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fish was struggling frantically within, now giving up, now resuming its
useless battle to free itself.
"It will come in handy for the chowder," Volka said, plucking it from
the net. But it again began to struggle in his hands, and he suddenly felt
sorry for it. He turned round to make sure the fishermen weren't looking and
threw it back into the water.
The fish made a small splash as it hit the dark surface of the lagoon
and turned into a beaming Hottabych.
"May the day upon which you were born be forever blessed, 0
kind-hearted son of Alyosha!" he exclaimed gratefully, as he stood
waist-deep in water. "Once again you've saved my life A few moments more and
I would have choked in that net. got foolishly trapped in it while searching
for my unfortunate brother."
"Hottabych, old man! What a great fellow you are for being alive! We
were so worried!"
"And I, too, was tortured by the thought that you, 0 twice my saviour,
and our young friend were left alone and hungry in an alien country."
"We're not hungry at all. These fishermen really treated us to a
feast."
"May these kind people be blessed! Are they rich?"
"I think they're very poor."
"Then let's hurry, and I will return their kindness generously."
"I don't think it's the right thing to do," Volka said after a moment's
pause. "Put yourself in their place: suddenly you see a wet old man climbing
out of the water in the middle of the night. No, this is no good at all."
"You're right as always," Hottabych agreed. "Return to the shore and
I'll join you presently."
A short while later, the sleeping fishermen were awakened by the sound
of an approaching horse. Soon a strange rider stopped at the smouldering
fire.
He was an old man in a cheap linen suit and a hard straw boater. His
magnificent beard was wind-blown, disclosing to all who cared to look an
embroidered Ukrainian shirt. He wore a pair of gold and silver embroidered
pink slippers with funny turned-up toes. His feet were placed in gold
stirrups that were studded with diamonds and emeralds. The saddle upon which
he sat was so magnificent that it was surely worth a fortune. The prancing
horse was of indescribable beauty. In each hand the old man held a large
leather suitcase.
"Would you please direct me to the noble fishermen who have so kindly
taken in and fed two lonely, hungry boys?" he said to Giovanni, who had
risen to greet him.
Without waiting for an answer, he dismounted, and, with a sigh of
relief, set the suitcases on the sand.
"What's the matter? Do you know them?" Giovanni asked cautiously.
"Certainly I know my young friends!" Hottabych cried, embracing each in
turn as they ran up to him.
Then he addressed the startled fishermen:
"Believe me, 0 most honourable of all fishermen, when I say I do not
know how to thank you enough for your precious hospitality and kindness!"
"Why, there's nothing to thank us for. Not for the fish certainly?" the
grey-haired fisherman said in surprise. "It didn't Set us back much, believe
me, Signore."
"These are the words of a truly selfless man, and they only increase my
feeling of gratitude. Permit me to repay you with these modest gifts,"
Hottabych said, handing a dumb-founded Giovanni the two suitcases.
"There must be some mistake, 0 respected Signore," Giovanni uttered
after exchanging puzzled glances with his companions. "Why, you can buy at
least a thousand chowders like the one we shared with the boys for two such
suitcases. I don't want you to think it was a very special kind of chowder.
We're poor people...."
"It is you who are mistaken, 0 most modest of all kind-hearted people!
Within these excellent boxes which you call by the scholarly name of
'suitcase' are riches that are thousands and thousands of times greater than
the cost of your soup. Nonetheless, I consider they cannot pay for it, for
there is nothing more precious in the world than disinterested hospitality."
He opened the suitcases and everyone saw that they were crammed with
magnificent, live, silvery fish.
While the fishermen were still wondering what sense there was in giving
fishermen fish, Hottabych emptied the quivering contents of the suitcases
onto the sand. It was then that the three men gasped in surprise and
amazement: in some strange way, both suitcases were found to be crammed full
of fish again! Hottabych emptied the suitcases once again, and once again
they were filled with the marvellous gifts of the sea. This was repeated a
fourth and a fifth time.
"And now," Hottabych said, enjoying the impression he had made, "if you
wish, you can test the wonderful qualities of these 'suitcases' yourselves.
Never again will you have to shiver in your little dingy in foul weather or
in the fog of early dawn. You will no longer have to pray to Allah for luck,
you will never again have to drag about the market-place with heavy baskets
of fish. You need only take along one of these 'suitcases' and give the
customer exactly as much as he wants. But I beg you, do not object,"
Hottabych said when he noticed that the fishermen were about to say
something. "I assure you, there has been no mistake. May your life be happy
and cloudless, 0 most noble of fishermen! Farewell! Hop up here, boys!"
With Giovanni's help, the boys climbed into the saddle behind
Hottabych.
"Farewell, Signore! Good-bye, boys!" the dazed fishermen shouted, as
they watched the surprising strangers disappear in the distance.
"Even if these were ordinary suitcases, not magic ones, we could get
many liras for them," Giovanni said thoughtfully.
"Well, I think we'll finally be able to make ends meet now, Pietro,"
the oldest of the three added. He was close to sixty, with a wrinkled,
weather-beaten face and dry, sinewy arms. "We'll pay our taxes, cure my
cursed rheumatism, and buy you a coat, a hat and a pair of shoes, Giovanni.
After all, you're a young man and you should be dressed well. As a matter of
fact, some new clothes won't harm any of us, will they?"
"New clothes!" Giovanni mimicked angrily. "When there's so much sorrow
and poverty everywhere! First of all, we'll have to help Giacomo's widow,
you know, the one who drowned last year and left three children and an old
mother."
"You're right, Giovanni," Pietro agreed. "We should help Giacomo's
widow. He was a good and true friend."
Then the third fisherman entered the conversation. He was a man of
thirty, and his name was Cristoforo.
"What about Luigi? We should give him some money, too. The poor
fellow's dying of tuberculosis."
"That's right," Giovanni said. "And Sybilla Capelli. Her son's been in
prison for over a year now for organizing the strike."
"Just think how many people we can help," Giovanni said excitedly. And
the three kind fishermen sat late into the night, discussing whom else they
could help, now that they had the wonderful suitcases. These were honest and
kind-hearted toilers, and the idea never entered their minds to use
Hottabych's present in order to get rich and be wealthy fishmongers.
I am happy to tell this to my readers, so they'll know the old man's
present fell into good hands, and I'm certain that none of them, if they
were in the fishermen's place, would have acted otherwise.
This time Hottabych was true to his word. He had promised he'd be back
in two or three hours. At about a quarter to nine his beaming face shot out
of the water. The old man was excited. He scrambled up on the beach,
carrying a large seaweed-covered metal object over his head.
"I found him, my friends!" he yelled. "I found the vessel in which my
unfortunate brother Omar Asaf ibn Hottab has been imprisoned these many
centuries-may the sun always shine over him! I scanned the whole sea bottom
and was beginning to despair when I noticed this magic vessel in the green
vastness near the Pillars of Hercules."
"What are you waiting for? Hurry up and open it!" Zhenya cried, running
up to the exultant old man.
"I dare not open it, for it is sealed with Sulayman's Seal. Let Volka
ibn Alyosha, who freed me, also free my long-suffering little brother.
Here's the vessel which I have spent so many sleepless nights dreaming
about!" Hottabych continued, waving his find overhead.
"Here, 0 Volka, open it, to the joy of my brother Omar and myself!"
Pressing his ear to the side of the vessel, he laughed happily, "Oho,
my friends! Omar is signalling to me from within!"
There was envy in Zhenya's eyes as he watched the old man hand a
nattered Volka the vessel, or, rather, lay it at Volka's feet, since it was
so heavy.
"But didn't you say that Omar was imprisoned in a copper vessel? This
one's made of iron. Oh well, no matter.... Where's the seal? Aha, here it
is!" Volka said, inspecting the vessel carefully from all sides.
Suddenly he turned pale and shouted:
"Quick, lie down! Zhenya, lie down! Hottabych, throw it right back into
the water and lie down!"
"You're mad!" Hottabych said indignantly. "I've dreamed of our meeting
for so many years, and now, after finding him, you want me to throw him back
to the waves."
"Throw it as far out as you can! Your Omar isn't inside! Hurry, or
we'll all be dead!" Volka pleaded. Since the old man still hesitated, he
yelled at the top of his voice, "It is an order! Do you hear?!"
Shrugging in dismay, Hottabych raised the heavy object, heaved it and
tossed it at least 200 yards from the shore.
Before he had a chance to turn for an explanation towards Volka, who
was standing beside him, there was a terrible explosion at the spot the
vessel hit the water. A huge pillar of water rose over the calm surface of
the lagoon and fell apart with a loud crash. Thousands of stunned and killed
fish floated bellies up on the waves.
People were already running towards them, attracted by the sound of the
explosion.
"Let's run!" Volka commanded.
They hurried to the highway and headed towards the city.
A grieved Hottabych lagged behind and kept turning round constantly. He
was still not convinced that he had done right by obeying Volka.
"What did you see on the thing?" Zhenya asked when he had caught up
with Volka, who was way ahead of him and Hottabych.
" 'Made in USA,' that's what!"
"So it was a bomb."
"No, it was a mine. There's a big difference! It was an underwater
mine."
Hottabych sighed sadly.
When Hottabych saw that Omar was not to be found in the Mediterranean
Sea, he suggested that they set out to the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. The
suggestion in itself was extremely tempting. However, Volka was unexpectedly
against it. He said that he had to be in Moscow the following day without
fail. But he would not tell them the reason, he just said it was very
important. And so, with a heavy heart, Hottabych temporarily put off the
search for Omar Asaf.
