by Lazar Lagin
“Goga, I guess.”
“Is he ill?”
“I think so.” -
“You think so! Isn’t he your friend?”
“Some friend!”
“I’m ashamed of you, Volka,” his mother said angrily, and she turned and walked out of the room with a stony face.
“Hm!” Volka sighed and decided to visit Goga as soon as the doctor left. “Hottabych! Hey, Hottabych!”
There was no answer.
“He’s gone again! Whenever you have to discuss something with him, he’s not there. What a Genie!”
Meanwhile, Hottabych was making himself comfortable in apartment 37 , this time under Goga’s bed. He was curious to see how the old doctor, who obviously had no idea what a mighty and unusual opponent he was up against, would helplessly fumble about in search of a correct diagnosis.
This is what was happening in the room where the most mysterious of all the old district doctor’s cases lay high on fluffed pillows, while Volka, taking advantage of Hottabych’s absence, sat down to study his geography, and the old Genie himself lay hidden under Goga’s bed.
The old doctor’s name was Alexander Alexeyevich. We want you to know this, in case you meet him some day. He was very experienced and wise.
“Now, will you please leave us alone? There’s something we have to discuss,” he said kindly to Goga’s despairing mother.
“Well, young man,” he said when they were alone (Hottabych under the bed obviously did not count), “how are things? Are we still barking?”
“It’s awful!” Goga moaned.
“Aha! Well then, let’s just chat a bit. What kind of poems do you like?”
“Bow-wow-wow!” Goga barked. His mother, who was standing just outside the door, began to sob.
You can imagine what Goga wanted to reply to the old doctor’s question! He was indignant and he considered it a foolish and unnecessary question. However, his barking neither surprised nor distressed the old doctor.
“Don’t get angry,” Alexander Alexeyevich said in a very calm voice. “This question has direct bearing on your illness.”
“I like ‘A Winter’s Evening,’ a poem by Pushkin,” Goga finally answered after barking for a long while.
“Won’t you recite it for me? Do you know it by heart?”
Goga recited four lines.
“That’s enough!” the doctor said. “Now, will you please tell me what you think about your classmate, ah, what’s-his-name? The one who lives next door?”
“You mean Volka Kostylkov?”
“Exactly.”
“Bow-wow-wow!” Goga barked loudly.
“Now, now. Try to use words.”
“Bow-wow-wow’.” Goga replied, shrugging helplessly, as if to say: “I’d be only too glad to use words, but I can’t. I don’t seem to be able to.”
“I see. That’s enough. That’s enough, I said! Hm! Well, and what about the other children in your class?”
“In my class?” the ailing Goga smirked. “If you want to know, all the kids in my class are bow-wow-wow!”
“Well, and what do you think about me? Don’t be shy, tell me what you really think. What do you think of me as a doctor?”
“As a doctor, I think you’re nothing but a bow-wow-wow!”
“Wonderful!” Alexander Alexeyevich exclaimed with genuine joy. “And what do you think about your mother?”
“My mother’s very nice,” Goga said. His mother, still standing behind the door, burst out in tears, though these were tears of happiness. “But sometimes she’s bow…” He shuddered and fell silent. “No, she’s always very, very nice.”
“And what about your class wall-newspaper? Do you have anything to say about it?” the old doctor asked, but this time only to be doubly certain. He had finally discovered the essence of the rare illness his young patient was suffering from. “Did they ever criticize you in the paper?”
This time Goga kept on barking for at least two minutes. Hottabych was tired of listening to him, but the old doctor was so delighted that one would think it was not Goga Pilukin, nicknamed “Pill” for his atrocious temper, barking, but an opera star singing his most famous aria.
When Goga had barked his fill, Alexander Alexeyevich rubbed his hands together contentedly.
