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Lazar Lagin. The Old Genie Hottabych

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     A Story of Make-Believe
     Russian original title: Старик  Хоттабыч ( старое название "Старый джин
Хоттабыч")
     FOREIGN LANGUAGES PUBLISHING HOUSE MOSCOW
     Translated from the Russian by Fainna Solasko
     OCR: http://home.freeuk.com/russica2
     _______________________________________________


     The amusing and fascinating children's book is often called the Russian
"Thousand and One Nights".
     Who is the Old Genie Hottabych?
     This is what  the author has to  say of  him:" In one of Scheherezade's
tales I red of the Fisherman who  found a copper vessel in his  net. In  the
vessel was a mighty Genie - a magician who had been imprisoned in the bottle
for nearly two thousand years. The Genie had sworn to make the one who freed
him rich, powerful and happy.
     "  But what if such a Genie suddenly came to life in the Soviet  Union,
in  Moscow? I tried to imagine  what would have  happened if a very ordinary
Russian boy had freed him from the vessel.
     "And  imagine,  I  suddenly  discovered that  a  schoolboy  named Volka
Kostylkov, the very same Volka who used to live on  Three Ponds Street,  you
know,  the best  diver  at summer camp last year....  On second  thought,  I
believe we had better begin from the beginning...."


CONTENTS

     A Most Unusual Morning
     The Strange Vessel
     The Old Genie The Geography Examination
     Hottabych's Second Service
     An Unusual Event at the Movies A Troubled Evening
     A Chapter Which Is a Continuation of the Previous One
     A Restless Night
     The Unusual Events in Apartment
     A No Less Troubled Morning
     Why S.S. Pivoraki Became Less Talkative
     An Interview with a Diver
     Charting a Flight
     The Flight
     Zhenya Bogorad's Adventures Far Away in the East
     Tra-la-la, ibn Alyosha!
     Meet My Friend
     Have Mercy on Us, Mighty Ruler!
     It's So Embarrassing to Be an Illiterate Genie
     Who's the Richest?
     A Camel in the Street
     A Mysterious Happening in the Bank
     Hottabych and Sidorelli
     A Hospital Under the Bed
     One in Which We Return to the Barking Boy
     Hottabych and Mr. Moneybags
     Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab's Story of His Adventures After  Leaving
the Shop
     The Same and Mr. Moneybags
     Extra Tickets
     Ice-Cream Again
     How Many Footballs Do You Need?
     Hottabych Enters the Game
     The Situation Becomes More Tense
     Reconciliation
     Where Should They Look for Omar?
     The Story Told by the  Conductor of the Moscow-Odessa  Express  of What
Happened on the Nara-Maly Yaroslavets Line
     The Strange Sailing Ship
     Aboard the "Sweet Omar"
     The "VK-1" Magic-Carpet-Seaplane
     Hottabych Is Lost and Found Again
     The Vessel From the Pillars of Hercules
     The Shortest Chapter of All
     Dreaming of the "Ladoga"
     A Commotion at the Central Excursion Bureau
     Who Is Most Famous?
     The Unexpected Encounter
     What Interferes with Sleeping?
     Shipwrecked?
     Hottabych at His Best
     "Salaam, Sweet Omar!"
     Omar Asaf Bares His Claws
     What Good Optical Instruments Can Lead To
     Hottabych's Fatal Passion
     Hottabych's New Year Visit
     Epilogue



A MOST UNUSUAL MORNING



     At 7:32 a.m. a merry sun-spot slipped through a hole in the curtain and
settled on the nose of Volka Kostylkov, a 6th-grade pupil. Volka sneezed and
woke up.
     Just then, he heard his mother say in the next room:
     "Don't rush, Alyosha. Let the child sleep a bit  longer, he has an exam
today."
     Volka winced. When, oh when, would his mother stop calling him a child?
     "Nonsense!"  he  could  hear  his  father  answer.  "The  boy's  nearly
thirteen. He might as well get up and help us pack. Before you know it, this
child of yours will be using a razor."
     How could he have forgotten about the packing!
     Volka threw off  the blankets and  dressed hurriedly. How could he ever
have forgotten such a day!
     This  was  the  day the  Kostylkov family  was moving  to  a  different
apartment in  a new  six-storey house.  Most of  their  belongings had  been
packed the night  before. Mother and  Grandma  had  packed the dishes  in  a
little  tin tub  that once,  very  long ago, they  had bathed Volka  in. His
father had rolled up his sleeves and,  with a mouthful of nails, just like a
shoemaker, had spent the evening hammering down the lids on crates of books.
     Then they had  all argued as to the best  place to put the things so as
to have  them handy when the truck  arrived  in the morning. Then  they  had
their tea on an uncovered table-as on a march. Then they decided their heads
would be clearer after a good night's sleep and they all went to bed.
     In  a  word,  there  was  just  no explaining how  he  could have  ever
forgotten that this was the morning they, were moving to a new apartment.
     The  movers barged in before  breakfast was quite over. The first thing
they did was to open wide both  halves  of the  door and ask in loud voices,
"Well, can we begin?"
     "Yes, please do,"  both Mother and Grandma answered and began to bustle
about.
     Volka  marched  downstairs, solemnly carrying  the sofa pillows  to the
waiting truck.
     "Are you moving?" a boy from next door asked.
     "Yes," Volka answered  indifferently,  as though he was  used to moving
from one apartment to another every week and there  was nothing very special
about it.
