The Old Genie Hottabych

by Lazar Lagin

  Fortunately for the man, Hottabych heard nothing of what he said, as he was engrossed in watching the magician. Sidorelli was about to begin his most difficult trick.

  First of all, the famous illusionist set fire to several long coloured ribbons and stuffed them into his mouth. Then he picked up a large, brightly coloured bowl filled with something that looked like sawdust. He stuffed his mouth full of the sawdust and began to fan himself quickly with a beautiful green fan. The sawdust in his mouth began to smoulder. Then a wisp of smoke appeared and, finally, when the lights were turned out, everyone saw thousands of sparks and even a small flame shoot from the famous magician’s mouth.

  Then, amidst a storm of applause and shouts of Bravo! Hottabych’s indignant voice could be heard.

  “It’s a fake!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “That’s no magic! It’s simple sleight-of-hand!”

  “Isn’t he something!” someone shouted.

  “A wonderful clown! Bravo, clown!” And everyone present except Volka and his friend applauded Hottabych enthusiastically.

  The old man did not understand which clown they were shouting about. He waited for the applause he had inspired to die down and continued acidly:

  “What kind of magic is that! Ha, ha, ha!”

  He shoved the thunderstruck magician aside. To begin with, fifteen tremendous multi-coloured flames shot from his mouth; they were so real that a smell of burning filled the circus.

  The applause was balm to Hottabych’s heart. Then he snapped his fingers, and instead of one large Sidorelli, seventy-two tiny Sidorellis ran off in single file along the barrier surrounding the arena. After completing several circles, they blended into one large Sidorelli again, just as tiny drops of mercury roll together to form a large drop.

  “That’s not all!” Hottabych thundered in a voice that was no longer human. He was excited by the admiration he had aroused, and began to draw forth herds of horses from under the flaps of his jacket.

  The horses whinnied with fear, they pawed the ground and tossed their heads, making their lovely silken manes blow. Then, at a signal from the old man, the horses disappeared. Instead, four huge, roaring African lions jumped out from under his jacket. They raced around the arena several times and also disappeared.

  There was an unending storm of applause from that moment on.

  Hottabych waved his hand and everything on the arena — Sidorelli and his assistants, and his various props, and the elegant uniformed attendants — all shot into the air, completed several farewell circles over the heads of the astounded audience, and dissolved into nothing.

  Suddenly and from nowhere, a huge African elephant with sly, twinkling eyes appeared on the arena. On its back was an elephant of smaller size; on the second was a third, still smaller; on the third was a fourth… the seventh and smallest of all stood right under the top of the tent and was no bigger than a dog.

  They trumpeted in unison, their trunks raised on high; then all flapped their ears like wings and flew off.

  The band of thirty-three musicians — all shouting happily — suddenly became a single ball; it rolled down from the bandstand into the arena and along the barrier, getting smaller and smaller until it was no larger than a pea. Then Hottabych picked it up, put it in his right ear, and the muffled sounds of a march could be heard coming from within.

  The old man was really bouncing up and down from excitement. He snapped all ten fingers at once and in a very special way, and everyone present began to shoot up from their seats, one at a time, and disappear far under the big top.

  Finally, only three people remained in the empty circus: Hottabych, who had wearily sat down to rest on the barrier, and the two boys, who had rushed down to him from the last row.

  “Well, how was it?” Hottabych asked limply, raising his head with difficulty and looking at the boys from strangely glazed eyes. “That’s no Sidorelli for you, is it?”

  “He’s certainly no match for you,” Volka replied, winking at Zhenya angrily, because his friend kept trying to ask the old man something.

  “I can’t stand fakers,” Hottabych muttered with unexpected bitterness. “To pass off simple sleight-of-hand for miracles! And in my presence!”

  “But he didn’t know a wise and mighty Genie was present here,” Zhenya put in a word for the magician. “And anyway, he didn’t say he was performing miracles. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all.”

  “It says so there. It says so in the programme. You heard me read it: ‘Miracles of Illusion.’ ”

  “Well, but of illusion, il-lu-sion! Don’t you understand?”

