by Lazar Lagin
The fiery blaze of sunset was slowly sinking beyond the river, a faint breeze carried the low sounds of a siren from the recreation park, a signal that the second act of the evening’s play at the summer theatre was about to begin, but the dark silhouettes of the river boats could still be seen on the water. The search was still on.
This cool, quiet evening Volka was too restless to sit at home. Terrifying thoughts of Zhenya’s fate gave him no peace. He decided to go back to school, perhaps there was some news there. As he was leaving the school yard, Hottabych joined him silently at the gate, appearing from nowhere at all. The old man saw Volka was upset, yet he was too tactful to annoy him with his questions. Thus, they continued on in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Soon they were walking down the wide granite embankment of the Moskva River .
“What kind of strange-headed people are standing in those frail vessels?” the old man asked, pointing to the river boats.
“Those are divers,” Volka answered sadly.
“Peace be with you, O noble diver,” Hottabych said grandly to one of the divers climbing out of a boat near the bank. “What are you searching for on the bottom of this beautiful river?”
“A boy drowned,” the diver answered and hurried up the steps of the first-aid station.
“I have no more questions, O highly respected diver,” Hottabych said to his disappearing back.
Then he returned to Volka, bowed low and exclaimed:
“I kiss the ground beneath your feet, O most noble student of Secondary School No. 245!”
“Huh?” Volka started, shaken from his unhappy thoughts.
“Am I correct in understanding that this diver is searching for the youth who has the great honour of being your classmate?”
Volka nodded silently and heaved a great sigh.
“Is he round of face, sturdy of body, snub of nose and sporting a haircut unbecoming to a boy?”
“Yes, that was Zhenya. He had a haircut like a real dandy,” Volka said and sighed heavily again.
“Did we see him in the movies? Was it he who shouted something to you and made you sad, because he’d tell everyone you had such a beard?”
“Yes. How did you know what I was thinking then?”
“Because that’s what you mumbled when you tried to conceal your honourable and most beautiful face from him,” the old man continued. “Don’t fear, he won’t tell!”
“That’s not true!” Volka said angrily. “That doesn’t bother me at all. On the contrary, I’m sad because Zhenya drowned.”
Hottabych smirked triumphantly.
“He didn’t drown!”
“What do you mean? How d’you know he didn’t drown?”
“Certainly I am the one to know,” Hottabych said. “I lay in wait for him near the first row in the dark room and I said to myself in great anger, ‘No, you will tell nothing, O Zhenya! Nothing which is unpleasant to your great, wise friend Volka ibn Alyosha, for never again will you see anyone who will believe you or will be interested in such news!’ That’s what I said to myself as I tossed him far away to the East, right to where the edge of the Earth meets the edge of the Heavens and where, I assume, he has already been sold into slavery. There he can tell whomever he wants to about your beard.”
CHARTING A FLIGHT
“What do you mean — slavery?! Sell Zhenya Bogorad into slavery?!” a shaken Volka asked.
The old man saw that something had gone wrong again, an his face became very sour.
“It’s very simple. It’s quite usual. Just like they always sell people into slavery,” he mumbled, rubbing his hands together nervously and avoiding Volka’s eyes. “That’s so he won’t babble for nothing, O most pleasant dope in the world.”
The old man was very pleased at having been able to put the new word he had learned from Volka the night before into the conversation. But his young saviour was so upset by the terrible news that he really didn’t pay attention to having been called dope for nothing.
“That’s horrible!” Volka cried, holding his head. “Hottabych, d’you realize what you’ve done?”
“Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab always realizes what he does!”
“Like hell you do! For no reason at all, you’re ready to turn good people into sparrows or sell them into slavery. Bring Zhenya back here immediately!”
“No!” Hottabych shook his head. “Don’t demand the impossible of me!”
“But do you find it possible to sell people into slavery? Golly, you can’t even imagine what I’ll do if you don’t bring Zhenya right back!”
To tell the truth, Volka himself had no idea what he could do -s to save Zhenya from the clutches of unknown slave dealers, but he would have thought of something. He would have written to some ministry or other. But which ministry? And what was he to say?