     The  janitor,  Stepanych,  walked over, slowly  rolled a  cigarette and
began  an  unhurried conversation as  one grown-up talk  to another. The boy
felt dizzy with pride and happiness.  He  gathered his  courage  and invited
Stepanych  to  visit  them  at their  new  home.  The  janitor  said,  "With
pleasure." A serious, important, man-to-man conversation was beginning, when
all at once Volka's mother's voice came through the open window:
     "Volka! Volka!  Where can that awful child be?" Volka raced  up to  the
strangely  large and empty apartment  in which shreds of old newspapers  and
old medicine bottles were lying forlornly about the floor.
     "At last!" his  mother said. "Take your precious aquarium and get right
into the truck. I want you to sit on the sofa and  hold the aquarium on your
lap. There's no other place  for it. But be sure the water doesn't splash on
the sofa."
     It's really strange, the way parents worry when they're moving to a new
apartment.

THE STRANGE VESSEL

     Well,  the  truck  finally  choked  exhaustedly   and  stopped  at  the
attractive  entrance  of  Volka's new  house.  The  movers  quickly  carried
everything upstairs and soon were gone.
     Volka's father opened a few  crates and said, "We'll do the rest in the
evening." Then he left for the factory.
     Mother  and  Grandma  began unpacking the  pots  and pans, while  Volka
decided to run down to the river nearby. His father had warned him not to go
swimming without him, because the river was  very deep, but Volka soon found
an  excuse: "I have to go in for a dip  to clear my head. How can  I take an
exam with a fuzzy brain!"
     It's  wonderful,  the way Volka  was always able to  think of an excuse
when he was about to do something he was not allowed to do.
     How convenient it  is to  have a river near your house! Volka told  his
mother he'd go sit on the bank and study his geography.
     And  he  really  and truly intended to spend about  ten minutes leafing
through  the text-book.  However, he got undressed and jumped into the water
the  minute he reached the river.  It was  still  early, and there was not a
soul on the bank. This had its good and bad points. It was nice,  because no
one could  stop him  from swimming  as much as he liked. It was bad, because
there  was no  one to admire  what  a good  swimmer and  especially  what an
extraordinary diver he was.
     Volka swam and dived until he became blue. Finally, he  realized he had
had enough. He was ready to climb out when he suddenly changed  his mind and
decided to dive into the clear water one last time.
     As he was about to come up for air, his  hand hit a long hard object on
the  bottom.  He  grabbed  it  and   surfaced  near  the  shore,  holding  a
strange-looking slippery, moss-covered clay vessel. It  resembled an ancient
type  of Greek vase called  an amphora. The  neck was  sealed tightly with a
green substance and what looked like a seal was imprinted on top.
     Volka weighed the vessel in his hand. It was very  heavy. He caught his
breath.
     A  treasure!  An  ancient  treasure  of  great  scientific  value!  How
wonderful!
     He dressed quickly and dashed home  to open  it  in the privacy  of his
room.
     As he  ran along, he could  visualize the notice  which would certainly
appear in all the papers the next morning.  He even thought of a heading: "A
Pioneer Aids Science."
     "Yesterday, a  pioneer named  Vladimir Kostylkov came  to his  district
militia  station and handed  the officer on  duty a  treasure  consisting of
antique gold objects  which he found on  the bottom of the river, in a  very
deep  place.  The treasure  has been handed over to  the Historical  Museum.
According to reliable sources, Vladimir Kostylkov is an excellent diver."
     Volka slipped by  the kitchen, where  his mother was cooking dinner. He
dashed into his room, nearly breaking his leg as he stumbled on a chandelier
lying on the  floor.  It was Grandma's famous  chandelier.  Very  long  ago,
before the Revolution, his deceased  grandfather had  converted  it  from  a
hanging oil lamp. Grandma would  not part with it for anything in the world,
because it was a treasured memory of Grandfather.  Since it was not  elegant
enough to  be hung in  the  dining room, they decided to hang it in  Volka's
room. That is why a huge iron hook had been screwed into the ceiling.
     Volka rubbed his sore knee, locked the door, took his penknife from his
pocket and, trembling from excitement, scraped the seal off the bottle.
     The room immediately filled with choking black smoke, while a noiseless
explosion  of great  force threw him up to the  ceiling,  where  he remained
suspended from the hook by the seat of his pants.

THE OLD GENIE

     While  Volka  was swaying  back  and  forth  on  the  hook,  trying  to
understand what  had  happened,  the  smoke  began  to  clear. Suddenly,  he
realized  there  was  someone else  in the room besides  himself.  It was  a
skinny, sunburnt old man with  a  beard down to his waist and dressed  in an
elegant turban,  a white coat of fine  wool richly embroidered in silver and
gold,  gleaming  white silk puffed trousers and petal pink  morocco slippers
with upturned toes.
     "Hachoo!" the old  man  sneezed loudly and prostrated himself. "I greet
you, 0 Wonderful and Wise Youth!"
     Volka shut  his  eyes tight and then opened them again. No,  he was not
seeing things. The amazing old man was still there. Kneeling and rubbing his
hands,  he  stared  at the furnishings of  Volka's  room with lively, shrewd
eyes, as if it were all goodness-knows what sort of a miracle.
     "Where did you come from?" Volka inquired cautiously, swaying back  and
forth  under  the  ceiling  like  a  pendulum.  "Are  you... from an amateur
troupe?"
     "Oh,  no,  my  young  lord,"  the old  man  replied  grandly, though he
remained in the same uncomfortable pose and continued to sneeze.  "I am  not
from the strange country of Anamateur Troupe you mentioned. I come from this
most horrible vessel."
     With these words he  scrambled to his  feet and  began  jumping on  the
vessel, from which a wisp of smoke was still curling upward, until there was
nothing left but  a  small  pile of  clay chips.  Then, with  a  sound  like
tinkling crystalware,  he  yanked a hair from his beard and tore it in  two.
