can't!" Zhenya moaned, "Oh no, no more!"
In order to describe the circumstances under which he uttered these
heart-rending words, we shall have to part with our travellers for a while
and relate the experiences of Zhenya Bogorad, a pioneer group leader of 6B
(7B, as of the day before) of Moscow Secondary School No. 245.
ZHENYA BOGORAD'S ADVENTURES FAR AWAY IN THE EAST
As soon as Zhenya Bogorad, seated in the first row of the Saturn
Theatre, turned around to catch a glimpse of the bearded boy before the
movie began, everything suddenly went dark, he heard an ear-splitting
whistle, and instead of the hard floor beneath his feet, he felt he was
standing in tall grass.
When his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he was greatly amazed to
discover that he was in a dense forest filled with the aroma of strange
flowers. Lianas hung from huge trees, the likes of which he had never seen
before. Yes, these were definitely lianas. It was hot and humid, much hotter
than it had been in the projection room.
Holding his arms out, Zhenya took several cautious steps and nearly
trod on a ... snake! The snake hissed like a broken bicycle pump, flashed
its small green eyes and disappeared in the bushes.
"Golly! Where am I?!" Zhenya wondered, not daring to move. "It's just
like the jungles. It's just like a dream. Why, sure," he thought happily,
"sure, this is all a dream! I'm sleeping and this is a dream."
At one time or another everyone has had a dream in which he knows quite
clearly that he is dreaming. It's fun to have such a dream: no dangers
frighten you, and you always succeed in the most hazardous feats. Most
important, you know the time will come when you'll awake safe and sound in
your own bed.
However, when Zhenya attempted to make his way through the prickly
bushes, he really got scratched. Since it's most unpleasant to be hurt, even
though you are quite positive everything is just a dream, Zhenya decided to
doze off till morning.
When he awoke, he saw the hot, pale blue sky shining brightly through
the openings in the crowns of the trees. Zhenya was overjoyed to find his
wonderful dream still continuing!
The first thing he saw when he found his way to the edge of the forest
were four elephants carrying huge logs in their trunks. A thin, dark-skinned
man, naked to the waist and wearing a white turban, was riding the lead
elephant.
In the distance, smoke curled from the rooftops of a small village. Now
Zhenya knew what he was dreaming about. He was dreaming about India! This
was really wonderful. Yet, still more wonderful things awaited him.
"Who are you?" the man on the elephant asked Zhenya dryly. "An
Englishman? A Portuguese? An American?"
"No," Zhenya answered in broken English. "I Russian, Rusi." Just to
make sure, he pointed to himself and said, "Hindi Rusi bhai, bhai."
At this, the man on the elephant beamed and nodded so vigorously that
it was a wonder his turban didn't fall off his head.
Then he made his elephant kneel and he took Zhenya up beside him. The
whole cavalcade, swaying majestically, continued towards the village.
On the way they met several children.
The man shouted something to them; they gaped and stared at the
real-life Soviet boy. Then they dashed back to the village, shouting and
skipping. By the time Zhenya Bogorad, a 7B pupil of Moscow Secondary School
No. 245, arrived in the village riding the head elephant, its entire
population had poured out into the narrow single street.
What a welcome it was!
Zhenya was helped down respectfully, he was led into a room and offered
food, which was more than welcome, since he found that even in his sleep he
was hungry. Imagine, what a real dream he was having! Then people approached
him and shook his hand, then everybody sang a long and plaintive Indian
song. Zhenya sang along with them as best he could and everyone was terribly
pleased. Then Zhenya sang the democratic youth song and some boys and girls
joined in, while the rest sang along as best they could. Then everyone began
coaxing a young Hindu youth and he finally gave in and began another song,
which Zhenya recognized as "Katyusha." He joined in enthusiastically, while
everyone else clapped in rhythm to the song. Then they shook his hand again
and everyone shouted Hindi Rusi bhai, bhai!
When things settled down a bit, the whole village began a conversation
with Zhenya. However, since neither he nor the villagers knew very much
English, it took a long time for them to discover whether Zhenya was in a
hurry to get to Delhi and the Soviet Embassy. But Zhenya was in no special
rush. Why should a person hurry when he's having such an interesting and
pleasant dream?
In no time, delegates from a neighbouring village arrived to lead the
honoured guest to their village. In this village and in the three others he
visited during that wonderful day the scene which had taken place in the
first village was repeated again and again.
He spent the night in the fourth village. At day-break delegates from a
fifth village were awaiting him. This was when Zhenya began to moan a bit.
Just try not to moan when hundreds of friendly arms toss you up to the
accompaniment of: Hindi Rusi bhai, bhai and overflowing emotions make them
toss you as high as the clouds.
Luckily for him, they soon heard the rumbling of a small truck which
was going past the closest railway station and which was to take Zhenya
along.
Smiling villagers surrounded the perspiring boy, they shook his hands
and embraced him. Two girls came running up with a large wreath of flowers
and put it around his neck. The young guest blushed. Three boys and their
schoolteacher brought him a gift of a large bunch of bananas. On behalf of
all the villagers, the teacher wished Zhenya a happy journey. The children
asked him to say hello to the children of Moscow from the children of India
and they also asked for his autograph, just as if he had been a famous
person. Naturally, he could not refuse.
Clutching the bunch of bananas with both hands and bowing to all sides,
Zhenya was being helped onto the running board when suddenly he ...
disappeared. He simply vanished!
This in itself was worthy of great amazement, but more amazing still
was the fact that not a single villager was surprised at this. They were not
surprised, because they immediately and completely forgot all about Zhenya.
But we, dear reader, should by no means be surprised that they forgot about
him so quickly.