The "VK-1" magic-carpet-seaplane with Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab,
Volka Kostylkov and Zhenya Bogorad aboard, soared into the air and
disappeared beyond the far-off mountains.
Some ten hours later it landed safely on the sloping bank of the Moskva
River.
On a hot July noon, the ice-breaker "Ladoga," carrying a large group of
excursionists, left the Red Pier of the port of Arkhangelsk. The band on the
pier was playing marches. People waved their handkerchiefs and shouted "Bon
voyage!" Trailing white puffs of steam, the ship sailed cautiously out into
the middle of the Severnaya Dvina, past the many Soviet and foreign ships at
anchor there, and headed for the mouth of the river and the White Sea.
Endless cutters, motor-boats, schooners, trawlers, gigs, and cumbersome
rafts ploughed the calm surface of the great northern river.
The excursionists, who were now gathered on the top deck, were leaving
Arkhangelsk and the mainland for a whole month.
"Volka!" one of the passengers shouted to another, who was anxiously
darting about near the captain's bridge, "Where's Hottabych?"
The perceptive reader will gather from these words that our old friends
were among the passengers.
Here we should like to pause for a moment and tell our readers how our
three friends came to be aboard the "Ladoga" in the first place.
Naturally, everyone recalls that Volka failed his geography examination
disgracefully, which was largely his own fault (he should never have relied
on prompting). It is difficult to forget such an event. Volka certainly
remembered it and was studying intently for his re-examination. He had
decided to do his utmost to get an "A."
Despite his sincere desire to prepare for the examination, it was not
as easy as it seemed. Hottabych was in the way. Volka had never mustered up
enough courage to tell the old man of the true consequences of his fatal
prompting. That is why he could never tell him he needed time to study,
since he feared that Hottabych might decide to punish his teachers, and
Varvara Stepanovna in particular, for having failed him.
Hottabych made himself particularly troublesome the day of the unusual
football match between the Shaiba and Zubilo teams.
Feeling terribly contrite for all the anguish he had caused Volka at
the stadium, Hottabych fairly shadowed him; he tried to regain his favour by
scattering compliments and proposing the most tempting adventures. It was
not until eleven o'clock at night that Volka had a chance to get down to his
studies.
"With your permission, 0 Volka, I shall go to sleep, for I feel
somewhat drowsy," Hottabych finally said, as he yawned and crawled under the
bed.
"Good night, Hottabych! Sweet dreams!" Volka answered, settling back in
his chair and gazing at his bed longingly. He was also tired and, as he put
it, was quite ready to doze off for some 500 or 600 minutes. But he had to
study, and so reluctantly put his mind to his work.
Alas! The rustling of the pages attracted the sleepy Genie's attention.
He stuck his head and dishevelled beard from under the bed and said in a
foggy voice:
"Why aren't you in bed yet, 0 stadium of my soul?"
"I'm not sleepy. I have insomnia," Volka lied.
"My, my, my!" Hottabych said compassionately. "That's really too bad.
Insomnia is extremely harmful at your delicate age. But don't despair,
there's nothing I can't do."
He yanked several hairs from his beard, blew on them, whispered
something, and Volka, who had no time to object to this untimely and
unnecessary aid, fell asleep immediately, with his head resting on the
table.
"Praised be Allah! All is well," Hottabych mumbled, crawling out from
under the bed. "May you remain in the embraces of sleep until breakfast
time!"
He lifted the sleeping boy lightly and carefully lay him to rest in his
bed, pulling the blanket over him. Then, clucking and mumbling with
satisfaction, he crawled back under the bed.
All night long the table lamp cast its useless light on the geography
text-book, forlornly opened at page 11.
You can well imagine how cunning Volka had to be to prepare for his
re-examination in such difficult circumstances. This was the very important
reason why Volka (and, therefore, Hottabych and Zhenya) had to fly home to
Moscow from Genoa instead of continuing on to the shores of the Atlantic
Ocean.
However, Volka soon found out that preparing for the examination was
only half the job done. He had yet to think of a way to get rid of Hottabych
while he was in school taking the exam, to find a way of leaving the
apartment unnoticed.
The telephone rang. Volka went to the foyer to answer it. It was
Zhenya.
"Hello!" Volka said. "Yes, today. At noon.... He's still sleeping....
What?. . . Sure, he's well. He's a very healthy old man.... What?... No, I
haven't thought of anything yet.... You're crazy! He'll be terribly hurt and
he'll do such mischief we won't be able to undo it in a hundred years....
Then you'll be here at ten-thirty? Fine!"
Hottabych stuck his head out of Volka's room. He whispered
reproachfully, "Volka, why are you talking to our best friend Zhenya ibn
Kolya in the hall? That's not polite. Wouldn't it be nicer if you invited
him in?"
"How can he come in if he's at home?"
Hottabych was offended.
"I can't understand why you want to play tricks on your old devoted
Genie. My ears have never yet deceived me. I just heard you talking to
Zhenya."
"I was talking to him on the telephone. Don't you understand-te-le-ph
one? I sure do have a lot of trouble with you! What a thing to get mad at!
Come here, I'll show you what I mean!"
Hottabych joined him. Volka removed the receiver and dialled the
familiar number.
"Will you please call Zhenya to the phone?" he said.
Then he handed the receiver to Hottabych.
"Here, you can talk to him now."
Hottabych pressed the receiver to his ear cautiously and his face broke
into a puzzled smile.
"Is that really you, 0 blessed Zhenya ibn Kolya? Where are you now?...
At home?... And I thought you were sitting in this black little thing I'm
holding to my ear.... Yes, that's right, it's me, your devoted friend Hassan
Abdurrakhman ibn Hot-tab.... You'll be here soon? If that's the case, may
your trip be blessed!"
Beaming with pleasure, he handed the receiver back to Volka, who was
looking very superior.
"It's amazing!" Hottabych exclaimed. "Without once raising my voice I
spoke to a boy who is two hours' walking distance away!"
Returning to Volka's room, the old man turned round slyly, snapped the
fingers of his left hand, and there appeared on the wall over the aquarium
an exact copy of the telephone hanging in the hall.
"Now you can talk to your friends as much as you like without leaving
your own room."
"Golly, thanks a lot!" Volka said gratefully. He removed the receiver,
pressed it to his ear and listened.
There was no dial tone.
"Hello! Hello!" he shouted. He shook the receiver and then blew into
it. Still, there was no dial tone.
"The phone's broken," he explained to Hottabych. "FU unscrew the
receiver and see what's wrong."
However, despite all his efforts, he could not unscrew it.
"It's made of the finest black marble," Hottabych boasted.
"Then there's nothing inside?" Volka asked disappointedly.
"Why, is there supposed to be something inside this, too? Just like in
a watch?"
"Now I know why it doesn't work. You've only made a model of a
telephone, without anything that's supposed to go inside it. But the insides
are the most important part."
"What's supposed to be inside? A special kind of filling? The kind that
was in the watch, with all kinds of wheels? You just explain it, and I'll
make it exactly as it should be."
"It's not like a watch; it's entirely different. And it's not so easy
to explain. You have to study all about electricity first," Volka said with
an air of importance.
"Then teach me about what you call electricity."
"To begin with, you have to study arithmetic, algebra, geometry,
trigonometry, mechanical drawing and all kinds of other subjects."
"Then teach me these other subjects, too."
"Uh ... well... I don't know all of them myself, yet," Volka confessed.
"Then teach me what you already know."
"It'll take an awfully long time."
"That doesn't matter. I am willing, nonetheless. Don't keep me in
suspense: will you teach me these subjects, which give a person such
wonderful powers?"
"On condition that you do your homework well," Volka said sternly.
"Here, read the paper while I go to see a friend of mine about something."
He handed Hottabych a copy of Pionerskaya Pravda and set out for school.
The light-grey school building was unusually deserted and quiet. In the
office on the first floor the principal and Varvara Stepanovna were
discussing school problems, and on the third floor the loud, cheerful voices
of the painters and plasterers echoed through the halls. It was summer and
the school was being renovated.
"Well, my dear Varvara Stepanovna, what shall I say?" the principal
said with a smile. "One can only envy such a vacation. How long will you be
gone?" "I believe for a month or so."
Volka was glad to hear that Varvara Stepanovna would not be in danger
of encountering Hottabych for at least a month. If only she would leave as
quickly as possible!
"Aha, the crystal cupola of the heavens!" the principal teased as he
greeted Volka. "Well, are you feeling better now?" "Yes, I'm quite well,
thank you."
"Excellent! Have you prepared for your examination?" "Yes, I have."
"Well, then, let's have a little talk."
The little talk embraced almost the whole of sixth-grade geography. If
Volka had thought of looking at the time, he would have been surprised to
note that their little talk lasted nearly twenty minutes. But he couldn't be
bothered with the time. He thought the principal was not asking the
questions in great enough detail. He felt he could speak on each topic for
five or ten minutes. He was experiencing the tormenting and at once pleasant
feeling of a pupil who knows his subject inside-out and is most worried by
the thought that this fact might go unnoticed by his examiners. But one look
at Varvara Stepanovna convinced him that she was pleased with his answers.
Nevertheless, when the principal said, "Good for you! Now I can see that
your teacher hasn't wasted her time on you," Volka felt a pleasant chill run
down his spine. His freckled face spread into such a broad smile that the
principal and Varvara Stepanovna smiled, too.
"Yes, Kostylkov has obviously put in a lot of studying," his teacher
said.