The bits of clay flared up with a weird green flame until soon there was not
a trace of them left on the floor.
     Still,  Volka was dubious. You  must agree, it's not easy to accept the
fact that a live person can crawl out of a vessel no bigger than a decanter.
     "Well, I don't know..." Volka stammered. "The vessel was  so small, and
you're so big compared to it."
     "You don't believe me, 0 despicable one?!" the old man shouted angrily,
but immediately calmed down; once again  he fell to  his knees,  hitting the
floor with his forehead so strongly that the water shook in the aquarium and
the  sleepy fish began to  dart  back  and forth  anxiously. "Forgive me, my
young saviour, but I am not  used to having my words doubted. Know ye,  most
blessed of all young men, that I am none other than the mighty  Genie Hassan
Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab-that  is,  the  son  of  Hottab,  famed  in all four
corners of the world."
     All this was so interesting it made Volka forget  he was  hanging under
the ceiling on a chandelier hook.
     "A 'gin-e'? Isn't that some kind of a drink?"
     "I am not a  drink, 0 inquisitive youth!" the old man flared  up again,
then  took himself in hand once more  and calmed down. "I am not a beverage,
but a mighty, unconquerable spirit. There  is  no magic in the world which I
cannot do, and  my name, as I have  already had the pleasure of conveying to
your great  and  extremely  respected attention, is  Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn
Hottab,  or, as  you would say in Russian, Hassan Abdurrakhman Hottabych. If
you mention it to the first Ifrit or Genie you meet, you'll see him tremble,
and his mouth will go dry from fear," the old man continued boastfully.
     "My story-  hachoo!-  is strange, indeed. And if  it were  written with
needles in the corners of the eyes, it would be a good lesson  for all those
who seek learning. I, most unfortunate Genie that I am, disobeyed  Sulayman,
son of  David (on  the  twain  be  peace!)-I,  and  my  brother,  Omar  Asaf
Hottabych. Then  Sulayman  sent his  Vizier Asaf, son of Barakhiya, to seize
us, and  he brought us back  against our will. Sulayman, David's son (on the
twain be peace!), ordered  two  bottles brought  to him: a  copper one and a
clay one. He put me  in the clay vessel and my brother Omar Hottabych in the
copper one. He sealed both  vessels and imprinted the greatest of  all names
of  Allah on  them and then ordered his  Genies to carry us off and throw my
brother into the sea and  me into the river,  from which  you, 0 my  blessed
saviour- hachoo, hachoo!-have  fished me. May your days be  prolonged. 0....
Begging your pardon,  I would be indescribably happy to know your name, most
beautiful of all youths."
     "My  name's  Volka,"  our hero replied as  he  swayed softly to and fro
under the ceiling.
     "And what  is  your  fortunate father's name,  may  he be  blessed  for
eternity? Tell  me  the most gentle  of all  his names, as  he  is certainly
deserving of great love and  gratitude for presenting the world with such an
outstanding offspring."
     "His  name's  Alexei.  And his  most gentle ...  most  gentle  name  is
Alyosha."
     "Then know ye,  most deserving of  all youths,  the star  of  my heart,
Volka ibn Alyosha,  that I will henceforth fulfil all your wishes, since you
have saved me from the most horrible imprisonment. Hachoo!"
     "Why do you  keep  on  sneezing so?" Volka  asked, as though everything
else was quite clear.
     "The  many  thousand  years  I  spent  in  dampness,  deprived  of  the
beneficial rays of the sun, in a cold vessel lying on the bottom of a river,
have  given  me, your undeserving  servant,  a most  tiresome  running nose.
Hachoo! Hachoo! But all this is of no importance at all and unworthy of your
most  treasured  attention. Order me as you wish, 0  young  master!"  Hassan
Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab  concluded heatedly with his head raised,  but still
kneeling.
     "First of all, won't you please rise," Volka said.
     "Your every word is  my  command," the old man replied  obediently  and
rose. "I await your further orders."
     "And now," Volka mumbled uncertainly, "if  it's not too much trouble ..
. would you be kind enough ... of course, if it's not too  much  trouble....
What I mean is, I'd really like to be back on the floor again."
     That very moment he found himself standing beside old man Hottabych, as
we shall call our new acquaintance for  short. The first thing Volka did was
to grab the seat of his pants. There was no hole at all.
     Miracles were beginning to happen.

THE GEOGRAPHY EXAMINATION

     "Order me as you wish!" Hottabych continued, gazing at Volka devotedly.
"Is there  anything  that grieves  you, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha? Tell  me, and I
will help you."
     "My  goodness!" Volka cried,  glancing at the clock ticking away loudly
on the table. "I'm late! I'm late for my exam!"
     "What are you  late for, 0 most treasured Volka ibn Alyosha?" Hottabych
asked in a business-like way. "What does that strange word 'ex-am' mean?"
     "It's the same as a test. I'm late for my test at school."
     "Then know  ye, 0 Volka, that you do not value  my  powers at all," the
old man said in  a hurt voice. "No, no, and no again! You will  not be  late
for your exam. Just tell me what your choice is:
     to  hold up the exam,  or to find yourself  immediately at  your school
gates?"
     "To find myself at the gates," Volka replied.
     "Nothing could  be simpler! You will now find yourself where your young
and honourable spirit draws you so  impatiently. You will stun your teachers
and your comrades with your great knowledge."
     With the same pleasant  tinkling sound the old man once  again pulled a
hair from his beard; then a second one.
     "I'm afraid I won't stun them," Volka sighed, quickly changing into his
school uniform. "To tell you the truth,  I have little  chance of getting an
'A' in geography."