There is nothing more dangerous than falling asleep on a magic carpet
without having first taken the necessary precautions.
Tired from all their experiences and lulled to sleep by the complete
quiet that surrounded them, Hottabych and Volka did not notice how they
dozed off under the warm quilted robes that had appeared from nowheres.
Volka had curled up cosily and slept a dreamless sleep, but Hottabych,
who had fallen asleep sitting up uncomfortably, with his chest pressed
against his sharp old knees, had a terrible dream.
He dreamt that the servants of Sulayman, son of David, led by the
Vizier Asaf ibn Barakhiya, were once again about to imprison him in a clay
vessel and that they had stuffed him halfway in already, but that he was
struggling desperately, pressing his chest against the mouth of the bottle.
He dreamt that his wonderful young friend and saviour was about to be
stuffed into another vessel and then neither of them would ever be rescued,
while poor Zhenya would have to suffer the slave's lot to the end of his
days, with no one to save him. Worst of all, someone had a firm hold on
Hottabych's arms so that he was unable to yank a single hair from his beard
and therefore was unable to use his magic powers to save himself and Volka.
Realizing that it would be too late to do anything in a few more moments,
up for supper. He was very anxious to tell his mother a long and elaborate
story about how his classmate and neighbour, Volka Kostylkov, had made a
fool of himself at the examination that morning. And it was then that he
started barking. Goga didn't bark all the time-some words were real
words-but instead of very many other ones, he was surprised and horrified to
hear a genuine dog's bark issue from his mouth.
He wanted to say that Volka suddenly began to talk such nonsense at the
exam and that Varvara Stepanovna je-ee-st crashed her fist down on the table
and je-ee-st screamed, "What nonsense you're babbling, you fool! Why, you
hooligan, I'll leave you back another term for this!"
But this is what Goga said instead:
"And suddenly Volka je-ee-st began to bow-wow-wow ... and Varvara
Stepanovna je-ee-st crashed her bow-wow-wow!"
Goga was struck dumb with surprise. He was silent for a moment, then he
took a deep breath and tried to repeat the sentence. But instead of saying
the rude words, this little liar and tattle-tale wanted to ascribe to
Varvara Stepanovna, he began to bark again.
"Oh, Mummie!" he wailed. "Mummie dear!"
"What's the matter with you, darling?" his mother asked anxiously. "You
look terrible!"
"I wanted to say that bow-wow-wow.... Oh, Mummie, what's the matter?"
Goga had really turned blue from fright.
"Stop barking, dearest! Please stop, my darling, my sweet!"
"I'm not doing it on purpose," Goga whined. "I only wanted to say...."
And once again, instead of human speech, all he could do was to produce
an irritable bark.
"Darling! My pet, don't frighten me!" his poor mother pleaded, as the
tears ran down her kind face. "Don't bark! I beg you, don't bark!"
At this point Goga could think of nothing better to do than to become
angry at his mother. And since he was not used to choosing his words on such
occasions, he began barking so fiercely that someone shouted from the next
balcony:
"Tell your boy to stop teasing that dog! It's a shame! You've spoiled
your child beyond all reason!"
With the tears still pouring down her cheeks, Goga's mother rushed to
close the windows. Then she tried to feel Goga's forehead, but this only
brought on a new attack of angry barking.
She finally put a completely frightened Goga to bed, wrapped him up in
a heavy quilt, though it was a hot summer evening, and ran down to the
telephone booth to call an ambulance.
Since she should not tell them the truth, she was forced to say that
her son had a very high fever and was delirious.
Soon a doctor arrived. He was a stout, middle-aged man with a grey
moustache, many years of experience and an unruffled manner.
The first thing he did, naturally, was to feel Goga's forehead. He
discovered the boy had no fever at all. This made him angry, but he did not
show it, since the boy's mother looked so terribly grief-stricken. He sighed
and sat down on a chair by the bed. Then he asked Goga's mother to explain
why she had called an ambulance instead of her regular doctor.
She told him the truth.
The doctor shrugged. He asked her to repeat her story from the
beginning. Then he shrugged again, thinking that if this were really true,
she should have called a psychiatrist and not a general practitioner.
"Perhaps you think you are a dog?" he asked Goga, as if casually.
Goga shook his head.
"Well, that's something," the doctor thought. "At least it isn't a
mania when people imagine they're dogs."
Naturally, he did not say this aloud, so as not to frighten the patient
or his mother, but it was obvious that the doctor was feeling more cheerful.
"Stick out your tongue," he said.
Goga stuck out his tongue.
"It's a very normal-looking tongue. And now, young man, let me listen
to your heart. Ah, an excellent heart. His lungs are clear. And how is his
stomach?" . "His stomach's fine," his mother said.
"And has he been uh ... barking a long time?"
"For over two hours. I just don't know what to do."
"First of all, calm down. I don't see anything terrible yet. Now, young
man, won't you tell me how it all began?"
"Well, it all began from nothing," Goga complained in a small voice. "I
was just telling my mother how Volka Kostylkov .bow-wow-wow."
"You see, doctor?" his mother sobbed loudly. "It's terrible. Maybe he
needs some pills, or powders, or perhaps he needs a physic?"
The doctor frowned.
"Give me time to think, and I'll look through my books. It's a rare
case, a very rare case, indeed. Now, I want him to have a complete rest, no
getting off the bed, a light diet, just vegetables and milk products, no
coffee or cocoa, weak tea with milk, if desired. And by no means should he
go out."
"I couldn't drag him outside if I tried, he's so ashamed. .One of his
friends dropped in, and poor Goga barked so long and loud, I had a hard time
persuading the boy not to tell anyone about it. But don't you think he needs
a physic?"
