by Lazar Lagin
“But how do respectable, honourable gentlemen of advanced age dress nowadays?”
Volka tried to explain what a jacket, trousers and a hat were, but though he tried very hard, he wasn’t very successful. He was about to despair, when he suddenly glanced at his grandfather’s portrait on the wall. He led Hottabych over to the time-darkened photograph and the old man gazed long at it with curiosity, surprised to see clothing so unlike his own.
A moment later, Volka, holding Hottabych’s arm, emerged from the house. The old man was magnificent in a new linen suit, an embroidered Ukrainian shirt, and a straw boater. The only things he had refused to change, complaining of three thousand-year-old corns, were his slippers. He remained in his pink slippers with the upturned toes, which, in times gone by, would have probably driven the most stylish young man at the Court of Caliph Harun al Rashid out of his mind with envy.
When Volka and a transformed Hottabych approached the entrance of Moscow Secondary School No. 245 the old man looked at himself coyly in the glass door and remained quite pleased with what he saw.
The elderly doorman, who was sedately reading his paper, put it aside with pleasure at the sight of Volka and his companion. It was hot and the doorman felt like talking to someone.
Skipping several steps at a time, Volka dashed upstairs. The corridors were quiet and empty, a true and sad sign that the examination had begun and that he was late.
“And where are you going?” the doorman asked Hottabych good-naturedly as he was about to follow his young friend in.
“He’s come to see the principal,” Volka shouted from the top of the stairs.
“You won’t be able to see him now. He’s at an examination. Won’t you please come by again later on in the day?”
Hottabych frowned angrily.
“If I be permitted to, O respected old man, I would prefer to wait for him here.” Then he shouted to Volka, “Hurry to your classroom, O Volka ibn Alyosha! I’m certain that you’ll astound your teachers and your comrades with your great knowledge!”
“Are you his grandfather or something?” the doorman inquired, trying to start up a conversation. Hottabych said nothing. He felt it beneath his dignity to converse with a doorkeeper.
“Would you care for a cup of tea?” the doorman continued. “The heat’s something terrible today.”
He poured a full cup of tea and, turning to hand it to the untalkative stranger, he saw to his horror that the old man had disappeared into thin air. Shaken by this impossible occurrence, the doorman gulped down the tea intended for Hottabych, poured himself a second cup, and then a third, and did not stop until there wasn’t a drop left. Then he sank into his chair and began to fan himself exhaustedly with his newspaper.
All the while, a no less unusual scene was taking place on the second floor, right above the doorman, in the classroom of 6B. The teachers, headed by the principal, Pavel Vasilyevich, sat at a table covered with a heavy cloth used for special occasions. Behind them was the blackboard, hung with various maps. Facing them were rows of solemn pupils. It was so quiet in the room that one could hear a lonely fly buzzing monotonously near the ceiling. If the pupils of 6B were always this quiet, theirs would undoubtedly be the most disciplined class in all of Moscow .
It must be noted, however, that the quiet in the classroom was not only due to the hush accompanying any examination, but also to the fact that Volka Kostylkov had been called to the board — and he was not in the room.
“Vladimir Kostylkov!” the principal repeated and looked at the quiet children in surprise.
It became still more quiet.
Then, suddenly, they heard the loud clatter of running feet in the hall outside, and at the very moment the principal called “Vladimir Kostylkov” for the third and last time, the door burst open and Volka, very much out of breath, gasped:
“Here!”
“Please come up to the board,” the principal said dryly. “We’ll speak about your being late afterwards.”
“I … I feel ill,” Volka mumbled, saying the first thing that came to his head, as he walked uncertainly towards his examiners.
While he was wondering which of the slips of paper laid out on the table he should choose, old man Hottabych slipped through the wall in the corridor and disappeared through the opposite one into an adjoining classroom. He had an absorbed look on his face.
Volka finally took the first slip his hand touched. Tempting his fate, he turned it over very slowly, but was pleasantly surprised to see that he was to speak on India . He knew quite a lot about India , since he had always been interested in that country.