Ah, if they only knew of the terribly difficult conditions under which
Volka had to prepare for his exam! What stratagems he had had to resort to,
how he had had to hide from Hottabych in order to have a chance to study
quietly; what colossal barriers the unsuspecting Hottabych had put in his
way! How much more his teachers would have respected his achievements, had
they only known!
For a moment, Volka was on the point of boasting of his own success as
a teacher (not everyone can proudly say he has taught a Genie to read and
write!), but he checked himself in time.
"Well, Kostylkov, congratulations on passing to the 7th grade! Have a
good rest until September. Get strong and healthy! Goodbye for now!"
"Thank you," Volka replied as discreetly as a 7th-grade pupil should.
"Good-bye."
When he arrived at the river bank, Hottabych, who had made himself
comfortable in the shade of a mighty oak, was reading the paper aloud to
Zhenya.
"I passed! I got an 'A'!" Volka whispered to his friend. Then he
stretched out beside Hottabych, experiencing at least three pleasant
feelings at once: the first was that he was lying in the shade; the second,
that he had passed his exam so well; and the last, but by no means least-the
pride of a teacher enjoying the achievements of his pupil.
Meanwhile, Hottabych had reached the section entitled "Sports News."
The very first article made the friends sigh with envy.
"In the middle of July, the ice-breaker 'Ladoga,' chartered by the
Central Excursion Bureau, will leave Arkhangelsk for the Arctic. Sixty-eight
persons, the best workers of Moscow and Leningrad, will spend their
vacations aboard it. This promises to be a very interesting cruise." "What a
trip! I'd give anything to go along," Volka said dreamily.
"You need only express your wish, 0 my most excellent friends, and you
shall go wherever you please!" Hottabych promised, for he yearned to somehow
repay his young teachers. Volka merely sighed again. Zhenya explained sadly:
"No, Hottabych, there's no question of it. Only famous people can get
aboard the 'Ladoga.' "
That very same day an old man dressed in a white suit and a straw
boater and wearing queer pink embroidered slippers with turned-up toes
entered the offices of the Central Excursion Bureau. He politely inquired
whether he had the good fortune of being in the chambers of that high-placed
establishment which granted people the fragrant joy of travel. The
secretary, surprised by such a flowery question, replied in the affirmative.
Then the old man inquired in the same florid language where the wise man
worthy of the greatest respect sat, he, who was in charge of booking passage
on the ice-breaker "Ladoga."
He was directed to a plump, bald man seated at a large desk piled high
with letters.
"But please bear in mind that there are no cabins left on the
'Ladoga'," the secretary warned.
The old man did not reply. He thanked her with a nod and approached the
plump man silently. In silence he made a low bow, in silence and with great
dignity he handed him a roll of paper wrapped in a newspaper; then he bowed
again, turned in silence and left, with the puzzled eyes of all who had
witnessed this curious scene following him out.
The bald man unwrapped the newspaper. There, on his desk, was the
strangest letter the Central Excursion Bureau had ever received-or, for that
matter, the strangest letter ever received by any Soviet office. It was a
yellow parchment scroll. A large green wax seal dangled from a golden silk
cord attached to it.
"Did you ever see anything like it?" the plump man asked loudly and ran
off to show it to his chief, in charge of long-range cruises.
When they had read it, his chief dropped his work and the two of them
dashed off to the director.
"What's the matter? Can't you see I'm busy?" the director said.
The section chief silently unrolled the parchment scroll.
"What's that? Is it from a museum?"
"No, it's from 'Incoming mail'."
"Incoming mail?! What's in it?" After reading the contents, the
director said, "Well, I've seen quite a lot in my day, but I've never
received such a letter. It must have been written by a maniac."
"Even if he is a maniac, he's a collector of antiques," the section
chief answered. "You try to get some genuine parchment nowadays."
"Just listen to what he's written," the director continued, forgetting
that his subordinates had already read the message. "It's typical raving!
" 'To the greatly respected Chief of Pleasures, the incorruptible and
enlightened Chief of the Long-Range Cruise Section, may his name be renowned
among the most honourable ' and respected Section Chiefs!' "
The director read this and winked at the section chief. "He means you,
I guess!" The section chief coughed in embarrassment.
" 'I, Hassan Abdurrakhman, the mighty Genie, the great Genie, known for
my power and might in Baghdad and Damascus, in Babylon and Sumer, son of
Hottab, the great King of Evil Spirits, a part of the Eternal Kingdom, whose
dynasty is pleasing to Sulayman, the Son of David (on the twain be peace!),
whose reign is pleasing to their hearts. Allah was overjoyed at my blessed
doings and blessed me, Hassan Abdurrakhman, a Genie who worshipped him. All
the kings reigning in the palaces of the Four Parts of the World, from the
Upper Sea to the Lower Sea, and the kings of the West who live in tents-all
have brought their homage to me and kissed my feet in Baghdad.
" 'It has become known to me, 0 most noble of Section Chiefs, that a
ship which navigates without sails and is named the "Ladoga" will soon set
out on a pleasure cruise from the city of Arkhangelsk with famous people of
various cities aboard. It is my wish that my two young friends, whose
virtues are so many that even a short enumeration of them will not fit into
this scroll, should also be among them.
" 'Alas, I have not been informed of how great a person's fame must be
in order that he be eligible for this magnificent trip. However, no matter
how great the requirements, my friends will meet them-nay, more than meet
them, for it is in my power to make them princes or sheiks, tsars or kings,
the most famous of the famous, the richest of the rich, the mightiest of the
mighty.
" 'I kiss your feet seven times and seven times and send you greetings,
0 wise Section Chief, and request you to ' inform me when I and my two young
companions should appear on board the above-mentioned ship, may storms and
ill-fortune by-pass it on its distant and dangerous journey!
" 'Signed by the hand of Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab, the Mighty
Genie.' "
At the very bottom was Volka's address, enclosed for a reply.
"'Ravings!" the director said, rolling up the scroll. "The ravings of a
madman. Stick it away in the file and be done with it."
"I think we'd better answer him, or the crazy old man will be dropping
in five times a day to find out about the outcome of his application. I
assure you, it'll be quite impossible to work in the office," the section
chief objected. A few minutes later he dictated an answer to his secretary.
Hottabych had acted unwisely in giving Volka's address for a reply. It
was only by the merest chance that Volka met the postman on the stairs. What
if this lucky meeting had not taken place? The letter from the Central
Excursion Bureau would have been delivered to his parents; all sorts of
questions would have followed, resulting in such a mess, that he didn't even
care to think of it.
The younger Kostylkov did not often receive mail addressed to him,
personally. In fact, not more than three or four times in all his life. That
is why, when the postman said he had a letter for him, Volka was greatly
surprised. When he saw the return address of the Central Excursion Bureau he
was stunned. He examined the envelope carefully and even smelled it, but it
only smelled of the paste on the flap. With trembling fingers he opened it
and read the section chief's short but polite reply several times over
without understanding a thing:
"Dear Citizen H. Abdurrakhmanov,
"We regret to inform you that we received your request too late. There
are no cabins left on the 'Ladoga.'
"My best regards to your princes and sheiks.
"Sincerely yours,
I. Domosedov, Section Chief of Long-Range Cruises."
"Can it be that the old man tried to get us on the 'Ladoga'?" it
suddenly occurred to Volka. He was deeply touched. "What a wonderful old
man! But I don't understand which princes and sheiks this Domosedov is
sending his regards to. I'll find out right away, though."
"Hottabych! Hey, Hottabych!" he shouted when he reached the river bank.
"Come here for a minute, will you?" The old man was dozing in the shade of
the great oak. When he heard Volka calling, he started, jumped to his feet,
and shuffled over to the boy.
"Here I am, 0 goalie of my soul," he panted. "I await your orders."
"Come clean now. Did you write to the Central Excursion Bureau?"
"Yes, but I wanted it to be a surprise. Did you receive an answer
already?"
"Sure, here it is," Volka said, showing the old man the letter.
Hottabych snatched the paper from him. After reading the tactful answer
slowly, syllable by syllable, he turned purple and began to tremble all
over. His eyes became bloodshot. In a great rage he ripped open his
embroidered collar.
"I beg your pardon," he wheezed, "I beg your pardon! I must leave you
for a few minutes to take care of that most despicable Domosedov. Oh, I know
what I'll do to him! I'll annihilate him! No, that's no good! He doesn't
deserve such merciful punishment. Better still, I'll turn him into a filthy
rag, and on rainy days people will wipe their dirty shoes on him before
entering a house. No! That's not enough to repay him for his insolent
refusal!"
With these words the old man zoomed into the air. But Volka shouted
sternly:
"Come back! Come back this minute!"
The old man returned obediently. His heavy grey brows were drawn
together gloomily.
"Really now!" Volka shouted, truly alarmed on the section chief's
account. "What's the matter! Are you crazy? Is it his fault there's no more
room on the ship? After all, it's not made of rubber, it can't stretch. And
will you please tell me who the sheiks and princes he refers to are?"
"You, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha, you and our friend Zhenya ibn Kolya, may
Allah grant you both a long life. I wrote and told this most degraded of all
section chiefs that he need not worry about your not being famous enough,
for no matter how famous the other passengers aboard the 'Ladoga' are, I can
make you, my friends, more famous still. I wrote this small-brained
Domosedov-may Allah forget him completely-that he may regard you as sheiks
or princes or tsars without even having seen you."
Despite the tenseness of the situation, Volka could not help laughing.
He laughed so loudly, that several very serious-minded jackdaws rose noisily
from the nearest tree and flew off indignantly.
"Help! That means I'm a prince!" Volka choked the words out through
peals of laughter.