     "In  geography?"  the  old  man  cried and  raised his thin hairy  arms
triumphantly. "So you're to take an exam in geography?! Then know ye, 0 most
wonderful  of all wonderful  ones, that  you are exceptionally  lucky, for I
know more  about  geography  than  any  other  Genie-I, your  devoted Hassan
Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab. We shall go to school together, may  its foundation
and roof be blessed! I'll prompt you invisibly and tell you all the answers.
You  will become the most famous pupil of your school and of all the schools
of your most beautiful city. And if anyone of your teachers does  not accord
you the greatest  praise,  he will have to  deal with me! Oh, they  will  be
very, very  sorry!" Hottabych raged. "I'll  turn  them into mules that carry
water, into homeless curs covered with scabs,  into  the  most  horrible and
obnoxious toads-that's what I'll do to them! However," he said, calming down
as quickly  as  he  had become  enraged, "things  will  not go that far, for
everyone, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha, will be astounded by your answers."
     ' "Thank  you, Hassan Hottabych," Volka  sighed  miserably. "Thank you,
but I don't  want  you to prompt me. We pioneers are against  prompting as a
matter of principle. We're conducting an organized fight against prompting."
     Now, how could an old Genie who had spent so many years  in prison know
such  a scholarly term  as  "a matter of principle"?  However, the sigh  his
young saviour  heaved  to  accompany his sad and honourable  words convinced
Hottabych that Volka ibn Alyosha needed his help more than ever before.
     "Your  refusal  grieves me," Hottabych  said. "After all,  no one  will
notice me prompting you."
     "Ha!" Volka said bitterly. "You don't know what keen  ears our  teacher
Varvara Stepanovna has."
     "You not only upset me, you  now offend me,  0  Volka  ibn  Alyosha! If
Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab says that no one will notice, it means no one
will notice!"
     "Not a single soul?" Volka asked again, just to make sure.
     "Not a single soul. The words which I will have the pleasure of telling
you will go  straight  from my  deferential lips to  your greatly  respected
ears."
     "I really don't know what to do, Hassan Hottabych," Volka said sighing,
as though  with  reluctance.  "I  really hate  to upset you by refusing. All
right, have your own way! Geography  isn't Math or  Grammar. I'd never agree
to  even the  tiniest  prompt in those  subjects, but since geography  isn't
really the most important subject.... Come on,  let's hurry!"  He  looked at
the old  man's unusual clothing with a critical eye. "Hm-m-m.... D'you think
you could change into something else, Hassan Hottabych?"
     "Don't my garments please your gaze, 0 most noble of Volkas?" Hottabych
asked unhappily.
     "Sure they  do, they certainly do," Volka answered diplomatically. "But
you're dressed ...  if you know what I mean.... Our  styles are a little bit
different.... Your clothes will attract too much attention."
     "But how  do  respectable, honourable  gentlemen of  advanced age dress
nowadays?"
     Volka tried to  explain what  a jacket,  trousers and a  hat were,  but
though  he  tried very hard, he  wasn't  very  successful.  He  was about to
despair, when he suddenly glanced at his grandfather's portrait on the wall.
He led Hottabych over to the time-darkened photograph and the  old man gazed
long at it with curiosity, surprised to see clothing so unlike his own.
     A moment later, Volka, holding Hottabych's arm, emerged from the house.
The  old man was magnificent in  a new linen suit, an embroidered  Ukrainian
shirt,  and  a  straw boater. The  only things  he had  refused  to  change,
complaining of three thousand-year-old corns, were his slippers. He remained
in his pink slippers with the upturned toes, which, in times gone  by, would
have probably driven the most stylish young man at the Court of Caliph Harun
al Rashid out of his mind with envy.
     When  Volka  and  a transformed  Hottabych  approached  the entrance of
Moscow Secondary School No. 245 the old  man looked at himself  coyly in the
glass door and remained quite pleased with what he saw.
     The elderly doorman, who was sedately reading his paper, put  it  aside
with pleasure at the sight of  Volka and his  companion. It was  hot and the
doorman felt like talking to someone.
     Skipping several steps at a  time, Volka dashed upstairs. The corridors
were quiet and empty, a true and sad sign that the examination had begun and
that he was late.
     "And where are you going?" the doorman  asked  Hottabych good-naturedly
as he was about to follow his young friend in.
     "He's come to see the principal," Volka shouted from the  top  'of  the
stairs.
     "You won't be able  to see him  now. He's at an examination. Won't  you
please come by again later on in the day?"
     Hottabych frowned angrily.
     "If I be permitted to, 0 respected old man, I would prefer  to wait for
him  here." Then he shouted to Volka,  "Hurry to your classroom, 0 Volka ibn
Alyosha! I'm  certain  that  you'll astound your teachers and your  comrades
with your great knowledge!"
     "Are you his grandfather or something?" the doorman inquired, trying to
start up a  conversation.  Hottabych  said nothing.  He  felt it beneath his
dignity to converse with a doorkeeper.
     "Would you care for a cup of  tea?" the doorman  continued. "The heat's
something terrible today."
     He poured a full cup  of tea and, turning to hand it to the untalkative
stranger, he saw to his horror that  the old  man had  disappeared into thin
air. Shaken by this  impossible occurrence, the doorman gulped down the  tea
intended for Hottabych, poured  himself a second cup, and then a  third, and
did not stop until there wasn't a drop left. Then he sank into his chair and
began to fan himself exhaustedly with his newspaper.
     All the while, a  no less unusual scene  was taking place on the second
floor, right above the doorman, in the classroom of 6B. The teachers, headed
by  the principal, Pavel Vasilyevich,  sat at  a  table covered with a heavy
cloth used for  special occasions. Behind them was the blackboard, hung with
various maps. Facing them were rows of solemn pupils. It was so quiet in the
room that one could hear a lonely fly buzzing monotonously near the ceiling.
