by Lazar Lagin
“Is that really you, O blessed Zhenya ibn Kolya? Where are you now?… At home?… And I thought you were sitting in this black little thing I’m holding to my ear… Yes, that’s right, it’s me, your devoted friend Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hot-tab… You’ll be here soon? If that’s the case, may your trip be blessed!”
Beaming with pleasure, he handed the receiver back to Volka, who was looking very superior.
“It’s amazing!” Hottabych exclaimed. “Without once raising my voice I spoke to a boy who is two hours’ walking distance away!”
Returning to Volka’s room, the old man turned round slyly, snapped the fingers of his left hand, and there appeared on the wall over the aquarium an exact copy of the telephone hanging in the hall.
“Now you can talk to your friends as much as you like without leaving your own room.”
“Golly, thanks a lot!” Volka said gratefully. He removed the receiver, pressed it to his ear and listened.
There was no dial tone.
“Hello! Hello!” he shouted. He shook the receiver and then blew into it. Still, there was no dial tone.
“The phone’s broken,” he explained to Hottabych. “FU unscrew the receiver and see what’s wrong.”
However, despite all his efforts, he could not unscrew it.
“It’s made of the finest black marble,” Hottabych boasted.
“Then there’s nothing inside?” Volka asked disappointedly.
“Why, is there supposed to be something inside this, too? Just like in a watch?”
“Now I know why it doesn’t work. You’ve only made a model of a telephone, without anything that’s supposed to go inside it. But the insides are the most important part.”
“What’s supposed to be inside? A special kind of filling? The kind that was in the watch, with all kinds of wheels? You just explain it, and I’ll make it exactly as it should be.”
“It’s not like a watch; it’s entirely different. And it’s not so easy to explain. You have to study all about electricity first,” Volka said with an air of importance.
“Then teach me about what you call electricity.”
“To begin with, you have to study arithmetic, algebra, geometry, trigonometry, mechanical drawing and all kinds of other subjects.”
“Then teach me these other subjects, too.”
“Uh … well… I don’t know all of them myself, yet,” Volka confessed.
“Then teach me what you already know.”
“It’ll take an awfully long time.”
“That doesn’t matter. I am willing, nonetheless. Don’t keep me in suspense: will you teach me these subjects, which give a person such wonderful powers?”
“On condition that you do your homework well,” Volka said sternly. “Here, read the paper while I go to see a friend of mine about something.” He handed Hottabych a copy of Pionerskaya Pravda and set out for school.
The light-grey school building was unusually deserted and quiet. In the office on the first floor the principal and Varvara Stepanovna were discussing school problems, and on the third floor the loud, cheerful voices of the painters and plasterers echoed through the halls. It was summer and the school was being renovated.
“Well, my dear Varvara Stepanovna, what shall I say?” the principal said with a smile. “One can only envy such a vacation. How long will you be gone?” “I believe for a month or so.”
Volka was glad to hear that Varvara Stepanovna would not be in danger of encountering Hottabych for at least a month. If only she would leave as quickly as possible!
“Aha, the crystal cupola of the heavens!” the principal teased as he greeted Volka. “Well, are you feeling better now?” “Yes, I’m quite well, thank you.”
“Excellent! Have you prepared for your examination?” “Yes, I have.”
“Well, then, let’s have a little talk.”
The little talk embraced almost the whole of sixth-grade geography. If Volka had thought of looking at the time, he would have been surprised to note that their little talk lasted nearly twenty minutes. But he couldn’t be bothered with the time. He thought the principal was not asking the questions in great enough detail. He felt he could speak on each topic for five or ten minutes. He was experiencing the tormenting and at once pleasant feeling of a pupil who knows his subject inside-out and is most worried by the thought that this fact might go unnoticed by his examiners. But one look at Varvara Stepanovna convinced him that she was pleased with his answers. Nevertheless, when the principal said, “Good for you! Now I can see that your teacher hasn’t wasted her time on you,” Volka felt a pleasant chill run down his spine. His freckled face spread into such a broad smile that the principal and Varvara Stepanovna smiled, too.
