by Lazar Lagin
“We’ve just enough bread for ourselves, but there’s plenty of onions and more than enough salt!” a curly-haired stocky youth of about nineteen answered cheerfully. He was busy cleaning fish.
“Sit down, boys. Soon the best fish soup ever cooked in or around Genoa will be ready.”
Either the cheerful Giovanni was truly a gifted cook by nature, or else the boys were famished, but they agreed that they had never eaten anything more delicious in their lives. They ate with such gusto, smacking their lips from sheer joy, that the fishermen watching them chuckled.
“If you want some more, you can cook it yourselves, there nothing complicated about it,” Giovanni said and stretched. “We’ll doze off meanwhile. Be sure you don’t take any big fishes, they go to market tomorrow, so we’ll have money to pay our taxes.”
Zhenya began puttering around the fire, while Volka rolled up his trousers and made his way to the boat full of fish.
He had gathered as much as he needed and was about to re turn to the beach, when his eyes chanced upon the net folded near the mast. A lonely fish was struggling frantically within, now giving up, now resuming its useless battle to free itself.
“It will come in handy for the chowder,” Volka said, plucking it from the net. But it again began to struggle in his hands, and he suddenly felt sorry for it. He turned round to make sure the fishermen weren’t looking and threw it back into the water.
The fish made a small splash as it hit the dark surface of the lagoon and turned into a beaming Hottabych.
“May the day upon which you were born be forever blessed, O kind-hearted son of Alyosha!” he exclaimed gratefully, as he stood waist-deep in water. “Once again you’ve saved my life A few moments more and I would have choked in that net. got foolishly trapped in it while searching for my unfortunate brother.”
“Hottabych, old man! What a great fellow you are for being alive! We were so worried!”
“And I, too, was tortured by the thought that you, O twice my saviour, and our young friend were left alone and hungry in an alien country.”
“We’re not hungry at all. These fishermen really treated us to a feast.”
“May these kind people be blessed! Are they rich?”
“I think they’re very poor.”
“Then let’s hurry, and I will return their kindness generously.”
“I don’t think it’s the right thing to do,” Volka said after a moment’s pause. “Put yourself in their place: suddenly you see a wet old man climbing out of the water in the middle of the night. No, this is no good at all.”
“You’re right as always,” Hottabych agreed. “Return to the shore and I’ll join you presently.”
A short while later, the sleeping fishermen were awakened by the sound of an approaching horse. Soon a strange rider stopped at the smouldering fire.
He was an old man in a cheap linen suit and a hard straw boater. His magnificent beard was wind-blown, disclosing to all who cared to look an embroidered Ukrainian shirt. He wore a pair of gold and silver embroidered pink slippers with funny turned-up toes. His feet were placed in gold stirrups that were studded with diamonds and emeralds. The saddle upon which he sat was so magnificent that it was surely worth a fortune. The prancing horse was of indescribable beauty. In each hand the old man held a large leather suitcase.
“Would you please direct me to the noble fishermen who have so kindly taken in and fed two lonely, hungry boys?” he said to Giovanni, who had risen to greet him.
Without waiting for an answer, he dismounted, and, with a sigh of relief, set the suitcases on the sand.
“What’s the matter? Do you know them?” Giovanni asked cautiously.
“Certainly I know my young friends!” Hottabych cried, embracing each in turn as they ran up to him.
Then he addressed the startled fishermen:
“Believe me, O most honourable of all fishermen, when I say I do not know how to thank you enough for your precious hospitality and kindness!”
“Why, there’s nothing to thank us for. Not for the fish certainly?” the grey-haired fisherman said in surprise. “It didn’t Set us back much, believe me, Signore.”
“These are the words of a truly selfless man, and they only increase my feeling of gratitude. Permit me to repay you with these modest gifts,” Hottabych said, handing a dumb-founded Giovanni the two suitcases.
