by Lazar Lagin
“And has he been uh … barking a long time?”
“For over two hours. I just don’t know what to do.”
“First of all, calm down. I don’t see anything terrible yet. Now, young man, won’t you tell me how it all began?”
“Well, it all began from nothing,” Goga complained in a small voice. “I was just telling my mother how Volka Kostylkov .bow-wow-wow.”
“You see, doctor?” his mother sobbed loudly. “It’s terrible. Maybe he needs some pills, or powders, or perhaps he needs a physic?”
The doctor frowned.
“Give me time to think, and I’ll look through my books. It’s a rare case, a very rare case, indeed. Now, I want him to have a complete rest, no getting off the bed, a light diet, just vegetables and milk products, no coffee or cocoa, weak tea with milk, if desired. And by no means should he go out.”
“I couldn’t drag him outside if I tried, he’s so ashamed. .One of his friends dropped in, and poor Goga barked so long and loud, I had a hard time persuading the boy not to tell anyone about it. But don’t you think he needs a physic?”
“Well, a physic can’t hurt him,” the doctor said thoughtfully.
“And what about mustard plasters before he goes to bed?” she asked, still sobbing.
“That’s not bad, either. Mustard plasters are always helpful.”
The doctor was about to pat Goga’s head, but Pill, anticipating all the bitter medicines he had prescribed, barked so viciously that the old doctor jerked his hand away, frightened lest the unpleasant boy really bite him.
“By the way,” he said, gaining control over himself, “why are all the windows closed on such a hot day? The child needs fresh air.”
Goga’s mother reluctantly explained why she had closed the windows.
“Hm… A rare case, a very rare case, indeed!” the doctor repeated. Then he wrote out a prescription and left, promising to come back the next day.
A NO LESS TROUBLED MORNING
Morning dawned bright and beautiful.
At 6:30 a.m. Grandma opened the door softly, tiptoed to the window and opened it wide. Cool, invigorating air rushed into the room. This was the beginning of a cheerful, noisy, busy Moscow morning. But Volka would not have awakened had not his blanket slipped off the bed.
The first thing he did was to feel the bristles on his chin. He realized there was no way out. The situation was hopeless. There could be no question of his going out to greet his parents looking as he did. He snuggled under the blanket again and began to think of what to do.
“Volka! Come on, Volka! Get up!” he heard his father calling from the dining room. He pretended to be asleep and did not answer. “I don’t see how anyone can sleep on a morning like this!”
Then he heard his grandmother say:
“Someone should make you take examinations, Alyosha, and then wake you up at the crack of dawn!”
“Well, let him sleep then,” his father grumbled. “But don’t you worry, he’ll get up as soon as he’s hungry.”
Was it Volka who was supposed not to be hungry?! Why, he kept catching himself thinking about an omlette and a chunk of bread more than about the reddish bristle on his cheeks. But common sense triumphed over hunger, and Volka remained in bed until his father had left for work and his mother had gone shopping.
“Here goes,” he decided, hearing the outside door click shut. “I’ll tell Grandma everything. We’ll think of something together.”
Volka stretched, yawned and headed toward the door. As he was passing the aquarium, he glanced at it absently . … and stopped dead in his tracks. During the night, something had happened in this small, four-cornered glass reservoir, a mysterious event which could in no way be explained from a scientific point of view: yesterday, there were three fishes swimming around inside, but this morning there were four. There was a new fish, a large, fat goldfish which was waving its bright red fins solemnly. When a startled Volka looked at it through the thick glass wall he was nearly certain the fish winked at him slyly.
“Gosh!” he mumbled, forgetting his beard for the moment.
He stuck his hand into the water to catch the mysterious fish, and it seemed that this was just what it was waiting for. The fish slapped its tail against the water, jumped out of the aquarium and turned into Hottabych.
