The Old Genie Hottabych

by Lazar Lagin

  “His watch?!” “Sure, his watch,” Volka explained. “He had a watch on his wrist. The round chrome-plated thing.”

  “Why don’t you have such a watch, O most noble of all Genie-saviours?”

  “I’m too young to have such a watch,” Volka answered humbly.

  “May I be permitted, O honourable passer-by, to inquire as to the time of day?” Hottabych said, stopping the first person he saw and staring at his watch.

  “Two minutes to two,” the man answered, somewhat surprised at the flowery language.

  Thanking him in the most elaborate oriental manner, Hottabych said with a sly grin:

  “May I be permitted, O loveliest of all Volkas, to inquire as to the time of day?”

  And there was a watch shining on Volka’s left wrist, exactly like the one the man they had stopped had, but instead of being chrome-plated, it was of the purest gold.

  “May it be worthy of your hand and your kind heart,” Hottabych said in a touched voice, basking in Volka’s happiness and surprise.

  Then Volka did something that any other boy or girl would have done in his place, having found themselves the proud possessors of their first watch. He raised his arm to his ear to hear it tick.

  “O-o-o-o,” he drawled. “It’s not wound. I’ll have to wind it.” To his great disappointment, he found he could not move the winding button. Then he got out his pen-knife to open the watch case. However, try as he would, he could not find a trace of a slit in which to insert the knife.

  “It’s made of solid gold,” the old man boasted and winked. “I’m not one of those people who give presents made of hollow gold.”

  “Does that mean there’s nothing inside of it?” Volka asked with disappointment.

  “Why, should there be anything inside?” the old Genie inquired anxiously. Volka unbuckled the strap in silence and returned the watch to Hottabych.

  “All right, then, I’ll give you a watch that doesn’t have to have anything inside.”

  Once again a gold watch appeared on Volka’s wrist, but now it was very small and flat. There was no glass on it and instead of hands there was a small vertical gold rod in the middle. The face was studded with the most exquisite emeralds set where the numbers should be.

  “Never before did anyone, even the wealthiest of all sultans, have a hand sun watch!” the old man boasted again. “There were sun dials in city squares, in market places, in gardens and in yards. And they were all made of stone. But I just invented this one. It’s not bad, is it?”

  It certainly was exciting to be the only owner of a sun watch in the whole world.

  Volka grinned broadly, while the old man beamed.

  “How do you tell the time on it?” Volka asked.

  “Here’s how,” Hottabych said, taking hold of Volka’s hand gently. “Hold your arm straight out like this and the shadow cast by the little gold rod will fall on the right number.”

  “But the sun has to be shining,” Volka said, looking with displeasure at a small cloud that just obscured it.

  “The cloud will pass in a minute,” Hottabych promised. True enough, in a minute the sun began to shine once again. “See, it points somewheres between 2 and 3 p.m. That means it’s about 2:30.” As he was speaking, another cloud covered the sun.

  “Don’t pay any attention to it,” Hottabych said. “I’ll clear the sky for you whenever you want to find out what time it is.”

  “What about the autumn?” Volka asked.

  “What about it?”

  “What about the autumn and the winter, when the sky is covered with clouds for months on end?”

  “I’ve already told you, O Volka, the sun will shine whenever you want it to. You have but to order me and everything will be as you wish.”

  “But what if you’re not around?”

  “I’ll always be near-by. All you have to do is call me.”

  “But what about the evenings and nights?” Volka asked maliciously. “What about the night, when there’s no sun in the sky?”

  “At night people must surrender themselves to sleep, and not look at their watches,” Hottabych snapped. He had to control himself not to teach the insolent youth a good lesson. “All right then, tell me whether you like that man’s watch. If you do, you shall have it.”

  “What do you mean? It belongs to him. Don’t tell me you are going to…”

  “Don’t worry, O Volka ibn Alyosha. I won’t touch a hair on his head. He’ll offer you the watch himself, for you are certainly worthy of receiving the most treasured gifts.”