If the pupils of  6B were always this quiet, theirs would undoubtedly be the
most disciplined class in all of Moscow.
     It must be noted, however, that the quiet in the classroom was not only
due to the  hush accompanying  any examination,  but also to the  fact  that
Volka Kostylkov had been called to the board-and he was not in the room.
     "Vladimir  Kostylkov!" the principal repeated  and looked at  the quiet
children in surprise.
     It became still more quiet.
     Then, suddenly, they heard the loud clatter of running feet in the hall
outside, and at  the very  moment  the principal called "Vladimir Kostylkov"
for the third and last time, the door burst open and Volka, very much out of
breath, gasped:
     "Here!"
     "Please come up to the board," the principal  said dryly. "We'll  speak
about your being late afterwards."
     "I  ... I feel ill," Volka mumbled, saying the first thing that came to
his head, as he walked uncertainly towards his examiners.
     While he  was  wondering  which of the slips of  paper laid out  on the
table he  should choose, old  man Hottabych slipped  through the wall in the
corridor  and  disappeared  through  the  opposite  one  into  an  adjoining
classroom. He had an absorbed look on his face.
     Volka finally took the first slip his hand touched.  Tempting his fate,
he turned it over  very slowly, but was pleasantly surprised to see  that he
was to  speak on India. He knew quite a lot about India, since he had always
been interested in that country.
     "Well, let's hear what you have to say," the principal said.
     Volka  even remembered  the beginning of the chapter  on India word for
word as it was in his book. He opened his  mouth  to say  that the Hindustan
Peninsula resembled a triangle and that this triangle bordered on the Indian
Ocean and  its  various  parts:  the Arabian Sea  in the West and the Bay of
Bengal in the East, that two large countries-India and Pakistan-were located
on  the  peninsula,  that  both  were inhabited  by kindly and  peace-loving
peoples with  rich  and ancient cultures, etc.,  etc., etc.,  but  just then
Hottabych, standing in the adjoining  classroom, leaned against the wall and
began mumbling diligently, cupping his hand to his mouth like a horn:
     "India, 0 my most respected teacher...!"
     And suddenly Volka, contrary to his  own desires,  began to pour  forth
the most atrocious nonsense:
     "India, 0 my most respected teacher,  is located close  to the  edge of
the Earth's disc and is separated from this  edge by desolate and unexplored
deserts, as  neither animals nor birds live to the east  of it.  India is  a
very  wealthy country, and its wealth lies in its gold. This is not dug from
the ground as  in other countries, but  is  produced, day  and  night,  by a
tireless species of gold-bearing ants,  which  are nearly the size of a dog.
They dig their  tunnels in the ground and three  times a  day they bring  up
gold  sand and nuggets  and  pile  them in  huge heaps. But woe be  to those
Indians who try to steal this gold without due skill! The  ants  pursue them
and, overtaking them, kill them on the spot. From the north and west,  India
borders on a country of bald people. The men and women and even the children
are  all bald in this country. And these strange people live on raw fish and
pine cones. Still closer  to them  is a  country where you  can neither  see
anything nor pass, as it  is filled  to the top with feathers. The earth and
the air  are filled with  feathers, and that is why you can't  see  anything
there."
     "Wait a  minute,  Kostylkov," the geography teacher said with  a smile.
"No one has asked you to tell us of the ancients' views on Asia's geography.
We'd like you to tell us the modern, scientific facts about India."
     Oh,  how  happy  Volka would have been to display  his knowledge of the
subject! But what could he do if  he was no longer  the master of his speech
and  actions! In agreeing to have Hottabych prompt him, he became  a  toy in
the old  man's  well-meaning but  ignorant  hands. He  wanted  to  tell  his
teachers that what he had told  them obviously had nothing to do with modern
science. But Hottabych on the other side of the wall shrugged in dismay  and
shook his head,  and Volka, standing in front of the class, was compelled to
do the same.
     "That  which I have had the  honour of telling you, 0 greatly respected
Varvara Stepanovna, is based  on the most reliable  sources, and there exist
no other, more scientific facts on India than those I  have just, with  your
permission, revealed to you."
     "Please keep to the subject. This is an  examination, not a masquerade.
If you don't know the answers, it would be much more honourable  to admit it
right away. What was  it you said  about the  Earth's disc by the way? Don't
you know that the Earth is round?"
     Did  Volka Kostylkov,  an active  member of  the  Moscow  Planetarium's
Astronomy Club, know  that the Earth  was round? Why,  any first-grader knew
that. But Hottabych, standing behind  the  wall, burst out laughing,  and no
matter how our poor  boy tried to press  his lips together, a haughty  smirk
escaped him:
     "I presume  you are making fun of your most devoted pupil! If the Earth
were  round,  the water would  run off it, and then  everyone  would die  of
thirst and all the plants would dry up. The Earth, 0 most noble and honoured
of  all teachers and pedagogues,  has always had and does now have the shape
of a flat disc, surrounded on all sides by a mighty river named 'Ocean.' The
Earth  rests  on  six  elephants,  and they,  in  turn,  are standing  on  a
tremendous turtle. That is how the world is made, 0 teacher!"