“Yes, Kostylkov has obviously put in a lot of studying,” his teacher said.
Ah, if they only knew of the terribly difficult conditions under which Volka had to prepare for his exam! What stratagems he had had to resort to, how he had had to hide from Hottabych in order to have a chance to study quietly; what colossal barriers the unsuspecting Hottabych had put in his way! How much more his teachers would have respected his achievements, had they only known!
For a moment, Volka was on the point of boasting of his own success as a teacher (not everyone can proudly say he has taught a Genie to read and write!), but he checked himself in time.
“Well, Kostylkov, congratulations on passing to the 7th grade! Have a good rest until September. Get strong and healthy! Goodbye for now!”
“Thank you,” Volka replied as discreetly as a 7th-grade pupil should. “Good-bye.”
When he arrived at the river bank, Hottabych, who had made himself comfortable in the shade of a mighty oak, was reading the paper aloud to Zhenya.
“I passed! I got an ‘A’!” Volka whispered to his friend. Then he stretched out beside Hottabych, experiencing at least three pleasant feelings at once: the first was that he was lying in the shade; the second, that he had passed his exam so well; and the last, but by no means least — the pride of a teacher enjoying the achievements of his pupil.
Meanwhile, Hottabych had reached the section entitled “Sports News.” The very first article made the friends sigh with envy.
“In the middle of July, the ice-breaker ‘Ladoga,’ chartered by the Central Excursion Bureau, will leave Arkhangelsk for the Arctic . Sixty-eight persons, the best workers of Moscow and Leningrad , will spend their vacations aboard it. This promises to be a very interesting cruise.” “What a trip! I’d give anything to go along,” Volka said dreamily.
“You need only express your wish, O my most excellent friends, and you shall go wherever you please!” Hottabych promised, for he yearned to somehow repay his young teachers. Volka merely sighed again. Zhenya explained sadly:
“No, Hottabych, there’s no question of it. Only famous people can get aboard the ‘Ladoga.’ ”
A COMMOTION AT THE CENTRAL EXCURSION BUREAU
That very same day an old man dressed in a white suit and a straw boater and wearing queer pink embroidered slippers with turned-up toes entered the offices of the Central Excursion Bureau. He politely inquired whether he had the good fortune of being in the chambers of that high-placed establishment which granted people the fragrant joy of travel. The secretary, surprised by such a flowery question, replied in the affirmative. Then the old man inquired in the same florid language where the wise man worthy of the greatest respect sat, he, who was in charge of booking passage on the ice-breaker “Ladoga.”
He was directed to a plump, bald man seated at a large desk piled high with letters.
“But please bear in mind that there are no cabins left on the ‘Ladoga’,” the secretary warned.
The old man did not reply. He thanked her with a nod and approached the plump man silently. In silence he made a low bow, in silence and with great dignity he handed him a roll of paper wrapped in a newspaper; then he bowed again, turned in silence and left, with the puzzled eyes of all who had witnessed this curio
us scene following him out.
The bald man unwrapped the newspaper. There, on his desk, was the strangest letter the Central Excursion Bureau had ever received — or, for that matter, the strangest letter ever received by any Soviet office. It was a yellow parchment scroll. A large green wax seal dangled from a golden silk cord attached to it.
“Did you ever see anything like it?” the plump man asked loudly and ran off to show it to his chief, in charge of long-range cruises.
When they had read it, his chief dropped his work and the two of them dashed off to the director.
“What’s the matter? Can’t you see I’m busy?” the director said.
The section chief silently unrolled the parchment scroll.
“What’s that? Is it from a museum?”
“No, it’s from ‘Incoming mail’.”
“Incoming mail?! What’s in it?” After reading the contents, the director said, “Well, I’ve seen quite a lot in my day, but I’ve never received such a letter. It must have been written by a maniac.”