  “You’ll force him to and then he’ll…”

  “And he’ll be overjoyed that I did not wipe him off the face of the Earth, or change him into a foul rat, or a cockroach hiding in a crack of a hovel, or the last beggar…”

  “That’s real blackmail,” Volka said angrily. “Tricks like that send a man to jail, my friend. And you’ll well deserve it.”

  “Send me to jail?!” the old man flared up. “Me?! Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab? And does he know, that most despicable of all passers-by, who J am? Ask the first Genie, or Ifrit, or Shaitan you see, and they’ll tell you, as they tremble from fear, that Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab is the chief of all Genie bodyguards. My army consists of 72 tribes, with 72,000 warriors in each tribe; every warrior rules over one thousand Marids and every Marid rules over a thousand Aides and every Aide rules over a thousand Shaitans and every Shaitan rules over a thousand Genies. I rule over them all and none can disobey me! If only this thrice-miserable of all most miserable passers-by tries to…”

  Meanwhile, the man in question was strolling down the street, glancing at the shop windows, and in no way aware of the terrible danger hanging over him because of an ordinary watch glittering on his wrist.

  ’ “Why, I’ll…” Hottabych raged on in his boastfulness, “why, if you only so desire, I’ll turn him into a…”

  Each second counted. Volka shouted:

  “Don’t!”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t touch that man! I don’t need a watch! I don’t need anything!”

  “Nothing at all?” the old man asked doubtfully, quickly calming down. The only sun watch in the world disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

  “Nothing at all,” said Volka. He heaved such a sigh that Hottabych realized he must apply himself to cheering up his young saviour and dispelling his gloomy thoughts.

  HOTTABYCH’S SECOND SERVICE

  Volka was in the dumps. Hottabych sensed that something was wrong. He never dreamed he had done the boy such a bad turn during the exam, but it was all too clear that Volka was upset. And the one to blame, apparently, was none other than himself, Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab.

  “Would you, O moon-like, feel inclined to listen to stories of most unusual and strange adventures?” he asked slyly. “For instance, do you know the story of the Baghdad barber’s three black roosters and his lame son? Or the one about the copper camel with a silver hump? Or about the water-carrier Ahmet and his magic pail?”

  Volka kept on frowning. This did not stop the old man, and he began hurriedly:

  “Be it known to you, O most wonderful of all secondary school pupils, that once upon a time in Baghdad there lived a skilled barber named Selim who had three roosters and a lame son named Tub. It so happened that Caliph Harun al Rashid once passed his shop. But, O most attentive of all youths, I suggest we sit down on this bench in order that your young legs don’t tire during this long and most educational story.”

  Volka agreed. They sat down in the shade of an old linden tree.

  For three long hours Hottabych went on and on with the truly interesting story. He finally ended it with these crafty words:

  “But more marvellous still is the story of the copper camel with a silver hump,” and immediately proceeded with it. When he came to the part: “Then the stranger took a piece of coal from the brazier and drew the outline of a camel on the wall. The camel waved its tail, nodded its head,
walked off the wall and onto the cobblestones…” — he stopped to enjoy the impression his story of a drawing coming to life had made on his young listener.

  But Hottabych was in for some disappointment, because Volka had seen enough cartoons in his life. However, the old man’s words gave him an idea.

  “You know what? Let’s go to the movies. You can finish the story after.”

  “Your every word is my command, O Volka ibn Alyosha,” the old man replied obediently. “But do me a favour and tell me what you mean by ‘the movies’? Is it a bath-house? Or, perhaps, that’s what you call the market-place, where one can stroll and chat with friends and acquaintances?”

  “Well! Any child can tell you what a movie is. It’s a…” At this, Volka waved his hands around vaguely and added, “Well, anyway, you’ll see when we get there.”

  Over the Saturn Theatre box-office was a sign that read:

  “Children under sixteen not admitted to evening performances.”

