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really think. What do you think of me as a doctor?"
"As a doctor, I think you're nothing but a bow-wow-wow!"
"Wonderful!" Alexander Alexeyevich exclaimed with genuine joy. "And
what do you think about your mother?"
"My mother's very nice," Goga said. His mother, still standing behind
the door, burst out in tears, though these were tears of happiness. "But
sometimes she's bow...." He shuddered and fell silent. "No, she's always
very, very nice."
"And what about your class wall-newspaper? Do you have anything to say
about it?" the old doctor asked, but this time only to be doubly certain. He
had finally discovered the essence of the rare illness his young patient was
suffering from. "Did they ever criticize you in the paper?"
This time Goga kept on barking for at least two minutes. Hottabych was
tired of listening to him, but the old doctor was so delighted that one
would think it was not Goga Pilukin, nicknamed "Pill" for his atrocious
temper, barking, but an opera star singing his most famous aria.
When Goga had barked his fill, Alexander Alexeyevich rubbed his hands
together contentedly.
"It seems quite clear now. But let us not be hasty and, instead, put it
to the test again. Here's my pen and a sheet of paper. I want you to write:
'There is no place in our country for gossips and tattle-tales!' Have you
written it? Excellent! Let me see it. You have written it nicely and without
a single mistake. Now let's write another sentence. By the way, what's your
teacher's name? Varvara Stepanovna? Well then, write this: 'Varvara
Stepanovna! Vanya and Petya are purposely teaching me to swear. I'm a
conscientious boy and wish you would punish them."
Goga's face became terribly sour. Something was obviously wrong. He
kept writing and crossing out what he had written, until the doctor finally
took the messy sheet of paper away. This is what he read, chuckling, but
apparently not a bit surprised:
"Varvara Stepanovna! Vanya and Petya bow-wow-wow.... I'm a
conscientious boy and wish you would bow-wow-wow." Each of these
"bow-wow-wow's" was crossed out, but each time the unfortunate Goga had
written in another "bow-wow-wow" over the one that had been crossed out.
"The committee's findings are clear," the doctor said, folding the two
papers and putting them away in his wallet. "Please come in!" he called to
Goga's mother..
She entered, dabbing her eyes with a damp hanky.
After she had sat down, Alexander Alexeyevich said, "I have to inform
you that I didn't sleep a wink last night, because I was busy looking
through my medical books and thinking. I could find nothing at all which
even vaguely resembled your son's case."
The poor woman gasped nervously.
"Do not despair, my good woman," the old doctor said. "Things are not
hopeless. I read on and on, and thought a great deal. And after that I
naturally could not fall asleep, for I'm getting on in years. Seeking
distraction, I picked up a volume of Arabian Nights and read a tale about a
magician or, rather, a Genie, changing a person he disliked into a dog. Then
I thought that if there really were Genies in the world (Hottabych lying
under the bed was offended) and if one of them decided to punish someone,
say a boy, for gossiping, tattling, and thinking poorly of his friends, he
could cast a spell on him that would make him bark each time he wanted to
say something bad. Your son and I just had a long talk and we discovered
that he could recite a poem by Pushkin without barking at all and speak of
you with hardly a small bark, and then bark incessantly when talking of his
friends or the school newspaper, in which he had apparently been criticized
several times. Do you understand what I'm getting at? I do hope I've made
myself clear."
"Do you mean," Goga's mother said thoughtfully, "that..."
"Exactly. Naturally, there aren't any Genies and there never were any.
(Hottabych again felt hurt, this time even more than before.) What your son
has is a very strange kind of psychological trauma. And I must warn you that
he will continue barking in the future...."
"Oh my goodness!" the poor woman wailed.
"Yes, he will bark each time he decides to tattle or gossip, or
whenever he tries to say something unpleasant. And then people will no
longer call him Goga Pilukin, but Bow-Wow Pilukin. And this will continue
when he grows up, although no one will call him that to his face. As you
see, your son may find himself in a very unhappy situation. However, if he
makes a firm resolution never to tattle, gossip, or spoil good people's
lives, I can guarantee you that he will stop barking once and for all."
"Bow-Wow Pilukin!" Goga's unfortunate mother thought and shuddered.
"How horrible! I would never survive it. But what about some medicine? Won't
you at least write out a prescription for some medicine?"
"In this case, no medicine will help. Well, young man, shall we give it
a try?"
"And I won't bark at all any more?"
"Everything depends entirely on you."
"Then you won't leave a prescription?" Goga's mother asked again,
seeing that the doctor was about to leave.
"I gave you my prescription, the only one that will work. However, we
can check on it. Now, won't you say a few fair words about your friend
Volka? I want you to pay special attention: I said 'fair.'"
"Sure, Volka Kostylkov's a good fellow," Goga mumbled hesitantly, as if
he were just learning how to talk. "You're right dear, dear doctor! This is
the first time since the geography exam that I didn't bark when I talked
about Volka! Hurray!"
"Exactly what happened at the exam?" the old doctor asked, as if
casually.
"Why, nothing special. Can't a boy suddenly become ill from overwork?"
Goga went on in a much more confident tone.
"I guess I'll be going along," Alexander Alexeyevich said. "I have to
visit a good dozen real patients. I take it you understood everything,
Goga?"
"Yes! Oh, yes! Upon my word of honour! Thank you!"
"Well, then, keep it up! Good-bye, everyone."
"Where'd you disappear to?" Volka shouted at the old Genie several
seconds later, as Hottabych crawled back to his place under his bed with a
very thoughtful expression-on his face.
"Listen, 0 Volka," the old man said with great solemnity. I just
witnessed a most unusual scene: a spell cast by a Genie was broken by a
human being! True, this was a very wise and very just human being. He was so
just that I didn't even think of punishing him for not believing in my
existence. Where are you going?
"I have to visit Goga. I should really be ashamed of myself."
"Yes, do go and visit your classmate. Though he is no longer ill."
"Not ill at all? Did he get well so quickly?"
"That depends entirely on him," Hottabych said. And pocketing his own
pride, he told Volka about the only known case of curing a boy who barked.
"0 blessed Volka," Hottabych said as he basked happily in the sun after
breakfast, "each time I present you with gifts which I consider of great
value I discover they are the wrong kind of gifts. Perhaps it would be a
better idea if you were to tell me what you and your young friend would care
for. I would consider it a great honour and joy to fulfil your wish on the
spot."
"If that's the case, would you please give me a pair of large navy
binoculars?" Volka said promptly.
"With the greatest of pleasure and joy."
"I'd like a pair of binoculars, too. I mean, if it's all right with
you," Zhenya added shyly.
"Nothing could be simpler."
The three of them set out for a large second-hand shop, located on a
busy little side street in the centre of the city. The shop was crowded and
our friends had difficulty in pushing their way to the counter. There were
so many odd items on the shelves that they could never be sorted according
to any system, for then there would have to be a separate section for each
item.
"Show me, 0 sweet Volka, what these binoculars so dear to your heart
look like," Hottabych said happily but then suddenly turned pale and began
to tremble.
He looked at his young friends sadly, burst into tears and said in a
hollow voice, "Farewell, 0 light of my eyes!" Then, shoving the people in
the shop aside, he headed towards a grey-haired ruddy-complexioned foreigner
and fell to his knees before the man.
"Order me as you will, for I am your obedient and humble slave!"
Hottabych mumbled, swallowing his tears and trying to kiss the flap of the
foreigner's jacket.
"Shame on you, citizen, to go begging in our times!" one of the shop
assistants said to Hottabych.
"And so, how many I should have pay you for this bad ring?" the
foreigner continued nervously in bad Russian, after being interrupted by
Hottabych.
"Only ten roubles and seventy kopeks," the clerk answered "It certainly
is an odd item."
The clerks of second-hand shops knew Mr. Moneybags well though he had
but recently arrived from abroad as a touring businessman. He spent all his
free time combing the second-hand shops in the hope of acquiring a treasure
for a song.
"Quite recently he had bought half a dozen china cups of the Lomonosov
Pottery very cheaply and now, just when an inconsolable Hottabych had fallen
to his knees before him, he was pricing a time-blackened ring which the
clerk thought was made of silver and Mr. Moneybags thought was made of
platinum.
When he received his purchase he put it in his vest pocket and left the
shop. Hottabych rushed out after him, wiping the tears that poured down his
wrinkled old face. As he passed his friends, he barely had time to whisper:
"Alas! This grey-haired foreigner holds the magic ring of Sulayman, the
Son of David (on the twain be peace!). And I am the slave of this ring and
must follow its owner. Farewell, my friends. I'll always remember you with
gratitude and love...."
Only now, when they had parted with Hottabych forever, did the boys
realize how used to him they had got. They left the shop in silence without
even looking at any binoculars and headed towards the river bank, where, as
of late, they were wont to sit long hours having heart-to-heart talks. They
lay on the bank for a long time, right near the place where such a short
while ago Volka had found the slimy clay vessel with Hottabych. They
recalled the old man's funny but endearing ways and became more and more
convinced that, when all was said and done, he had had a very pleasant and
kind nature.
"There's no use denying it. We didn't appreciate Hottabych enough,"
Zhenya said critically and heaved a sigh.
Volka turned on his other side and was about to reply, but instead he
jumped to his feet quickly and ran off.
"Hurray! Hottabych is back! Hurray!"
And true enough, Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab was approaching them in
a quick old man's shuffle. Dangling over his shoulder on long straps were
two black leather cases containing large naval binoculars.