"I must admit, I cannot understand the reason for your laughter,"
Hottabych said in a wounded tone. "But if we are to discuss the question
seriously, I had planned on making Zhenya a prince. I think you deserve to
be a sultan."
"Honestly, you'll be the death of me yet! Then Zhenya would be a
prince, while I'd be a sultan? What political backwardness!" Volka gasped
when he had finally stopped laughing. "What's so glorious about being a
prince or a king? Why, they're the most good-for-nothing people in the
world!"
"I'm afraid you've gone out of your mind," Hottabych said, looking
anxiously at his young companion. "As I understand it, even sultans aren't
good enough for you. Whom then do you consider to be famous? Name me at
least one such person."
"Why, Chutkikh, or Lunin, or Kozhedub, or Pasha Angelina."
"Who is this Chutkikh, a sultan?"
"Much higher than that! He's one of the best textile specialists in the
country!"
"And Lunin?"
"Lunin is the best engine driver!"
"And Kozhedub?"
"He's one of the very, very best pilots!"
"And whose wife is Pasha Angelina for you to consider her more famous
than a sheik or a king?"
"She's famous in her own right. It has nothing at all to do with her
husband. She's a famous tractor driver."
"0 precious Volka, how can you play such tricks on an old man like me!
Do you want to convince me that a plain weaver or a locomotive driver is
more famous than a tsar?"
"In the first place, Chutkikh isn't a plain weaver. He's a famous
innovator, known to the entire textile industry; and Lunin is a famous
engineer. And in the second place, the most ordinary worker in our country
is more respected than the tsar of tsars. Don't you believe me? Here, read
this."
Volka handed Hottabych the paper and there, with his own eyes, he read
the following heading: "Famous People of Our Country," beneath which were
over a dozen photographs of fitters, agronomists, pilots, collective
farmers, weavers, teachers and carpenters.
"I would never have believed you," Hottabych said with a sigh. "I would
never have believed you if your words had not been corroborated on the pages
of this newspaper I so respect. I beg you, 0 Volka, explain why everything
is so different in this wonderful country of yours?"
"With pleasure," Volka answered. And sitting down on the river bank, he
spoke at length and with great pride, explaining the essence of the Soviet
system to Hottabych.
There is no use repeating their long conversation.
"All you have said is as wise as it is noble. And to anyone who is
honest and just all this gives plenty to think about," Hottabych said
candidly when his first lesson in current events was over. After a short
pause he added:
"That is all the more reason why I want you and your friend to sail on
the 'Ladoga.' Believe me, I will see that it is arranged."
"But please, no rough stuff," Volka warned. "And no monkey-business.
That means no fakery. For instance, don't think of making me out to be a
straight 'A' pupil. I have 'B's in three subjects."
"Your every wish is my command," Hottabych replied and bowed low.
The old man was as good as his word. He did not lay a finger on a
single employee of the Central Excursion Bureau.
He just arranged matters so, that when our three friends boarded the
"Ladoga," they were met very warmly and were given an excellent cabin; and
no one ever inquired why in the world they had been included in the
passenger list-it simply did not occur to anyone to ask such a question.
To the captain's great surprise, twenty minutes before sailing time a
hundred and fifty crates of oranges, as many crates of excellent grapes, two
hundred crates of dates and a ton and a half of the finest Eastern
delicacies were delivered to the ship. The following message was stencilled
on each and every crate:
"For the passengers and the members of the fearless crew of the
'Ladoga,' from a citizen who wishes to remain anonymous."
One does not have to be especially clever to guess that these were
Hottabych's gifts: he did not want the three of them to take part in the
expedition at someone else's expense.
And if you ask any of the former passengers, they still cherish the
kindest feelings for the "citizen who wished to remain anonymous." His gifts
were well liked by all.
Now, having made it sufficiently clear to the readers how our friends
found themselves aboard the "Ladoga," we can continue our story with a clear
conscience.
If you recall, dear readers, it was a hot July noon when the
ice-breaker "Ladoga" sailed from the Red Pier in the port of Arkhangelsk
with a large group of excursionists on board. Our three friends, Hottabych,
Volka and Zhenya, were among the passengers. Hottabych was sitting on deck,
conversing solemnly with a middle-aged fitter from Sverdlovsk on the
advantages of cloth shoes as compared to leather ones, pointing out the
comfort people suffering from old corns found in cloth shoes.
Volka and Zhenya were leaning on the railing of the top deck. They were
as happy as only boys can be who are aboard a real ice-breaker for the first
time in their lives, and, to top it all, are sailing away for a whole month,
not to just any old place, but to the Arctic.
After exchanging opinions on boats, diesel ships, ice-breakers,
tug-boats, schooners, trawlers, cutters, and other types of craft skimming
over the surface of the Northern Dvina, the boys fell silent, enchanted by
the beauty of the great river.
"Isn't that something!" Volka said in a voice that seemed to imply he
was responsible for all this beauty.
"Uh-huh."
"Nobody'd believe it if you told them."
"Uh-huh!"
"I'm really glad that we. .." Volka began after a long pause and looked
around cautiously to see if Hottabych was anywhere nearby. Just in case, he
continued in a whisper, "... that we've taken the old man away from Varvara
Stepanovna for at least a month."
"Sure," Zhenya agreed.
"There's the Mate in charge of the passengers," Volka whispered,
nodding towards a young sailor with a freckled face.
They looked with awe at the man who carried his high and romantic title
so nonchalantly. His glance slid over the young passengers unseeingly and
came to rest on a sailor who was leaning on the railing nearby.
"What's the matter, are you feeling homesick?"
"Well, here we are, off again for a whole month to the end of
nowheres."
The boys were amazed to discover that someone might not want to go to
the Arctic! What a strange fellow!
"A real sailor is a guest on shore and at home at sea!" the Passenger
Mate said weightily. "Did you ever hear that saying?"
"Well, I can't say I'm a real sailor, since I'm only a waiter."
"Then get one dinner in the galley and take it to Cabin 14, to a lady
named Koltsova."
"That's the same last name as Varvara Stepanovna has," Volka remarked
to Zhenya.
"Uh-huh."
"She's a middle-aged lady and she caught cold on the way here," the
Mate explained. "It's nothing very serious," he said, as if to calm the
waiter, though the latter did not appear in any way alarmed at the lady's
state of health. "She only ought to stay in her cabin a day or two and
she'll be all right. And please be especially nice. She's an Honoured
Teacher of the Republic."
"An Honoured Teacher! And her last name is Koltsova. What a
coincidence!" Volka whispered.
"Well, it's a very common last name, just like Ivanov," Zhenya objected
in a voice that was suddenly hoarse.
"Her name and patronymic are Varvara Stepanovna," the Mate went on.
The boys saw spots before their eyes.
"It's no matter that she's Varvara Stepanovna, too. That doesn't mean
she's our Varvara Stepanovna," Zhenya said in an effort to reassure himself
and his friend.
At this point, however, Volka recalled the conversation that had taken
place in the principal's office when he was there to take his geography
examination. He merely shrugged hopelessly.
"It's she all right. That's exactly who it is. I'm scared to think
what'll happen to her. Why couldn't she go some place else!"
"We'll save her anyway, we just have to think of a way," Zhenya said
darkly after a short but painful silence.
They sat down on a bench, thought a while, and complained of their bad
luck: such a journey was really something wonderful for anyone else, but it
would be nothing but a headache for them from now on. Yet, since this was
the way things had turned out, they must save their teacher. But how? Why,
it was all quite simple: by distracting Hottabych.
They had no need to worry today, for she would certainly be confined to
her cabin till the morrow. Then they would plan their strategy as follows:
one would go strolling with Varvara Stepanovna, or sit on a bench talking to
her, while the other would be distracting Hottabych. For instance, Volka and
Hottabych might play a game of chess, while Zhenya and Varvara Stepanovna
took a stroll down the deck. Volka and Hottabych could be on deck, while
Zhenya and Varvara Stepanovna were talking somewhere far away, in a cabin or
someplace. The only points remaining to be cleared up were what they were
supposed to do when everyone went ashore together or gathered for meals in
the mess hall.
"What if we disguise her?" Volka suggested.
"What do you want to do-stick a beard on her?" Zhenya snapped.
"Nonsense. Make-up won't save her. We'll have to think it over carefully."
"Ahoy, my young friends! Where are you?" Hottabych shouted from below.
"We're here, we're coming right down."
They went down to the promenade deck.
"I and my honourable friend here are having an argument about the Union
of South Africa," Hottabych said, introducing them to his companion.
Things were going from bad to worse. If the old man began advertising
his knowledge of geography, the passengers would surely laugh at him; he
might very well become offended, and what might happen then did not bear
thinking about.
"Who's right, my young friends? Isn't Pretoria the capital of the Union
of South Africa?"
"Sure it is," the boys agreed.
They were amazed. How had the old man come by this correct information?
Maybe from the papers? Naturally. That was the only answer.
"My honourable friend here insists it's Cape Town, not Pretoria,"
Hottabych said triumphantly. "We also argued about how far above us the
stratosphere is. I said that one could not draw a definite line between the
troposphere and the stratosphere, since it is higher or lower in various
parts of the world. And also that the line of the horizon, which, as one can
ascertain from the science of geography, is no more than a figment of our
imagination...." .
"Hottabych, I want a word with you in private," Volka interrupted
sternly. They walked off to a side. "Tell me the truth, was it you who
filched my geography book?"
"May I be permitted to know what you mean by that strange " word? If
you mean, 0 Volka, that I.... What's the matter now, 0 anchor of my heart?
You're as pale as a ghost."