  “What’s the matter, O most handsome of all handsome youths?” Hottabych inquired anxiously, noticing that Volka had become gloomy again.

  “Nothing much. It’s just that we’re late for the last day-time performance! You have to be sixteen to get in now. I really don’t know what to do, ’cause I don’t feel like going home.”

  “You won’t go home!” Hottabych cried. “In a twinkling of an eye they’ll let us through, surrounded by the respect your truly endless capabilities command! I’ll just have a peek at those bits of paper everyone’s handing that stern-looking woman at the entrance.”

  “That old braggart!” Volka thought irritably. Suddenly, he felt two tickets in his right fist.

  “Come!” Hottabych called, beaming again. “Come, they’ll let you through now!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Just as positive as that a great future awaits you!”

  He nudged Volka towards a mirror hanging nearby. A boy with a bushy blond beard on his healthy freckled face looked back from the mirror at a shocked and gaping Volka.

  AN UNUSUAL EVENT AT THE MOVIES

  A triumphant Hottabych dragged Volka up the stairs to the second-floor foyer. At the entrance to the projection room stood Zhenya Bogorad, the envy of every pupil of 6B. This darling of fate was the theatre manager’s nephew and therefore permitted to attend evening performances. But today, instead of being the happiest of boys, he was suffering terribly. He was suffering from loneliness. He was dying to have a companion, someone he could talk to about Volka Kostylkov’s behaviour at the morning’s geography examination. Alas! There was not a familiar face in sight.

  He then decided to go downstairs, in the hope that Luck would send him someone. At the landing he was nearly knocked off his feet by an old man in a white suit and embroidered morocco slippers who was dragging along — whom do you think? — Volka Kostylkov, in person! For reasons unknown, Volka was covering his face with his hands.

  “Volka!” Bogorad shouted happily. “Kostylkov!”

  Unlike Zhenya, Volka did not seem at all pleased at the encounter. In fact, he even pretended not to have recognized his best friend. He darted into the thick of the crowd which stood listening to an orchestra while awaiting the next showing.

  “Don’t think I care!” Zhenya said in an offended tone and went off to buy an ice-cream.

  That is why he didn’t see the people gathering round the strange old man and Volka. Later, when he tried to push his way through to the spot which was attracting so many eager eyes, his friend was already surrounded by a rapidly-growing crowd. He could hear the folding seats hitting against the backs of the chairs as those who were listening to the orchestra rushed off. Soon the musicians were playing to rows of empty seats.

  “What happened?” Zhenya asked, vainly trying to elbow his way through. “If there’s been an accident, I can phone for help. My uncle’s the manager here. What’s the matter?”

  But no one seemed to know what the matter was. And, since hardly anyone could see anything and everyone wanted to know what was going on inside the circle, they all kept asking each other questions and demanding sensible answers, until they raised such a ruckus they began to drown out the music, though the musicians were playing as loud as they could.

  Zhenya’s uncle finally appeared, climbed on a chair and shouted, “Everyone please disperse! What’s the matter? Haven’t you ever seen a bearded child before?”

  The moment these words reached the snack bar, everyone there rushed to see the bearded child.

  “Volka!” Zhenya yelled at the top of his voice, despairing of ever getting through the crowd. “I can’t see anything! Can you see? Does he have a big beard?”

  “Golly!” the unfortunate Volka wailed. “What if he…”

  “Poor child!” the curious onlookers sighed.

  “What a pity!”

  “Is science helpless in his case?”

  At first, Hottabych misunderstood the attention his young friend was attracting. He thought the people were crowding round to express their respect for Volka. Then he began to get angry.

  “Disperse, my good people!” he shouted, drowning out the noise of the crowd and the band. “Disperse, or I’ll do something terrible to all of you!”

  A timid girl gasped from fear, but the others only laughed. Really now, what was there to fear from such a funny old man in silly pink slippers? Why, if someone as much as touched him, he’d probably fall to pieces!