By now the readers of this book know Volka well enough to agree that he’s no cry-baby. But this was too much, even for Volka. Yes, our courageous, fearless Volka sat down on the edge of the first bench he came upon and broke into tears of helpless rage.
The old man asked anxiously:
“What is the meaning of this crying that has overcome you? Answer me, and do not tear my heart apart, O my young saviour.”
But Volka, regarding the old man with hate-filled eyes;
pushed him away as he leaned over him with concern.
Hottabych looked at Volka closely, sucked his lips and said thoughtfully:
“I’m really amazed. No matter what I do, it just doesn’t seem to make you happy. Though I’m trying my best to please you, all my efforts are in vain. The most powerful potentates of the East and West would often appeal to my magic powers, and there was not a single one among them who was not grateful to me later and did not glorify my name in words and thoughts. And look at me now! I’m trying to understand what’s wrong, but I cannot. Is it senility? Ah, I’m getting old!”
“Oh no, no, Hottabych, you still look very young,” Volka said through his tears.
And true enough, the old man was well preserved for being close on four thousand years of age. No one would have ever given him more than seventy or seventy-five. Any of our readers would have looked much older at his age.
“You flatter me,” Hottabych smiled and added: “No, it is not within my powers to return your friend Zhenya immediately.”
Volka’s face turned ashen from grief.
“But,” the old man continued significantly, “if his absence upsets you so, we can fly over and fetch him.”
“Fly?! So far away? How?”
“How? Not on a bird, of course,” Hottabych answered craftily. “Obviously, on a magic carpet, O greatest dope in the world.”
This time Volka noticed that he had been called such an unflattering name. “Whom did you call a dope?!” he flared.
“Why, you, of course, O Volka ibn Alyosha, for you are wise beyond your years,” Hottabych replied, being extremely pleased that he was again able to use his new word so successfully in a conversation.
Volka was about to feel offended. However, he blushed as he recalled that he had no one to blame but himself. Avoiding the old man’s honest eyes, he asked him never again to call him a dope, for he was not worthy of such a great honour.
“I praise your modesty, O priceless Volka ibn Alyosha,” Hottabych said with great respect.
“When can we start?” Volka asked, still unable to overcome his embarrassment.
“Right now, if you wish.”
“Then let’s be off!” However, he added anxiously, “I don’t know what to do about Father and Mother. They’ll worry if I fly away without telling them, but if I tell them, they won’t let me go.”
“Let it worry you no more,” the old man said. “I’ll cast a spell on them and they won’t think of you once during our absence.”
“You don’t know my parents!”
“And you don’t know Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab!”
THE FLIGHT
In one corner of the mag
ic carpet the pile was rather worn, most probably due to moths. On the whole, however, it was wonderfully preserved and the fringes were as good as new. Volka thought he had seen exactly the same kind of carpet before, but he could not recall whether it was in Zhenya’s house or in the Teachers’ Room at school.
They took off from the river bank without a single witness to their departure. Hottabych took Volka’s hand and stood him in the middle of the carpet beside himself; he then yanked three hairs from his beard, blew on them, and whispered something, rolling his eyes skyward. The carpet trembled. One after the other, all four tassled corners rose. Then the edges buckled and rose, but the middle remained on the grass, weighted down by the two heavy passengers. After fluttering a bit, the carpet became motionless.
The old man bustled about in confusion.
“Excuse me, O kind Volka. There’s been a mistake somewheres. I’ll fix everything in a minute.”
Hottabych was quiet as he did some complex figuring on his fingers. He apparently got the right answer, because he beamed. Then he yanked six more hairs from his beard, tore off half of one hair and threw it away, and then blew on the others, saying the magic words and rolling his eyes skyward. Now the carpet straightened out and became as flat and as hard as a staircase landing. It soared upwards, carrying off a smiling Hottabych and Volka, who was dizzy from exhilaration, or the height, or from both together.
