by Lazar Lagin
Volka realized that in the few remaining minutes before the beginning of the film he would never be able to explain a movie actor’s work to the old man. He decided to put off all explanations till later, and especially since he suddenly recalled his terrible misfortune.
“Dear, dear Hottabych, it’s really no trouble to you — please, can’t you do something right now?”
The old man heaved a sigh, yanked a hair from his beard, then a second, and a third, and, finally, in great anger, a whole bunch together. He began tearing them to bits savagely, muttering something with his eyes fixed on Volka’s face. There was no change whatsoever. Then Hottabych began snapping his fingers in the most varied combinations: first two fingers at a time, then all five fingers of the right hand, then the left hand, then all ten fingers together, then once with the right and twice with the left, then the other way round — but all to no avail. Finally, he began ripping off his clothes.
“Are you mad?” Volka cried. “What’re you doing?”
“Woe is me!” Hottabych replied in a whisper and began scratching his face. “Woe is me! The centuries I spent in that accursed vessel have — alas! — left their mark! A lack of practice has been extremely detrimental to my profession. Forgive me, O my young saviour, but I can do nothing with your beard! O woe is me, poor Genie Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab that I am!”
“What are you whispering?” Volka asked. “Say it louder, I can’t make out a word.”
And Hottabych replied, tearing at his clothes:
“O most treasured of youths, O most pleasing of all, do not vent your rightful anger upon me! I cannot rid you of your beard! I forgot how to do it!”
“Have a heart!” someone hissed. “You’ll talk it all over at home. You’re bothering us. Do you want me to call the usher?”
“Such disgrace has fallen upon my old head!” Hottabych whimpered. “To forget such simple magic! And who is it that forgot it? Me, Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab, the most powerful of all Genies — me, the very same Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab whom even Sulayman son of David (on the twain be peace!) could not subdue for twenty years!”
“Stop whining!” Volka whispered with unconcealed scorn. “Tell me honestly: how much longer will I have to go around with this beard?”
“Oh, calm your fears, my young master! Luckily, I only used small magic. In two days your face will be as smooth as that of a new-born babe. Perhaps I’ll even remember how to break small magic spells before that.”
Just then, the many credits which usually precede a film flashed off the screen and were replaced by people who moved and spoke. Hottabych whispered smugly:
“Hm! This is all quite clear. And very simple. All these people have appeared through the wall. You can’t surprise me with that sort of stuff. I can do that myself.”
“You don’t understand a thing,” Volka said with a smile, upon hearing such nonsense. “If you really want to know, films are based on the principle…”
There was hissing from all sides now, and Volka’s explanations were cut short. For a moment Hottabych seemed entranced. Then he began squirming nervously, turning round ever so often to look at the ninth row and the two movie actors sitting there. He became convinced that they were sitting quietly behind him and, at the same time, galloping at top speed in front of him on the only lighted wall in this most mysterious building.
He became pale with fear. He raised his eyebrows and whispered, “Look behind us, O fearless Volka ibn Alyosha!”
“Sure, those are the actors. They play the leads and have come to see how the audience likes their acting.”
“I don’t like it!” Hottabych informed him quickly. “I don’t like people to split in two. Even I don’t know how to sit in a chair with my arms folded and gallop away as fast as the wind — and all at one and the same time! Even Sulayman, son of David (on the twain be peace!), could not do such a thing. And that’s why I’m frightened.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Volka said patronizingly. “Look at everyone else. See? No one’s afraid. I’ll explain what it’s all about later.”
Suddenly, the mighty roar of a locomotive cut through the stillness. Hottabych grabbed Volka’s arm.
“O royal Volka!” he whispered, breaking out in a cold sweat. “I recognize that voice. It’s the voice of Jirjis, the ruler of all Genies! Let’s flee before it’s too late!”
“What nonsense! Sit still! Nothing’s threatening us.”