  “How they applauded me!” the old man recalled delightedly. “But you, O Volka, have never applauded nor even approved of me. No, I’m wrong. There was one occasion. But it was on account of some very simple magic. I don’t even consider it magic.

  And that evil Varvara Stepanovna is blame. It was she who taught you to scorn my gifts! Do not argue, O my young friends! It was she, it was she! Such wonderful palaces! Such a lovely little caravan! Such devoted and healthy slaves! Such excellent camels! And it was all because of that evil Varvara Ste…” but here, luckily for the teacher and our young friends, Hottabych’s gaze fell on a long banner hanging over the bandstand. His glazed eyes, once again took on an intelligent expression; a weak smile appeared on his face and, with the satisfaction of one who has just learned to read, he pronounced aloud:

  “De-ar child-ren! Con-gra-tu-la-tions on fi-ni-shing the sch-ool term. We wish you…”

  The old man fell silent and closed his eyes. It seemed as if he were about to lose consciousness.

  “Could you bring everyone back to their seats?” Volka asked anxiously. “Hottabych, can you hear me? D’you hear me? Can you make everything as it was before? I bet it’s very hard to do, isn’t it?”

  “No, not at all. I mean, it’s not hard for me to do at all,” Hottabych answered in a barely audible whisper.

  “I don’t think even you can do it,” Volka said craftily.

  “Yes, I can, but I feel very tired.”

  “See, that’s what I said! You can’t do it.”

  At this, Hottabych rose up with a sigh. He yanked thirteen hairs from his beard, tore them to bits, and shouted a strange and very long word. Then he sank down onto the sawdust covering the floor. From high under the circus tent enraptured people came whizzing down, and each one to his own seat. Sidorelli and his assistants, the props and the uniformed attendants, headed by the imposing ring-master, appeared on the arena as from under the ground.

  Flapping their ears loudly, all seven African elephants came flying back. They landed and formed a pyramid again, only this time the smallest one was on the bottom and the big one with the twinkling eyes on top, right under the roof. Then the pyramid they formed fell apart and they rushed around the arena in single file, getting smaller and smaller until they were no bigger than the head of a pin; finally, they got lost in the sawdust.

  The orchestra rolled out of Hottabych’s right ear like a pea;

  it mushroomed into a huge pile of laughing people and, contrary to the law of gravity, rolled upwards to the bandstand, where it fell apart into thirty-three men. They took their seats and began to play a march.

  “Let me through, please! Let me through!” a thin man in large horn-rimmed glasses said, as he made his way through the excited crowd standing around Hottabych. “Won’t you be so kind as to drop in at the manager’s office? He’d like to talk to you about performing in Moscow and on a road tour,” he said deferentially.

  “Leave the old man alone,” Volka told him unhappily. “Can’t you see he’s sick? He’s got a high fever!”

  And true enough, Hottabych was really burning up. He had got sick from eating too much ice-cream.

  A HOSPITAL UNDER THE BED

  He who has never had to take care of a sick Genie cannot imagine what a tiring and bothersome affair it is.

  First of all, there arises the question of where to keep him. You
can’t put him in a hospital, and there’s no question of keeping him in bed at home, where everyone can see him.

  Then again, how does one cure a Genie? Modern medicine is useful when one deals with people, not fairy-tale magicians.

  And, finally, can people catch Genies’ diseases?

  The boys discussed these problems at great length as they rode home in a cab with a delirious Hottabych.

  They came to the following decisions:

  1. They would not take him to a hospital, but keep him as comfortable as possible under Volka’s bed, suggesting first that, for safety’s sake, he become invisible.

  2. They would treat him as they would a person who had a cold. They would give him aspirin and tea with raspberry jam before going to sleep to make him perspire.

  3. Genies’ diseases could not possibly be catching.

  Fortunately, no one was at home. They made Hottabych comfortable in his usual place under Volka’s bed.

  Zhenya ran off to buy some aspirins and raspberry jam, while Volka went to the kitchen to make some tea.