The carpet rose over the highest trees, over the highest houses, over the highest factory stacks and sailed over the city that was blinking with a million lights below. They could hear muffled voices, automobile horns, people singing in row boats on the river and the far-off music of a band.
The city was plunged in twilight, but here, high up in the air, they could still see the crimson ball of the sun sinking slowly beyond the horizon.
“I wonder how high up we are now?” Volka said thoughtfully.
“About 600 or 700 elbows,” Hottabych answered, still figuring out something on his fingers.
Meanwhile, the carpet settled on its course, though still gaining height. Hottabych sat down majestically, crossing his legs and holding on to his hat. Volka tried to sit down cross-legged, as Hottabych had, but found neither pleasure nor satisfaction from this position. He shut his eyes tight to overcome his awful dizziness and sat down on the edge of the carpet, dangling his legs over the side. Though this was more comfortable, the wind tore at his legs mercilessly; it blew them off to a side and they were constantly at a sharp angle to his body. He soon became convinced that this method was no good either, and finally settled down with his legs stretched out before him on the carpet.
In no time, he felt chilled to the bone. He thought sadly of his warm jacket that was so far below in his closet at home, hundreds of miles away.
As a last resort, he decided to warm up the way cabbies used to do in the olden days, long before he was born. His father once showed him how it was done when they were out ice skating. Volka began to slap his shoulders and sides in sweeping motions, and in the twinkling of an eye he slipped off the carpet and into nothingness.
Needless to say, if he had not grabbed on to the fringes, our story would have ended with this unusual air accident.
Hottabych did not even notice what had happened to his young friend. He was sitting with his back to Volka, his legs tucked under him in Eastern fashion and lost in thought. He was trying to recall how to break spells he himself had cast.
“Hottabych!” Volka howled, feeling that he wouldn’t last long, as he hung on to the fringes. “Help, Hottabych!”
“O woe is me!” the old man cried, seeing that Volka was flying through the air. “Shame on my old grey head! I would have killed myself if you had perished!”
Muttering and calling himself all kinds of names for being so careless, he dragged a petrified Volka back up on the carpet, sat him down and put his arm around the boy, firmly resolved not to let go of him until they landed.
“It would be g-g-good t-t-to h-h-have s-s-something w-w-warm to wear!” Volka said wistfully through chattering teeth.
“S-s-sure, O gracious Volka ibn Alyosha!” Hottabych answered and covered him with a quilted robe that appeared from nowhere.
It became dark. Now it was especially uncomfortable on the magic carpet. Volka suggested that they rise another 500 elbows or so. “Then we’ll see the sun again.”
Hottabych greatly doubted that they could see the sun before morning, since it had already set, but he didn’t argue.
You can imagine how surprised he was and how his esteem for Volka grew, when, as they rose higher, they really saw the sun again! For a second time its crimson edge was barely touching the black line of the far horizon.
“Oh, Volka, if only I had not promised myself faithfully to obey your modest request, nothing would prevent me from calling you the greatest dope in the world,” Hottabych cried ecstatically. However, when he saw how displeased Volka was, he quickly added, “but since you forbade it, I shall limit myself to expressing my amazement at the unusual maturity of your mind. I “promised never to call you a dope and I won’t.”
“And don’t call anyone else by that name, either.”
“All right, O Volka,” Hottabych agreed obediently.
“Do you swear?”
“Yes, I do!”
“Now don’t forget,” Volka said in a tone of satisfaction that puzzled Hottabych.
Far below them forests and fields, rivers and lakes, villages and cities sailed by, adorned in softly glowing pearly strings of electric lights. A sea of clouds with hard round edges appeared;
they darkened and disappeared in the blackness below, but the carpet kept on flying farther and farther away to the south-east, closer and closer to the strange land where the young prisoner Zhenya Bogorad was probably already suffering at the hands of fierce and terrible slave traders.
“To think that poor Zhenya’s breaking his back at hard labour,” Volka said bitterly after a long silence.
A guilty Hottabych only grunted in reply.
“He’s all alone in a strange land, without any friends or relatives. The poor fellow’s probably groaning,” Volka continued sadly.