“Whew!” the old man said, shaking off the water and wiping his beard with a magnificent towel embroidered with gold and silver roosters which had appeared from thin air. “I’ve been waiting to offer my respects all morning, but you wouldn’t wake up and I didn’t have the heart to waken you. So I had to spend the night with these pretty fishes, O most happy Volka ibn Alyosha!”
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for making fun of me!” Volka said angrily. “It’s really a poor joke to call a boy with a beard happy!”
WHY S. S. PIVORAKI BECAME LESS TALKATIVE
This wonderful morning Stepan Stepanych Pivoraki decided to combine two joys at once. He decided to shave, while taking in the picturesque view of the Moskva River . He moved the little table with his shaving things close to the window and began to lather his cheeks as he hummed a merry tune. We’d like to pause here and say a few words about our new acquaintance.
Pivoraki was a very talkative man, a trait which often made him, though he was actually no fool and very well read, extremely tiresome, even to his best friends.
On the whole, however, he was a nice person and a great master of his trade — which was pattern-making.
When he had finished lathering his cheeks, Stepan Stepanych picked up his razor, drew it back and forth over his palm, and then began to shave with the greatest ease and skill. When he had finished shaving, he sprayed some “Magnolia” cologne on his face and then began to wipe his razor clean. Suddenly, an old man in a white suit and gold-embroidered, petal-pink morocco slippers with queer turned-up toes appeared beside him.
“Are you a barber?” the old man asked a flabbergasted Stepan Stepanych in a stern voice.
“No, I’m not a professional barber. However, on the other hand, I can truthfully say I am a barber, because, while I am not actually a barber, I am a match for any professional barber, for not a single barber can outdo me. And do you know why? Because, while a professional barber…”
The old man interrupted the chattering Pivoraki rudely:
“Can you, O unnecessarily talkative barber, shave a young man well and without cutting him once, although you are not even worthy of kissing the dust beneath his feet?”
“As to the essence of your question, I would say…”
He was about to continue his speech, but here the old man silently gathered up his shaving equipment, took Stepan Stepanych, who was still going a mile a minute, by the scruff of his neck and, without further ado, flew out the window with him, headed for parts unknown.
Soon they flew into a familiar room, where Volka Kostylkov sat sadly on his bed, moaning every time he looked at himself and his bristly chin in the mirror.
“Happiness and luck accompany you in all your undertakings, O my young master!” Hottabych announced triumphantly, still holding on to the kicking Stepan Stepanych. “I was about to despair of ever finding you a barber when I suddenly came upon this unusually talkative man, and I brought him along to this room beneath the blessed roof of your house. Here he is before you, with everything necessary for shaving. And now,” he said to Pivoraki who was gaping at the bristly boy, “lay out your tools properly and shave this honourable youth so that his cheeks become as smooth as those of a young maiden.”
Pivoraki stopped struggling. The razor glistened in his skilled hand and a few minutes later Volka was excellently shaved.
“Now put away your tools,” the old man said. “I’ll fly over for you again early tomorrow morning, and you’ll shave this youth once more.”
“I can’t come tomorrow,” Pivoraki objected in a tired voice. “I’m in the morning shift tomorrow.”
“That doesn’t concern me in the lea
st,” Hottabych replied icily. A heavy silence fell on the room. Suddenly, Stepan Stepanych had a bright idea.
“Why don’t you try a Tbilisi preparation? It’s an excellent remedy.”
“Is that some kind of a powder?” Volka interrupted. “Isn’t that a greyish powder? I heard about it, or read something about it…”
“Yes, that’s it! A greyish powder!” Pivoraki cried happily. “It’s made in Georgia , a wonderful and sunny land. I personally am crazy about Georgia . I’ve travelled back and forth across all the roads in the country during my many vacations. Sukhumi , Tbilisi , Kutaisi … There’s no better place for a rest! From the bottom of my heart and from my own experience, I highly recommend that you visit… Pardon me, I seem to have drifted off the point. Anyway, getting back to the powder… All you have to do is apply it to your cheeks, and the heaviest beard disappears without a trace. Naturally, it’ll grow back again after a while.”