  “Well, tea’s ready!” he said cheerfully, entering the room with a boiling kettle. “Let’s have some tea, Hottabych. Hm?”

  There was no answer.

  “He’s dead,” Volka gasped and suddenly, despite all the unpleasantness Hottabych had caused him, he felt he would miss the old man terribly if he died. “Dear, dear Hottabych!” he babbled, crawling under the bed.

  The old man was not there.

  “What a crazy old man!” Volka said angrily, forgetting all his tender feelings. “He was here a moment ago, and now he’s disappeared!”

  There is no telling what bitter words Volka would have added if Zhenya had not then dashed into the room, dragging a balky Hottabych behind. The old man was mumbling something.

  “What a nut! You can’t imagine what a nut he is!” Zhenya shouted as he helped Volka settle Hottabych under the bed again. “I was coming back from the shop and there he was, standing on the corner with a sack of gold, trying to hand it out to passers-by. I asked him, ‘What are you doing here with a high fever?’ And he said, ‘I feel my days are counted. I want to hand out alms on this occasion.’ And I said, ‘You’re nuts! Whom are you going to give alms to? Did you see any beggars here?’ And he said, ‘If that’s the case, I’ll go back home.’ So I dragged him back. You just lie still and get well! There’s no use rushing death!”

  They gave Hottabych a mouthful of aspirins, then fed him the whole jar of raspberry jam with tea, and bundled him up tightly to make him perspire.

  For a while, the old man lay there quietly. Suddenly, he began to fuss, trying to get up. He said he was going to Sulayman, the Son of David, to ask forgiveness for some long-forgotten ill deeds. Then he began to cry and asked Volka to run down to the Mediterranean Sea and the Indian Ocean and find a copper vessel on the bottom in which his dear brother Omar Asaf ibn Hottab was imprisoned. He wanted Volka to free him and bring him back home.

  “We’d all live so happily here!” he mumbled deliriously with. bitter tears pouring down his cheeks.

  Half an hour later the old man came to his senses and said in a weak voice from under the bed:

  “Oh, my young friends, you cannot imagine how grateful I am for your love and precious attention! Will you please do me a last favour: bind my hands tightly, because I’m afraid I might do such magic while unconscious that I’ll never be able to undo it later.”

  They tied him up and he immediately fell soundly asleep.

  Next morning Hottabych awoke in the prime of health.

  “That’s what medical attention administered in time can do!” Zhenya said with satisfaction. Then and there he decided to be a doctor when he grew up.

  ONE IN WHICH WE RETURN TO THE BARKING BOY

  To tell the truth, each time Volka thought of Goga, he became terribly envious. If he was at home or on the stairs, or downstairs near the entrance, it was difficult not to think of Goga:

  ever so often a teasing, wonderful, marvellous barking could be heard — even through closed doors and closed windows.

  It was most strange, however, that Goga did not come outside. No other boy in his place could ever have been able to stay away so long and not boast to his friends about his real, pure-breed puppy. And Goga, especially, would have gloated to see the children so envious.

  There was something strange about it all. Finally, Volka could not keep from asking Goga’s mother what the matter was. She became terribly embarrassed and mumbled something about her dear boy being sick. Then she rushed off.

  “Wait a minute!” Volka pleaded. “Can I ask you something? Just one question?”

  Goga’s mother stopped reluctantly.

  “Can you just tell me if it’s an Alsatian? Is it?”

  “What Alsatian?” the poor woman shrugged.

  “The puppy you gave Goga. You know, the one that’s barking. Is it an Alsatian or a Boxer?”

  “Goodness, what nonsense!” she sighed and disappeared quickly into her apartment.

  As if for spite, a high-pitched angry barking issued forth.

  It was all very mysterious.

  Just then Hottabych, who was lying in his usual place under Volka’s bed, asked casually:

  “I wonder how your enemy named Pill is getting on?”

  He yearned to boast about the cunning spell he had cast on him and share with Volka his delight in the trouble Goga was deservedly having.