HASSAN ABDURRAKHMAN IBM HOTTAB'S STORY OF HIS ADVENTURES AFTER LEAVING
THE SHOP
"Know ye, 0 my young friends, that my story is strange and my
adventures most unusual. I want you to sit beside me while I tell you how I
came to be here again.
"It so happened, that when the ruddy-faced foreigner left the shop, he
continued on foot, in order to shake off a little of the fat that covers his
well-fed body so plentifully. He walked so quickly that I was barely able to
keep up with him. I caught up with him on another street and fell down
before him crying, 'Order me to follow you, 0 my master!'
"But he would not listen and continued on his way. I caught up with him
eighteen times in all and eighteen times I fell on my knees before him and
eighteen times he left me where I was.
"And so we continued on until we came to his house. I wanted to follow
him in, but he shouted, 'You do not push into my rooms or I will be calling
a militia man!' Then I asked him whether I was to stand by his door all day
and he replied, 'Till next year if you want to!'
"And I remained outside the door, for the words of one who possesses
Sulayman's ring are law to me. And I stood there for some time until I heard
a noise overhead and the window opened. I looked up and saw a tall thin
woman in a green silk dress standing by the window. Her laugh was bitter and
taunting. Behind her stood the same foreigner who now looked extremely put
out. The woman said derisively, 'Alas, how mistaken I was when I married you
fourteen years ago! You always were and always will be a very ordinary
haberdasher! My goodness, not to be able to tell a worthless silver ring
from a platinum one! Oh, if only my poor father had known!'
"And she tossed the ring down on the pavement and shut the window with
a bang. I saw this and dropped senseless to the ground, for if Sulayman's
ring is thrown to the ground terrible calamities may occur. But then I
opened my eyes and became convinced that I was alive and nothing unfortunate
had happened. I gathered from this that I can consider myself lucky.
"Then I jumped to my feet and blessed my fate. I picked up the ring and
ran back to you, my friends, having previously procured the presents you so
desired. That's all I have to say."
"It's just like in a fairy-tale," Zhenya cried excitedly when the old
man had finished his story. "Can I hold the magic ring a little?"
"Of course! Put it on the index finger of your left hand. Then turn it
and say your wish out loud. It will be fulfilled immediately."
"Golly!" Zhenya said, putting on the ring. He turned it and said in a
loud voice, "I want a bicycle right now!" All three held their breaths in
expectation. However, no bicycle appeared.
Zhenya repeated still louder, "I want to have a bicycle immediately!
This very minute!"
But the bicycle just wouldn't appear.
"Something must have gone wrong with the ring," Volka said, taking it
from Zhenya and looking at it closely. "Look, there's something written
inside. It's written in Russian!" he said and read aloud: "Wear this, Katya,
and remember me. Vasya Kukushkin, May 2, 1916."
"Anyone can make a mistake," Volka said magnanimously, looking at a
confused Hottabych with sympathy. "I'm glad the ring has turned out to be a
plain ordinary one. And thanks a lot for the presents."
The boys turned away tactfully, took their binoculars from the leather
cases and began enjoying their wonderful presents. The far-off houses came
right up to the river, tiny dots turned into walking people, and a car
speeding down the road seemed about to knock the happy owner of a pair of
binoculars off his feet. One could not even dream of bigger enlargement.
"Hottabych," Volka said several minutes later, "here, have a look at
who's coming towards us." He handed his binoculars over to Hottabych, who
had already discerned Mr. Harry Moneybags in person walking rapidly towards
them. In fact, he was running, huffing and puffing from his great weight.
When Mr. Moneybags noticed that he was being watched he slowed down and
continued on nonchalantly, as if he were in no hurry at all, as if he were
merely strolling along to get away from the city noises. When he came up
close, his red face contorted into a sickeningly sweet smile and he said:
"Oh, my goodness! How pleasant and unexpected meetings!"
As he approaches our friends to shake their hands enthusiastically, we
shall explain why he has again appeared in our story.
It so happened that Mrs. Moneybags was in a black temper that day, and
that is why she tossed the ring out of the window so hastily. After she had
tossed it out, she remained standing at the window to calm her nerves. It
was then that she noticed with interest an old man picking the ring up from
the gutter and dashing off as fast as he could.
"Did you see that?" she said to her crestfallen husband. "What a funny
old man! He grabbed up that cheap ring as if it had an emerald in it and
scampered off."
"Oh, that was a very bothersome old man!" her husband answered in a
more lively tone. "He came up to me back in the second-hand shop and hung on
to me right to our doorstep, and just imagine, my dear, he kept falling to
his knees before me and shouting, 'I am your slave, because you have
Sulayman's ring!' and I said, 'Sir, you are greatly mistaken. I have just
bought this ring and it belongs to no one but me.' But he was stubborn as a
mule and kept on saying, 'No, it's Sulayman's ring! It's a magic ring!' And
I said, 'No, it's not a magic ring, its a platinum one!' And he said, 'No,
my master, it's not platinum, it's a magic ring!' and he pretended he wanted
to kiss the flap of my jacket."
His wife gazed at him with loathing and then, apparently unable to
stand his smug expression, she looked away. Her eyes came upon a copy of
Arabian Nights lying on the couch. Suddenly she was struck by an idea. Mrs.
Moneybags collapsed into the nearest armchair and whispered bitterly:
"My God! How unlucky I am to be obliged to live with such a man!
Someone with your imagination, Sir, should be an undertaker, not a
businessman. A lizard has more brains than you!"
"What's the matter, my dear?" her husband asked anxiously.
"Gentlemen," Mrs. Moneybags wailed tragically, though there was no one
save themselves in the room. "Gentlemen, this man wants to know what's the
matter! Sir, will you be kind enough to catch up with the old man
immediately and get the ring back before it's too late!"
"But what do we want it for? It's a cheap little silver ring, and a
home-made one at that."
"This man will surely drive me to my grave! He keeps asking me why I
want King Solomon's magic ring! Gentlemen, he wants to know why I need a
ring that can fulfil one's any wish, that can make one the richest and most
powerful man in the world!"
"But, my dove, where have you ever seen a magic ring before?"
"And where have you ever seen anyone in this country fall on his knees
before another and try to kiss his hand?"
"Not my hand, my sweet, my jacket!"
"All the more so! Will you please be so kind as to catch up with the
old man immediately and take back the ring! And I don't envy you if you come
back without it!"
Such were the events which caused the red-faced husband of the terrible
Mrs. Moneybags to appear so suddenly before Hottabych and his friends.
Had Mr. Moneybags been in Hottabych's place, he would never have
returned the ring, even if it were an ordinary one, and especially so if it
were a magic one. That is why he decided to begin from afar.
"Oh, my goodness! How happy and unexpected surprise!" he cried with so
sweet a smile that one would think he had dreamed of becoming their friend
all his life. "What a wonderful weather! How you feel?"
Hottabych bowed silently.
"Oh!" Mr. Moneybags exclaimed with feigned surprise. "I see on your
finger one silver ring. You give me look at this silver ring?"
"With the utmost of pleasure," Hottabych answered, extending his hand
with the ring on it.
Instead of admiring the ring, Mr. Moneybags suddenly snatched it off
Hottabych's finger and squeezed it onto his own fleshy finger.
"I thanking you! I thanking you!" he wheezed and his already purple
face became still redder, so that Hottabych feared Mr. Moneybags might even
have a stroke.
"You have buy this ring someplace?"
He expected the old man to lie, or at least to try every means possible
to get back the almighty ring. Mr. Moneybags sized up the skinny old man and
the two boys and decided he would be more than a match for them if things
took a bad turn.
However, to his great surprise the old man did not lie. Instead, he
said quite calmly:
"I did not buy the ring, I picked it up in the gutter near your house.
It is your ring, 0 grey-haired foreigner!"
"Oh!" Mr. Moneybags exclaimed happily. "You are very honest old man!
You will be my favourite servant!"
At these words the boys winced, but said nothing. They were interested
to know what would follow.
"You have very good explained to me before that this ring is magic
ring. I can actually have fulfil any wish?" Hottabych nodded. The boys
giggled. They decided that Hottabych was about to play a trick on this
unpleasant man and were ready to have a good laugh.
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" Mr. Moneybags said. "You will be explaining
how I use magic ring."
"With the greatest of pleasure, 0 most ruddy-faced of foreigners!"
Hottabych answered, bowing low. "You take the magic ring, put it on the
index finger of your left hand, turn it and say your wish."
"And it has to by all means come true?"
"Exactly."
"Most different various kind of wish?"
"Any wish at all."
"Ah, so?" Mr. Moneybags said with satisfaction and his face at once
became cold and arrogant. He turned the ring around quickly and shouted to
Hottabych, "Hey, you foolish old man! Coming here! You be packing my
moneys!"
His insolent tone enraged Volka and Zhenya. They moved a step forward
and were about to open their mouths to reprimand him, but Hottabych waved
them away angrily and approached Mr. Moneybags.
"Begging your pardon, sir," the old man said humbly. "I don't know what
kind of money you mean. Show me some, so I know what it looks like."
"Cultured man must know how moneys look," Mr. Moneybags muttered.
And taking a foreign bill from his pocket, he waved it in front of
Hottabych and then put it back.
Hottabych bowed.
"And now. Now is time to begin business," said Mr. Moneybags. "Let me
have now one hundred bags of moneys!"
"You have a long wait coming!" Volka snickered and winked at Zhenya.
"That Mr. Moneybags has got his teeth into the magic ring. 'Wear it, Katya,
and remember me.' "
"Let me have immediately coming one thousand bags of moneys," Mr.