“It seems quite clear now. But let us not be hasty and, instead, put it to the test again. Here’s my pen and a sheet of paper. I want you to write: ‘There is no place in our country for gossips and tattle-tales!’ Have you written it? Excellent! Let me see it. You have written it nicely and without a single mistake. Now let’s write another sentence. By the way, what’s your teacher’s name? Varvara Stepanovna? Well then, write this: ‘Varvara Stepanovna! Vanya and Petya are purposely teaching me to swear. I’m a conscientious boy and wish you would punish them.”
Goga’s face became terribly sour. Something was obviously wrong. He kept writing and crossing out what he had written, until the doctor finally took the messy sheet of paper away. This is what he read, chuckling, but apparently not a bit surprised:
“Varvara Stepanovna! Vanya and Petya bow-wow-wow… I’m a conscientious boy and wish you would bow-wow-wow.” Each of these “bow-wow-wow’s” was crossed out, but each time the unfortunate Goga had written in another “bow-wow-wow” over the one that had been crossed out.
“The committee’s findings are clear,” the doctor said, folding the two papers and putting them away in his wallet. “Please come in!” he called to Goga’s mother…
She entered, dabbing her eyes with a damp hanky.
After she had sat down, Alexander Alexeyevich said, “I have to inform you that I didn’t sleep a wink last night, because I was busy looking through my medical books and thinking. I could find nothing at all which even vaguely resembled your son’s case.”
The poor woman gasped nervously.
“Do not despair, my good woman,” the old doctor said. “Things are not hopeless. I read on and on, and thought a great deal. And after that I naturally could not fall asleep, for I’m getting on in years. Seeking distraction, I picked up a volume of Arabian Nights and read a tale about a magician or, rather, a Genie, changing a person he disliked into a dog. Then I thought that if there really were Genies in the world (Hottabych lying under the bed was offended) and if one of them decided to punish someone, say a boy, for gossiping, tattling, and thinking poorly of his friends, he could cast a spell on him that would make him bark each time he wanted to say something bad. Your son and I just had a long talk and we discovered that he could recite a poem by Pushkin without barking at all and speak of you with hardly a small bark, and then bark incessantly when talking of his friends or the school newspaper, in which he had apparently been criticized several times. Do you understand what I’m getting at? I do hope I’ve made myself clear.”
“Do you mean,” Goga’s mother said thoughtfully, “that…”
“Exactly. Naturally, there aren’t any Genies and there never were any. (Hottabych again felt hurt, this time even more than before.) What your son has is a very strange kind of psychological trauma. And I must warn you that he will continue barking in the future…”
“Oh my goodness!” the poor woman wailed.
“Yes, he will bark each time he decides to tattle or gossip, or whenever he tries to say something unpleasant. And then people will no longer call him Goga Pilukin, but Bow-Wow Pilukin. And this will continue when he grows up, although no one will call him that to his face. As you see, your son may find himself in a very unhappy situation. However, if he makes a firm resolution never to tattle, gossip, or spoil good people’s lives, I can guarantee you that he will stop barking once and for all.”
“Bow-Wow Pilukin!” Goga’s unfortunate mother thought and shuddered. “How horrible! I would never survive it. But what about some medicine? Won’t you at least write out a prescription for some medicine?”
“In this case, no medicine will help. Well, young man, shall we give it a try?”
“And I won’t bark at all any more?”
“Everything depends entirely on you.”
“Then you won’t leave a prescription?” Goga’s mother asked again, seeing that the doctor was about to leave.
“I gave you my prescription, the only one that will work. However, we can check on it. Now, won’t you say a few fair words about your friend Volka? I want you to pay special attention: I said ‘fair.’”
“Sure, Volka Kostylkov’s a good fellow,” Goga mumbled hesitantly, as if he were just learning how to talk. “You’re right dear, dear doctor! This is the first time since the geography exam that I didn’t bark when I talked about Volka! Hurray!”
“Exactly what happened at the exam?” the old doctor asked, as if casually.
“Why, nothing special. Can’t a boy suddenly become ill from overwork?” Goga went on in a much more confident tone.
“I guess I’ll be going along,” Alexander Alexeyevich said. “I have to visit a good dozen real patients. I take it you understood everything, Goga?”