“Even if he is a maniac, he’s a collector of antiques,” the section chief answered. “You try to get some genuine parchment nowadays.”
“Just listen to what he’s written,” the director continued, forgetting that his subordinates had already read the message. “It’s typical raving!
“ ‘To the greatly respected Chief of Pleasures, the incorruptible and enlightened Chief of the Long-Range Cruise Section, may his name be renowned among the most honourable and respected Section Chiefs!’ ”
The director read this and winked at the section chief. “He means you, I guess!” The section chief coughed in embarrassment.
“ ‘I, Hassan Abdurrakhman, the mighty Genie, the great Genie, known for my power and might in Baghdad and Damascus, in Babylon and Sumer, son of Hottab, the great King of Evil Spirits, a part of the Eternal Kingdom, whose dynasty is pleasing to Sulayman, the Son of David (on the twain be peace!), whose reign is pleasing to their hearts. Allah was overjoyed at my blessed doings and blessed me, Hassan Abdurrakhman, a Genie who worshipped him. All the kings reigning in the palaces of the Four Parts of the World, from the Upper Sea to the Lower Sea, and the kings of the West who live in tents — all have brought their homage to me and kissed my feet in Baghdad.
“ ‘It has become known to me, O most noble of Section Chiefs, that a ship which navigates without sails and is named the “Ladoga” will soon set out on a pleasure cruise from the city of Arkhangelsk with famous people of various cities aboard. It is my wish that my two young friends, whose virtues are so many that even a short enumeration of them will not fit into this scroll, should also be among them.
“ ‘Alas, I have not been informed of how great a person’s fame must be in order that he be eligible for this magnificent trip. However, no matter how great the requirements, my friends will meet them — nay, more than meet them, for it is in my power to make them princes or sheiks, tsars or kings, the most famous of the famous, the richest of the rich, the mightiest of the mighty.
“ ‘I kiss your feet seven times and seven times and send you greetings, O wise Section Chief, and request you to inform me when I and my two young companions should appear on board the above-mentioned ship, may storms and ill-fortune by-pass it on its distant and dangerous journey!
“ ‘Signed by the hand of Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab, the Mighty Genie.’ ”
At the very bottom was Volka’s address, enclosed for a reply.
“’Ravings!” the director said, rolling up the scroll. “The ravings of a madman. Stick it away in the file and be done with it.”
“I think we’d better answer him, or the crazy old man will be dropping in five times a day to find out about the outcome of his application. I assure you, it’ll be quite impossible to work in the office,” the section chief objected. A few minutes later he dictated an answer to his secretary.
WHO IS MOST FAMOUS?
Hottabych had acted unwisely in giving Volka’s address for a reply. It was only by the merest chance that Volka met the postman on the stairs. What if this lucky meeting had not taken place? The letter from the Central Excursion Bureau would have been delivered to his parents; all sorts of questions would have followed, resulting in such a mess, that he didn’t even care to think of it.
The younger Kostylkov did not often receive mail addressed to him, personally. In fact, not more than three or four times in all his life. That is why, when the postman said he had a letter for him, Volka was greatly surprised. When he saw the return address of the Central Excursion Bureau he was stunned. He examined the envelope carefully and even smelled it, but it only smelled of the paste on the flap. With trembling fingers he opened it and read the section chief’s short but polite reply several times over without understanding a thing:
“Dear Citizen H. Abdurrakhmanov,
“We regret to inform you that we received your request too late. There are no cabins left on the ‘Ladoga.’
“My best regards to your princes and sheiks.
“Sincerely yours,
I. Domosedov, Section Chief of Long-Range Cruises.”
“Can it be that the old man tried to get us on the ‘Ladoga’?” it suddenly occurred to Volka. He was deeply touched. “What a wonderful old man! But I don’t understand which princes and sheiks this Domosedov is sending his regards to. I’ll find out right away, though.”
“Hottabych! Hey, Hottabych!” he shouted when he reached the river bank. “Come here for a minute, will you?” The old man was dozing in the shade of the great oak. When he heard Volka calling, he started, jumped to his feet, and shuffled over to the boy.