Volka's jaw dropped. His gaze became fixed on something behind the old
useless battle to free itself.
"It will come in handy for the chowder," Volka said, plucking it from
the net. But it again began to struggle in his hands, and he suddenly felt
sorry for it. He turned round to make sure the fishermen weren't looking and
threw it back into the water.
The fish made a small splash as it hit the dark surface of the lagoon
and turned into a beaming Hottabych.
"May the day upon which you were born be forever blessed, 0
kind-hearted son of Alyosha!" he exclaimed gratefully, as he stood
waist-deep in water. "Once again you've saved my life A few moments more and
I would have choked in that net. got foolishly trapped in it while searching
for my unfortunate brother."
"Hottabych, old man! What a great fellow you are for being alive! We
were so worried!"
"And I, too, was tortured by the thought that you, 0 twice my saviour,
and our young friend were left alone and hungry in an alien country."
"We're not hungry at all. These fishermen really treated us to a
feast."
"May these kind people be blessed! Are they rich?"
"I think they're very poor."
"Then let's hurry, and I will return their kindness generously."
"I don't think it's the right thing to do," Volka said after a moment's
pause. "Put yourself in their place: suddenly you see a wet old man climbing
out of the water in the middle of the night. No, this is no good at all."
"You're right as always," Hottabych agreed. "Return to the shore and
I'll join you presently."
A short while later, the sleeping fishermen were awakened by the sound
of an approaching horse. Soon a strange rider stopped at the smouldering
fire.
He was an old man in a cheap linen suit and a hard straw boater. His
magnificent beard was wind-blown, disclosing to all who cared to look an
embroidered Ukrainian shirt. He wore a pair of gold and silver embroidered
pink slippers with funny turned-up toes. His feet were placed in gold
stirrups that were studded with diamonds and emeralds. The saddle upon which
he sat was so magnificent that it was surely worth a fortune. The prancing
horse was of indescribable beauty. In each hand the old man held a large
leather suitcase.
"Would you please direct me to the noble fishermen who have so kindly
taken in and fed two lonely, hungry boys?" he said to Giovanni, who had
risen to greet him.
Without waiting for an answer, he dismounted, and, with a sigh of
relief, set the suitcases on the sand.
"What's the matter? Do you know them?" Giovanni asked cautiously.
"Certainly I know my young friends!" Hottabych cried, embracing each in
turn as they ran up to him.
Then he addressed the startled fishermen:
"Believe me, 0 most honourable of all fishermen, when I say I do not
know how to thank you enough for your precious hospitality and kindness!"
"Why, there's nothing to thank us for. Not for the fish certainly?" the
grey-haired fisherman said in surprise. "It didn't Set us back much, believe
me, Signore."
"These are the words of a truly selfless man, and they only increase my
feeling of gratitude. Permit me to repay you with these modest gifts,"
Hottabych said, handing a dumb-founded Giovanni the two suitcases.
"There must be some mistake, 0 respected Signore," Giovanni uttered
after exchanging puzzled glances with his companions. "Why, you can buy at
least a thousand chowders like the one we shared with the boys for two such
suitcases. I don't want you to think it was a very special kind of chowder.
We're poor people...."
"It is you who are mistaken, 0 most modest of all kind-hearted people!
Within these excellent boxes which you call by the scholarly name of
'suitcase' are riches that are thousands and thousands of times greater than
the cost of your soup. Nonetheless, I consider they cannot pay for it, for
there is nothing more precious in the world than disinterested hospitality."
He opened the suitcases and everyone saw that they were crammed with
magnificent, live, silvery fish.
While the fishermen were still wondering what sense there was in giving
fishermen fish, Hottabych emptied the quivering contents of the suitcases
onto the sand. It was then that the three men gasped in surprise and
amazement: in some strange way, both suitcases were found to be crammed full
of fish again! Hottabych emptied the suitcases once again, and once again
they were filled with the marvellous gifts of the sea. This was repeated a
fourth and a fifth time.
"And now," Hottabych said, enjoying the impression he had made, "if you
wish, you can test the wonderful qualities of these 'suitcases' yourselves.
Never again will you have to shiver in your little dingy in foul weather or
in the fog of early dawn. You will no longer have to pray to Allah for luck,
you will never again have to drag about the market-place with heavy baskets
of fish. You need only take along one of these 'suitcases' and give the
customer exactly as much as he wants. But I beg you, do not object,"
Hottabych said when he noticed that the fishermen were about to say
something. "I assure you, there has been no mistake. May your life be happy
and cloudless, 0 most noble of fishermen! Farewell! Hop up here, boys!"
With Giovanni's help, the boys climbed into the saddle behind
Hottabych.
"Farewell, Signore! Good-bye, boys!" the dazed fishermen shouted, as
they watched the surprising strangers disappear in the distance.
"Even if these were ordinary suitcases, not magic ones, we could get
many liras for them," Giovanni said thoughtfully.
"Well, I think we'll finally be able to make ends meet now, Pietro,"
the oldest of the three added. He was close to sixty, with a wrinkled,
weather-beaten face and dry, sinewy arms. "We'll pay our taxes, cure my
cursed rheumatism, and buy you a coat, a hat and a pair of shoes, Giovanni.
After all, you're a young man and you should be dressed well. As a matter of
fact, some new clothes won't harm any of us, will they?"
"New clothes!" Giovanni mimicked angrily. "When there's so much sorrow
and poverty everywhere! First of all, we'll have to help Giacomo's widow,
you know, the one who drowned last year and left three children and an old
mother."
"You're right, Giovanni," Pietro agreed. "We should help Giacomo's
widow. He was a good and true friend."
Then the third fisherman entered the conversation. He was a man of
thirty, and his name was Cristoforo.
"What about Luigi? We should give him some money, too. The poor
fellow's dying of tuberculosis."
"That's right," Giovanni said. "And Sybilla Capelli. Her son's been in
prison for over a year now for organizing the strike."
"Just think how many people we can help," Giovanni said excitedly. And
the three kind fishermen sat late into the night, discussing whom else they
could help, now that they had the wonderful suitcases. These were honest and
kind-hearted toilers, and the idea never entered their minds to use
Hottabych's present in order to get rich and be wealthy fishmongers.
I am happy to tell this to my readers, so they'll know the old man's
present fell into good hands, and I'm certain that none of them, if they
were in the fishermen's place, would have acted otherwise.
This time Hottabych was true to his word. He had promised he'd be back
in two or three hours. At about a quarter to nine his beaming face shot out
of the water. The old man was excited. He scrambled up on the beach,
carrying a large seaweed-covered metal object over his head.
"I found him, my friends!" he yelled. "I found the vessel in which my
unfortunate brother Omar Asaf ibn Hottab has been imprisoned these many
centuries-may the sun always shine over him! I scanned the whole sea bottom
and was beginning to despair when I noticed this magic vessel in the green
vastness near the Pillars of Hercules."
"What are you waiting for? Hurry up and open it!" Zhenya cried, running
up to the exultant old man.
"I dare not open it, for it is sealed with Sulayman's Seal. Let Volka
ibn Alyosha, who freed me, also free my long-suffering little brother.
Here's the vessel which I have spent so many sleepless nights dreaming
about!" Hottabych continued, waving his find overhead.
"Here, 0 Volka, open it, to the joy of my brother Omar and myself!"
Pressing his ear to the side of the vessel, he laughed happily, "Oho,
my friends! Omar is signalling to me from within!"
There was envy in Zhenya's eyes as he watched the old man hand a
nattered Volka the vessel, or, rather, lay it at Volka's feet, since it was
so heavy.
"But didn't you say that Omar was imprisoned in a copper vessel? This
one's made of iron. Oh well, no matter.... Where's the seal? Aha, here it
is!" Volka said, inspecting the vessel carefully from all sides.
Suddenly he turned pale and shouted:
"Quick, lie down! Zhenya, lie down! Hottabych, throw it right back into
the water and lie down!"
"You're mad!" Hottabych said indignantly. "I've dreamed of our meeting
for so many years, and now, after finding him, you want me to throw him back
to the waves."
"Throw it as far out as you can! Your Omar isn't inside! Hurry, or
we'll all be dead!" Volka pleaded. Since the old man still hesitated, he
yelled at the top of his voice, "It is an order! Do you hear?!"
Shrugging in dismay, Hottabych raised the heavy object, heaved it and
tossed it at least 200 yards from the shore.
Before he had a chance to turn for an explanation towards Volka, who
was standing beside him, there was a terrible explosion at the spot the
vessel hit the water. A huge pillar of water rose over the calm surface of
the lagoon and fell apart with a loud crash. Thousands of stunned and killed
fish floated bellies up on the waves.
People were already running towards them, attracted by the sound of the
explosion.
"Let's run!" Volka commanded.
They hurried to the highway and headed towards the city.
A grieved Hottabych lagged behind and kept turning round constantly. He
was still not convinced that he had done right by obeying Volka.
"What did you see on the thing?" Zhenya asked when he had caught up
with Volka, who was way ahead of him and Hottabych.
" 'Made in USA,' that's what!"
"So it was a bomb."
"No, it was a mine. There's a big difference! It was an underwater
mine."
Hottabych sighed sadly.
When Hottabych saw that Omar was not to be found in the Mediterranean
Sea, he suggested that they set out to the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. The
suggestion in itself was extremely tempting. However, Volka was unexpectedly
against it. He said that he had to be in Moscow the following day without
fail. But he would not tell them the reason, he just said it was very
important. And so, with a heavy heart, Hottabych temporarily put off the
search for Omar Asaf.