“There must be some mistake, O respected Signore,” Giovanni uttered after exchanging puzzled glances with his companions. “Why, you can buy at least a thousand chowders like the one we shared with the boys for two such suitcases. I don’t want you to think it was a very special kind of chowder. We’re poor people…”
“It is you who are mistaken, O most modest of all kind-hearted people! Within these excellent boxes which you call by the scholarly name of ‘suitcase’ are riches that are thousands and thousands of times greater than the cost of your soup. Nonetheless, I consider they cannot pay for it, for there is nothing more precious in the world than disinterested hospitality.”
He opened the suitcases and everyone saw that they were crammed with magnificent, live, silvery fish.
While the fishermen were still wondering what sense there was in giving fishermen fish, Hottabych emptied the quivering contents of the suitcases onto the sand. It was then that the three men gasped in surprise and amazement: in some strange way, both suitcases were found to be crammed full of fish again! Hottabych emptied the suitcases once again, and once again they were filled with the marvellous gifts of the sea. This was repeated a fourth and a fifth time.
“And now,” Hottabych said, enjoying the impression he had made, “if you wish, you can test the wonderful qualities of these ‘suitcases’ yourselves. Never again will you have to shiver in your little dingy in foul weather or in the fog of early dawn. You will no longer have to pray to Allah for luck, you will never again have to drag about the market-place with heavy baskets of fish. You need only take along one of these ‘suitcases’ and give the customer exactly as much as he wants. But I beg you, do not object,” Hottabych said when he noticed that the fishermen were about to say something. “I assure you, there has been no mistake.
May your life be happy and cloudless, O most noble of fishermen! Farewell! Hop up here, boys!”
With Giovanni’s help, the boys climbed into the saddle behind Hottabych.
“Farewell, Signore! Good-bye, boys!” the dazed fishermen shouted, as they watched the surprising strangers disappear in the distance.
“Even if these were ordinary suitcases, not magic ones, we could get many liras for them,” Giovanni said thoughtfully.
“Well, I think we’ll finally be able to make ends meet now, Pietro,” the oldest of the three added. He was close to sixty, with a wrinkled, weather-beaten face and dry, sinewy arms. “We’ll pay our taxes, cure my cursed rheumatism, and buy you a coat, a hat and a pair of shoes, Giovanni. After all, you’re a young man and you should be dressed well. As a matter of fact, some new clothes won’t harm any of us, will they?”
“New clothes!” Giovanni mimicked angrily. “When there’s so much sorrow and poverty everywhere! First of all, we’ll have to help Giacomo’s widow, you know, the one who drowned last year and left three children and an old mother.”
“You’re right, Giovanni,” Pietro agreed. “We should help Giacomo’s widow. He was a good and true friend.”
Then the third fisherman entered the conversation. He was a man of thirty, and his name was Cristoforo.
“What about Luigi? We should give him some money, too. The poor fellow’s dying of tuberculosis.”
“That’s right,” Giovanni said. “And Sybilla Capelli. Her son’s been in prison for over a year now for organizing the strike.”
“Just think how many people we can help,” Giovanni said excitedly. And the three kind fishermen sat late into the night, discussing whom else they could help, now that they had the wonderful suitcases. These were honest and kind-hearted toilers, and the idea
never entered their minds to use Hottabych’s present in order to get rich and be wealthy fishmongers.
I am happy to tell this to my readers, so they’ll know the old man’s present fell into good hands, and I’m certain that none of them, if they were in the fishermen’s place, would have acted otherwise.
THE VESSEL FROM THE PILLARS OF HERCULES
This time Hottabych was true to his word. He had promised he’d be back in two or three hours. At about a quarter to nine his beaming face shot out of the water. The old man was excited. He scrambled up on the beach, carrying a large seaweed-covered metal object over his head.
“I found him, my friends!” he yelled. “I found the vessel in which my unfortunate brother Omar Asaf ibn Hottab has been imprisoned these many centuries — may the sun always shine over him! I scanned the whole sea bottom and was beginning to despair when I noticed this magic vessel in the green vastness near the Pillars of Hercules .”
“What are you waiting for? Hurry up and open it!” Zhenya cried, running up to the exultant old man.