“Here I am, O goalie of my soul,” he panted. “I await your orders.”
“Come clean now. Did you write to the Central Excursion Bureau?”
“Yes, but I wanted it to be a surprise. Did you receive an answer already?”
“Sure, here it is,” Volka said, showing the old man the letter.
Hottabych snatched the paper from him. After reading the tactful answer slowly, syllable by syllable, he turned purple and began to tremble all over. His eyes became bloodshot. In a great rage he ripped open his embroidered collar.
“I beg your pardon,” he wheezed, “I beg your pardon! I must leave you for a few minutes to take care of that most despicable Domosedov. Oh, I know what I’ll do to him! I’ll annihilate him! No, that’s no good! He doesn’t deserve such merciful punishment. Better still, I’ll turn him into a filthy rag, and on rainy days people will wipe their dirty shoes on him before entering a house. No! That’s not enough to repay him for his insolent refusal!”
With these words the old man zoomed into the air. But Volka shouted sternly:
“Come back! Come back this minute!”
The old man returned obediently. His heavy grey brows were drawn together gloomily.
“Really now!” Volka shouted, truly alarmed on the section chief’s account. “What’s the matter! Are you crazy? Is it his fault there’s no more room on the ship? After all, it’s not made of rubber, it can’t stretch. And will you please tell me who the sheiks and princes he refers to are?”
“You, O Volka ibn Alyosha, you and our friend Zhenya ibn Kolya, may Allah grant you both a long life. I wrote and told this most degraded of all section chiefs that he need not worry about your not being famous enough, for no matter how famous the other passengers aboard the ‘Ladoga’ are, I can make you, my friends, more famous still. I wrote this small-brained Domosedov — may Allah forget him completely — that he may regard you as sheiks or princes or tsars without even having seen you.”
Despite the tenseness of the situation, Volka could not help laughing. He laughed so loudly, that several very serious-minded jackdaws rose noisily from the nearest tree and flew off indignantly.
“Help! That means I’m a prince!” Volka choked the words out through peals of laughter.
“I must admit, I cannot understand the reason for your laughter,” Hottabych said in a
wounded tone. “But if we are to discuss the question seriously, I had planned on making Zhenya a prince. I think you deserve to be a sultan.”
“Honestly, you’ll be the death of me yet! Then Zhenya would be a prince, while I’d be a sultan? What political backwardness!” Volka gasped when he had finally stopped laughing. “What’s so glorious about being a prince or a king? Why, they’re the most good-for-nothing people in the world!”
“I’m afraid you’ve gone out of your mind,” Hottabych said, looking anxiously at his young companion. “As I understand it, even sultans aren’t good enough for you. Whom then do you consider to be famous? Name me at least one such person.”
“Why, Chutkikh, or Lunin, or Kozhedub, or Pasha Angelina.”
“Who is this Chutkikh, a sultan?”
“Much higher than that! He’s one of the best textile specialists in the country!”
“And Lunin?”
“Lunin is the best engine driver!”
“And Kozhedub?”
“He’s one of the very, very best pilots!”
“And whose wife is Pasha Angelina for you to consider her more famous than a sheik or a king?”
“She’s famous in her own right. It has nothing at all to do with her husband. She’s a famous tractor driver.”
“O precious Volka, how can you play such tricks on an old man like me! Do you want to convince me that a plain weaver or a locomotive driver is more famous than a tsar?”
“In the first place, Chutkikh isn’t a plain weaver. He’s a famous innovator, known to the entire textile industry; and Lunin is a famous engineer. And in the second place, the most ordinary worker in our country is more respected than the tsar of tsars. Don’t you believe me? Here, read this.”
Volka handed Hottabych the paper and there, with his own eyes, he read the following heading: “Famous People of Our Country,” beneath which were over a dozen photographs of fitters, agronomists, pilots, collective farmers, weavers, teachers and carpenters.