The "VK-1" magic-carpet-seaplane with Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab,
Volka Kostylkov and Zhenya Bogorad aboard, soared into the air and
disappeared beyond the far-off mountains.
Some ten hours later it landed safely on the sloping bank of the Moskva
River.
On a hot July noon, the ice-breaker "Ladoga," carrying a large group of
excursionists, left the Red Pier of the port of Arkhangelsk. The band on the
pier was playing marches. People waved their handkerchiefs and shouted "Bon
voyage!" Trailing white puffs of steam, the ship sailed cautiously out into
the middle of the Severnaya Dvina, past the many Soviet and foreign ships at
anchor there, and headed for the mouth of the river and the White Sea.
Endless cutters, motor-boats, schooners, trawlers, gigs, and cumbersome
rafts ploughed the calm surface of the great northern river.
The excursionists, who were now gathered on the top deck, were leaving
Arkhangelsk and the mainland for a whole month.
"Volka!" one of the passengers shouted to another, who was anxiously
darting about near the captain's bridge, "Where's Hottabych?"
The perceptive reader will gather from these words that our old friends
were among the passengers.
Here we should like to pause for a moment and tell our readers how our
three friends came to be aboard the "Ladoga" in the first place.
Naturally, everyone recalls that Volka failed his geography examination
disgracefully, which was largely his own fault (he should never have relied
on prompting). It is difficult to forget such an event. Volka certainly
remembered it and was studying intently for his re-examination. He had
decided to do his utmost to get an "A."
Despite his sincere desire to prepare for the examination, it was not
as easy as it seemed. Hottabych was in the way. Volka had never mustered up
enough courage to tell the old man of the true consequences of his fatal
prompting. That is why he could never tell him he needed time to study,
since he feared that Hottabych might decide to punish his teachers, and
Varvara Stepanovna in particular, for having failed him.
Hottabych made himself particularly troublesome the day of the unusual
football match between the Shaiba and Zubilo teams.
Feeling terribly contrite for all the anguish he had caused Volka at
the stadium, Hottabych fairly shadowed him; he tried to regain his favour by
scattering compliments and proposing the most tempting adventures. It was
not until eleven o'clock at night that Volka had a chance to get down to his
studies.
"With your permission, 0 Volka, I shall go to sleep, for I feel
somewhat drowsy," Hottabych finally said, as he yawned and crawled under the
bed.
"Good night, Hottabych! Sweet dreams!" Volka answered, settling back in
his chair and gazing at his bed longingly. He was also tired and, as he put
it, was quite ready to doze off for some 500 or 600 minutes. But he had to
study, and so reluctantly put his mind to his work.
Alas! The rustling of the pages attracted the sleepy Genie's attention.
He stuck his head and dishevelled beard from under the bed and said in a
foggy voice:
"Why aren't you in bed yet, 0 stadium of my soul?"
"I'm not sleepy. I have insomnia," Volka lied.
"My, my, my!" Hottabych said compassionately. "That's really too bad.
Insomnia is extremely harmful at your delicate age. But don't despair,
there's nothing I can't do."
He yanked several hairs from his beard, blew on them, whispered
something, and Volka, who had no time to object to this untimely and
unnecessary aid, fell asleep immediately, with his head resting on the
table.
"Praised be Allah! All is well," Hottabych mumbled, crawling out from
under the bed. "May you remain in the embraces of sleep until breakfast
time!"
He lifted the sleeping boy lightly and carefully lay him to rest in his
bed, pulling the blanket over him. Then, clucking and mumbling with
satisfaction, he crawled back under the bed.
All night long the table lamp cast its useless light on the geography
text-book, forlornly opened at page 11.
You can well imagine how cunning Volka had to be to prepare for his
re-examination in such difficult circumstances. This was the very important
reason why Volka (and, therefore, Hottabych and Zhenya) had to fly home to
Moscow from Genoa instead of continuing on to the shores of the Atlantic
Ocean.
However, Volka soon found out that preparing for the examination was
only half the job done. He had yet to think of a way to get rid of Hottabych
while he was in school taking the exam, to find a way of leaving the
apartment unnoticed.
The telephone rang. Volka went to the foyer to answer it. It was
Zhenya.
"Hello!" Volka said. "Yes, today. At noon.... He's still sleeping....
What?. . . Sure, he's well. He's a very healthy old man.... What?... No, I
haven't thought of anything yet.... You're crazy! He'll be terribly hurt and
he'll do such mischief we won't be able to undo it in a hundred years....
Then you'll be here at ten-thirty? Fine!"
Hottabych stuck his head out of Volka's room. He whispered
reproachfully, "Volka, why are you talking to our best friend Zhenya ibn
Kolya in the hall? That's not polite. Wouldn't it be nicer if you invited
him in?"
"How can he come in if he's at home?"
Hottabych was offended.
"I can't understand why you want to play tricks on your old devoted
Genie. My ears have never yet deceived me. I just heard you talking to
Zhenya."
"I was talking to him on the telephone. Don't you understand-te-le-ph
one? I sure do have a lot of trouble with you! What a thing to get mad at!
Come here, I'll show you what I mean!"
Hottabych joined him. Volka removed the receiver and dialled the
familiar number.
"Will you please call Zhenya to the phone?" he said.
Then he handed the receiver to Hottabych.
"Here, you can talk to him now."
Hottabych pressed the receiver to his ear cautiously and his face broke
into a puzzled smile.
"Is that really you, 0 blessed Zhenya ibn Kolya? Where are you now?...
At home?... And I thought you were sitting in this black little thing I'm
holding to my ear.... Yes, that's right, it's me, your devoted friend Hassan
Abdurrakhman ibn Hot-tab.... You'll be here soon? If that's the case, may
your trip be blessed!"
Beaming with pleasure, he handed the receiver back to Volka, who was
looking very superior.
"It's amazing!" Hottabych exclaimed. "Without once raising my voice I
spoke to a boy who is two hours' walking distance away!"
Returning to Volka's room, the old man turned round slyly, snapped the
fingers of his left hand, and there appeared on the wall over the aquarium
an exact copy of the telephone hanging in the hall.
"Now you can talk to your friends as much as you like without leaving
your own room."
"Golly, thanks a lot!" Volka said gratefully. He removed the receiver,
pressed it to his ear and listened.
There was no dial tone.
"Hello! Hello!" he shouted. He shook the receiver and then blew into
it. Still, there was no dial tone.
"The phone's broken," he explained to Hottabych. "FU unscrew the
receiver and see what's wrong."
However, despite all his efforts, he could not unscrew it.
"It's made of the finest black marble," Hottabych boasted.
"Then there's nothing inside?" Volka asked disappointedly.
"Why, is there supposed to be something inside this, too? Just like in
a watch?"
"Now I know why it doesn't work. You've only made a model of a
telephone, without anything that's supposed to go inside it. But the insides
are the most important part."
"What's supposed to be inside? A special kind of filling? The kind that
was in the watch, with all kinds of wheels? You just explain it, and I'll
make it exactly as it should be."
"It's not like a watch; it's entirely different. And it's not so easy
to explain. You have to study all about electricity first," Volka said with
an air of importance.
"Then teach me about what you call electricity."
"To begin with, you have to study arithmetic, algebra, geometry,
trigonometry, mechanical drawing and all kinds of other subjects."
"Then teach me these other subjects, too."
"Uh ... well... I don't know all of them myself, yet," Volka confessed.
"Then teach me what you already know."
"It'll take an awfully long time."
"That doesn't matter. I am willing, nonetheless. Don't keep me in
suspense: will you teach me these subjects, which give a person such
wonderful powers?"
"On condition that you do your homework well," Volka said sternly.
"Here, read the paper while I go to see a friend of mine about something."
He handed Hottabych a copy of Pionerskaya Pravda and set out for school.
The light-grey school building was unusually deserted and quiet. In the
office on the first floor the principal and Varvara Stepanovna were
discussing school problems, and on the third floor the loud, cheerful voices
of the painters and plasterers echoed through the halls. It was summer and
the school was being renovated.
"Well, my dear Varvara Stepanovna, what shall I say?" the principal
said with a smile. "One can only envy such a vacation. How long will you be
gone?" "I believe for a month or so."
Volka was glad to hear that Varvara Stepanovna would not be in danger
of encountering Hottabych for at least a month. If only she would leave as
quickly as possible!
"Aha, the crystal cupola of the heavens!" the principal teased as he
greeted Volka. "Well, are you feeling better now?" "Yes, I'm quite well,
thank you."
"Excellent! Have you prepared for your examination?" "Yes, I have."
"Well, then, let's have a little talk."
The little talk embraced almost the whole of sixth-grade geography. If
Volka had thought of looking at the time, he would have been surprised to
note that their little talk lasted nearly twenty minutes. But he couldn't be
bothered with the time. He thought the principal was not asking the
questions in great enough detail. He felt he could speak on each topic for
five or ten minutes. He was experiencing the tormenting and at once pleasant
feeling of a pupil who knows his subject inside-out and is most worried by
the thought that this fact might go unnoticed by his examiners. But one look
at Varvara Stepanovna convinced him that she was pleased with his answers.
Nevertheless, when the principal said, "Good for you! Now I can see that
your teacher hasn't wasted her time on you," Volka felt a pleasant chill run
down his spine. His freckled face spread into such a broad smile that the
principal and Varvara Stepanovna smiled, too.
"Yes, Kostylkov has obviously put in a lot of studying," his teacher
said.
Ah, if they only knew of the terribly difficult conditions under which
Volka had to prepare for his exam! What stratagems he had had to resort to,
how he had had to hide from Hottabych in order to have a chance to study
quietly; what colossal barriers the unsuspecting Hottabych had put in his
way! How much more his teachers would have respected his achievements, had
they only known!