“I hear and I obey,” Hottabych mumbled obediently, though he continued to tremble.
But a split-second later, when a thundering locomotive seemed to be rushing off the screen and right into the audience, a scream of terror rent the projection room.
“Let’s flee! Let’s flee!” Hottabych shrieked as he dashed off.
At the exit he remembered about Volka and in several leaps returned, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him to the door.
“Let’s flee, O Volka ibn Alyosha! Let’s flee before it’s too late!”
“Now, wait a minute. …” the usher began, appearing in front of them. However, she immediately did a long, graceful loop in the air and landed on the stage in front of the screen.
“What were you screeching about? What was all the panic about?” Volka asked angrily when they were out in the street again.
“How can I help shouting when the most terrifying of all dangers was threatening you! The great Jirjis, son of Rejmus, grandson of the Aunt of Ikrash, was heading straight for us, spitting fire and death!”
“What Jirjis? Which aunt? It was just an ordinary locomotive!”
“Has my young master decided to teach his old Genie Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab what a Shaitan is?” Hottabych asked acidly.
Volka realized that it would take much more than five minutes and much more than an hour to tell him what a movie and a locomotive were.
After Hottabych recovered his breath, he asked mildly, “What would you desire now, O treasured apple of my eye?”
“As if you didn’t know. I want to get rid of my beard!”
“Alas,” the old man sighed, “I am as yet helpless to fulfil your wish. But perhaps you’d like something else instead? Just tell me, and you’ll have it in a flash.”
“I’d like to have a shave. And as quickly as possible.” A few minutes later they entered a barbershop. Ten minutes later a tired barber stuck his head into the waiting room and shouted:
“Next!”
Then, from a corner near the coat-rack, rose a boy whose face was wrapped in an expensive silk scarf. He hurriedly sat down in the barber’s chair.
“You want a hair-cut?” the barber asked. “No, a shave!” the boy answered in a hollow voice and removed the scarf that had covered most of his face.
A TROUBLED EVENING
It was a good thing Volka didn’t have dark hair. Zhenya Bogorad, for instance, would certainly have had a blue shadow on his cheeks after having been shaved, but Volka’s cheeks after he left the barbershop were no different from those of his friends. It was after seven, but it was still light outdoors and very hot. “Is there any place in your blessed city where they sell sherbets or cold drinks like sherbet and where we could quench our thirst?” Hottabych asked.
“Why, that’s an idea! A glass of cold lemonade would really be grand.”
Entering the first juice and mineral water shop they saw, they took a table.
“We’d like two bottles of lemonade, please,” Volka said. The waitress nodded and headed towards the counter. Hottabych called her back angrily.
“You come right back, unworthy servant! I don’t like the way you responded to the orders of my young friend and master.”
“Hottabych, stop it! Do you hear! Stop…” Volka began to whisper.
But Hottabych covered the boy’s mouth gently with his hand.
“At least don’t interfere when I defend your honour, since your kind heart prevents you from scolding her yourself.”
“You don’t unders
tand,” Volka protested. He was really becoming frightened. “Hottabych, can’t you see…”
Suddenly, he froze, for he felt he had lost the gift of speech. He wanted to throw himself between the old man and the still unsuspecting waitress, but found he could not move a finger.
It was all Hottabych’s doing. To prevent Volka from interfering in something he considered a matter of honour, he had lightly pinched his ear lobe between the first two fingers of his left hand and had thus condemned the boy to silence and immobility.
“How did you reply to the order my young master gave you?” he repeated.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” the waitress answered politely. “It was not an order, it was a request, and I went to fulfil it. And, in the second place, it’s customary to speak politely to strangers. All I can say is that I’m surprised you don’t know such a thing, though every cultured person should.”
“Don’t tell me you want to teach me manners!” Hottabych shouted. “On your knees, or I’ll turn you to dust!”
“Shame on you!” the cashier said. She was the only witness of the disgraceful scene, for there was no one besides Volka and Hottabych in the cafe. “How can you be so rude? And especially a person your age!”