Moneybags repeated.
He was disappointed: the money did not appear. The boys watched him
with open malice.
"I can't see moneys! Where is my one thousand bags of moneys?" Mr.
Moneybags bellowed and immediately fell senseless to the ground, having been
struck by a huge sack which dropped out of the blue.
While Hottabych was bringing him back to his senses, the boys opened
the sack.
One hundred carefully tied bags of money were stuffed in side. Each bag
contained one hundred bills.
"What a funny ring!" Zhenya muttered unhappily. "It won' even give a
decent person a bike, but this character gets hundred bags of money just for
nothing! That sure is some 'Wear it, Katya, and remember me,' for you!"
"It sure is strange," Volka shrugged.
Mr. Moneybags opened his eyes, saw the bags of money; jumped to his
feet, counted the bags and saw that there were exactly one hundred of them.
However, his happy smile soon vanished. No sooner had his shaking hands tied
the valuable sack than his eyes once again began to glitter greedily.
He pressed the sack to his fat chest, turned the ring around again and
shouted heatedly:
"One hundred bags is little! I want immediately one million! Right away
now!"
He barely had time to jump aside when a huge sack weighing at least ten
tons crashed to the ground. The force of the crash split the canvas sack and
a million bags of money spilled out on the grass. Each bag contained a
hundred bills.
These bills in no way differed from real money, except for the fact
that they all had the same serial number. This was the number Hottabych had
seen on the bill the greedy owner of the magic ring had shown him.
Mr. Moneybags would certainly have been grieved to discover this, for
any bank-teller would have noticed that all the numbers were the same, and
that would mean it was counterfeit money. However, Mr. Moneybags had no time
to check the serial numbers just now. Pale from excitement, he climbed to
the top of the precious pile and stood up to his full height like a
monument, like a living embodiment of greed. Mr. Moneybag's hair was
dishevelled, his eyes burned with insane fire, his hands trembled and his
heart thundered in his breast.
"And now ... and now... and now I want ten thousand gold watches strewn
with diamonds, twenty thousand gold cigarette cases, thirty . .. no, fifty
thousand strings of pearls, fifteen thousand antique China services!" he
shouted darting back and forth in order to dodge the great treasures falling
from all sides.
"0 red-faced foreigner, don't you think what you have received is
enough?" Hottabych asked sternly.
"Silence!" Mr. Moneybags yelled and stamped his feet in rage. "When the
boss do business, the servant must silence! Ring, do as my wish is! Fast!"
"Go back where you came from, you old grabber!" Volka shouted. "Out of
our country! We'll propel you out of here!"
"May it be so," Hottabych agreed and yanked four hairs from his beard.
That very moment the sacks of money, the crates of china, watches and
necklaces, everything the silver ring had brought- disappeared. Mr.
Moneybags himself rolled down the grass and along the path very quickly,
heading in the direction from which he had recently come so full of hopes.
In no time he was gone with just a little puff of dust to show where he had
been.
After the boys had regained their composure and calmed down, Volka said
in a thoughtful tone, "I can't understand what sort of a ring it is-a plain
one or a magic one?"
"Why, a plain one, of course," Hottabych answered kindly.
"Then why did it fulfil that robber's wishes?"
"It was I who fulfilled them, not the ring."
"You? Why?"
"It was just a matter of politeness, 0 curious youth. I felt indebted
to the man, because I bothered him in the shop and annoyed him on the way
home, right up to his very doorstep. 1 felt it wouldn't be fair not to
fulfil a few of his wishes, but his greed and his black soul turned my
stomach."
"That's right!"
When they left the river bank and walked along the street, Hottabych
stepped on a small round object. It was the ring with the inscription: "Wear
it, Katya, and remember me," which Mr. Moneybags must have lost as he rolled
away.
The old man picked it up, wiped it with his huge, bright-blue
handkerchief, and put it on his right small finger.
The boys and the old man came home, went to bed and woke up the next
morning, but Mr. Moneybags was still rolling and rolling away home to where
he had come from.
On a bright and sunny summer day our friends set out to see a football
game. During the soccer season the entire population of Moscow is divided
into two alien camps. In the one are the football fans; in the other are
those queer people who are entirely indifferent to this fascinating sport.
Long before the beginning of the game, these first stream towards the
high entrance gates of the Central Stadium from all parts of the city.
They look upon those who are heading in the opposite direction with a
feeling of superiority.
In turn, these other Muscovites shrug in amazement when they see
hundreds of crowded buses and trolley-buses and thousands of cars crawling
through the turbulent sea of pedestrian fans.
But the army of fans which appears so unified to an onlooker is
actually torn into two camps. This is unnoticeable while the fans are making
their way to the stadium. However, as they approach the gates, this division
appears in all its ugliness. It suddenly becomes evident that some people
have tickets, while others do not. The possessors of tickets pass through
the gates confidently; the others dart back and forth excitedly, rushing at
new arrivals with the same plaintive plea: "D'you have an extra ticket?" or
"You don't have an extra ticket, do you?"
As a rule, there are so few extra tickets and so many people in need of
them, that if not for Hottabych, Volka and Zhenya would have certainly been
left outside the gates.
"With the greatest of pleasure," Hottabych murmured in reply to Volka's
request. "You'll have as many as you need in a minute."
No sooner were these words out of his mouth, than the boy saw him
holding a whole sheaf of blue, green and yellow tickets. "Will this be
enough, 0 wonderful Volka? If not, I'll...." He waved the tickets. This
gesture nearly cost him his life. "Look, extra tickets!" a man shouted,
making a dash for him. A few seconds later no less than a hundred and fifty
excited people were pressing Hottabych's back against the concrete fence.
The old man would have been as good as dead if not for Volka. He ran to a
side and shouted at the top of his voice:
"Over here! Who needs an extra ticket? Who needs some extra tickets?"
At these magic words the people who had been closing in on a distraught
Hottabych rushed towards Volka, but the boy darted into the crowd and
disappeared. A moment later he and his two friends handed the gate-keeper
three tickets and passed through the North Gate to the stadium, leaving
thousands of inconsolable fans behind.
No sooner had the friends found their seats, than a girl in a white
apron carrying a white lacquered box approached them.
"Would you like some ice-cream?" she asked and shrieked. We must be
fair. Anyone else in her place would have been just as frightened, for what
answer could an ice-cream vendor expect?
In the best of cases: "Yes, thank you. Two, please." In the worst of
cases: "No, thank you."
Now, just imagine that upon hearing the young lady's polite question, a
little old man in a straw boater turned as red as a beet, his eyes became
bloodshot and he bristled all over. He leaned over to her and whispered in a
fierce voice:
"A-a-ah! You want to kill me with your foul ice-cream! Well, you won't,
despicable thing! The forty-six ice-creams which I, old fool that I am, ate
in the circus nearly sent me to my grave.
They have been enough to last me the rest of my life. Tremble, wretch,
for I'll turn you into a hideous toad!"
At this, he rose and raised his dry wrinkled arms over his head.
Suddenly a boy with sun-bleached eyebrows on his freckled face hung onto the
old man's arms and shouted in a frightened voice, "She's not to blame if you
were greedy and stuffed yourself with ice-cream! Please sit down, and don't
be silly!"
"I hear and I obey," the old man answered obediently. He let down his
arms and resumed his seat. Then he addressed the frightened young lady as
follows, "You can go now. I forgive you. Live in peace and be grateful to
this youth till the end of your days, for he has saved your life."
The young lady did not appear in their section again for the remainder
of the afternoon.
Meanwhile, the stadium was full of that very special festive atmosphere
which pervades it during decisive football matches. Loud-speakers blared. A
hundred thousand people were heatedly discussing the possible outcome of the
game, thus giving rise to a hum of human voices incomparable to anything
else. Everyone was impatiently awaiting the umpire's whistle.
Finally, the umpire and the linesmen appeared on the emerald-green
field. The umpire was carrying a ball which was to be kicked back and
forth-thus covering quite a few miles on land and in the air-and, finally,
having landed in one goal more times than in the other, was to decide which
team was the winner that day. He put the ball down in the centre of the
field. The two teams appeared from their locker rooms and lined up opposite
each other. The captains shook hands and drew lots to see which team was to
play against the sun. The unfortunate lot fell to the Zubilo team, to the
great satisfaction of the Shaiba team 4 and a portion of the fans.
"Will you, 0 Volka, consider it possible to explain to your unworthy
servant what these twenty-two pleasant young men are going to do with the
ball?" Hottabych asked respectfully.
Volka waved his hand impatiently and said, "You'll see for yourself in
a minute."
At that very moment a Zubilo player kicked the ball smartly and the
game was on.
"Do you mean that these twenty-two nice young men will have to run
about such a great field, get tired, fall and shove each other, only to have
a chance to kick this plain-looking leather ball around for a few seconds?
And all because they gave them just this one ball for all twenty-two of
them?" Hottabych asked in a very displeased voice a few minutes later.
Volka was completely engrossed in the game and did not reply. He could
not be bothered with Hottabych at a time when the Shaiba's forwards had got
possession of the ball and were approaching the Zubilo goal.
"You know what, Volka?" Zhenya whispered. "It's real luck Hottabych
doesn't know a thing about football, because he'd surely stick his finger in
the pie!"
"I know," Volka agreed. Suddenly, he gasped and jumped to his feet.
At that very moment, the other hundred thousand fans also jumped to
their feet and began to shout. The umpire's whistle pierced the air, but the
players had already come to a standstill.