For a moment, Volka was on the point of boasting of his own success as
a teacher (not everyone can proudly say he has taught a Genie to read and
write!), but he checked himself in time.
"Well, Kostylkov, congratulations on passing to the 7th grade! Have a
good rest until September. Get strong and healthy! Goodbye for now!"
"Thank you," Volka replied as discreetly as a 7th-grade pupil should.
"Good-bye."
When he arrived at the river bank, Hottabych, who had made himself
comfortable in the shade of a mighty oak, was reading the paper aloud to
Zhenya.
"I passed! I got an 'A'!" Volka whispered to his friend. Then he
stretched out beside Hottabych, experiencing at least three pleasant
feelings at once: the first was that he was lying in the shade; the second,
that he had passed his exam so well; and the last, but by no means least-the
pride of a teacher enjoying the achievements of his pupil.
Meanwhile, Hottabych had reached the section entitled "Sports News."
The very first article made the friends sigh with envy.
"In the middle of July, the ice-breaker 'Ladoga,' chartered by the
Central Excursion Bureau, will leave Arkhangelsk for the Arctic. Sixty-eight
persons, the best workers of Moscow and Leningrad, will spend their
vacations aboard it. This promises to be a very interesting cruise." "What a
trip! I'd give anything to go along," Volka said dreamily.
"You need only express your wish, 0 my most excellent friends, and you
shall go wherever you please!" Hottabych promised, for he yearned to somehow
repay his young teachers. Volka merely sighed again. Zhenya explained sadly:
"No, Hottabych, there's no question of it. Only famous people can get
aboard the 'Ladoga.' "
That very same day an old man dressed in a white suit and a straw
boater and wearing queer pink embroidered slippers with turned-up toes
entered the offices of the Central Excursion Bureau. He politely inquired
whether he had the good fortune of being in the chambers of that high-placed
establishment which granted people the fragrant joy of travel. The
secretary, surprised by such a flowery question, replied in the affirmative.
Then the old man inquired in the same florid language where the wise man
worthy of the greatest respect sat, he, who was in charge of booking passage
on the ice-breaker "Ladoga."
He was directed to a plump, bald man seated at a large desk piled high
with letters.
"But please bear in mind that there are no cabins left on the
'Ladoga'," the secretary warned.
The old man did not reply. He thanked her with a nod and approached the
plump man silently. In silence he made a low bow, in silence and with great
dignity he handed him a roll of paper wrapped in a newspaper; then he bowed
again, turned in silence and left, with the puzzled eyes of all who had
witnessed this curious scene following him out.
The bald man unwrapped the newspaper. There, on his desk, was the
strangest letter the Central Excursion Bureau had ever received-or, for that
matter, the strangest letter ever received by any Soviet office. It was a
yellow parchment scroll. A large green wax seal dangled from a golden silk
cord attached to it.
"Did you ever see anything like it?" the plump man asked loudly and ran
off to show it to his chief, in charge of long-range cruises.
When they had read it, his chief dropped his work and the two of them
dashed off to the director.
"What's the matter? Can't you see I'm busy?" the director said.
The section chief silently unrolled the parchment scroll.
"What's that? Is it from a museum?"
"No, it's from 'Incoming mail'."
"Incoming mail?! What's in it?" After reading the contents, the
director said, "Well, I've seen quite a lot in my day, but I've never
received such a letter. It must have been written by a maniac."
"Even if he is a maniac, he's a collector of antiques," the section
chief answered. "You try to get some genuine parchment nowadays."
"Just listen to what he's written," the director continued, forgetting
that his subordinates had already read the message. "It's typical raving!
" 'To the greatly respected Chief of Pleasures, the incorruptible and
enlightened Chief of the Long-Range Cruise Section, may his name be renowned
among the most honourable ' and respected Section Chiefs!' "
The director read this and winked at the section chief. "He means you,
I guess!" The section chief coughed in embarrassment.
" 'I, Hassan Abdurrakhman, the mighty Genie, the great Genie, known for
my power and might in Baghdad and Damascus, in Babylon and Sumer, son of
Hottab, the great King of Evil Spirits, a part of the Eternal Kingdom, whose
dynasty is pleasing to Sulayman, the Son of David (on the twain be peace!),
whose reign is pleasing to their hearts. Allah was overjoyed at my blessed
doings and blessed me, Hassan Abdurrakhman, a Genie who worshipped him. All
the kings reigning in the palaces of the Four Parts of the World, from the
Upper Sea to the Lower Sea, and the kings of the West who live in tents-all
have brought their homage to me and kissed my feet in Baghdad.
" 'It has become known to me, 0 most noble of Section Chiefs, that a
ship which navigates without sails and is named the "Ladoga" will soon set
out on a pleasure cruise from the city of Arkhangelsk with famous people of
various cities aboard. It is my wish that my two young friends, whose
virtues are so many that even a short enumeration of them will not fit into
this scroll, should also be among them.
" 'Alas, I have not been informed of how great a person's fame must be
in order that he be eligible for this magnificent trip. However, no matter
how great the requirements, my friends will meet them-nay, more than meet
them, for it is in my power to make them princes or sheiks, tsars or kings,
the most famous of the famous, the richest of the rich, the mightiest of the
mighty.
" 'I kiss your feet seven times and seven times and send you greetings,
0 wise Section Chief, and request you to ' inform me when I and my two young
companions should appear on board the above-mentioned ship, may storms and
ill-fortune by-pass it on its distant and dangerous journey!
" 'Signed by the hand of Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab, the Mighty
Genie.' "
At the very bottom was Volka's address, enclosed for a reply.
"'Ravings!" the director said, rolling up the scroll. "The ravings of a
madman. Stick it away in the file and be done with it."
"I think we'd better answer him, or the crazy old man will be dropping
in five times a day to find out about the outcome of his application. I
assure you, it'll be quite impossible to work in the office," the section
chief objected. A few minutes later he dictated an answer to his secretary.
Hottabych had acted unwisely in giving Volka's address for a reply. It
was only by the merest chance that Volka met the postman on the stairs. What
if this lucky meeting had not taken place? The letter from the Central
Excursion Bureau would have been delivered to his parents; all sorts of
questions would have followed, resulting in such a mess, that he didn't even
care to think of it.
The younger Kostylkov did not often receive mail addressed to him,
personally. In fact, not more than three or four times in all his life. That
is why, when the postman said he had a letter for him, Volka was greatly
surprised. When he saw the return address of the Central Excursion Bureau he
was stunned. He examined the envelope carefully and even smelled it, but it
only smelled of the paste on the flap. With trembling fingers he opened it
and read the section chief's short but polite reply several times over
without understanding a thing:
"Dear Citizen H. Abdurrakhmanov,
"We regret to inform you that we received your request too late. There
are no cabins left on the 'Ladoga.'
"My best regards to your princes and sheiks.
"Sincerely yours,
I. Domosedov, Section Chief of Long-Range Cruises."
"Can it be that the old man tried to get us on the 'Ladoga'?" it
suddenly occurred to Volka. He was deeply touched. "What a wonderful old
man! But I don't understand which princes and sheiks this Domosedov is
sending his regards to. I'll find out right away, though."
"Hottabych! Hey, Hottabych!" he shouted when he reached the river bank.
"Come here for a minute, will you?" The old man was dozing in the shade of
the great oak. When he heard Volka calling, he started, jumped to his feet,
and shuffled over to the boy.
"Here I am, 0 goalie of my soul," he panted. "I await your orders."
"Come clean now. Did you write to the Central Excursion Bureau?"
"Yes, but I wanted it to be a surprise. Did you receive an answer
already?"
"Sure, here it is," Volka said, showing the old man the letter.
Hottabych snatched the paper from him. After reading the tactful answer
slowly, syllable by syllable, he turned purple and began to tremble all
over. His eyes became bloodshot. In a great rage he ripped open his
embroidered collar.
"I beg your pardon," he wheezed, "I beg your pardon! I must leave you
for a few minutes to take care of that most despicable Domosedov. Oh, I know
what I'll do to him! I'll annihilate him! No, that's no good! He doesn't
deserve such merciful punishment. Better still, I'll turn him into a filthy
rag, and on rainy days people will wipe their dirty shoes on him before
entering a house. No! That's not enough to repay him for his insolent
refusal!"
With these words the old man zoomed into the air. But Volka shouted
sternly:
"Come back! Come back this minute!"
The old man returned obediently. His heavy grey brows were drawn
together gloomily.
"Really now!" Volka shouted, truly alarmed on the section chief's
account. "What's the matter! Are you crazy? Is it his fault there's no more
room on the ship? After all, it's not made of rubber, it can't stretch. And
will you please tell me who the sheiks and princes he refers to are?"
"You, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha, you and our friend Zhenya ibn Kolya, may
Allah grant you both a long life. I wrote and told this most degraded of all
section chiefs that he need not worry about your not being famous enough,
for no matter how famous the other passengers aboard the 'Ladoga' are, I can
make you, my friends, more famous still. I wrote this small-brained
Domosedov-may Allah forget him completely-that he may regard you as sheiks
or princes or tsars without even having seen you."
Despite the tenseness of the situation, Volka could not help laughing.
He laughed so loudly, that several very serious-minded jackdaws rose noisily
from the nearest tree and flew off indignantly.
"Help! That means I'm a prince!" Volka choked the words out through
peals of laughter.