  “No one but I can ever break the spell,” he thought. “I can just imagine how the most greatly-respected Volka ibn Alyosha will be pleased and how amazed he will be at the endless variety of my powers.”

  “Pill?” Volka repeated absently, for he had just thought of a very simple and tempting idea. “Pill? He’s not feeling too good. Listen, Hottabych,” he crouched down and stuck his head under the bed, in order to carry on negotiations more comfortably. “I want to ask you for a big favour.”

  “This is it,” the old Genie thought unhappily. He suspected that Volka was about to ask him to break the spell he had cast on Goga; and he decided to refuse flatly. At least for the time being. It wouldn’t hurt the horrid tattle-tale and gossip to suffer a bit. It would only do him good. However. Hottabych replied sourly:

  “I’ll be only too happy to know your wish.”

  “I want to ask you for a present.”

  The old man was pleased at not being forced to discuss Goga’s premature pardon. He scurried out from under the bed.

  “Just tell me what you want and you’ll have it immediately, O young and benevolent Genie-saviour.”

  “Could you give me a dog? An Alsatian?”

  “A dog? Nothing could be simpler or more pleasing to my heart!”

  Hottabych yanked a hair from his beard. Volka felt faint from happiness: there, at his feet, a magnificent, sleek and muscular three-year-old Alsatian stretched with a pleasant growl. It had lively, intelligent eyes, a cold, wet nose and marvellous pointed ears. Volka patted its neck. The dog wagged its tail politely and barked loudly from an overflow of emotion.

  “How do you like this dog?” Hottabych asked, as he bustled about, ready at a sign from Volka to fill the entire room, the entire apartment, and the entire house with the most valuable dogs. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I forgot a small detail.”

  The “small detail” was a collar, which appeared immediately. It glittered with such a multitude of precious stones that there would be more than enough for two imperial crowns.

  The unexpected happiness was almost more than Volka could bear. He patted the dog with a shaking hand and had such a dazed smile on his face that tears of happiness rolled down the kind-hearted old man’s cheeks.

  But there can never be complete happiness in life, at any rate, not when you are dealing with a Genie’s gifts! Suddenly, they heard the clicking of a woman’s heels behind the door. No sooner had Hottabych darted under the bed, there to become invisible, than the door opened and Volka’s mother entered.

  �
��That’s just what I thought,” she said, looking at the animal. In his haste, the old Genie had forgotten to make it invisible. “A dog! I’d like to know where you got it?” Volka knew he was sinking fast and sure. “I got it… It was given to me… You see… What I mean is…”

  There was no sense telling her the truth, and Volka didn’t want to lie. Anyway, there was no sense lying — his mother could always tell when he was not telling the truth.

  “Volka!” she said, raising her voice, “I don’t like your mumbling. I want you to tell me whose dog it is.”

  “It isn’t anyone’s … I mean, it wasn’t anybody’s before, but now it’s mine.”

  His mother turned pink with indignation. “I didn’t think you would lie to me. I didn’t think you were capable of it. Tell me whose dog it is. Why, the collar alone is worth hundreds of roubles.”

  She thought the stones were just coloured glass. Hottabych became very angry. He was both angry and hurt. He wanted this noble, but naive woman to understand that Has-san Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab was not one to present his best friends with cheap imitations and that this truly priceless collar was worth thousands upon thousands of roubles. But he checked himself in time, since he now realized such bragging would only make Volka’s situation worse.

  He himself was a straightforward and truthful person and was proud of Volka for not wanting to lie, even though it was the tiniest white lie. The only thing to do was to stop the misunderstanding immediately.

  “Well then, my kind and truthful young friend will have to do without a dog for the time being. And let him not be bothered by dreams of owning a dog,” Hottabych thought, smiling into his beard.

  A faint crystal tinkling issued from under the bed, and the dog disappeared.

  “Volka, dear,” his mother said, completely forgetting what they had been talking about. “If my office calls, please tell them I’ll be there in an hour or so. By the way, do you know whom the doctor came to see next door?”