Something unheard-of in the history of football had happened, something
that could not be explained by any law of nature: twenty-two brightly
coloured balls dropped from somewhere above in the sky and rolled down the
field. They were all made of top-grain morocco leather.
"Outrageous! Hooliganism! Who did this?" the fans shouted.
The culprit should have certainly been taken away and even handed over
to the militia, but no one could discover who he was. Only three people of
the hundred thousand-Hottabych and his two young friends-knew who was
responsible.
"See what you've gone and done?" Volka whispered. "You've stopped the
game and prevented the Shaiba team from making a sure point!"
However, Volka was not especially displeased at the team's misfortune,
for he was a Zubilo fan.
"I wanted to improve things," Hottabych whispered guiltily. "I thought
it would be much better if each player could play with his own ball as much
as he wanted to, instead of shoving and chasing around like mad on such a
great big field."
"Golly! I don't know what to do with you!" Volka cried in despair and
pulled the old man down. He hurriedly explained the basic rules of football
to him. "It's a shame that the Zubilo team has to play opposite the sun now,
because after they change places in the second half it won't be in anyone's
eyes any more. This way, the Shaiba players have a terrific advantage, and
for no good reason at all," he concluded emphatically, hoping Hottabych
would bear his words in mind.
"Yes, it really is unfair," the old man agreed. Whereupon the sun
immediately disappeared behind a little cloud and stayed there till the end
of the game.
Meanwhile, the extra balls had been taken off the field, the umpire
totalled up the time wasted, and the game was resumed.
After Volka's explanation, Hottabych began to follow the course of the
match with ever-increasing interest. The Shaiba players, who had lost a sure
point because of the twenty-two balls, were nervous and were playing badly.
The old man felt guilty and was conscience-stricken.
Thus, the sympathies of Volka Kostylkov and Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn
Hottab were fatally divided. When the first beamed with pleasure (and this
happened every time a Shaiba player missed the other team's goal), the old
man became darker than a cloud. However, when the Zubilo forwards missed the
Shaiba goal, the reaction was reversed. Hottabych would burst out in happy
laughter and Volka would become terribly angry.
"I don't see what's so funny about it, Hottabych. Why, they nearly made
a point!"
"'Nearly' doesn't count, my dear boy," Hottabych would answer.
Hottabych, who was witnessing a football game for the first time in his
life, did not know there was such a thing as a fan. He had regarded Volka's
concern about the sun being in the Zubilo's eyes as the boy's desire for
fair play. Neither he nor Volka suspected that he had suddenly become a fan,
too. Volka was so engrossed in what was happening on the field that he paid
not the slightest attention to anything else-and this forgetfulness of his
caused all the unusual events which took place at the stadium that day.
It all began during a very tense moment, when the Zubilo forwards were
approaching the Shaiba goal and Volka bent over to Hottabych's ear,
whispering hotly:
"Hottabych, dear, please make the Shaiba goal a little wider when the
Zubilo men kick the ball." The old man frowned.
"Of what good will this be to the Shaiba team?"
"Why should you worry about them? It's good for the Zubilo team."
The old man said nothing. Once again the Zubilo players missed. Two or
three minutes later a happy Shaiba player kicked the ball into the Zubilo
goal, to the approving yells of the Shaiba fans.
"Yegor, please don't laugh, but I'm ready to swear the goal post's on
the Shaiba's side," the Zubilo goalie said to one of the spare players when
the game had passed over to the far end of the field.
"Wha-a-at?"
"You see, when they kicked the ball, the right goal post.. . upon my
sacred word of honour ... the right goal post... moved about a half a yard
away and let the ball pass. I saw it with my own eyes!"
"Have you taken your temperature?" the spare player asked,
"Why?"
"You sure must have a high fever!"
"Humph!" the goalie spat and stood tensely in the goal.
The Shaiba players were out-manoeuvring the defence and were fast
approaching the Zubilo goal.
Barn! The second goal in three minutes! And it had not been the Zubilo
goalie's fault either time. He was fighting like a tiger. But what could he
do? At the moment the ball was hit, the cross-bar rose of its own accord,
just high enough to let it pass through, brushing the tips of his fingers.
Whom could he complain to? Who would ever believe him? The goalie felt
scared and forlorn, just like a little boy who finds himself in the middle
of a forest at night.
"See that?" he asked Yegor in a hopeless voice. "I th-th-th-ink I did,"
the spare player stuttered. "But you c-c-c-an't tell anyone, n-n-no one will
ever b-b-believe you." "That's just it, no one'll believe me," the goalie
agreed sadly. Just then, a quiet scandal was taking place in the North
Section. A moment before the second goal, Volka noticed the old man
furtively yank a hair from his beard.
"What did he do that for?" he wondered uneasily, still unaware of the
storm gathering over the field. However, even this thought did not come to
Volka immediately.
The game was going so badly for the Zubilo team that he had no time to
think of the old man.
But soon everything became perfectly clear.
The first half of the game was nearing an end, and it seemed that Luck
had finally turned its face towards the Zubilo team, The ball was now on the
Shaiba side of the field. The Zubilo men were ploughing up the earth, as the
saying goes, and soon their best forward kicked the ball with tremendous
force into the top corner of the Shaiba goal.
All one hundred thousand fans jumped to their feet. This sure goal was
to give the team its first point. Volka and Zhenya, two ardent Zubilo fans,
winked happily to each other, but immediately groaned with disappointment:
it was a sure goal, but the ball smacked against the cross-bar so loudly
that the sound echoed all over the stadium.
This sound was echoed by a loud wail from the Shaiba goalie:
the lowered cross-bar had fouled a goal, but it had knocked him smartly
on the head.
Now Volka understood all and was terrified.
"Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab," he said in a shaking voice. "What's
this I see? You know both Zhenya and I are Zubilo fans, and here you are,
against us! You're a Shaiba fan!"
"Alas, 0 blessed one, it is so!" the old man replied unhappily.
"Didn't I save you from imprisonment in the clay vessel?" Volka
continued bitterly.
"This is as true as the fact that it is now day and that there is a
great future ahead of you," Hottabych replied in a barely audible voice.
"Then why are you helping the Shaiba team instead of the Zubilo team?"
"Alas, I have no power over my actions," Hottabych answered sadly, as
large tears streamed down his wrinkled face. "I want the Shaiba team to
win."
"Just wait, nothing good will come of it!" Volka threatened.
"Be that as it may."
That very moment the Zubilo goalie slipped on an extremely dry spot and
let the third ball into the goal.
"Oh, so that's how it is! You won't listen to reason, will you? All
right then!" Volka jumped onto the bench and shouted, pointing to Hottabych:
"Listen; everyone! He's been helping the Shaiba team all the time!"
"Who's helping them? The umpire? What do you mean?" people began to
shout.
"No, not the umpire! What has he to do with it? It's this old man here
who's helping them.... Leave me alone!"
These last words were addressed to Zhenya, who was tugging at his
sleeve nervously. Zhenya realized that no good would come of Volka's quarrel
with Hottabych. But Volka would not stop, though no one took his words
seriously.
"So you say the old man is shifting the goal posts from over here, in
the North Section?" People roared with laughter. "Ha, ha, ha! He probably
has a special gimmick in his pocket to regulate the goals at a distance.
Maybe he even tossed all those balls into the field?"
"Sure, it was him," Volka agreed readily, calling forth a new wave of
laughter.
"I bet he was also responsible for the earthquake in Chile! Ho-ho-ho!
Ha-ha-ha!"
"No, he wasn't responsible for that." Volka was an honest boy. "An
earthquake is the result of a catastrophic shifting of soil. Especially in
Chile. And he was just recently released from a vessel."
A middle-aged man sitting behind Volka entered the conversation. Volka
knew him, since they lived in the same house. He was the one who had named
his cat Homych in honour of the famous goalie.
"Keep your shirt on, and don't make a fool of yourself," the man said
kindly, when the laughter had died down a bit. "Stop talking nonsense and
bothering us. The way things are now, it's bad enough without you adding
your bit." (He was also a Zubilo fan.)
And true enough, there were still eleven long minutes left till the end
of the first time, but the score was already 14:0 in favour of the Shaiba
team.
Strange things kept happening to the Zubilo players. They seemed to
have forgotten how to play: their tackling was amazingly feeble and stupid.
The men kept falling; it was as if they had just learned how to walk.
And then the defence began to act queerly. Those old football lions
began to shy away in fright as soon as they saw the ball approaching, as if
it were a bomb about to explode.
Oh, how miserable our young friends were! Just think: they had
explained the rules of soccer to Hottabych to their own misfortune! What
were they to do? How were they to help the unfortunate Zubilo players see
justice restored? And what should they do with Hottabych? Even a scandal had
proved useless. How could they at least distract the old Genie's attention
from the field on which this unique sports tragedy was unfolding?
Zhenya found the answer. He stuck a copy of Soviet Sports into
Hottabych's hand, saying, "Here, read the paper and see what a wonderful
team you're disgracing in the eyes of the nation!" He pointed towards the
heading: "An Up-and-Coming Team." Hottabych read aloud:
"The Zubilo team has improved considerably during the current season.
In their last game in Kuibyshev against the local 'Krylya Sovetov'- team
they demonstrated their... . That's interesting!" he said and buried his
nose in the paper.
The boys grinned at each other. No sooner had Hottabych begun to read,
than the Zubilo men came to life. Their forwards immediately proved that the
article in Soviet Sports had all the facts straight. A great roar coming
from tens of thousands of excited throats accompanied nearly every kick. In
a few seconds the game was on the Shaiba half of the field. One kick
"As a doctor, I think you're nothing but a bow-wow-wow!"