"Well, a physic can't hurt him," the doctor said thoughtfully.
"And what about mustard plasters before he goes to bed?" she asked,
still sobbing.
"That's not bad, either. Mustard plasters are always helpful."
The doctor was about to pat Goga's head, but Pill, anticipating all the
bitter medicines he had prescribed, barked so viciously that the old doctor
jerked his hand away, frightened lest the unpleasant boy really bite him.
"By the way," he said, gaining control over himself, "why are all the
windows closed on such a hot day? The child needs fresh air."
Goga's mother reluctantly explained why she had closed the windows.
"Hm.... A rare case, a very rare case, indeed!" the doctor repeated.
Then he wrote out a prescription and left, promising to come back the next
day.
Morning dawned bright and beautiful.
At 6:30 a.m. Grandma opened the door softly, tiptoed to the window and
opened it wide. Cool, invigorating air rushed into the room. This was the
beginning of a cheerful, noisy, busy Moscow morning. But Volka would not
have awakened had not his blanket slipped off the bed.
The first thing he did was to feel the bristles on his chin. He
realized there was no way out. The situation was hopeless. There could be no
question of his going out to greet his parents looking as he did. He
snuggled under the blanket again and began to think of what to do.
"Volka! Come on, Volka! Get up!" he heard his father calling from the
dining room. He pretended to be asleep and did not answer. "I don't see how
anyone can sleep on a morning like this!"
Then he heard his grandmother say:
"Someone should make you take examinations, Alyosha, and then wake you
up at the crack of dawn!"
"Well, let him sleep then," his father grumbled. "But don't you worry,
he'll get up as soon as he's hungry."
Was it Volka who was supposed not to be hungry?! Why, he kept catching
himself thinking about an omlette and a chunk of bread more than about the
reddish bristle on his cheeks. But common sense triumphed over hunger, and
Volka remained in bed until his father had left for work and his mother had
gone shopping.
"Here goes," he decided, hearing the outside door click shut. "I'll
tell Grandma everything. We'll think of something together."
Volka stretched, yawned and headed toward the door. As he was passing
the aquarium, he glanced at it absently . .. and stopped dead in his tracks.
During the night, something had happened in this small, four-cornered glass
reservoir, a mysterious event which could in no way be explained from a
scientific point of view: yesterday, there were three fishes swimming around
inside, but this morning there were four. There was a new fish, a large, fat
goldfish which was waving its bright red fins solemnly. When a startled
Volka looked at it through the thick glass wall he was nearly certain the
fish winked at him slyly.
"Gosh!" he mumbled, forgetting his beard for the moment.
He stuck his hand into the water to catch the mysterious fish, and it
seemed that this was just what it was waiting for. The fish slapped its tail
against the water, jumped out of the aquarium and turned into Hottabych.
"Whew!" the old man said, shaking off the water and wiping his beard
with a magnificent towel embroidered with gold and silver roosters which had
appeared from thin air. "I've been waiting to offer my respects all morning,
but you wouldn't wake up and I didn't have the heart to waken you. So I had
to spend the night with these pretty fishes, 0 most happy Volka ibn
Alyosha!"
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself for making fun of me!" Volka said
angrily. "It's really a poor joke to call a boy with a beard happy!"
This wonderful morning Stepan Stepanych Pivoraki decided to combine two
joys at once. He decided to shave, while taking in the picturesque view of
the Moskva River. He moved the little table with his shaving things close to
the window and began to lather his cheeks as he hummed a merry tune. We'd
like to pause here and say a few words about our new acquaintance.
Pivoraki was a very talkative man, a trait which often made him, though
he was actually no fool and very well read, extremely tiresome, even to his
best friends.
On the whole, however, he was a nice person and a great master of his
trade-which was pattern-making.
When he had finished lathering his cheeks, Stepan Stepanych picked up
his razor, drew it back and forth over his palm, and then began to shave
with the greatest ease and skill. When he had finished shaving, he sprayed
some "Magnolia" cologne on his face and then began to wipe his razor clean.
Suddenly, an old man in a white suit and gold-embroidered, petal-pink
morocco slippers with queer turned-up toes appeared beside him.
"Are you a barber?" the old man asked a flabbergasted Stepan Stepanych
in a stern voice.
"No, I'm not a professional barber. However, on the other hand, I can
truthfully say I am a barber, because, while I am not actually a barber, I
am a match for any professional barber, for not a single barber can outdo
me. And do you know why? Because, while a professional barber...."
The old man interrupted the chattering Pivoraki rudely:
"Can you, 0 unnecessarily talkative barber, shave a young man well and
without cutting him once, although you are not even worthy of kissing the
dust beneath his feet?"
"As to the essence of your question, I would say...."
He was about to continue his speech, but here the old man silently
gathered up his shaving equipment, took Stepan Stepanych, who was still
going a mile a minute, by the scruff of his neck and, without further ado,
flew out the window with him, headed for parts unknown.
Soon they flew into a familiar room, where Volka Kostylkov sat sadly on
his bed, moaning every time he looked at himself and his bristly chin in the
mirror.
"Happiness and luck accompany you in all your undertakings, 0 my young
master!" Hottabych announced triumphantly, still holding on to the kicking
Stepan Stepanych. "I was about to despair of ever finding you a barber when
I suddenly came upon this unusually talkative man, and I brought him along
to this room beneath the blessed roof of your house. Here he is before you,
with everything necessary for shaving. And now," he said to Pivoraki who was
gaping at the bristly boy, "lay out your tools properly and shave this
honourable youth so that his cheeks become as smooth as those of a young
maiden."