“Yes! Oh, yes! Upon my word of honour! Thank you!”
“Well, then, keep it up! Good-bye, everyone.”
“Where’d you disappear to?” Volka shouted at the old Genie several seconds later, as Hottabych crawled back to his place under his bed with a very thoughtful expression-on his face.
“Listen, O Volka,” the old man said with great solemnity. I just witnessed a most unusual scene: a spell cast by a Genie was broken by a human being! True, this was a very wise and very just human being. He was so just that I didn’t even think of punishing him for not believing in my existence. Where are you going?
“I have to visit Goga. I should really be ashamed of myself.”
“Yes, do go and visit your classmate. Though he is no longer ill.”
“Not ill at all? Did he get well so quickly?”
“That depends entirely on him,” Hottabych said. And pocketing his own pride, he told Volka about the only known case of curing a boy who barked.
HOTTABYCH AND MR. MONEYBAGS
“O blessed Volka,” Hottabych said as he basked happily in the sun after breakfast, “each time I present you with gifts which I consider of great value I discover they are the wrong kind of gifts. Perhaps it would be a better idea if you were to tell me what you and your young friend would care for. I would consider it a great honour and joy to fulfil your wish on the spot.”
“If that’s the case, would you please give me a pair of large navy binoculars?” Volka said promptly.
“With the greatest of pleasure and joy.”
“I’d like a pair of binoculars, too. I mean, if it’s all right with you,” Zhenya added shyly.
“Nothing could be simpler.”
The three of them set out for a large second-hand shop, located on a busy little side street in the centre of the city. The shop was crowded and our friends had difficulty in pushing their way to the counter. There were so many odd items on the shelves that they could never be sorted according to any system, for then there would have to be a separate section for each item.
“Show me, O sweet Volka, what these binoculars so dear to your heart look like,” Hottabych said happily but then suddenly turned pale and began to tremble.
He looked at his young friends sadly, burst into tears and said in a hollow voice, “Farewell, O light of my eyes!” Then, shoving the people in the shop aside, he headed towards a grey-haired ruddy-complexioned foreigner and fell to his knees before the man.
“Order me as you will, for I am your obedient and humble slave!” Hottabych mumbled, swallowing his tears and trying to kiss the flap of the foreigner’s jacket.
“Shame on you, citizen, to go begging in our times!” one of the shop assistants said to Hottabych.
“And so, how many I should have pay you for this bad ring?” the foreigner continued nervously in bad Russian, after being interrupted by Hottabych.
“Only ten roubles and seventy kopeks,” the clerk answered “It certainly is an odd item.”
The clerks of second-hand shops knew Mr. Moneybags well though he had but recently arrived from abroad as a touring businessman. He spent all his free time combing the second-hand shops in the hope of acquiring a treasure for a song.
“Quite recently he had bought half a dozen china cups of the Lomonosov Pottery very cheaply and now, just when an inconsolable Hottabych had fallen to his knees before him, he was pricing a time-blackened ring which the clerk thought was made of silver and Mr. Moneybags thought was made of platinum.
When he received his purchase he put it in his vest pocket and left the shop. Hottabych rushed out after him, wiping the tears that poured down his wrinkled old face. As he passed his friends, he barely had time to whisper:
“Alas! This grey-haired foreigner holds the magic ring of Sulayman, the Son of David (on the twain be peace!). And I am the slave of this ring and must follow its owner. Farewell, my friends. I’ll always remember you with gratitude and love…”
Only now, when they had parted with Hottabych forever, did the boys realize how used to him they had got. They left the shop in silence without even looking at any binoculars and headed towards the river bank, where, as of late, they were wont to sit long hours having heart-to-heart talks. They lay on the bank for a long time, right near the place where such a short while ago Volka had found the slimy clay vessel with Hottabych. They recalled the old man’s funny but endearing ways and became more and more convinced that, when all was said and done, he had had a very pleasant and kind nature.