"Wonderful!" Alexander Alexeyevich exclaimed with genuine joy. "And
what do you think about your mother?"
"My mother's very nice," Goga said. His mother, still standing behind
the door, burst out in tears, though these were tears of happiness. "But
sometimes she's bow...." He shuddered and fell silent. "No, she's always
very, very nice."
"And what about your class wall-newspaper? Do you have anything to say
about it?" the old doctor asked, but this time only to be doubly certain. He
had finally discovered the essence of the rare illness his young patient was
suffering from. "Did they ever criticize you in the paper?"
This time Goga kept on barking for at least two minutes. Hottabych was
tired of listening to him, but the old doctor was so delighted that one
would think it was not Goga Pilukin, nicknamed "Pill" for his atrocious
temper, barking, but an opera star singing his most famous aria.
When Goga had barked his fill, Alexander Alexeyevich rubbed his hands
together contentedly.
"It seems quite clear now. But let us not be hasty and, instead, put it
to the test again. Here's my pen and a sheet of paper. I want you to write:
'There is no place in our country for gossips and tattle-tales!' Have you
written it? Excellent! Let me see it. You have written it nicely and without
a single mistake. Now let's write another sentence. By the way, what's your
teacher's name? Varvara Stepanovna? Well then, write this: 'Varvara
Stepanovna! Vanya and Petya are purposely teaching me to swear. I'm a
conscientious boy and wish you would punish them."
Goga's face became terribly sour. Something was obviously wrong. He
kept writing and crossing out what he had written, until the doctor finally
took the messy sheet of paper away. This is what he read, chuckling, but
apparently not a bit surprised:
"Varvara Stepanovna! Vanya and Petya bow-wow-wow.... I'm a
conscientious boy and wish you would bow-wow-wow." Each of these
"bow-wow-wow's" was crossed out, but each time the unfortunate Goga had
written in another "bow-wow-wow" over the one that had been crossed out.
"The committee's findings are clear," the doctor said, folding the two
papers and putting them away in his wallet. "Please come in!" he called to
Goga's mother..
She entered, dabbing her eyes with a damp hanky.
After she had sat down, Alexander Alexeyevich said, "I have to inform
you that I didn't sleep a wink last night, because I was busy looking
through my medical books and thinking. I could find nothing at all which
even vaguely resembled your son's case."
The poor woman gasped nervously.
"Do not despair, my good woman," the old doctor said. "Things are not
hopeless. I read on and on, and thought a great deal. And after that I
naturally could not fall asleep, for I'm getting on in years. Seeking
distraction, I picked up a volume of Arabian Nights and read a tale about a
magician or, rather, a Genie, changing a person he disliked into a dog. Then
I thought that if there really were Genies in the world (Hottabych lying
under the bed was offended) and if one of them decided to punish someone,
say a boy, for gossiping, tattling, and thinking poorly of his friends, he
could cast a spell on him that would make him bark each time he wanted to
say something bad. Your son and I just had a long talk and we discovered
that he could recite a poem by Pushkin without barking at all and speak of
you with hardly a small bark, and then bark incessantly when talking of his
friends or the school newspaper, in which he had apparently been criticized
several times. Do you understand what I'm getting at? I do hope I've made
myself clear."
"Do you mean," Goga's mother said thoughtfully, "that..."
"Exactly. Naturally, there aren't any Genies and there never were any.
(Hottabych again felt hurt, this time even more than before.) What your son
has is a very strange kind of psychological trauma. And I must warn you that
he will continue barking in the future...."
"Oh my goodness!" the poor woman wailed.
"Yes, he will bark each time he decides to tattle or gossip, or
whenever he tries to say something unpleasant. And then people will no
longer call him Goga Pilukin, but Bow-Wow Pilukin. And this will continue
when he grows up, although no one will call him that to his face. As you
see, your son may find himself in a very unhappy situation. However, if he
makes a firm resolution never to tattle, gossip, or spoil good people's
lives, I can guarantee you that he will stop barking once and for all."
"Bow-Wow Pilukin!" Goga's unfortunate mother thought and shuddered.
"How horrible! I would never survive it. But what about some medicine? Won't
you at least write out a prescription for some medicine?"
"In this case, no medicine will help. Well, young man, shall we give it
a try?"
"And I won't bark at all any more?"
"Everything depends entirely on you."
"Then you won't leave a prescription?" Goga's mother asked again,
seeing that the doctor was about to leave.
"I gave you my prescription, the only one that will work. However, we
can check on it. Now, won't you say a few fair words about your friend
Volka? I want you to pay special attention: I said 'fair.'"
"Sure, Volka Kostylkov's a good fellow," Goga mumbled hesitantly, as if
he were just learning how to talk. "You're right dear, dear doctor! This is
the first time since the geography exam that I didn't bark when I talked
about Volka! Hurray!"
"Exactly what happened at the exam?" the old doctor asked, as if
casually.
"Why, nothing special. Can't a boy suddenly become ill from overwork?"
Goga went on in a much more confident tone.
"I guess I'll be going along," Alexander Alexeyevich said. "I have to
visit a good dozen real patients. I take it you understood everything,
Goga?"
"Yes! Oh, yes! Upon my word of honour! Thank you!"
"Well, then, keep it up! Good-bye, everyone."
"Where'd you disappear to?" Volka shouted at the old Genie several
seconds later, as Hottabych crawled back to his place under his bed with a
very thoughtful expression-on his face.
"Listen, 0 Volka," the old man said with great solemnity. I just
witnessed a most unusual scene: a spell cast by a Genie was broken by a
human being! True, this was a very wise and very just human being. He was so
just that I didn't even think of punishing him for not believing in my
existence. Where are you going?
"I have to visit Goga. I should really be ashamed of myself."
"Yes, do go and visit your classmate. Though he is no longer ill."
"Not ill at all? Did he get well so quickly?"
"That depends entirely on him," Hottabych said. And pocketing his own
pride, he told Volka about the only known case of curing a boy who barked.
"0 blessed Volka," Hottabych said as he basked happily in the sun after
breakfast, "each time I present you with gifts which I consider of great
value I discover they are the wrong kind of gifts. Perhaps it would be a
better idea if you were to tell me what you and your young friend would care
for. I would consider it a great honour and joy to fulfil your wish on the
spot."
"If that's the case, would you please give me a pair of large navy
binoculars?" Volka said promptly.
"With the greatest of pleasure and joy."
"I'd like a pair of binoculars, too. I mean, if it's all right with
you," Zhenya added shyly.
"Nothing could be simpler."
The three of them set out for a large second-hand shop, located on a
busy little side street in the centre of the city. The shop was crowded and
our friends had difficulty in pushing their way to the counter. There were
so many odd items on the shelves that they could never be sorted according
to any system, for then there would have to be a separate section for each
item.
"Show me, 0 sweet Volka, what these binoculars so dear to your heart
look like," Hottabych said happily but then suddenly turned pale and began
to tremble.
He looked at his young friends sadly, burst into tears and said in a
hollow voice, "Farewell, 0 light of my eyes!" Then, shoving the people in
the shop aside, he headed towards a grey-haired ruddy-complexioned foreigner
and fell to his knees before the man.
"Order me as you will, for I am your obedient and humble slave!"
Hottabych mumbled, swallowing his tears and trying to kiss the flap of the
foreigner's jacket.
"Shame on you, citizen, to go begging in our times!" one of the shop
assistants said to Hottabych.
"And so, how many I should have pay you for this bad ring?" the
foreigner continued nervously in bad Russian, after being interrupted by
Hottabych.
"Only ten roubles and seventy kopeks," the clerk answered "It certainly
is an odd item."
The clerks of second-hand shops knew Mr. Moneybags well though he had
but recently arrived from abroad as a touring businessman. He spent all his
free time combing the second-hand shops in the hope of acquiring a treasure
for a song.
"Quite recently he had bought half a dozen china cups of the Lomonosov
Pottery very cheaply and now, just when an inconsolable Hottabych had fallen
to his knees before him, he was pricing a time-blackened ring which the
clerk thought was made of silver and Mr. Moneybags thought was made of
platinum.
When he received his purchase he put it in his vest pocket and left the
shop. Hottabych rushed out after him, wiping the tears that poured down his
wrinkled old face. As he passed his friends, he barely had time to whisper:
"Alas! This grey-haired foreigner holds the magic ring of Sulayman, the
Son of David (on the twain be peace!). And I am the slave of this ring and
must follow its owner. Farewell, my friends. I'll always remember you with
gratitude and love...."
Only now, when they had parted with Hottabych forever, did the boys
realize how used to him they had got. They left the shop in silence without
even looking at any binoculars and headed towards the river bank, where, as
of late, they were wont to sit long hours having heart-to-heart talks. They
lay on the bank for a long time, right near the place where such a short
while ago Volka had found the slimy clay vessel with Hottabych. They
recalled the old man's funny but endearing ways and became more and more
convinced that, when all was said and done, he had had a very pleasant and
kind nature.
"There's no use denying it. We didn't appreciate Hottabych enough,"
Zhenya said critically and heaved a sigh.
Volka turned on his other side and was about to reply, but instead he
jumped to his feet quickly and ran off.
"Hurray! Hottabych is back! Hurray!"
And true enough, Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab was approaching them in
a quick old man's shuffle. Dangling over his shoulder on long straps were
two black leather cases containing large naval binoculars.