Pivoraki stopped struggling. The razor glistened in his skilled hand
and a few minutes later Volka was excellently shaved.
"Now put away your tools," the old man said. "I'll fly over for you
again early tomorrow morning, and you'll shave this youth once more."
"I can't come tomorrow," Pivoraki objected in a tired voice. "I'm in
the morning shift tomorrow."
"That doesn't concern me in the least," Hottabych replied icily. A
heavy silence fell on the room. Suddenly, Stepan Stepanych had a bright
idea.
"Why don't you try a Tbilisi preparation? It's an excellent remedy."
"Is that some kind of a powder?" Volka interrupted. "Isn't that a
greyish powder? I heard about it, or read something about it...."
"Yes, that's it! A greyish powder!" Pivoraki cried happily. "It's made
in Georgia, a wonderful and sunny land. I personally am crazy about Georgia.
I've travelled back and forth across all the roads in the country during my
many vacations. Sukhumi, Tbilisi, Kutaisi... . There's no better place for a
rest! From the bottom of my heart and from my own experience, I highly
recommend that you visit.... Pardon me, I seem to have drifted off the
point. Anyway, getting back to the powder.... All you have to do is apply it
to your cheeks, and the heaviest beard disappears without a trace.
Naturally, it'll grow back again after a while."
"It won't grow back in my young friend's case," Hottabych interrupted.
"Are you positive?"
Hottabych assumed a haughty expression and said nothing. He considered
it beneath his dignity to take a lowly barber into his confidence.
A short minute later, an old man wearing an old-fashioned straw
-boater, a white linen suit and pink morocco slippers with turned-up toes
was seen in the locker room of a local bath-house in Tbilisi.
Without bothering to get undressed, he entered the steam room. The
smell of sulphur stung his nostrils, but this was to be expected, as these
were the famous Tbilisi sulphur baths. However, a person entering the
crowded, steam-filled room fully dressed could not but attract the attention
of the other patrons.
Curious eyes followed him as he slowly made his way towards a
bright-eyed attendant. He halted within a few steps of the attendant, whose
name was Vano, and began to remove his linen coat with an unhurried gesture.
"Genatsvale" (A friendly form of address (Georgian)., Vano said
affably, "you are supposed to. get undressed in the locker room. This is
where you wash."
The old man smirked. He had no intention of washing. It was just that
he felt a bit warm with his coat on.
"Come over here!" he said to Vano and fanned himself languidly with his
hat. "But hurry, if you value your life."
The attendant smiled pleasantly.
"Genatsvale, on such a lovely morning one values one's life more than
ever. What would you like, Grandfather?"
The old man addressed him in a stern voice:
"Tell me nothing but the truth, 0 bath attendant. Are these really the
very famous Tbilisi Baths, of which I've heard so much worthy of amazement?"
"Yes, they're the very same ones," Vano said with pride. "You can
travel all over the world, but you'll never find another bath-house like
this. I take it you're a stranger here."
The haughty old man let the question go unanswered.
"Well, if these are the very same baths I've been looking for, why
don't I see any of that truly magic salve which people who know and are
worthy of trust say removes human hair without a trace?"
"Ah, so that's what it's all about!" Vano cried happily. "You want some
'taro.' You should have said so right away."
"All right, if it's called 'taro,' then bring me some 'taro,' but hurry
if you...."
"I know, I know: if I value my life. I'm off!"
The experienced bath attendant had met many a queer character in his
life and he knew that the wisest thing to do was never to argue.
He returned with a clay bowl filled with something that looked like
ashes.
"Here," he said, panting heavily as he handed the old man the bowl. "No
place in the world will you find such a wonderful powder. You can take the
word of a bath-house attendant!"
The old man's face turned purple with rage.
"You're making a fool of me, 0 most despicable of all bath-house
attendants!" he said in a voice terrible in all its softness. "You promised
to bring me a wonderful salve, but like a marketplace crook, you want to
pass off an old dish of powder the colour of a sick mouse!"
The old man snorted so loudly that the entire contents of the bowl rose
in a cloud and settled on his hair, eyebrows, moustache and beard, but he
was too furious to bother shaking it off.
"You shouldn't be so angry, Genatsvale," the attendant laughed. "Just
add some water and you'll have the salve you longed for."
The old man realized he was shouting for nothing and became
embarrassed.
"It's hot," he mumbled in some confusion. "May this tiring heat be no
more!" and he added very softly: "and while my beard is wet, may my magic
powers remain in my fingers.... And so, may this tiresome heat be no more!"
"I'm sorry, but that's something I've no power over," Vano said and
shrugged.
"But I have," Hottabych (naturally, it was he) muttered through
clenched teeth and snapped the fingers of his left hand.
The attendant gasped. And no wonder: he felt an icy chill coming from
where the strange old man stood; the wet floor became covered with a thin
sheet of ice and clouds of hot steam from the entire room were drawn towards
the cold pole which had formed over Hottabych's head; there, they turned
into rain clouds and came down in a drizzle over his head.
"This is much better," he said with pleasure. "Nothing is so refreshing
as a cool shower on a hot day."
After enjoying this both unnatural and natural shower for a few
minutes, he snapped the fingers of his right hand. The current of cold air
was cut off immediately, while the ice melted. Once again clouds of hot
steam filled the room.
"And so," Hottabych said, pleased at the impression these unaccountable
changes of temperature had made on the other patrons, "and so, let us return
to the 'taro.' I am inclined to believe that the powder will really turn
into the salve I have come in search of if one adds water to it. I want you
to bring me a barrel of this marvellous potion, for I do not have much time
at my disposal."
"A barrel?!"