“Well, let’s hear what you have to say,” the principal said.
Volka even remembered the beginning of the chapter on India word for word as it was in his book. He opened his mouth to say that the Hindustan Peninsula resembled a triangle and that this triangle bordered on the Indian Ocean and its various parts: the Arabian Sea in the West and the Bay of Bengal in the East, that two large countries — India and Pakistan — were located on the peninsula, that both were inhabited by kindly and peace-loving peoples with rich and ancient cultures, etc., etc., etc., but just then Hottabych, standing in the adjoining classroom, leaned against the wall and began mumbling diligently, cupping his hand to his mouth like a horn:
“India, O my most respected teacher…!”
And suddenly Volka, contrary to his own desires, began to pour forth the most atrocious nonsense:
“India, O my most respected teacher, is located close to the edge of the Earth’s disc and is separated from this edge by desolate and unexplored deserts, as neither animals nor birds live to the east of it. India is a very wealthy country, and its wealth lies in its gold. This is not dug from the ground as in other countries, but is produced, day and night, by a tireless species of gold-bearing ants, which are nearly the size of a dog. They dig their tunnels in the ground and three times a day they bring up gold sand and nuggets and pile them in huge heaps. But woe be to those Indians who try to steal this gold without due skill! The ants pursue them and, overtaking them, kill them on the spot. From the north and west, India borders on a country of bald people. The men and women and even the children are all bald in this country. And these strange people live on raw fish and pine cones. Still closer to them is a country where you can neither see anything nor pass, as it is filled to the top with feathers. The earth and the air are filled with feathers, and that is why you can’t see anything there.”
“Wait a minute, Kostylkov,” the geography teacher said with a smile. “No one has asked you to tell us of the ancients’ views on Asia’s geography. We’d like you to tell us the modern, scientific facts about India .”
Oh, how happy Volka would have been to display his knowledge of the subject! But what could he do if he was no longer the master of his speech and actions! In agreeing to have Hottabych prompt him, he became a toy in the old man’s well-meaning but ignorant hands. He wanted to tell his teachers that what he had told them obviously had nothing to do with modern science. But Hottabych on the other side of the wall shrugged in dismay and shook his head, and Volka, standing in front of the class, was compelled to do the same.
“That which I have had the honour of telling you, O greatly respected Varvara Stepanovna, is based on the most reliable sources, and there exist no other, more scientific facts on India than those I have just, with your permission, revealed to you.”
“Please keep to the subject. This is an examination, not a masquerade. If you don’t know the answers, it would be much more honourable to admit it right away. What was it you said about the Earth’s disc by the way? Don’t you know that the Earth is round?”
Did Volka Kostylkov, an active member of the Moscow Planetarium’s Astronomy Club, know that the Earth was round? Why, any first-grader knew that. But Hottabych, standing behind the wall, burst out laughing, and no matter how our poor boy tried to press his lips together, a haughty smirk escaped him:
“I presume yo
u are making fun of your most devoted pupil! If the Earth were round, the water would run off it, and then everyone would die of thirst and all the plants would dry up. The Earth, O most noble and honoured of all teachers and pedagogues, has always had and does now have the shape of a flat disc, surrounded on all sides by a mighty river named ‘Ocean.’ The Earth rests on six elephants, and they, in turn, are standing on a tremendous turtle. That is how the world is made, O teacher!”