     The board of teachers gazed at Volka with rising surprise. He broke out
in  a  cold sweat  from horror  and  the  realization  of  his  own complete
helplessness.  The other  children  could  not  quite  understand  what  had
happened to their friend, but some began  to giggle.  It was really funny to
hear about a country of bald  people, about a country filled with  feathers,
about gold-bearing ants as big as dogs and about the  flat Earth resting  on
six elephants and a turtle. As  for Zhenya Bogorad, Volka's best friend  and
one of  the class pioneer leaders,  he became  really worried. He knew  that
Volka,  as chairman  of the Astronomy Club, at least knew that the Earth was
round-if he knew nothing else. Could it be that he had suddenly decided upon
some mischief, and during an  examination, of all times! Volka was  probably
ill, but what ailed  him?  What kind of a strange,  unusual  disease  did he
have?  And then, it  was very bad  for their pioneer group. So far, they had
been first in  all  the exams, but now  Volka's stupid answers  would  spoil
everything,  though  he was usually a  disciplined  pioneer! Goga Pilukin, a
most unpleasant boy at the next  desk (nicknamed "Pill" by  his classmates),
hastened to pour salt on Zhenya's fresh wounds.
     "That  takes  care of  your  group,  Zhenya dear," he whispered  with a
malicious giggle. "You're sinking fast!" Zhenya shook his fist at Pill.
     "Varvara Stepanovna!" Goga whined. "Bogorad just shook his fist at me."
     "Sit still and don't tattle,"  Varvara Stepanovna said  and turned back
to Volka, who stood before her more dead than alive. "Were you serious about
the elephants  and the  turtle?"  "More  serious  than  ever before,  0 most
respected  of  all  teachers,"  Volka repeated  after the  old  man and felt
himself burning up with shame.
     "And haven't you anything else  to add?  Do you really think  you  were
answering the question?"
     "No, I've nothing to add," Hottabych said  behind the wall, shaking his
head.
     And Volka, helpless to withstand the force that was pushing him towards
failure,  also shook  his head and said, "No, I've nothing  to add. Perhaps,
however,  the fact that in the wealthy land of India the horizons are framed
by gold and pearls."
     "It's incredible!" his teacher exclaimed.
     It was difficult to believe that Kostylkov, a  usually disciplined boy,
had suddenly decided to  play a silly  joke  on his teachers (and at such an
important time!), running the risk of a second examination in the autumn.
     "I  don't think the boy is quite well," Varvara Stepanovna whispered to
the principal.
     Glancing  hurriedly and sympathetically at Volka,  who stood numb  with
grief before them, the committee held a whispered conference.
     Varvara  Stepanovna  suggested,  "What  if  we  ask the  child  another
question, just to calm him? Say, from last year's book.  Last year he got an
'A' in geography."
     The others agreed,  and  Varvara  Stepanovna once again turned  to  the
unhappy boy.
     "Now, Kostylkov, wipe your tears  and don't be nervous. Tell us  what a
horizon is."
     "A horizon?" Volka said  with new hope.  "That's easy.  A horizon is an
imagined line which...."
     But Hottabych came to life behind the  wall again and  Volka once again
became the victim of prompting.
     "The horizon, 0 my most revered one," Volka corrected himself, "I would
call the horizon that brink, where the crystal cupola of the Heavens touches
the edge of the Earth."
     "It gets worse as  he goes on," Varvara Stepanovna  moaned. "How  would
you  have  us  understand  your  words  about  the  crystal  cupola  of  the
Heavens-literally or figuratively?"
     "Literally, 0 teacher," Hottabych prompted from the next room.
     And Volka was obliged to repeat after him, "Literally, 0 teacher."
     "Figuratively!" someone  hissed  from the  back of the  room. But Volka
repeated, "Naturally, in the literal sense and no other."
     "What does that  mean?"  Varvara Stepanovna asked, still not  believing
her ears. "Does that mean you consider the sky to be a solid cupola?"
     "Yes."
     "And does it mean there's a place where the Earth ends?"
     "Yes, there is, 0 my most highly respected teacher."
     Behind  the  wall  Hottabych  nodded approvingly  and  rubbed his hands
together smugly.
     A strange silence  fell on the class. Even those who were always  ready
to laugh stopped smiling. Something was definitely wrong with Volka. Varvara
Stepanovna rose and felt his forehead anxiously. He did not have a fever.
     But Hottabych was really touched by this. He  bowed low and touched his
forehead and chest in the Eastern manner and then began to  whisper.  Volka,
driven by the same awful force, repeated his movements exactly.
     "I thank you,  0 most gracious daughter of Stepan! I thank you for your
trouble. But it is unnecessary, because, praised be Allah, I am quite well."
     All this  sounded  extremely  strange  and funny.  However,  the  other
children were so worried  about Volka that  not a shade of a smile crossed a
single  face. Varvara Stepanovna  took  him by  the hand, led him out of the
room, and patted his lowered head.
     "Never mind, Kostylkov. Don't worry.  You're  probably overtired.  Come
back when you've had a good rest. All right?"
     "All  right,"  Volka  said.  "But  upon  my  word  of  honour,  Varvara
Stepanovna, it's not my fault! It isn't really!"
     "Why, I'm not blaming you at all,"  the teacher answered kindly.  "I'll
tell you what: let's drop in on Pyotr Ivanych."
     Pyotr  Ivanych,  the  school  doctor,  examined Volka for  all  of  ten
minutes. He  made him close  his eyes and  hold his arms out before him with
his fingers spread  apart; then he  tapped his knee  and  drew lines on  his
chest and back with his stethoscope.
     By then  Volka  came to  himself. His cheeks turned  pink again and his
spirits rose.
     "The  boy's perfectly  well," said Pyotr Ivanych.  "And  if you want my
opinion,   he's  an  unusually  healthy  child!  I  think  he  was  probably
overworked. He must have studied too much  before his exams, because there's
nothing wrong with him. And that's all there is to it!"
     Just in case, though, he  measured  some drops  into a  glass,  and the
unusually healthy child was forced to drink the medicine.