“There’s no use denying it. We didn’t appreciate Hottabych enough,” Zhenya said critically and heaved a sigh.
Volka turned on his other side and was about to reply, but instead he jumped to his feet quickly and ran off.
“Hurray! Hottabych is back! Hurray!”
And true enough, Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab was approaching them in a quick old man’s shuffle. Dangling over his shoulder on long straps were two black leather cases containing large naval binoculars.
HASSAN ABDURRAKHMAN IBN HOTTAB’S STORY OF HIS ADVENTURES AFTER LEAVING THE SHOP
“Know ye, O my young friends, that my story is strange and my adventures most unusual. I want you to sit beside me while I tell you how I came to be here again.
“It so happened, that when the ruddy-faced foreigner left the shop, he continued on foot, in order to shake off a little of the fat that covers his well-fed body so plentifully. He walked so quickly that I was barely able to keep up with him. I caught up with him on another street and fell down before him crying, ‘Order me to follow you, O my master!’
“But he would not listen and continued on his way. I caught up with him eighteen times in all and eighteen times I fell on my knees before him and eighteen times he left me where I was.
“And so we continued on until we came to his house. I wanted to follow him in, but he shouted, ‘You do not push into my rooms or I will be calling a militia man!’ Then I asked him whether I was to stand by his door all day and he replied, ’Till next year if you want to!’
“And I remained outside the door, for the words of one who possesses Sulayman’s ring are law to me. And I stood there for some time until I heard a noise overhead and the window opened. I looked up and saw a tall thin woman in a green silk dress standing by the window. Her laugh was bitter and taunting. Behind her stood the same foreigner who now looked extremely put out. The woman said derisively, ‘Alas, how mistaken I was when I married you fourteen years ago! You always were and always will be a very ordinary haberdasher! My goodness, not to be able to tell a worthless silver ring from a platinum one! Oh, if only my poor father had known!’
“And she tossed the ring down on the pavement and shut the window with a bang. I saw this and dropped senseless to the ground, for if Sulayman’s ring is thrown to the ground terrible calamities may occur. But then I opened my eyes and became convinced that I was alive and nothing unfortunate had happened. I gathered from this that I can cons
ider myself lucky.
“Then I jumped to my feet and blessed my fate. I picked up the ring and ran back to you, my friends, having previously procured the presents you so desired. That’s all I have to say.”
“It’s just like in a fairy-tale,” Zhenya cried excitedly when the old man had finished his story. “Can I hold the magic ring a little?”
“Of course! Put it on the index finger of your left hand. Then turn it and say your wish out loud. It will be fulfilled immediately.”
“Golly!” Zhenya said, putting on the ring. He turned it and said in a loud voice, “I want a bicycle right now!” All three held their breaths in expectation. However, no bicycle appeared.
Zhenya repeated still louder, “I want to have a bicycle immediately! This very minute!”
But the bicycle just wouldn’t appear.
“Something must have gone wrong with the ring,” Volka said, taking it from Zhenya and looking at it closely. “Look, there’s something written inside. It’s written in Russian!” he said and read aloud: “Wear this, Katya, and remember me. Vasya Kukushkin, May 2, 1916.”
THE SAME AND MR. MONEYBAGS
“Anyone can make a mistake,” Volka said magnanimously, looking at a confused Hottabych with sympathy. “I’m glad the ring has turned out to be a plain ordinary one. And thanks a lot for the presents.”
The boys turned away tactfully, took their binoculars from the leather cases and began enjoying their wonderful presents. The far-off houses came right up to the river, tiny dots turned into walking people, and a car speeding down the road seemed about to knock the happy owner of a pair of binoculars off his feet. One could not even dream of bigger enlargement.
“Hottabych,” Volka said several minutes later, “here, have a look at who’s coming towards us.” He handed his binoculars over to Hottabych, who had already discerned Mr. Harry Moneybags in person walking rapidly towards them. In fact, he was running, huffing and puffing from his great weight.