"Even two."
"Oh, Genatsvdle! One bowl-full will be more than enough for even the
heaviest beard!"
"All right then, bring me five bowls of it."
"In a second!" Vano said, disappearing into an adjoining room. He
reappeared in a moment with a heavy bottle stopped with a cork. "There are
at least twenty portions here. Good luck."
"Beware, 0 bath attendant, for I'd not wish anyone to be in your boots
if you have tricked me!"
"How could you even think of such a thing," Vano protested. "Would I
ever dare trick such a respectable old man as you! Why, I would never...."
He stood there and gaped, for the amazing, quarrelsome old man had
suddenly disappeared into thin air.
Exactly a minute later, a bald old man without eyebrows, a moustache or
a beard and dressed in a straw boater, a linen suit and pink slippers with
turned-up toes touched Volka Kostylkov's shoulder as the boy was sadly
devouring a huge piece of jam tart.
Volka turned round, looked at him, and nearly choked on the cake in
amazement.
"Dear Hottabych, what's happened to you?"
Hottabych looked at himself in the wall mirror and forced a laugh. "I
suppose it would be exaggerating things to say I look handsome. You may
consider me punished for lack of trust and you won't be wrong. I snorted
when I was kind-heartedly offered a bowl of 'taro' powder in that far-off
bath-house. The powder settled on my eyebrows, moustache and beard. The rain
which I called forth in that justly famous place turned the powder into
mush, and the rain I was caught in on the way back to Moscow washed off the
mush together with my beard, moustache, and eyebrows. But don't worry about
my appearance. Let's better worry about yours." Then he sprinkled some
powder into a plate.
When Volka's beard and moustache were disposed of, Hottabych snapped
the fingers of his left hand and once again assumed his previous appearance.
Now he looked at himself in the mirror with true satisfaction. He
stroked his recovered beard and twisted the ends of his moustache jauntily.
Then he passed his hand over his hair, smoothed his eyebrows and sighed with
relief.
"Excellent ! Now both our faces are back to normal again."
As concerns Stepan Stepanych Pivoraki, who will never again appear on
the pages of our extremely truthful story, it is a known fact that he became
a changed man after the events described above. Why, it seems only yesterday
that his friends, who suffered so acutely from his talkativeness, named
every chatter-box "Pivoraki." However, he has now become so sparing with his
words, weighing each one carefully beforehand, that it is a joy to talk to
him and listen to him speak at meetings.
Just think what an effect this incident had on him!
Zhenya Bogorad's parents were up all night. They telephoned all their
friends and, taking a cab, made the rounds of every militia station in the
city, and of every hospital. They even stopped off at the criminal court,
but all to no avail. Zhenya had disappeared without a trace.
The following morning the principal of the school called in Zhenya's
classmates, including Volka, and questioned each one.
Volka told the principal about meeting Zhenya at the movies the night
before, though he quite naturally said nothing about his beard. The boy who
sat next to Zhenya in class recalled that he had seen him on Pushkin Street
close to six o'clock the previous evening, that he was in high spirits and
was rushing to the movies. Other children said the same, but this was of no
help.
Suddenly, one boy remembered Zhenya said he wanted to go swimming too.
In half an hour's time every volunteer life guard in the city was
searching for Zhenya Bogorad's body. The river was dragged within the city
limits, but yielded nothing. Divers traversed the entire river-bed, paying
special attention to holes and depressions, but they, too, found nothing.
The fiery blaze of sunset was slowly sinking beyond the river, a faint
breeze carried the low sounds of a siren from the recreation park, a signal
that the second act of the evening's play at the summer theatre was about to
begin, but the dark silhouettes of the river boats could still be seen on
the water. The search was still on.
This cool, quiet evening Volka was too restless to sit at home.
Terrifying thoughts of Zhenya's fate gave him no peace. He decided to go
back to school, perhaps there was some news there. As he was leaving the
school yard, Hottabych joined him silently at the gate, appearing from
nowhere at all. The old man saw Volka was upset, yet he was too tactful to
annoy him with his questions. Thus, they continued on in silence, each lost
in his own thoughts. Soon they were walking down the wide granite embankment
of the Moskva River.
"What kind of strange-headed people are standing in those frail
vessels?" the old man asked, pointing to the river boats.
"Those are divers," Volka answered sadly.
"Peace be with you, 0 noble diver," Hottabych said grandly to one of
the divers climbing out of a boat near the bank. "What are you searching for
on the bottom of this beautiful river?"
"A boy drowned," the diver answered and hurried up the steps of the
first-aid station.
"I have no more questions, 0 highly respected diver," Hottabych said to
his disappearing back.
Then he returned to Volka, bowed low and exclaimed:
"I kiss the ground beneath your feet, 0 most noble student of Secondary
School No. 245!"
"Huh?" Volka started, shaken from his unhappy thoughts.
"Am I correct in understanding that this diver is searching for the
youth who has the great honour of being your classmate?"
Volka nodded silently and heaved a great sigh.
"Is he round of face, sturdy of body, snub of nose and sporting a
haircut unbecoming to a boy?"
"Yes, that was Zhenya. He had a haircut like a real dandy," Volka said
and sighed heavily again.
"Did we see him in the movies? Was it he who shouted something to you
and made you sad, because he'd tell everyone you had such a beard?"
"Yes. How did you know what I was thinking then?"
"Because that's what you mumbled when you tried to conceal your
honourable and most beautiful face from him," the old man continued. "Don't
fear, he won't tell!"
"That's not true!" Volka said angrily. "That doesn't bother me at all.
On the contrary, I'm sad because Zhenya drowned."
Hottabych smirked triumphantly.