     Suddenly, Volka had an idea.  What if he could profit from  Hottabych's
absence  and  take his geography  examination right there, in  the  doctor's
office?
     "By no  means!" Pyotr Ivanych said emphatically.  "By no means. Let the
child have a few days of rest. Geography can wait."
     "That's  quite  true,"  the teacher  sighed  with relief, pleased  that
.everything had  turned out so well  in the  end. "And you, my young friend,
run  along home and  have  a  good rest. When you feel better, come back and
take  your  exam. I'm positive  you'll get an 'A.' What do you think,  Pyotr
Ivanych?"
     "Such a Hercules as he? Why, he'll never get less than an 'A'+!'
     "Ah ... and don't you  think someone had better see him  home?" Varvara
Stepanovna added.
     "Oh no, Varvara Stepanovna!" Volka cried. "I'll make out fine."
     All he  needed  now was for  a chaperone to bump into  that  crazy  old
Hottabych!
     Volka  appeared  to be in the pink of  health, and with  an  easy heart
Varvara Stepanovna let him go home.
     The doorman  rushed towards  him as  he was on the way out. "Kostylkov!
Your grandpa, or whoever he is, the one who came here with you...."
     At that  very moment, old man Hottabych appeared from  the wall. He was
as happy as a lark and  immensely pleased with himself, and he was humming a
little tune.
     "Help!" the doorman cried soundlessly and tried in vain to pour himself
another cup of tea  from the empty kettle. When  he put the  kettle down and
turned around,  both  Volka  Kostylkov  and  his  mysterious  companion  had
disappeared. By then they had already turned the nearest corner.
     "Pray tell me, young  master, did you  astound your  teacher  and  your
comrades with your great knowledge?" Hottabych inquired  proudly, breaking a
rather long silence.
     "I astounded them all right!" Volka said and looked at the old man with
loathing.
     Hottabych beamed. "I  expected nothing else!  But for a moment  there I
thought that the  most revered  daughter of Stepan  was  displeased with the
breadth and scope of your knowledge."
     "Oh,  no,  no!" Volka cried  in  fear,  recalling Hottabych's  terrible
threats. "You were imagining things."
     "I would have changed her into  a chopping block on which butchers chop
up mutton," the old man  said fiercely (and Volka was really frightened  for
his teacher's fate), "if I  hadn't seen that  she had such great respect for
you and took you to the door of your classroom and then practically down the
stairs.  I realized then that  she had fully appreciated your answers. Peace
be with her!"
     "Sure, peace be with her!" Volka added hastily, feeling that a load had
fallen from his shoulders.
     During the several thousand years of Hottabych's life, he had often had
to do with people feeling sad and gloomy, and he knew how to cheer them  up.
At any rate, he was convinced he knew how to do so. All that was  needed was
to  give a  person  that which he had always longed for. But  what kind of a
present should he give Volka?  The  answer came to him quite  by chance when
Volka asked a passer-by:
     "Would you please tell me what time it is?"
     The man looked at his watch and said, "Five to two."
     "Thank you," Volka said and continued on in silence.
     Hottabych was the first to speak.
     "Tell me,  0 Volka,  how was the  man able to tell  the time  of day so
accurately?"
     "Didn't you see him look at his watch?" The old man raised his eyebrows
in surprise.
     "His watch?!" "Sure, his watch,"  Volka  explained.  "He had a watch on
his
     wrist. The round chrome-plated thing."
     "Why don't you have such a watch, 0 most noble of all Genie-saviours?"
     "I'm too young to have such a watch," Volka answered humbly.
     "May I be permitted, 0 honourable passer-by, to inquire  as to the time
of day?" Hottabych said, stopping the first person he saw and staring at his
watch.
     "Two  minutes to two,"  the  man answered,  somewhat surprised  at  the
flowery language.
     Thanking him in the most elaborate oriental manner, Hottabych said with
a sly grin:
     "May I be permitted,  0 loveliest of all Volkas,  to inquire  as to the
time of day?"
     And there was a watch  shining  on Volka's left wrist, exactly like the
one the man they had stopped had, but instead of being chrome-plated, it was
of the purest gold.
     "May it be worthy of your hand  and your kind heart," Hottabych said in
a touched voice, basking in Volka's happiness and surprise.
     Then Volka did something that any other boy  or girl would have done in
his place,  having  found themselves  the  proud  possessors of their  first
watch. He raised his arm to his ear to hear it tick.
     "O-o-o-o," he drawled. "It's not wound.  I'll have to wind  it." To his
great disappointment, he found he could not move the winding button. Then he
got out his  pen-knife to open the watch case. However, try as he would,  he
could not find a trace of a slit in which to insert the knife.
     "It's made of solid gold," the old man boasted and winked. "I'm not one
of those people who give presents made of hollow gold."
     "Does  that  mean  there's  nothing inside  of it?"  Volka  asked  with
disappointment.
     "Why,  should  there  be  anything  inside?"  the  old  Genie  inquired
anxiously.  Volka unbuckled the strap in silence and returned  the  watch to
Hottabych.
     "All right, then,  I'll  give you a  watch  that  doesn't have  to have
anything inside."
     Once again a gold  watch appeared on Volka's wrist, but now it was very
small and  flat. There  was no glass  on it and instead of hands there was a
small vertical gold rod in the middle. The face was  studded  with  the most
exquisite emeralds set where the numbers should be.
     "Never before did anyone, even the  wealthiest  of all  sultans, have a
hand  sun  watch!" the old man boasted again. "There were sun dials in  city
squares, in market places, in gardens and in  yards.  And they were all made
of stone. But I just invented this one. It's not bad, is it?"