“It won’t grow back in my young friend’s case,” Hottabych interrupted.
“Are you positive?”
Hottabych assumed a haughty expression and said nothing. He considered it beneath his dignity to take a lowly barber into his confidence.
A short minute later, an old man wearing an old-fashioned straw -boater, a white linen suit and pink morocco slippers with turned-up toes was seen in the locker room of a local bath-house in Tbilisi .
Without bothering to get undressed, he entered the steam room. The smell of sulphur stung his nostrils, but this was to be expected, as these were the famous Tbilisi sulphur baths. However, a person entering the crowded, steam-filled room fully dressed could not but attract the attention of the other patrons.
Curious eyes followed him as he slowly made his way towards a bright-eyed attendant. He halted within a few steps of the attendant, whose name was Vano, and began to remove his linen coat with an unhurried gesture.
“Genatsvale” (A friendly form of address (Georgian)., Vano said affably, “you are supposed to. get undressed in the locker room. This is where you wash.”
The old man smirked. He had no intention of washing. It was just that he felt a bit warm with his coat on.
“Come over here!” he said to Vano and fanned himself languidly with his hat. “But hurry, if you value your life.”
The attendant smiled pleasantly.
“Genatsvale, on such a lovely morning one values one’s life more than ever. What would you like, Grandfather?”
The old man addressed him in a stern voice:
“Tell me nothing but the truth, O bath attendant. Are these really the very famous Tbilisi Baths, of which I’ve heard so much worthy of amazement?”
“Yes, they’re the very same ones,” Vano said with pride. “You can travel all over the world, but you’ll never find another bath-house like this. I take it you’re a stranger here.”
The haughty old man let the question go unanswered.
“Well, if these are the very same baths I’ve been looking for, why don’t I see any of that truly magic salve which people who know and are worthy of trust say removes human hair without a trace?”
“Ah, so that’s what it’s all about!” Vano cried happily. “You want some ‘taro.’ You should have said so right away.”
“All right, if it’s called ‘taro,’ then bring me some ‘taro,’ but hurry if you…”
“I know, I know: if I value my life. I’m off!”
The experienced bath attendant had met many a queer character in his life and he knew that the wisest thing to do was never to argue.
He returned with a clay bowl filled with something that looked like ashes.
“Here,” he said, panting heavily as he handed the old man the bowl. “No place in the world will you find such a wonderful powder. You can take the word of a bath-house attendant!”
The old man’s face turned purple with rage.
“You’re making a fool of me, O most despicable of all bath-house attendants!” he said in a voice terrible in all its softness. “You promised to bring me a wonderful salve, but like a marketplace crook, you want to pass off an old dish of powder the colour of a sick mouse!”
The old man snorted so loudly that the entire contents of the bowl rose in a cloud and settled on his hair, eyebrows, moustache and beard, but he was too furious to bother shaking it off.
“You shouldn’t be so angry, Genatsvale,” the attendant laughed. “Just add some water and you’ll have the salve you longed for.”
The old man realized he was shouting for nothing and became embarrassed.
“It’s hot,” he mumbled in some confusion. “May this tiring heat be no more!” and he added very softly: “and while my beard is wet, may my magic powers remain in my fingers… And so, may this tiresome heat be no more!”
“I’m sorry, but that’s something I’ve no power over,” Vano said and shrugged.
“But I have,” Hottabych (naturally, it was he) muttered through clenched teeth and snapped the fingers of his left hand.
The attendant gasped. And no wonder: he felt an icy chill coming from where the strange old man stood; the wet floor became covered with a thin sheet of ice and clouds of hot steam from the entire room were drawn towards the cold pole which had formed over Hottabych’s head; there, they turned into rain clouds and came down in a drizzle over his head.
“This is much better,” he said with pleasure. “Nothing is so refreshing as a cool shower on a hot day.”