“I dare not open it, for it is sealed with Sulayman’s Seal. Let Volka ibn Alyosha, who freed me, also free my long-suffering little brother. Here’s the vessel which I have spent so many sleepless nights dreaming about!” Hottabych continued, waving his find overhead.
“Here, O Volka, open it, to the joy of my brother Omar and myself!”
Pressing his ear to the side of the vessel, he laughed happily, “Oho, my friends! Omar is signalling to me from within!”
There was envy in Zhenya’s eyes as he watched the old man hand a nattered Volka the vessel, or, rather, lay it at Volka’s feet, since it was so heavy.
“But didn’t you say that Omar was imprisoned in a copper vessel? This one’s made of iron. Oh well, no matter… Where’s the seal? Aha, here it is!” Volka said, inspecting the vessel carefully from all sides.
Suddenly he turned pale and shouted:
“Quick, lie down! Zhenya, lie down! Hottabych, throw it right back into the water and lie down!”
“You’re mad!” Hottabych said indignantly. “I’ve dreamed of our meeting for so many years, and now, after finding him, you want me to throw him back to the waves.”
“Throw it as far out as you can! Your Omar isn’t inside! Hurry, or we’ll all be dead!” Volka pleaded. Since the old man still hesitated, he yelled at the top of his voice, “It is an order! Do you hear?!”
Shrugging in dismay, Hottabych raised the heavy object, heaved it and tossed it at least 200 yards from the shore.
Before he had a chance to turn for an explanation towards Volka, who was standing beside him, there was a terrible explosion at the spot the vessel hit the water. A huge pillar of water rose over the calm surface of the lagoon and fell apart with a loud crash. Thousands of stunned and killed fish floated bellies up on the waves.
People were already running towards them, attracted by the sound of the explosion.
“Let’s run!” Volka commanded.
They hurried to the highway and headed towards the city.
A grieved Hottabych lagged behind and kept turning round constantly. He was still not convinced that he had done right by obeying Volka.
“What did you see on the thing?” Zhenya asked when he had caught up with Volka, who was way ahead of him and Hottabych.
“ ‘Made in USA ,’ that’s what!”
“So it was a bomb.”
“No, it was a mine. There’s a big difference! It was an underwater mine.”
Hottabych sighed sadly.
When Hottabych saw that Omar was not to be found in the Mediterranean Sea, he suggested that they set out to the shores of the Atlantic Ocean . The suggestion in itself was extremely tempting. However, Volka was unexpectedly against it. He said that he had to be in Moscow the following day without fail. But he would not tell them the reason, he just said it was very important. And so, with a heavy heart, Hottabych temporarily put off the search for Omar Asaf.
The “VK-1” magic-carpet-seaplane with Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab, Volka Kostylkov and Zhenya Bogorad aboard, soared into the air and disappeared beyond the far-off mountains.
Some ten hours later it landed safely on the sloping bank of the Moskva River .
THE SHORTEST CHAPTER OF ALL
On a hot July noon, the ice-breaker “Ladoga,” carrying a large group of excursionists, left the Red Pier of the port of Arkhangelsk . The band on the pier was playing marches. People waved their handkerchiefs and shouted “Bon voyage!” Trailing white puffs of steam, the ship sailed cautiously out into the middle of the Severnaya Dvina, past the many Soviet and foreign ships at anchor there, and headed for the mouth of the river and the White Sea . Endless cutters, motor-boats, schooners, trawlers, gigs, and cumbersome rafts ploughed the calm surface of the great northern river.
The excursionists, who were now gathered on the top deck, were leaving Arkhangelsk and the mainland for a whole month.
“Volka!” one of the passengers shouted to another, who was anxiously darting about near the captain’s bridge, “Where’s Hottabych?”
The perceptive reader will gather from these words that our old friends were among the passengers.
DREAMING OF THE “LADOGA”
Here we should like to pause for a moment and tell our readers how our three friends came to be aboard the “Ladoga” in the first place.