"He didn't drown!"
"What do you mean? How d'you know he didn't drown?"
"Certainly I am the one to know," Hottabych said. "I lay in wait for
him near the first row in the dark room and I said to myself in great anger,
'No, you will tell nothing, 0 Zhenya! Nothing which is unpleasant to your
great, wise friend Volka ibn Alyosha, for never again will you see anyone
who will believe you or will be interested in such news!' That's what I said
to myself as I tossed him far away to the East, right to where the edge of
the Earth meets the edge of the Heavens and where, I assume, he has already
been sold into slavery. There he can tell whomever he wants to about your
beard."
"What do you mean-slavery?! Sell Zhenya Bogorad into slavery?!" a
shaken Volka asked.
The old man saw that something had gone wrong again, an his face became
very sour.
"It's very simple. It's quite usual. Just like they always sell people
into slavery," he mumbled, rubbing his hands together nervously and avoiding
Volka's eyes. "That's so he won't babble for nothing, 0 most pleasant dope
in the world."
The old man was very pleased at having been able to put the new word he
had learned from Volka the night before into the conversation. But his young
saviour was so upset by the terrible news that he really didn't pay
attention to having been called dope for nothing.
"That's horrible!" Volka cried, holding his head. "Hottabych, d'you
realize what you've done?"
"Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab always realizes what he does!"
"Like hell you do! For no reason at all, you're ready to turn good
people into sparrows or sell them into slavery. Bring Zhenya back here
immediately!"
"No!" Hottabych shook his head. "Don't demand the impossible of me!"
"But do you find it possible to sell people into slavery? Golly, you
can't even imagine what I'll do if you don't bring Zhenya right back!"
To tell the truth, Volka himself had no idea what he could do -s to
save Zhenya from the clutches of unknown slave dealers, but he would have
thought of something. He would have written to some ministry or other. But
which ministry? And what was he to say?
By now the readers of this book know Volka well enough to agree that
he's no cry-baby. But this was too much, even for Volka. Yes, our
courageous, fearless Volka sat down on the edge of the first bench he came
upon and broke into tears of helpless rage.
The old man asked anxiously:
"What is the meaning of this crying that has overcome you? Answer me,
and do not tear my heart apart, 0 my young saviour."
But Volka, regarding the old man with hate-filled eyes;
pushed him away as he leaned over him with concern.
Hottabych looked at Volka closely, sucked his lips and said
thoughtfully:
"I'm really amazed. No matter what I do, it just doesn't seem to make
you happy. Though I'm trying my best to please you, all my efforts are in
vain. The most powerful potentates of the East and West would often appeal
to my magic powers, and there was not a single one among them who was not
grateful to me later and did not glorify my name in words and thoughts. And
look at me now! I'm trying to understand what's wrong, but I cannot. Is it
senility? Ah, I'm getting old!"
"Oh no, no, Hottabych, you still look very young," Volka said through
his tears.
And true enough, the old man was well preserved for being close on four
thousand years of age. No one would have ever given him more than seventy or
seventy-five. Any of our readers would have looked much older at his age.
"You flatter me," Hottabych smiled and added: "No, it is not within my
powers to return your friend Zhenya immediately."
Volka's face turned ashen from grief.
"But," the old man continued significantly, "if his absence upsets you
so, we can fly over and fetch him."
"Fly?! So far away? How?"
"How? Not on a bird, of course," Hottabych answered craftily.
"Obviously, on a magic carpet, 0 greatest dope in the world."
This time Volka noticed that he had been called such an unflattering
name. "Whom did you call a dope?!" he flared.
"Why, you, of course, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha, for you are wise beyond your
years," Hottabych replied, being extremely pleased that he was again able to
use his new word so successfully in a conversation.
Volka was about to feel offended. However, he blushed as he recalled
that he had no one to blame but himself. Avoiding the old man's honest eyes,
he asked him never again to call him a dope, for he was not worthy of such a
great honour.
"I praise your modesty, 0 priceless Volka ibn Alyosha," Hottabych said
with great respect.
"When can we start?" Volka asked, still unable to overcome his
embarrassment.
"Right now, if you wish."
"Then let's be off!" However, he added anxiously, "I don't know what to
do about Father and Mother. They'll worry if I fly away without telling
them, but if I tell them, they won't let me go."
"Let it worry you no more," the old man said. "I'll cast a spell on
them and they won't think of you once during our absence."
"You don't know my parents!"
"And you don't know Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab!"
In one corner of the magic carpet the pile was rather worn, most
probably due to moths. On the whole, however, it was wonderfully preserved
and the fringes were as good as new. Volka thought he had seen exactly the
same kind of carpet before, but he could not recall whether it was in
Zhenya's house or in the Teachers' Room at school.
They took off from the river bank without a single witness to their
departure. Hottabych took Volka's hand and stood him in the middle of the
carpet beside himself; he then yanked three hairs from his beard, blew on
them, and whispered something, rolling his eyes skyward. The carpet
trembled. One after the other, all four tassled corners rose. Then the edges
buckled and rose, but the middle remained on the grass, weighted down by the
two heavy passengers. After fluttering a bit, the carpet became motionless.
The old man bustled about in confusion.
"Excuse me, 0 kind Volka. There's been a mistake somewheres. I'll fix
everything in a minute."
Hottabych was quiet as he did some complex figuring on his fingers. He
apparently got the right answer, because he beamed. Then he yanked six more
hairs from his beard, tore off half of one hair and threw it away, and then
blew on the others, saying the magic words and rolling his eyes skyward. Now
the carpet ' straightened out and became as flat and as hard as a staircase
landing. It soared upwards, carrying off a smiling Hottabych and Volka, who
was dizzy from exhilaration, or the height, or from both together.