HASSAN ABDURRAKHMAN IBM HOTTAB'S STORY OF HIS ADVENTURES AFTER LEAVING
THE SHOP
"Know ye, 0 my young friends, that my story is strange and my
adventures most unusual. I want you to sit beside me while I tell you how I
came to be here again.
"It so happened, that when the ruddy-faced foreigner left the shop, he
continued on foot, in order to shake off a little of the fat that covers his
well-fed body so plentifully. He walked so quickly that I was barely able to
keep up with him. I caught up with him on another street and fell down
before him crying, 'Order me to follow you, 0 my master!'
"But he would not listen and continued on his way. I caught up with him
eighteen times in all and eighteen times I fell on my knees before him and
eighteen times he left me where I was.
"And so we continued on until we came to his house. I wanted to follow
him in, but he shouted, 'You do not push into my rooms or I will be calling
a militia man!' Then I asked him whether I was to stand by his door all day
and he replied, 'Till next year if you want to!'
"And I remained outside the door, for the words of one who possesses
Sulayman's ring are law to me. And I stood there for some time until I heard
a noise overhead and the window opened. I looked up and saw a tall thin
woman in a green silk dress standing by the window. Her laugh was bitter and
taunting. Behind her stood the same foreigner who now looked extremely put
out. The woman said derisively, 'Alas, how mistaken I was when I married you
fourteen years ago! You always were and always will be a very ordinary
haberdasher! My goodness, not to be able to tell a worthless silver ring
from a platinum one! Oh, if only my poor father had known!'
"And she tossed the ring down on the pavement and shut the window with
a bang. I saw this and dropped senseless to the ground, for if Sulayman's
ring is thrown to the ground terrible calamities may occur. But then I
opened my eyes and became convinced that I was alive and nothing unfortunate
had happened. I gathered from this that I can consider myself lucky.
"Then I jumped to my feet and blessed my fate. I picked up the ring and
ran back to you, my friends, having previously procured the presents you so
desired. That's all I have to say."
"It's just like in a fairy-tale," Zhenya cried excitedly when the old
man had finished his story. "Can I hold the magic ring a little?"
"Of course! Put it on the index finger of your left hand. Then turn it
and say your wish out loud. It will be fulfilled immediately."
"Golly!" Zhenya said, putting on the ring. He turned it and said in a
loud voice, "I want a bicycle right now!" All three held their breaths in
expectation. However, no bicycle appeared.
Zhenya repeated still louder, "I want to have a bicycle immediately!
This very minute!"
But the bicycle just wouldn't appear.
"Something must have gone wrong with the ring," Volka said, taking it
from Zhenya and looking at it closely. "Look, there's something written
inside. It's written in Russian!" he said and read aloud: "Wear this, Katya,
and remember me. Vasya Kukushkin, May 2, 1916."
"Anyone can make a mistake," Volka said magnanimously, looking at a
confused Hottabych with sympathy. "I'm glad the ring has turned out to be a
plain ordinary one. And thanks a lot for the presents."
The boys turned away tactfully, took their binoculars from the leather
cases and began enjoying their wonderful presents. The far-off houses came
right up to the river, tiny dots turned into walking people, and a car
speeding down the road seemed about to knock the happy owner of a pair of
binoculars off his feet. One could not even dream of bigger enlargement.
"Hottabych," Volka said several minutes later, "here, have a look at
who's coming towards us." He handed his binoculars over to Hottabych, who
had already discerned Mr. Harry Moneybags in person walking rapidly towards
them. In fact, he was running, huffing and puffing from his great weight.
When Mr. Moneybags noticed that he was being watched he slowed down and
continued on nonchalantly, as if he were in no hurry at all, as if he were
merely strolling along to get away from the city noises. When he came up
close, his red face contorted into a sickeningly sweet smile and he said:
"Oh, my goodness! How pleasant and unexpected meetings!"
As he approaches our friends to shake their hands enthusiastically, we
shall explain why he has again appeared in our story.
It so happened that Mrs. Moneybags was in a black temper that day, and
that is why she tossed the ring out of the window so hastily. After she had
tossed it out, she remained standing at the window to calm her nerves. It
was then that she noticed with interest an old man picking the ring up from
the gutter and dashing off as fast as he could.
"Did you see that?" she said to her crestfallen husband. "What a funny
old man! He grabbed up that cheap ring as if it had an emerald in it and
scampered off."
"Oh, that was a very bothersome old man!" her husband answered in a
more lively tone. "He came up to me back in the second-hand shop and hung on
to me right to our doorstep, and just imagine, my dear, he kept falling to
his knees before me and shouting, 'I am your slave, because you have
Sulayman's ring!' and I said, 'Sir, you are greatly mistaken. I have just
bought this ring and it belongs to no one but me.' But he was stubborn as a
mule and kept on saying, 'No, it's Sulayman's ring! It's a magic ring!' And
I said, 'No, it's not a magic ring, its a platinum one!' And he said, 'No,
my master, it's not platinum, it's a magic ring!' and he pretended he wanted
to kiss the flap of my jacket."
His wife gazed at him with loathing and then, apparently unable to
stand his smug expression, she looked away. Her eyes came upon a copy of
Arabian Nights lying on the couch. Suddenly she was struck by an idea. Mrs.
Moneybags collapsed into the nearest armchair and whispered bitterly:
"My God! How unlucky I am to be obliged to live with such a man!
Someone with your imagination, Sir, should be an undertaker, not a
businessman. A lizard has more brains than you!"
"What's the matter, my dear?" her husband asked anxiously.
"Gentlemen," Mrs. Moneybags wailed tragically, though there was no one
save themselves in the room. "Gentlemen, this man wants to know what's the
matter! Sir, will you be kind enough to catch up with the old man
immediately and get the ring back before it's too late!"
"But what do we want it for? It's a cheap little silver ring, and a
home-made one at that."
"This man will surely drive me to my grave! He keeps asking me why I
want King Solomon's magic ring! Gentlemen, he wants to know why I need a
ring that can fulfil one's any wish, that can make one the richest and most
powerful man in the world!"
"But, my dove, where have you ever seen a magic ring before?"
"And where have you ever seen anyone in this country fall on his knees
before another and try to kiss his hand?"
"Not my hand, my sweet, my jacket!"
"All the more so! Will you please be so kind as to catch up with the
old man immediately and take back the ring! And I don't envy you if you come
back without it!"
Such were the events which caused the red-faced husband of the terrible
Mrs. Moneybags to appear so suddenly before Hottabych and his friends.
Had Mr. Moneybags been in Hottabych's place, he would never have
returned the ring, even if it were an ordinary one, and especially so if it
were a magic one. That is why he decided to begin from afar.
"Oh, my goodness! How happy and unexpected surprise!" he cried with so
sweet a smile that one would think he had dreamed of becoming their friend
all his life. "What a wonderful weather! How you feel?"
Hottabych bowed silently.
"Oh!" Mr. Moneybags exclaimed with feigned surprise. "I see on your
finger one silver ring. You give me look at this silver ring?"
"With the utmost of pleasure," Hottabych answered, extending his hand
with the ring on it.
Instead of admiring the ring, Mr. Moneybags suddenly snatched it off
Hottabych's finger and squeezed it onto his own fleshy finger.
"I thanking you! I thanking you!" he wheezed and his already purple
face became still redder, so that Hottabych feared Mr. Moneybags might even
have a stroke.
"You have buy this ring someplace?"
He expected the old man to lie, or at least to try every means possible
to get back the almighty ring. Mr. Moneybags sized up the skinny old man and
the two boys and decided he would be more than a match for them if things
took a bad turn.
However, to his great surprise the old man did not lie. Instead, he
said quite calmly:
"I did not buy the ring, I picked it up in the gutter near your house.
It is your ring, 0 grey-haired foreigner!"
"Oh!" Mr. Moneybags exclaimed happily. "You are very honest old man!
You will be my favourite servant!"
At these words the boys winced, but said nothing. They were interested
to know what would follow.
"You have very good explained to me before that this ring is magic
ring. I can actually have fulfil any wish?" Hottabych nodded. The boys
giggled. They decided that Hottabych was about to play a trick on this
unpleasant man and were ready to have a good laugh.
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" Mr. Moneybags said. "You will be explaining
how I use magic ring."
"With the greatest of pleasure, 0 most ruddy-faced of foreigners!"
Hottabych answered, bowing low. "You take the magic ring, put it on the
index finger of your left hand, turn it and say your wish."
"And it has to by all means come true?"
"Exactly."
"Most different various kind of wish?"
"Any wish at all."
"Ah, so?" Mr. Moneybags said with satisfaction and his face at once
became cold and arrogant. He turned the ring around quickly and shouted to
Hottabych, "Hey, you foolish old man! Coming here! You be packing my
moneys!"
His insolent tone enraged Volka and Zhenya. They moved a step forward
and were about to open their mouths to reprimand him, but Hottabych waved
them away angrily and approached Mr. Moneybags.
"Begging your pardon, sir," the old man said humbly. "I don't know what
kind of money you mean. Show me some, so I know what it looks like."
"Cultured man must know how moneys look," Mr. Moneybags muttered.
And taking a foreign bill from his pocket, he waved it in front of
Hottabych and then put it back.
Hottabych bowed.
"And now. Now is time to begin business," said Mr. Moneybags. "Let me
have now one hundred bags of moneys!"
"You have a long wait coming!" Volka snickered and winked at Zhenya.
"That Mr. Moneybags has got his teeth into the magic ring. 'Wear it, Katya,
and remember me.' "
"Let me have immediately coming one thousand bags of moneys," Mr.