The board of teachers gazed at Volka with rising surprise. He broke out in a cold sweat from horror and the realization of his own complete helplessness. The other children could not quite understand what had happened to their friend, but some began to giggle. It was really funny to hear about a country of bald people, about a country filled with feathers, about gold-bearing ants as big as dogs and about the flat Earth resting on six elephants and a turtle. As for Zhenya Bogorad, Volka’s best friend and one of the class pioneer leaders, he became really worried. He knew that Volka, as chairman of the Astronomy Club, at least knew that the Earth was round — if he knew nothing else. Could it be that he had suddenly decided upon some mischief, and during an examination, of all times! Volka was probably ill, but what ailed him? What kind of a strange, unusual disease did he have? And then, it was very bad for their pioneer group. So far, they had been first in all the exams, but now Volka’s stupid answers would spoil everything, though he was usually a disciplined pioneer! Goga Pilukin, a most unpleasant boy at the next desk (nicknamed “Pill” by his classmates), hastened to pour salt on Zhenya’s fresh wounds.
“That takes care of your group, Zhenya dear,” he whispered with a malicious giggle. “You’re sinking fast!” Zhenya shook his fist at Pill.
“Varvara Stepanovna!” Goga whined. “Bogorad just shook his fist at me.”
“Sit still and don’t tattle,” Varvara Stepanovna said and turned back to Volka, who stood before her more dead than alive. “Were you serious about the elephants and the turtle?” “More serious than ever before, O most respected of all teachers,” Volka repeated after the old man and felt himself burning up with shame.
“And haven’t you anything else to add? Do you really think you were answering the question?”
“No, I’ve nothing to add,” Hottabych said behind the wall, shaking his head.
And Volka, helpless to withstand the force that was pushing him towards failure, also shook his head and said, “No, I’ve nothing to add. Perhaps, however, the fact that in the wealthy land of India the horizons are framed by gold and pearls.”
“It’s incredible!” his teacher exclaimed.
It was difficult to believe that Kostylkov, a usually disciplined boy, had suddenly decided to play a silly joke on his teachers (and at such an important time!), running the risk of a second examination in the autumn.
“I don’t think the boy is quite well,” Varvara Stepanovna whispered to the principal.
Glancing hurriedly and sympathetically at Volka, who stood numb with grief before them, the committee held a whispered conference.
Varvara Stepanovna suggested, “What if we ask the child another question, just to calm him? Say, from last year’s book. Last year he got an ‘A’ in geography.”
The others agreed, and Varvara Stepanovna once again turned to the unhappy boy.
“Now, Kostylkov, wipe your tears and don’t be nervous. Tell us what a horizon is.”
“A horizon?” Volka said with new hope. “That’s easy. A horizon is an imagined line which…”
But Hottabych came to life behind the wall again and Volka once again became the victim of prompting.
“The horizon, O my most revered one,” Volka corrected himself, “I would call the horizon that brink, where the crystal cupola of the Heavens touches the edge of the Earth.”
“It gets worse as he goes on,” Varvara Stepanovna moaned. “How would you have us understand your words about the crystal cupola of the Heavens — literally or figuratively?”
“Literally, O teacher,” Hottabych prompted from the next room.
And Volka was obliged to repeat after him, “Literally, O teacher.”
“Figuratively!” someone hissed from the back of the room. But Volka repeated, “Naturally, in the literal sense and no other.”
“What does that mean?” Varvara Stepanovna asked, still not believing her ears. “Does that mean you consider the sky to be a solid cupola?”
“Yes.”
“And does it mean there’s a place where the Earth ends?”
“Yes, there is, O my most highly respected teacher.”
Behind the wall Hottabych nodded approvingly and rubbed his hands together smugly.
A strange silence fell on the class. Even those who were always ready to laugh stopped smiling. Something was definitely wrong with Volka. Varvara Stepanovna rose and felt his forehead anxiously. He did not have a fever.
But Hottabych was really touched by this. He bowed low and touched his forehead and chest in the Eastern manner and then began to whisper. Volka, driven by the same awful force, repeated his movements exactly.
“I thank you, O most gracious daughter of Stepan! I thank you for your trouble. But it is unnecessary, because, praised be Allah, I am quite well.”
All this sounded extremely strange and funny. However, the other children were so worried about Volka that not a shade of a smile crossed a single face. Varvara Stepanovna took him by the hand, led him out of the room, and patted his lowered head.