After enjoying this both unnatural and natural shower for a few minutes, he snapped the fingers of his right hand. The current of cold air was cut off immediately, while the ice melted. Once again clouds of hot steam filled the room.
“And so,” Hottabych said, pleased at the impression these unaccountable changes of temperature had made on the other patrons, “and so, let us return to the ‘taro.’ I am inclined to believe that the powder will really turn into the salve I have come in search of if one adds water to it. I want you to bring me a barrel of this marvellous potion, for I do not have much time at my disposal.”
“A barrel?!”
“Even two.”
“Oh, Genatsvdle! One bowl-full will be more than enough for even the heaviest beard!”
“All right then, bring me five bowls of it.”
“In a second!” Vano said, disappearing into an adjoining room. He reappeared in a moment with a heavy bottle stopped with a cork. “There are at least twenty portions here. Good luck.”
“Beware, O bath attendant, for I’d not wish anyone to be in your boots if you have tricked me!”
“How could you even think of such a thing,” Vano protested. “Would I ever dare trick such a respectable old man as you! Why, I would never…”
He stood there and gaped, for the amazing, quarrelsome old man had suddenly disappeared into thin air.
Exactly a minute later, a bald old man without eyebrows, a moustache or a beard and dressed in a straw boater, a linen suit and pink slippers with turned-up toes touched Volka Kostylkov’s shoulder as the boy was sadly devouring a huge piece of jam tart.
Volka turned round, looked at him, and nearly choked on the cake in amazement.
“Dear Hottabych, what’s happened to you?”
Hottabych looked at himself in the wall mirror and forced a laugh. “I suppose it would be exaggerating things to say I look handsome. You may consider me punished for lack of trust and you won’t be wrong. I snorted when I was kind-heartedly offered a bowl of ‘taro’ powder in that far-off bath-house. The powder settled on my eyebrows, moustache and beard. The rain which I called forth in that justly famous place turned the powder into mush, and the rain I was caught in on the way back to Moscow washed off the mush together with my beard, moustache, and eyebrows. But don’t worry about my appearance. Let’s better worry about yours.” Then he sprinkled some powder into a plate.
When Volka’s beard and moustache were disposed of, Hottabych snapped the fingers of his left hand and once again assumed his previous appearance.<
br />
Now he looked at himself in the mirror with true satisfaction. He stroked his recovered beard and twisted the ends of his moustache jauntily. Then he passed his hand over his hair, smoothed his eyebrows and sighed with relief.
“Excellent ! Now both our faces are back to normal again.”
As concerns Stepan Stepanych Pivoraki, who will never again appear on the pages of our extremely truthful story, it is a known fact that he became a changed man after the events described above. Why, it seems only yesterday that his friends, who suffered so acutely from his talkativeness, named every chatter-box “Pivoraki.” However, he has now become so sparing with his words, weighing each one carefully beforehand, that it is a joy to talk to him and listen to him speak at meetings.
Just think what an effect this incident had on him!
AN INTERVIEW WITH A DIVER
Zhenya Bogorad’s parents were up all night. They telephoned all their friends and, taking a cab, made the rounds of every militia station in the city, and of every hospital. They even stopped off at the criminal court, but all to no avail. Zhenya had disappeared without a trace.
The following morning the principal of the school called in Zhenya’s classmates, including Volka, and questioned each one.
Volka told the principal about meeting Zhenya at the movies the night before, though he quite naturally said nothing about his beard. The boy who sat next to Zhenya in class recalled that he had seen him on Pushkin Street close to six o’clock the previous evening, that he was in high spirits and was rushing to the movies. Other children said the same, but this was of no help.
Suddenly, one boy remembered Zhenya said he wanted to go swimming too.
In half an hour’s time every volunteer life guard in the city was searching for Zhenya Bogorad’s body. The river was dragged within the city limits, but yielded nothing. Divers traversed the entire river-bed, paying special attention to holes and depressions, but they, too, found nothing.