Naturally, everyone recalls that Volka failed his geography examination disgracefully, which was largely his own fault (he should never have relied on prompting). It is difficult to forget such an event. Volka certainly remembered it and was studying intently for his re-examination. He had decided to do his utmost to get an “A.”
Despite his sincere desire to prepare for the examination, it was not as easy as it seemed. Hottabych was in the way. Volka had never mustered up enough courage to tell the old man of the true consequences of his fatal prompting. That is why he could never tell him he needed time to study, since he feared that Hottabych might decide to punish his teachers, and Varvara Stepanovna in particular, for having failed him.
Hottabych made himself particularly troublesome the day of the unusual football match between the Shaiba and Zubilo teams.
Feeling terribly contrite for all the anguish he had caused Volka at the stadium, Hottabych fairly shadowed him; he tried to regain his favour by scattering compliments and proposing the most tempting adventures. It was not until eleven o’clock at night that Volka had a chance to get down to his studies.
“With your permission, O Volka, I shall go to sleep, for I feel somewhat drowsy,” Hottabych finally said, as he yawned and crawled under the bed.
“Good night, Hottabych! Sweet dreams!” Volka answered, settling back in his chair and gazing at his bed longingly. He was also tired and, as he put it, was quite ready to doze off for some 500 or 600 minutes. But he had to study, and so reluctantly put his mind to his work.
Alas! The rustling of the pages attracted the sleepy Genie’s attention. He stuck his head and dishevelled beard from under the bed and said in a foggy voice:
“Why aren’t you in bed yet, O stadium of my soul?”
“I’m not sleepy. I have insomnia,” Volka lied.
“My, my, my!” Hottabych said compassionately. “That’s really too bad. Insomnia is extremely harmful at your delicate age. But don’t despair, there’s nothing I can’t do.”
He yanked several hairs from his beard, blew on them, whispered something, and Volka, who had no time to object to this untimely and unnecessary aid, fell asleep immediately, with his head resting on the table.
“Praised be Allah! All is well,” Hottabych mumbled, crawling out from under the bed. “May you remain in the embraces of sleep until breakfast time!”
He lifted the sleeping boy lightly and carefully lay him to rest in his bed, pulling the blanket over him. Then, clucking and mumbling with satisfaction, he crawled back under the bed.
All night long the table lamp cast its useless light on th
e geography text-book, forlornly opened at page 11.
You can well imagine how cunning Volka had to be to prepare for his re-examination in such difficult circumstances. This was the very important reason why Volka (and, therefore, Hottabych and Zhenya) had to fly home to Moscow from Genoa instead of continuing on to the shores of the Atlantic Ocean .
However, Volka soon found out that preparing for the examination was only half the job done. He had yet to think of a way to get rid of Hottabych while he was in school taking the exam, to find a way of leaving the apartment unnoticed.
The telephone rang. Volka went to the foyer to answer it. It was Zhenya.
“Hello!” Volka said. “Yes, today. At noon… He’s still sleeping… What?… Sure, he’s well. He’s a very healthy old man… What?… No, I haven’t thought of anything yet… You’re crazy! He’ll be terribly hurt and he’ll do such mischief we won’t be able to undo it in a hundred years… Then you’ll be here at ten-thirty? Fine!”
Hottabych stuck his head out of Volka’s room. He whispered reproachfully, “Volka, why are you talking to our best friend Zhenya ibn Kolya in the hall? That’s not polite. Wouldn’t it be nicer if you invited him in?”
“How can he come in if he’s at home?”
Hottabych was offended.
“I can’t understand why you want to play tricks on your old devoted Genie. My ears have never yet deceived me. I just heard you talking to Zhenya.”
“I was talking to him on the telephone. Don’t you understand — te-le-ph one? I sure do have a lot of trouble with you! What a thing to get mad at! Come here, I’ll show you what I mean!”
Hottabych joined him. Volka removed the receiver and dialled the familiar number.
“Will you please call Zhenya to the phone?” he said.
Then he handed the receiver to Hottabych.
“Here, you can talk to him now.”
Hottabych pressed the receiver to his ear cautiously and his face broke into a puzzled smile.