  No, no one took his threats seriously. However, the old man was used to having people tremble at his words. He felt that he and Volka were being insulted and was becoming more and more enraged. There is no telling how it all could have ended, if the first bell had not rung just then.

  The doors to the projection room were thrown open and everyone rushed to take their seats. Zhenya thought this was his chance to get a peek at the weird boy. But the same crowd that had blocked his view now caught him up and carried him into the projection room.

  No sooner had he found a seat in the first row than the lights went out.

  “Whew!” Zhenya breathed. “Just in time. I’ll still be able to see the bearded boy on the way out.” Nonetheless, he kept fidgeting in his seat, trying to catch a glimpse of the freak who was sitting somewhere behind him.

  “Stop fidgeting! You’re bothering us!” the man next to him said. “Sit still!” However, to his utter amazement, the fidgety boy suddenly disappeared.

  Volka and Hottabych were the last to enter the darkened projection room. To tell the truth, Volka was so upset he was ready to leave without seeing the film.

  Hottabych pleaded:

  “If you’re so displeased with the beard I thought you’d appreciate, I’ll free you of it the moment we find our seats. That’s easy enough. Let’s follow the others in, for I’m impatient to discover what a ‘movie’ is. It must indeed be something wonderful, if even grown men attend it on such a hot summer day!”

  When they were seated, Hottabych snapped the fingers of his left hand. Contrary to his promises, nothing happened to Volka’s beard.

  “Why is it taking you so long? Remember how you boasted!”

  “I wasn’t boasting, O most wonderful of 6B pupils. Fortunately, I changed my mind in time. If you don’t have a beard, you’ll be turned out of the movie which is so dear to your heart.”

  It soon became clear that this was merely a cunning excuse. Volka was not yet aware of the old man’s craftiness.

  “That’s all right, they won’t turn me out of here,” he said.

  Hottabych pretended not to have heard him. Volka repeated his words. Once again, Hottabych played deaf. Then Volka raised his voice:

  “Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab!”

  “I’m listening, O my young master,” the old man answered obediently.

  “Sh-h-h!” someone hissed.

  Volka continued in a whisper, bending close to his friend who suddenly looked very sad.

  “Do something to make this stupid beard disappear immedia
tely!”

  “It’s not a bit stupid,” the old man whispered back. “It is a most grand and noble beard.”

  “This very second! Do you hear? This very second!”

  “I hear and I obey,” Hottabych muttered and began whispering again, snapping his fingers.

  The hairy growth on Volka’s face remained unchanged.

  “Well?”

  “One moment, O most blessed Volka ibn Alyosha,” the old man replied, still whispering and snapping his fingers nervously.

  The beard on Volka’s chin remained where it was.

  “Look! Look who’s sitting in the ninth row!” Volka whispered, forgetting his great misfortune for the moment.

  As far as Hottabych could see, the two men in the ninth row appeared in no way remarkable.

  “They’re famous actors,” Volka explained and told Hottabych their names, which, though they were very well known, meant nothing to him.

  “Do you mean they’re performers?” the old man asked condescendingly. “Are they tight-rope walkers?”

  “They’re movie actors! They’re the most famous movie actors, that’s who they are!”

  “Then why aren’t they doing anything? Why are they sitting back doing nothing?” Hottabych demanded critically. “They’re probably very lazy performers. It pains me to see you praising them so thoughtlessly, O movie of my heart.”

  “Ha, ha!” Volka laughed. “Movie actors never act in a theatre. Movie actors act in studios.”

  “Does that mean we are going to see some others, and not movie actors, perform?”

  “No, we’ll see movie actors. Don’t you understand, they act in a studio, but we see their acting here, in a theatre. Why, any child knows that.”

  “Pray forgive me, but what you’re saying is a lot of nonsense,” Hottabych reproached him sternly. “However, I’m not angry at you, because I don’t think you meant to play a trick on your most obedient servant. You seem to be affected by the heat in this building. Unfortunately, I don’t see a single window which could be opened to let in some fresh air.”