The carpet rose over the highest trees, over the highest houses, over
the highest factory stacks and sailed over the city that was blinking with a
million lights below. They could hear muffled voices, automobile horns,
people singing in row boats on the river and the far-off music of a band.
The city was plunged in twilight, but here, high up in the air, they
could still see the crimson ball of the sun sinking slowly beyond the
horizon.
"I wonder how high up we are now?" Volka said thoughtfully.
"About 600 or 700 elbows," Hottabych answered, still figuring out
something on his fingers.
Meanwhile, the carpet settled on its course, though still gaining
height. Hottabych sat down majestically, crossing his legs and holding on to
his hat. Volka tried to sit down cross-legged, as Hottabych had, but found
neither pleasure nor satisfaction from this position. He shut his eyes tight
to overcome his awful dizziness and sat down on the edge of the carpet,
dangling his legs over the side. Though this was more comfortable, the wind
tore at his legs mercilessly; it blew them off to a side and they were
constantly at a sharp angle to his body. He soon became convinced that this
method was no good either, and finally settled down with his legs stretched
out before him on the carpet.
In no time, he felt chilled to the bone. He thought sadly of his warm
jacket that was so far below in his closet at home, hundreds of miles away.
As a last resort, he decided to warm up the way cabbies used to do in
the olden days, long before he was born. His father once showed him how it
was done when they were out ice skating. Volka began to slap his shoulders
and sides in sweeping motions, and in the twinkling of an eye he slipped off
the carpet and into nothingness.
Needless to say, if he had not grabbed on to the fringes, our story
would have ended with this unusual air accident.
Hottabych did not even notice what had happened to his young friend. He
was sitting with his back to Volka, his legs tucked under him in Eastern
fashion and lost in thought. He was trying to recall how to break spells he
himself had cast.
"Hottabych!" Volka howled, feeling that he wouldn't last long, as he
hung on to the fringes. "Help, Hottabych!"
"0 woe is me!" the old man cried, seeing that Volka was flying through
the air. "Shame on my old grey head! I would have killed myself if you had
perished!"
Muttering and calling himself all kinds of names for being so careless,
he dragged a petrified Volka back up on the carpet, sat him down and put his
arm around the boy, firmly resolved not to let go of him until they landed.
"It would be g-g-good t-t-to h-h-have s-s-something w-w-warm to wear!"
Volka said wistfully through chattering teeth.
"S-s-sure, 0 gracious Volka ibn Alyosha!" Hottabych answered and
covered him with a quilted robe that appeared from nowhere.
It became dark. Now it was especially uncomfortable on the magic
carpet. Volka suggested that they rise another 500 elbows or so. "Then we'll
see the sun again."
Hottabych greatly doubted that they could see the sun before morning,
since it had already set, but he didn't argue.
You can imagine how surprised he was and how his esteem for Volka grew,
when, as they rose higher, they really saw the sun again! For a second time
its crimson edge was barely touching the black line of the far horizon.
"Oh, Volka, if only I had not promised myself faithfully to obey your
modest request, nothing would prevent me from calling you the greatest dope
in the world," Hottabych cried ecstatically. However, when he saw how
displeased Volka was, he quickly added, "but since you forbade it, I shall
limit myself to expressing my amazement at the unusual maturity of your
mind. I "promised never to call you a dope and I won't."
"And don't call anyone else by that name, either."
"All right, 0 Volka," Hottabych agreed obediently.
"Do you swear?"
"Yes, I do!"
"Now don't forget," Volka said in a tone of satisfaction that puzzled
Hottabych.
Far below them forests and fields, rivers and lakes, villages and
cities sailed by, adorned in softly glowing pearly strings of electric
lights. A sea of clouds with hard round edges appeared;
they darkened and disappeared in the blackness below, but the carpet
kept on flying farther and farther away to the south-east, closer and closer
to the strange land where the young prisoner
Zhenya Bogorad was probably already suffering at the hands of fierce
and terrible slave traders.
"To think that poor Zhenya's breaking his back at hard labour," Volka
said bitterly after a long silence.
A guilty Hottabych only grunted in reply.
"He's all alone in a strange land, without any friends or relatives.
The poor fellow's probably groaning," Volka continued sadly.
Hottabych again said nothing.
If only our travellers could have heard what was happening that very
minute, thousands of miles away to the East!
Far away in the East, Zhenya Bogorad was really groaning.
"Oh no, I can't!" Zhenya moaned, "Oh no, no more!"
In order to describe the circumstances under which he uttered these
heart-rending words, we shall have to part with our travellers for a while
and relate the experiences of Zhenya Bogorad, a pioneer group leader of 6B
(7B, as of the day before) of Moscow Secondary School No. 245.
ZHENYA BOGORAD'S ADVENTURES FAR AWAY IN THE EAST
As soon as Zhenya Bogorad, seated in the first row of the Saturn
Theatre, turned around to catch a glimpse of the bearded boy before the
movie began, everything suddenly went dark, he heard an ear-splitting
whistle, and instead of the hard floor beneath his feet, he felt he was
standing in tall grass.
When his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he was greatly amazed to
discover that he was in a dense forest filled with the aroma of strange
flowers. Lianas hung from huge trees, the likes of which he had never seen
before. Yes, these were definitely lianas. It was hot and humid, much hotter
than it had been in the projection room.
Holding his arms out, Zhenya took several cautious steps and nearly
trod on a ... snake! The snake hissed like a broken bicycle pump, flashed
its small green eyes and disappeared in the bushes.