Hottabych again said nothing.
If only our travellers could have heard what was happening that very minute, thousands of miles away to the East!
Far away in the East, Zhenya Bogorad was really groaning.
“Oh no, I can’t!” Zhenya moaned, “Oh no, no more!”
In order to describe the circumstances under which he uttered these heart-rending words, we shall have to part with our travellers for a while and relate the experiences of Zhenya Bogorad, a pioneer group leader of 6B (7B, as of the day before) of Moscow Secondary School No. 245.
ZHENYA BOGORAD’S ADVENTURES FAR AWAY IN THE EAST
As soon as Zhenya Bogorad, seated in the first row of the Saturn Theatre, turned around to catch a glimpse of the bearded boy before the movie began, everything suddenly went dark, he heard an ear-splitting whistle, and instead of the hard floor beneath his feet, he felt he was standing in tall grass.
When his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he was greatly amazed to discover that he was in a dense forest filled with the aroma of strange flowers. Lianas hung from huge trees, the likes of which he had never seen before. Yes, these were definitely lianas. It was hot and humid, much hotter than it had been in the projection room.
Holding his arms out, Zhenya took several cautious steps and nearly trod on a … snake! The snake hissed like a broken bicycle pump, flashed its small green eyes and disappeared in the bushes.
“Golly! Where am I?!” Zhenya wondered, not daring to move. “It’s just like the jungles. It’s just like a dream. Why, sure,” he thought happily, “sure, this is all a dream! I’m sleeping and this is a dream.”
At one time or another everyone has had a dream in which he knows quite clearly that he is dreaming. It’s fun to have such a dream: no dangers frighten you, and you always succeed in the most hazar
dous feats. Most important, you know the time will come when you’ll awake safe and sound in your own bed.
However, when Zhenya attempted to make his way through the prickly bushes, he really got scratched. Since it’s most unpleasant to be hurt, even though you are quite positive everything is just a dream, Zhenya decided to doze off till morning.
When he awoke, he saw the hot, pale blue sky shining brightly through the openings in the crowns of the trees. Zhenya was overjoyed to find his wonderful dream still continuing!
The first thing he saw when he found his way to the edge of the forest were four elephants carrying huge logs in their trunks. A thin, dark-skinned man, naked to the waist and wearing a white turban, was riding the lead elephant.
In the distance, smoke curled from the rooftops of a small village. Now Zhenya knew what he was dreaming about. He was dreaming about India ! This was really wonderful. Yet, still more wonderful things awaited him.
“Who are you?” the man on the elephant asked Zhenya dryly. “An Englishman? A Portuguese? An American?”
“No,” Zhenya answered in broken English. “I Russian, Rusi.” Just to make sure, he pointed to himself and said, “Hindi Rusi bhai, bhai.”
At this, the man on the elephant beamed and nodded so vigorously that it was a wonder his turban didn’t fall off his head.
Then he made his elephant kneel and he took Zhenya up beside him. The whole cavalcade, swaying majestically, continued towards the village.
On the way they met several children.
The man shouted something to them; they gaped and stared at the real-life Soviet boy. Then they dashed back to the village, shouting and skipping. By the time Zhenya Bogorad, a 7B pupil of Moscow Secondary School No. 245, arrived in the village riding the head elephant, its entire population had poured out into the narrow single street.
What a welcome it was!
Zhenya was helped down respectfully, he was led into a room and offered food, which was more than welcome, since he found that even in his sleep he was hungry. Imagine, what a real dream he was having! Then people approached him and shook his hand, then everybody sang a long and plaintive Indian song. Zhenya sang along with them as best he could and everyone was terribly pleased. Then Zhenya sang the democratic youth song and some boys and girls joined in, while the rest sang along as best they could. Then everyone began coaxing a young Hindu youth and he finally gave in and began another song, which Zhenya recognized as “Katyusha.” He joined in enthusiastically, while everyone else clapped in rhythm to the song. Then they shook his hand again and everyone shouted Hindi Rusi bhai, bhai!