“Never mind, Kostylkov. Don’t worry. You’re probably overtired. Come back when you’ve had a good rest. All right?”
“All right,” Volka said. “But upon my word of honour, Varvara Stepanovna, it’s not my fault! It isn’t really!”
“Why, I’m not blaming you at all,” the teacher answered kindly. “I’ll tell you what: let’s drop in on Pyotr Ivanych.”
Pyotr Ivanych, the school doctor, examined Volka for all of ten minutes. He made him close his eyes and hold his arms out before him with his fingers spread apart; then he tapped his knee and drew lines on his chest and back with his stethoscope.
By then Volka came to himself. His cheeks turned pink again and his spirits rose.
“The boy’s perfectly well,” said Pyotr Ivanych. “And if you want my opinion, he’s an unusually healthy child! I think he was probably overworked. He must have studied too much before his exams, because there’s nothing wrong with him. And that’s all there is to it!”
Just in case, though, he measured some drops into a glass, and the unusually healthy child was forced to drink the medicine.
Suddenly, Volka had an idea. What if he could profit from Hottabych’s absence and take his geography examination right there, in the doctor’s office?
“By no means!” Pyotr Ivanych said emphatically. “By no means. Let the child have a few days of rest. Geography can wait.”
“That’s quite true,” the teacher sighed with relief, pleased that .everything had turned out so well in the end. “And you, my young friend, run along home and have a good rest. When you feel better, come back and take your exam. I’m positive you’ll get an ‘A.’ What do you think, Pyotr Ivanych?”
“Such a Hercules as he? Why, he’ll never get less than an ‘A’+!”
“Ah … and don’t you think someone had better see him home?” Varvara Stepanovna added.
“Oh no, Varvara Stepanovna!” Volka cried. “I’ll make out fine.”
All he needed now was for a chaperone to bump into that crazy old Hottabych!
Volka appeared to be in the pink of health, and with an easy heart Varvara Stepanovna let him go home.
The doorman rushed towards him as he was on the way out. “Kostylkov! Your grandpa, or whoever he is, the one who came here with you…”
At that very moment, old man Hottabych appeared from the wall. He was as happy as a lark and immensely pleased with himself, and he was humming a little tune.
“Help!” the doorman cried soundlessly and tried in vain to pour hi
mself another cup of tea from the empty kettle. When he put the kettle down and turned around, both Volka Kostylkov and his mysterious companion had disappeared. By then they had already turned the nearest corner.
“Pray tell me, young master, did you astound your teacher and your comrades with your great knowledge?” Hottabych inquired proudly, breaking a rather long silence.
“I astounded them all right!” Volka said and looked at the old man with loathing.
Hottabych beamed. “I expected nothing else! But for a moment there I thought that the most revered daughter of Stepan was displeased with the breadth and scope of your knowledge.”
“Oh, no, no!” Volka cried in fear, recalling Hottabych’s terrible threats. “You were imagining things.”
“I would have changed her into a chopping block on which butchers chop up mutton,” the old man said fiercely (and Volka was really frightened for his teacher’s fate), “if I hadn’t seen that she had such great respect for you and took you to the door of your classroom and then practically down the stairs. I realized then that she had fully appreciated your answers. Peace be with her!”
“Sure, peace be with her!” Volka added hastily, feeling that a load had fallen from his shoulders.
During the several thousand years of Hottabych’s life, he had often had to do with people feeling sad and gloomy, and he knew how to cheer them up. At any rate, he was convinced he knew how to do so. All that was needed was to give a person that which he had always longed for. But what kind of a present should he give Volka? The answer came to him quite by chance when Volka asked a passer-by:
“Would you please tell me what time it is?”
The man looked at his watch and said, “Five to two.”
“Thank you,” Volka said and continued on in silence.
Hottabych was the first to speak.
“Tell me, O Volka, how was the man able to tell the time of day so accurately?”
“Didn’t you see him look at his watch?” The old man raised his eyebrows in surprise.