Moneybags repeated.
He was disappointed: the money did not appear. The boys watched him
with open malice.
"I can't see moneys! Where is my one thousand bags of moneys?" Mr.
Moneybags bellowed and immediately fell senseless to the ground, having been
struck by a huge sack which dropped out of the blue.
While Hottabych was bringing him back to his senses, the boys opened
the sack.
One hundred carefully tied bags of money were stuffed in side. Each bag
contained one hundred bills.
"What a funny ring!" Zhenya muttered unhappily. "It won' even give a
decent person a bike, but this character gets hundred bags of money just for
nothing! That sure is some 'Wear it, Katya, and remember me,' for you!"
"It sure is strange," Volka shrugged.
Mr. Moneybags opened his eyes, saw the bags of money; jumped to his
feet, counted the bags and saw that there were exactly one hundred of them.
However, his happy smile soon vanished. No sooner had his shaking hands tied
the valuable sack than his eyes once again began to glitter greedily.
He pressed the sack to his fat chest, turned the ring around again and
shouted heatedly:
"One hundred bags is little! I want immediately one million! Right away
now!"
He barely had time to jump aside when a huge sack weighing at least ten
tons crashed to the ground. The force of the crash split the canvas sack and
a million bags of money spilled out on the grass. Each bag contained a
hundred bills.
These bills in no way differed from real money, except for the fact
that they all had the same serial number. This was the number Hottabych had
seen on the bill the greedy owner of the magic ring had shown him.
Mr. Moneybags would certainly have been grieved to discover this, for
any bank-teller would have noticed that all the numbers were the same, and
that would mean it was counterfeit money. However, Mr. Moneybags had no time
to check the serial numbers just now. Pale from excitement, he climbed to
the top of the precious pile and stood up to his full height like a
monument, like a living embodiment of greed. Mr. Moneybag's hair was
dishevelled, his eyes burned with insane fire, his hands trembled and his
heart thundered in his breast.
"And now ... and now... and now I want ten thousand gold watches strewn
with diamonds, twenty thousand gold cigarette cases, thirty . .. no, fifty
thousand strings of pearls, fifteen thousand antique China services!" he
shouted darting back and forth in order to dodge the great treasures falling
from all sides.
"0 red-faced foreigner, don't you think what you have received is
enough?" Hottabych asked sternly.
"Silence!" Mr. Moneybags yelled and stamped his feet in rage. "When the
boss do business, the servant must silence! Ring, do as my wish is! Fast!"
"Go back where you came from, you old grabber!" Volka shouted. "Out of
our country! We'll propel you out of here!"
"May it be so," Hottabych agreed and yanked four hairs from his beard.
That very moment the sacks of money, the crates of china, watches and
necklaces, everything the silver ring had brought- disappeared. Mr.
Moneybags himself rolled down the grass and along the path very quickly,
heading in the direction from which he had recently come so full of hopes.
In no time he was gone with just a little puff of dust to show where he had
been.
After the boys had regained their composure and calmed down, Volka said
in a thoughtful tone, "I can't understand what sort of a ring it is-a plain
one or a magic one?"
"Why, a plain one, of course," Hottabych answered kindly.
"Then why did it fulfil that robber's wishes?"
"It was I who fulfilled them, not the ring."
"You? Why?"
"It was just a matter of politeness, 0 curious youth. I felt indebted
to the man, because I bothered him in the shop and annoyed him on the way
home, right up to his very doorstep. 1 felt it wouldn't be fair not to
fulfil a few of his wishes, but his greed and his black soul turned my
stomach."
"That's right!"
When they left the river bank and walked along the street, Hottabych
stepped on a small round object. It was the ring with the inscription: "Wear
it, Katya, and remember me," which Mr. Moneybags must have lost as he rolled
away.
The old man picked it up, wiped it with his huge, bright-blue
handkerchief, and put it on his right small finger.
The boys and the old man came home, went to bed and woke up the next
morning, but Mr. Moneybags was still rolling and rolling away home to where
he had come from.
On a bright and sunny summer day our friends set out to see a football
game. During the soccer season the entire population of Moscow is divided
into two alien camps. In the one are the football fans; in the other are
those queer people who are entirely indifferent to this fascinating sport.
Long before the beginning of the game, these first stream towards the
high entrance gates of the Central Stadium from all parts of the city.
They look upon those who are heading in the opposite direction with a
feeling of superiority.
In turn, these other Muscovites shrug in amazement when they see
hundreds of crowded buses and trolley-buses and thousands of cars crawling
through the turbulent sea of pedestrian fans.
But the army of fans which appears so unified to an onlooker is
actually torn into two camps. This is unnoticeable while the fans are making
their way to the stadium. However, as they approach the gates, this division
appears in all its ugliness. It suddenly becomes evident that some people
have tickets, while others do not. The possessors of tickets pass through
the gates confidently; the others dart back and forth excitedly, rushing at
new arrivals with the same plaintive plea: "D'you have an extra ticket?" or
"You don't have an extra ticket, do you?"
As a rule, there are so few extra tickets and so many people in need of
them, that if not for Hottabych, Volka and Zhenya would have certainly been
left outside the gates.
"With the greatest of pleasure," Hottabych murmured in reply to Volka's
request. "You'll have as many as you need in a minute."
No sooner were these words out of his mouth, than the boy saw him
holding a whole sheaf of blue, green and yellow tickets. "Will this be
enough, 0 wonderful Volka? If not, I'll...." He waved the tickets. This
gesture nearly cost him his life. "Look, extra tickets!" a man shouted,
making a dash for him. A few seconds later no less than a hundred and fifty
excited people were pressing Hottabych's back against the concrete fence.
The old man would have been as good as dead if not for Volka. He ran to a
side and shouted at the top of his voice:
"Over here! Who needs an extra ticket? Who needs some extra tickets?"
At these magic words the people who had been closing in on a distraught
Hottabych rushed towards Volka, but the boy darted into the crowd and
disappeared. A moment later he and his two friends handed the gate-keeper
three tickets and passed through the North Gate to the stadium, leaving
thousands of inconsolable fans behind.
No sooner had the friends found their seats, than a girl in a white
apron carrying a white lacquered box approached them.
"Would you like some ice-cream?" she asked and shrieked. We must be
fair. Anyone else in her place would have been just as frightened, for what
answer could an ice-cream vendor expect?
In the best of cases: "Yes, thank you. Two, please." In the worst of
cases: "No, thank you."
Now, just imagine that upon hearing the young lady's polite question, a
little old man in a straw boater turned as red as a beet, his eyes became
bloodshot and he bristled all over. He leaned over to her and whispered in a
fierce voice:
"A-a-ah! You want to kill me with your foul ice-cream! Well, you won't,
despicable thing! The forty-six ice-creams which I, old fool that I am, ate
in the circus nearly sent me to my grave.
They have been enough to last me the rest of my life. Tremble, wretch,
for I'll turn you into a hideous toad!"
At this, he rose and raised his dry wrinkled arms over his head.
Suddenly a boy with sun-bleached eyebrows on his freckled face hung onto the
old man's arms and shouted in a frightened voice, "She's not to blame if you
were greedy and stuffed yourself with ice-cream! Please sit down, and don't
be silly!"
"I hear and I obey," the old man answered obediently. He let down his
arms and resumed his seat. Then he addressed the frightened young lady as
follows, "You can go now. I forgive you. Live in peace and be grateful to
this youth till the end of your days, for he has saved your life."
The young lady did not appear in their section again for the remainder
of the afternoon.
Meanwhile, the stadium was full of that very special festive atmosphere
which pervades it during decisive football matches. Loud-speakers blared. A
hundred thousand people were heatedly discussing the possible outcome of the
game, thus giving rise to a hum of human voices incomparable to anything
else. Everyone was impatiently awaiting the umpire's whistle.
Finally, the umpire and the linesmen appeared on the emerald-green
field. The umpire was carrying a ball which was to be kicked back and
forth-thus covering quite a few miles on land and in the air-and, finally,
having landed in one goal more times than in the other, was to decide which
team was the winner that day. He put the ball down in the centre of the
field. The two teams appeared from their locker rooms and lined up opposite
each other. The captains shook hands and drew lots to see which team was to
play against the sun. The unfortunate lot fell to the Zubilo team, to the
great satisfaction of the Shaiba team 4 and a portion of the fans.
"Will you, 0 Volka, consider it possible to explain to your unworthy
servant what these twenty-two pleasant young men are going to do with the
ball?" Hottabych asked respectfully.
Volka waved his hand impatiently and said, "You'll see for yourself in
a minute."
At that very moment a Zubilo player kicked the ball smartly and the
game was on.
"Do you mean that these twenty-two nice young men will have to run
about such a great field, get tired, fall and shove each other, only to have
a chance to kick this plain-looking leather ball around for a few seconds?
And all because they gave them just this one ball for all twenty-two of
them?" Hottabych asked in a very displeased voice a few minutes later.
Volka was completely engrossed in the game and did not reply. He could
not be bothered with Hottabych at a time when the Shaiba's forwards had got
possession of the ball and were approaching the Zubilo goal.
"You know what, Volka?" Zhenya whispered. "It's real luck Hottabych
doesn't know a thing about football, because he'd surely stick his finger in
the pie!"
"I know," Volka agreed. Suddenly, he gasped and jumped to his feet.
At that very moment, the other hundred thousand fans also jumped to
their feet and began to shout. The umpire's whistle pierced the air, but the
players had already come to a standstill.