"Golly! Where am I?!" Zhenya wondered, not daring to move. "It's just
like the jungles. It's just like a dream. Why, sure," he thought happily,
"sure, this is all a dream! I'm sleeping and this is a dream."
At one time or another everyone has had a dream in which he knows quite
clearly that he is dreaming. It's fun to have such a dream: no dangers
frighten you, and you always succeed in the most hazardous feats. Most
important, you know the time will come when you'll awake safe and sound in
your own bed.
However, when Zhenya attempted to make his way through the prickly
bushes, he really got scratched. Since it's most unpleasant to be hurt, even
though you are quite positive everything is just a dream, Zhenya decided to
doze off till morning.
When he awoke, he saw the hot, pale blue sky shining brightly through
the openings in the crowns of the trees. Zhenya was overjoyed to find his
wonderful dream still continuing!
The first thing he saw when he found his way to the edge of the forest
were four elephants carrying huge logs in their trunks. A thin, dark-skinned
man, naked to the waist and wearing a white turban, was riding the lead
elephant.
In the distance, smoke curled from the rooftops of a small village. Now
Zhenya knew what he was dreaming about. He was dreaming about India! This
was really wonderful. Yet, still more wonderful things awaited him.
"Who are you?" the man on the elephant asked Zhenya dryly. "An
Englishman? A Portuguese? An American?"
"No," Zhenya answered in broken English. "I Russian, Rusi." Just to
make sure, he pointed to himself and said, "Hindi Rusi bhai, bhai."
At this, the man on the elephant beamed and nodded so vigorously that
it was a wonder his turban didn't fall off his head.
Then he made his elephant kneel and he took Zhenya up beside him. The
whole cavalcade, swaying majestically, continued towards the village.
On the way they met several children.
The man shouted something to them; they gaped and stared at the
real-life Soviet boy. Then they dashed back to the village, shouting and
skipping. By the time Zhenya Bogorad, a 7B pupil of Moscow Secondary School
No. 245, arrived in the village riding the head elephant, its entire
population had poured out into the narrow single street.
What a welcome it was!
Zhenya was helped down respectfully, he was led into a room and offered
food, which was more than welcome, since he found that even in his sleep he
was hungry. Imagine, what a real dream he was having! Then people approached
him and shook his hand, then everybody sang a long and plaintive Indian
song. Zhenya sang along with them as best he could and everyone was terribly
pleased. Then Zhenya sang the democratic youth song and some boys and girls
joined in, while the rest sang along as best they could. Then everyone began
coaxing a young Hindu youth and he finally gave in and began another song,
which Zhenya recognized as "Katyusha." He joined in enthusiastically, while
everyone else clapped in rhythm to the song. Then they shook his hand again
and everyone shouted Hindi Rusi bhai, bhai!
When things settled down a bit, the whole village began a conversation
with Zhenya. However, since neither he nor the villagers knew very much
English, it took a long time for them to discover whether Zhenya was in a
hurry to get to Delhi and the Soviet Embassy. But Zhenya was in no special
rush. Why should a person hurry when he's having such an interesting and
pleasant dream?
In no time, delegates from a neighbouring village arrived to lead the
honoured guest to their village. In this village and in the three others he
visited during that wonderful day the scene which had taken place in the
first village was repeated again and again.
He spent the night in the fourth village. At day-break delegates from a
fifth village were awaiting him. This was when Zhenya began to moan a bit.
Just try not to moan when hundreds of friendly arms toss you up to the
accompaniment of: Hindi Rusi bhai, bhai and overflowing emotions make them
toss you as high as the clouds.
Luckily for him, they soon heard the rumbling of a small truck which
was going past the closest railway station and which was to take Zhenya
along.
Smiling villagers surrounded the perspiring boy, they shook his hands
and embraced him. Two girls came running up with a large wreath of flowers
and put it around his neck. The young guest blushed. Three boys and their
schoolteacher brought him a gift of a large bunch of bananas. On behalf of
all the villagers, the teacher wished Zhenya a happy journey. The children
asked him to say hello to the children of Moscow from the children of India
and they also asked for his autograph, just as if he had been a famous
person. Naturally, he could not refuse.
Clutching the bunch of bananas with both hands and bowing to all sides,
Zhenya was being helped onto the running board when suddenly he ...
disappeared. He simply vanished!
This in itself was worthy of great amazement, but more amazing still
was the fact that not a single villager was surprised at this. They were not
surprised, because they immediately and completely forgot all about Zhenya.
But we, dear reader, should by no means be surprised that they forgot about
him so quickly.
There is nothing more dangerous than falling asleep on a magic carpet
without having first taken the necessary precautions.
Tired from all their experiences and lulled to sleep by the complete
quiet that surrounded them, Hottabych and Volka did not notice how they
dozed off under the warm quilted robes that had appeared from nowheres.
Volka had curled up cosily and slept a dreamless sleep, but Hottabych,
who had fallen asleep sitting up uncomfortably, with his chest pressed
against his sharp old knees, had a terrible dream.
He dreamt that the servants of Sulayman, son of David, led by the
Vizier Asaf ibn Barakhiya, were once again about to imprison him in a clay
vessel and that they had stuffed him halfway in already, but that he was
struggling desperately, pressing his chest against the mouth of the bottle.
He dreamt that his wonderful young friend and saviour was about to be
stuffed into another vessel and then neither of them would ever be rescued,
while poor Zhenya would have to suffer the slave's lot to the end of his
days, with no one to save him. Worst of all, someone had a firm hold on
Hottabych's arms so that he was unable to yank a single hair from his beard
and therefore was unable to use his magic powers to save himself and Volka.
Realizing that it would be too late to do anything in a few more moments,