“On your knees!” Hottabych roared. “And you get down on your knees, too,” he added, pointing to the cashier. “And you!” he shouted to another waitress who was rushing to the rescue. “All three of you, get down on your knees immediately, and beg my young friend’s pardon!” At this, Hottabych suddenly began to grow bigger and bigger until finally his head touched the ceiling. It was a strange and terrible sight. The cashier and the second waitress both fainted, but the first waitress only paled and said calmly, “Shame on you! You should behave properly in public. And if you’re a decent sort of hypnotist…”
(She thought the old man was practising hypnotic tricks on them.)
“On your knees!” Hottabych bellowed. “Didn’t you hear me — on your knees?!”
In all his three thousand seven hundred and thirty-two years, this was the first time ordinary mortals had refused to obey him. Hottabych felt the boy would lose respect for him, and he was terribly anxious to have Volka respect him and treasure his friendship.
“Down, O despicable one, if you value your life!”
“That’s entirely out of the question,” the brave waitress answered in a trembling voice. “I can’t understand why you’re raising your voice. If you think something’s wrong, you can ask the cashier for the ‘Complaints and Suggestions Book.’ Anyone can have it. And I’d like to add that the most famous hypnotists and mesmerists visit our cafe, but none have ever behaved like you. Aren’t I right, Katya?” she said, turning to her friend who had by then come to.
“How d’you like that!” Katya sniffled. “He wants us to get down on our knees! It’s outrageous!”
“Is that so?!” Hottabych yelled, losing his temper completely. “Is that how insolent you are? Well, you have only yourselves to blame!”
With a practised gesture he yanked three hairs from his beard and let go of Volka’s ear to tear them to bits. To the old man’s annoyance, Volka regained his power of speech and the freedom to move his limbs at will the moment he let go. The first thing he did was to grab Hottabych’s hand and cry:
“Oh, no, Hottabych! What do you want to do?”
“I want to punish them, O Volka. I’m ashamed to admit I was about to strike them down with thunder. Something even the most worthless Ifrit can do!”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Volka felt he had to stand up for science.
“A clap of thunder cannot kill anyone,” he said, thinking feverishly of how to ward off the danger now hanging over the poor waitresses. “What kills people is lightning — a charge of atmospheric electricity. Thunder is harmless, it’s only a sound.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Hottabych answered dryly, not wishing to lower himself to an argument with such an inexperienced youth. “I don’t think you’re right. But I’ve changed my mind. I won’t strike them with thunder, I’ll change them into sparrows instead. Yes, that’s the best thing to do.”
“But why?”
“I must punish them, O Volka. Evil must always be punished.”
“There’s no reason to punish them! Do you hear!”
Volka tugged at Hottabych’s hand, for the old man was about to tear the hairs, and then it would really be too late. But the hairs which he had knocked out of his hand miraculously returned to Hottabych’s rough dark palm.
“Just you try!” Volka shouted, seeing that the old man was about to tear them anyway. “You can turn me into a sparrow, too! Or into a toad! Or into anything you want! And you can consider our friendship dissolved as of this minute. I don’t like your ways, that’s what. Go on, turn me into a sparrow! And I hope the first cat that sees me gobbles me up!”
The old man was dismayed.
“Can’t you see, I’m only doing this to prevent anyone from ever approaching you without the great respect your endless merits call for?”
“No, I can’t, and I don’t want to!”
“Your every word is my command,” Hottabych replied obediently, sincerely puzzled at his saviour’s strange softheartedness. “All right, then. I won’t turn them into sparrows.”
“Nor into anything else!”
“Nor into anything else,” the old man agreed meekly. However, he gathered up the hairs with the obvious intention of tearing them to bits.
“Why do you want to tear them?” Volka cried. ; “I’ll turn all the goods, all the tables and all the equipment of this despicable shop into dust!”