Something unheard-of in the history of football had happened, something
that could not be explained by any law of nature: twenty-two brightly
coloured balls dropped from somewhere above in the sky and rolled down the
field. They were all made of top-grain morocco leather.
"Outrageous! Hooliganism! Who did this?" the fans shouted.
The culprit should have certainly been taken away and even handed over
to the militia, but no one could discover who he was. Only three people of
the hundred thousand-Hottabych and his two young friends-knew who was
responsible.
"See what you've gone and done?" Volka whispered. "You've stopped the
game and prevented the Shaiba team from making a sure point!"
However, Volka was not especially displeased at the team's misfortune,
for he was a Zubilo fan.
"I wanted to improve things," Hottabych whispered guiltily. "I thought
it would be much better if each player could play with his own ball as much
as he wanted to, instead of shoving and chasing around like mad on such a
great big field."
"Golly! I don't know what to do with you!" Volka cried in despair and
pulled the old man down. He hurriedly explained the basic rules of football
to him. "It's a shame that the Zubilo team has to play opposite the sun now,
because after they change places in the second half it won't be in anyone's
eyes any more. This way, the Shaiba players have a terrific advantage, and
for no good reason at all," he concluded emphatically, hoping Hottabych
would bear his words in mind.
"Yes, it really is unfair," the old man agreed. Whereupon the sun
immediately disappeared behind a little cloud and stayed there till the end
of the game.
Meanwhile, the extra balls had been taken off the field, the umpire
totalled up the time wasted, and the game was resumed.
After Volka's explanation, Hottabych began to follow the course of the
match with ever-increasing interest. The Shaiba players, who had lost a sure
point because of the twenty-two balls, were nervous and were playing badly.
The old man felt guilty and was conscience-stricken.
Thus, the sympathies of Volka Kostylkov and Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn
Hottab were fatally divided. When the first beamed with pleasure (and this
happened every time a Shaiba player missed the other team's goal), the old
man became darker than a cloud. However, when the Zubilo forwards missed the
Shaiba goal, the reaction was reversed. Hottabych would burst out in happy
laughter and Volka would become terribly angry.
"I don't see what's so funny about it, Hottabych. Why, they nearly made
a point!"
"'Nearly' doesn't count, my dear boy," Hottabych would answer.
Hottabych, who was witnessing a football game for the first time in his
life, did not know there was such a thing as a fan. He had regarded Volka's
concern about the sun being in the Zubilo's eyes as the boy's desire for
fair play. Neither he nor Volka suspected that he had suddenly become a fan,
too. Volka was so engrossed in what was happening on the field that he paid
not the slightest attention to anything else-and this forgetfulness of his
caused all the unusual events which took place at the stadium that day.
It all began during a very tense moment, when the Zubilo forwards were
approaching the Shaiba goal and Volka bent over to Hottabych's ear,
whispering hotly:
"Hottabych, dear, please make the Shaiba goal a little wider when the
Zubilo men kick the ball." The old man frowned.
"Of what good will this be to the Shaiba team?"
"Why should you worry about them? It's good for the Zubilo team."
The old man said nothing. Once again the Zubilo players missed. Two or
three minutes later a happy Shaiba player kicked the ball into the Zubilo
goal, to the approving yells of the Shaiba fans.
"Yegor, please don't laugh, but I'm ready to swear the goal post's on
the Shaiba's side," the Zubilo goalie said to one of the spare players when
the game had passed over to the far end of the field.
"Wha-a-at?"
"You see, when they kicked the ball, the right goal post.. . upon my
sacred word of honour ... the right goal post... moved about a half a yard
away and let the ball pass. I saw it with my own eyes!"
"Have you taken your temperature?" the spare player asked,
"Why?"
"You sure must have a high fever!"
"Humph!" the goalie spat and stood tensely in the goal.
The Shaiba players were out-manoeuvring the defence and were fast
approaching the Zubilo goal.
Barn! The second goal in three minutes! And it had not been the Zubilo
goalie's fault either time. He was fighting like a tiger. But what could he
do? At the moment the ball was hit, the cross-bar rose of its own accord,
just high enough to let it pass through, brushing the tips of his fingers.
Whom could he complain to? Who would ever believe him? The goalie felt
scared and forlorn, just like a little boy who finds himself in the middle
of a forest at night.
"See that?" he asked Yegor in a hopeless voice. "I th-th-th-ink I did,"
the spare player stuttered. "But you c-c-c-an't tell anyone, n-n-no one will
ever b-b-believe you." "That's just it, no one'll believe me," the goalie
agreed sadly. Just then, a quiet scandal was taking place in the North
Section. A moment before the second goal, Volka noticed the old man
furtively yank a hair from his beard.
"What did he do that for?" he wondered uneasily, still unaware of the
storm gathering over the field. However, even this thought did not come to
Volka immediately.
The game was going so badly for the Zubilo team that he had no time to
think of the old man.
But soon everything became perfectly clear.
The first half of the game was nearing an end, and it seemed that Luck
had finally turned its face towards the Zubilo team, The ball was now on the
Shaiba side of the field. The Zubilo men were ploughing up the earth, as the
saying goes, and soon their best forward kicked the ball with tremendous
force into the top corner of the Shaiba goal.
All one hundred thousand fans jumped to their feet. This sure goal was
to give the team its first point. Volka and Zhenya, two ardent Zubilo fans,
winked happily to each other, but immediately groaned with disappointment:
it was a sure goal, but the ball smacked against the cross-bar so loudly
that the sound echoed all over the stadium.
This sound was echoed by a loud wail from the Shaiba goalie:
the lowered cross-bar had fouled a goal, but it had knocked him smartly
on the head.
Now Volka understood all and was terrified.
"Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab," he said in a shaking voice. "What's
this I see? You know both Zhenya and I are Zubilo fans, and here you are,
against us! You're a Shaiba fan!"
"Alas, 0 blessed one, it is so!" the old man replied unhappily.
"Didn't I save you from imprisonment in the clay vessel?" Volka
continued bitterly.
"This is as true as the fact that it is now day and that there is a
great future ahead of you," Hottabych replied in a barely audible voice.
"Then why are you helping the Shaiba team instead of the Zubilo team?"
"Alas, I have no power over my actions," Hottabych answered sadly, as
large tears streamed down his wrinkled face. "I want the Shaiba team to
win."
"Just wait, nothing good will come of it!" Volka threatened.
"Be that as it may."
That very moment the Zubilo goalie slipped on an extremely dry spot and
let the third ball into the goal.
"Oh, so that's how it is! You won't listen to reason, will you? All
right then!" Volka jumped onto the bench and shouted, pointing to Hottabych:
"Listen; everyone! He's been helping the Shaiba team all the time!"
"Who's helping them? The umpire? What do you mean?" people began to
shout.
"No, not the umpire! What has he to do with it? It's this old man here
who's helping them.... Leave me alone!"
These last words were addressed to Zhenya, who was tugging at his
sleeve nervously. Zhenya realized that no good would come of Volka's quarrel
with Hottabych. But Volka would not stop, though no one took his words
seriously.
"So you say the old man is shifting the goal posts from over here, in
the North Section?" People roared with laughter. "Ha, ha, ha! He probably
has a special gimmick in his pocket to regulate the goals at a distance.
Maybe he even tossed all those balls into the field?"
"Sure, it was him," Volka agreed readily, calling forth a new wave of
laughter.
"I bet he was also responsible for the earthquake in Chile! Ho-ho-ho!
Ha-ha-ha!"
"No, he wasn't responsible for that." Volka was an honest boy. "An
earthquake is the result of a catastrophic shifting of soil. Especially in
Chile. And he was just recently released from a vessel."
A middle-aged man sitting behind Volka entered the conversation. Volka
knew him, since they lived in the same house. He was the one who had named
his cat Homych in honour of the famous goalie.
"Keep your shirt on, and don't make a fool of yourself," the man said
kindly, when the laughter had died down a bit. "Stop talking nonsense and
bothering us. The way things are now, it's bad enough without you adding
your bit." (He was also a Zubilo fan.)
And true enough, there were still eleven long minutes left till the end
of the first time, but the score was already 14:0 in favour of the Shaiba
team.
Strange things kept happening to the Zubilo players. They seemed to
have forgotten how to play: their tackling was amazingly feeble and stupid.
The men kept falling; it was as if they had just learned how to walk.
And then the defence began to act queerly. Those old football lions
began to shy away in fright as soon as they saw the ball approaching, as if
it were a bomb about to explode.
Oh, how miserable our young friends were! Just think: they had
explained the rules of soccer to Hottabych to their own misfortune! What
were they to do? How were they to help the unfortunate Zubilo players see
justice restored? And what should they do with Hottabych? Even a scandal had
proved useless. How could they at least distract the old Genie's attention
from the field on which this unique sports tragedy was unfolding?
Zhenya found the answer. He stuck a copy of Soviet Sports into
Hottabych's hand, saying, "Here, read the paper and see what a wonderful
team you're disgracing in the eyes of the nation!" He pointed towards the
heading: "An Up-and-Coming Team." Hottabych read aloud:
"The Zubilo team has improved considerably during the current season.
In their last game in Kuibyshev against the local 'Krylya Sovetov'- team
they demonstrated their... . That's interesting!" he said and buried his
nose in the paper.
The boys grinned at each other. No sooner had Hottabych begun to read,
than the Zubilo men came to life. Their forwards immediately proved that the
article in Soviet Sports had all the facts straight. A great roar coming
from tens of thousands of excited throats accompanied nearly every kick. In
a few seconds the game was on the Shaiba half of the field. One kick