"I must admit, I cannot understand the reason for your laughter,"
Hottabych said in a wounded tone. "But if we are to discuss the question
seriously, I had planned on making Zhenya a prince. I think you deserve to
be a sultan."
"Honestly, you'll be the death of me yet! Then Zhenya would be a
prince, while I'd be a sultan? What political backwardness!" Volka gasped
when he had finally stopped laughing. "What's so glorious about being a
prince or a king? Why, they're the most good-for-nothing people in the
world!"
"I'm afraid you've gone out of your mind," Hottabych said, looking
anxiously at his young companion. "As I understand it, even sultans aren't
good enough for you. Whom then do you consider to be famous? Name me at
least one such person."
"Why, Chutkikh, or Lunin, or Kozhedub, or Pasha Angelina."
"Who is this Chutkikh, a sultan?"
"Much higher than that! He's one of the best textile specialists in the
country!"
"And Lunin?"
"Lunin is the best engine driver!"
"And Kozhedub?"
"He's one of the very, very best pilots!"
"And whose wife is Pasha Angelina for you to consider her more famous
than a sheik or a king?"
"She's famous in her own right. It has nothing at all to do with her
husband. She's a famous tractor driver."
"0 precious Volka, how can you play such tricks on an old man like me!
Do you want to convince me that a plain weaver or a locomotive driver is
more famous than a tsar?"
"In the first place, Chutkikh isn't a plain weaver. He's a famous
innovator, known to the entire textile industry; and Lunin is a famous
engineer. And in the second place, the most ordinary worker in our country
is more respected than the tsar of tsars. Don't you believe me? Here, read
this."
Volka handed Hottabych the paper and there, with his own eyes, he read
the following heading: "Famous People of Our Country," beneath which were
over a dozen photographs of fitters, agronomists, pilots, collective
farmers, weavers, teachers and carpenters.
"I would never have believed you," Hottabych said with a sigh. "I would
never have believed you if your words had not been corroborated on the pages
of this newspaper I so respect. I beg you, 0 Volka, explain why everything
is so different in this wonderful country of yours?"
"With pleasure," Volka answered. And sitting down on the river bank, he
spoke at length and with great pride, explaining the essence of the Soviet
system to Hottabych.
There is no use repeating their long conversation.
"All you have said is as wise as it is noble. And to anyone who is
honest and just all this gives plenty to think about," Hottabych said
candidly when his first lesson in current events was over. After a short
pause he added:
"That is all the more reason why I want you and your friend to sail on
the 'Ladoga.' Believe me, I will see that it is arranged."
"But please, no rough stuff," Volka warned. "And no monkey-business.
That means no fakery. For instance, don't think of making me out to be a
straight 'A' pupil. I have 'B's in three subjects."
"Your every wish is my command," Hottabych replied and bowed low.
The old man was as good as his word. He did not lay a finger on a
single employee of the Central Excursion Bureau.
He just arranged matters so, that when our three friends boarded the
"Ladoga," they were met very warmly and were given an excellent cabin; and
no one ever inquired why in the world they had been included in the
passenger list-it simply did not occur to anyone to ask such a question.
To the captain's great surprise, twenty minutes before sailing time a
hundred and fifty crates of oranges, as many crates of excellent grapes, two
hundred crates of dates and a ton and a half of the finest Eastern
delicacies were delivered to the ship. The following message was stencilled
on each and every crate:
"For the passengers and the members of the fearless crew of the
'Ladoga,' from a citizen who wishes to remain anonymous."
One does not have to be especially clever to guess that these were
Hottabych's gifts: he did not want the three of them to take part in the
expedition at someone else's expense.
And if you ask any of the former passengers, they still cherish the
kindest feelings for the "citizen who wished to remain anonymous." His gifts
were well liked by all.
Now, having made it sufficiently clear to the readers how our friends
found themselves aboard the "Ladoga," we can continue our story with a clear
conscience.
If you recall, dear readers, it was a hot July noon when the
ice-breaker "Ladoga" sailed from the Red Pier in the port of Arkhangelsk
with a large group of excursionists on board. Our three friends, Hottabych,
Volka and Zhenya, were among the passengers. Hottabych was sitting on deck,
conversing solemnly with a middle-aged fitter from Sverdlovsk on the
advantages of cloth shoes as compared to leather ones, pointing out the
comfort people suffering from old corns found in cloth shoes.
Volka and Zhenya were leaning on the railing of the top deck. They were
as happy as only boys can be who are aboard a real ice-breaker for the first
time in their lives, and, to top it all, are sailing away for a whole month,
not to just any old place, but to the Arctic.
After exchanging opinions on boats, diesel ships, ice-breakers,
tug-boats, schooners, trawlers, cutters, and other types of craft skimming
over the surface of the Northern Dvina, the boys fell silent, enchanted by
the beauty of the great river.
"Isn't that something!" Volka said in a voice that seemed to imply he
was responsible for all this beauty.
"Uh-huh."
"Nobody'd believe it if you told them."
"Uh-huh!"
"I'm really glad that we. .." Volka began after a long pause and looked
around cautiously to see if Hottabych was anywhere nearby. Just in case, he
continued in a whisper, "... that we've taken the old man away from Varvara
Stepanovna for at least a month."
"Sure," Zhenya agreed.
"There's the Mate in charge of the passengers," Volka whispered,
nodding towards a young sailor with a freckled face.
They looked with awe at the man who carried his high and romantic title
so nonchalantly. His glance slid over the young passengers unseeingly and
came to rest on a sailor who was leaning on the railing nearby.
"What's the matter, are you feeling homesick?"
"Well, here we are, off again for a whole month to the end of
nowheres."
The boys were amazed to discover that someone might not want to go to
the Arctic! What a strange fellow!
"A real sailor is a guest on shore and at home at sea!" the Passenger
Mate said weightily. "Did you ever hear that saying?"
"Well, I can't say I'm a real sailor, since I'm only a waiter."
"Then get one dinner in the galley and take it to Cabin 14, to a lady
named Koltsova."
"That's the same last name as Varvara Stepanovna has," Volka remarked
to Zhenya.
"Uh-huh."
"She's a middle-aged lady and she caught cold on the way here," the
Mate explained. "It's nothing very serious," he said, as if to calm the
waiter, though the latter did not appear in any way alarmed at the lady's
state of health. "She only ought to stay in her cabin a day or two and
she'll be all right. And please be especially nice. She's an Honoured
Teacher of the Republic."
"An Honoured Teacher! And her last name is Koltsova. What a
coincidence!" Volka whispered.
"Well, it's a very common last name, just like Ivanov," Zhenya objected
in a voice that was suddenly hoarse.
"Her name and patronymic are Varvara Stepanovna," the Mate went on.
The boys saw spots before their eyes.
"It's no matter that she's Varvara Stepanovna, too. That doesn't mean
she's our Varvara Stepanovna," Zhenya said in an effort to reassure himself
and his friend.
At this point, however, Volka recalled the conversation that had taken
place in the principal's office when he was there to take his geography
examination. He merely shrugged hopelessly.
"It's she all right. That's exactly who it is. I'm scared to think
what'll happen to her. Why couldn't she go some place else!"
"We'll save her anyway, we just have to think of a way," Zhenya said
darkly after a short but painful silence.
They sat down on a bench, thought a while, and complained of their bad
luck: such a journey was really something wonderful for anyone else, but it
would be nothing but a headache for them from now on. Yet, since this was
the way things had turned out, they must save their teacher. But how? Why,
it was all quite simple: by distracting Hottabych.
They had no need to worry today, for she would certainly be confined to
her cabin till the morrow. Then they would plan their strategy as follows:
one would go strolling with Varvara Stepanovna, or sit on a bench talking to
her, while the other would be distracting Hottabych. For instance, Volka and
Hottabych might play a game of chess, while Zhenya and Varvara Stepanovna
took a stroll down the deck. Volka and Hottabych could be on deck, while
Zhenya and Varvara Stepanovna were talking somewhere far away, in a cabin or
someplace. The only points remaining to be cleared up were what they were
supposed to do when everyone went ashore together or gathered for meals in
the mess hall.
"What if we disguise her?" Volka suggested.
"What do you want to do-stick a beard on her?" Zhenya snapped.
"Nonsense. Make-up won't save her. We'll have to think it over carefully."
"Ahoy, my young friends! Where are you?" Hottabych shouted from below.
"We're here, we're coming right down."
They went down to the promenade deck.
"I and my honourable friend here are having an argument about the Union
of South Africa," Hottabych said, introducing them to his companion.
Things were going from bad to worse. If the old man began advertising
his knowledge of geography, the passengers would surely laugh at him; he
might very well become offended, and what might happen then did not bear
thinking about.
"Who's right, my young friends? Isn't Pretoria the capital of the Union
of South Africa?"
"Sure it is," the boys agreed.
They were amazed. How had the old man come by this correct information?
Maybe from the papers? Naturally. That was the only answer.
"My honourable friend here insists it's Cape Town, not Pretoria,"
Hottabych said triumphantly. "We also argued about how far above us the
stratosphere is. I said that one could not draw a definite line between the
troposphere and the stratosphere, since it is higher or lower in various
parts of the world. And also that the line of the horizon, which, as one can
ascertain from the science of geography, is no more than a figment of our
imagination...." .
"Hottabych, I want a word with you in private," Volka interrupted
sternly. They walked off to a side. "Tell me the truth, was it you who
filched my geography book?"
"May I be permitted to know what you mean by that strange " word? If
you mean, 0 Volka, that I.... What's the matter now, 0 anchor of my heart?
You're as pale as a ghost."
Volka's jaw dropped. His gaze became fixed on something behind the old