“You’re mad!” Volka said, really angry by now. “Don’t you know that’s government property, you dope!”
“And may I inquire, O diamond of my soul, what you mean by the strange word ‘dope’?” Hottabych asked.
Volka turned as red as a beet.
“Well you see… What I mean is… Uh… Well, anyway, ‘dope’ is a sort of wise man.”
Hottabych decided to remember the word, in order to use it in some future conversation.
“But. …” he began.
“No buts! I’ll count to three. If, after I say ‘three,’ you don’t leave this cafe alone, we’ll call off our friendship and… I’m counting: one! two! th…”
Volka did not finish. Shrugging sadly, the old man resumed his usual appearance and muttered in a gloomy voice:
“All right, have it your way. Your good graces are more precious to me than the pupils of my eyes.”
“Well, there you are! Now all you have to do is to apologize and we can leave.”
“You should be forever grateful to your young saviour,” Hottabych shouted sternly to the waitresses, and Volka realized he would never be able to pry an apology from the old man’s lips.
“Please excuse us,” he said. “And I wish you wouldn’t be too angry at this old man. He’s a foreigner and doesn’t know our ways yet. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye,” the waitresses answered politely.
They were still rather upset and were both puzzled and frightened. But, of course, they never dreamed how great a danger they had avoid. They followed Hottabych and Volka out and watched the curious old man in an ancient straw boater go down the street and disappear around the corner.
“I can’t imagine where such naughty old men come from,” Katya sighed and wiped a tear.
“I suppose he’s an old-time hypnotist,” her brave friend said compassionately. “He’s probably a pensioner. Maybe he’s just lonely.”
“It’s no fun to be old,” the cashier joined in. “Come on back in, girls.”
The day’s mischief was not to end there. As Hottabych and Volka reached Gorky Street , they were blinded by an automobile’s headlights. A large ambulance, its screaming siren piercing the calm of twilight, seemed to be rushing straight at them.
Hottabych changed colour and wailed loudly:
“Oh, woe is me, an old, unfortu
nate Genie! Jirjis, the mighty, merciless king of all Shaitans and Ifrits, has not forgotten our ancient feud and has sent his most awful monster after me!”
With these words he shot straight up from the pavement and, somewhere on the level of the third or fourth storey, he took off his hat, waved it to Volka, and slowly dissolved in the air, shouting:
“I’ll find you again, O Volka ibn Alyosha! I kiss the dust beneath your feet! Good-bye!”
To tell the truth, Volka was happy the old man had vanished. Other things were pressing on his mind, and he felt faint at the thought of having to return home.
Really now, try to imagine yourself in his place. He had left the house in the morning to take a geography examination, then go to the movies and be back for supper as expected, at six-thirty. Instead, he was returning after nine, having failed his examination miserably, and, what was most horrible, with shaved cheeks! And him not even thirteen yet! No matter how he racked his brains, he could not find a solution. Thus, without having thought of anything, he dragged his feet back to his quiet side street, now full of long evening shadows.
He walked past the surprised janitor, entered the downstairs hall, climbed a flight of stairs and, with a heavy sigh, pressed the bell. He could hear someone’s steps, and a strange voice asked through the door:
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” Volka wanted to say, but suddenly remembered that, as of this morning, he didn’t live there any more.
Without answering the new tenant, he ran downstairs, marched by the still puzzled janitor nonchalantly, reached the main street, and boarded a trolley-bus. This certainly was his unlucky day: somewhere, most probably at the movies, he had lost his change-purse, so he had to get out and walk home.
Least of all, Volka wanted to meet a classmate, but most unbearable was the thought that he would have to face Goga-the-Pill. Sly Fate had added insult to injury: from this day forth they were both to live in the same house.
Sure enough, no sooner did he enter the yard of his new house than an unbearable, familiar voice shouted:
“Hi, nutty! Who was the old bird you left school with today?”