     It certainly was exciting to be the only owner  of  a sun  watch in the
whole world.
     Volka grinned broadly, while the old man beamed.
     "How do you tell the time on it?" Volka asked.
     "Here's how," Hottabych said, taking hold of Volka's hand gently. "Hold
your arm  straight out like this and the shadow cast by  the little gold rod
will fall on the right number."
     "But the sun has to be  shining," Volka said, looking with  displeasure
at a small cloud that just obscured it.
     "The cloud will pass in a minute," Hottabych promised.  True enough, in
a  minute  the sun began to shine  once  again. "See, it  points  somewheres
between  2 and 3  p.m.  That means it's about  2:30."  As  he was  speaking,
another cloud covered the sun.
     "Don't pay any attention  to  it,"  Hottabych said. "I'll clear the sky
for you whenever you want to find out what time it is."
     "What about the autumn?" Volka asked.
     "What about it?"
     "What  about the autumn and the  winter, when the sky  is covered  with
clouds for months on end?"
     "I've already  told  you, 0 Volka, the sun will shine whenever you want
it to. You have but to order me and everything will be as you wish."
     "But what if you're not around?"
     "I'll always be near-by. All you have to do is call me."
     "But  what  about the  evenings  and nights?"  Volka asked maliciously.
"What about the night, when there's no sun in the sky?"
     "At night  people must surrender themselves  to sleep,  and not look at
their  watches," Hottabych snapped. He had  to control himself not to  teach
the  insolent youth a good lesson. "All right then, tell me whether you like
that man's watch. If you do, you shall have it."
     "What  do you  mean? It belongs  to him. Don't tell  me  you are  going
to...."
     "Don't worry, 0  Volka ibn Alyosha. I won't touch a hair on  his  head.
He'll offer you the watch himself, for you are certainly worthy of receiving
the most treasured gifts."
     "You'll force him to and then he'll...."
     "And he'll be  overjoyed that I did not  wipe him  off  the face of the
Earth, or change him into a foul rat, or a cockroach hiding  in a crack of a
hovel, or the last beggar...."
     "That's real  blackmail,"  Volka said angrily. "Tricks like that send a
man to jail, my friend. And you'll well deserve it."
     "Send me  to jail?!"  the old man flared up. "Me?!  Hassan Abdurrakhman
ibn Hottab? And does  he know, that most despicable of all passers-by, who J
am? Ask the first Genie, or Ifrit, or Shaitan you see, and they'll tell you,
as they tremble from fear, that Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab  is the chief
of all Genie bodyguards. My army consists of 72 tribes, with 72,000 warriors
in each tribe; every  warrior rules over one thousand Marids and every Marid
rules over  a thousand Aides and every Aide rules  over  a thousand Shaitans
and  every Shaitan rules over a thousand Genies.  I  rule  over them all and
none can disobey  me!  If only this  thrice-miserable of all most  miserable
passers-by tries to...."
     Meanwhile,  the man in question was strolling down the street, glancing
at the shop windows, and in no way aware of the terrible danger hanging over
him because of an ordinary watch glittering on his wrist.
     ' "Why, I'll..." Hottabych raged on in  his boastfulness, "why,  if you
only so desire, I'll turn him into a...."
     Each second counted. Volka shouted:
     "Don't!"
     "Don't what?"
     "Don't touch that man! I don't need a watch! I don't need anything!"
     "Nothing  at all?" the  old man asked doubtfully, quickly calming down.
The only sun watch in the world disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
     "Nothing at all," said  Volka.  He  heaved such  a sigh that  Hottabych
realized  he  must  apply  himself  to  cheering  up his young  saviour  and
dispelling his gloomy thoughts.

     HOTTABYCH'S SECOND SERVICE

     Volka was in the dumps. Hottabych  sensed that something  was wrong. He
never  dreamed  he had done the boy such  a bad turn during the exam, but it
was all too clear  that  Volka was upset. And the one to blame,  apparently,
was none other than himself, Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab.
     "Would  you, 0  moon-like,  feel inclined  to listen to stories of most
unusual and strange adventures?" he asked  slyly. "For instance, do you know
the story of the Baghdad barber's three  black roosters and his lame son? Or
the   one  about  the  copper  camel  with  a  silver  hump?  Or  about  the
water-carrier Ahmet and his magic pail?"
     Volka kept on  frowning. This did  not stop  the old man,  and he began
hurriedly:
     "Be  it known to you, 0 most wonderful of  all secondary school pupils,
that once upon  a time  in Baghdad  there lived a skilled barber named Selim
who had three roosters  and a lame son named Tub. It so happened that Caliph
Harun al Rashid once passed his shop. But, 0 most attentive of all youths, I
suggest we sit down on this  bench in order that your  young legs don't tire
during this long and most educational story."
     Volka agreed. They sat down in the shade of an old linden tree.
     For  three  long  hours  Hottabych  went  on  and  on  with  the  truly
interesting story. He finally ended it with these crafty words:
     "But  more marvellous still is the  story of  the copper  camel with  a
silver hump," and immediately proceeded with  it. When he came to the  part:
"Then the  stranger  took  a  piece  of coal  from the brazier and drew  the
outline of a camel on the wall.  The camel waved its tail,  nodded its head,
walked  off the wall and onto the cobblestones..  ."-he stopped to enjoy the
impression his  story of  a drawing  coming to life  had  made on  his young
listener.
     But Hottabych  was in for some disappointment, because  Volka  had seen
enough cartoons in his life. However, the old man's words gave him an idea.
     "You know  what?  Let's  go to  the movies.  You can  finish the  story
after."
     "Your  every  word  is my  command, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha," the  old  man
replied obediently. "But  do me a favour and tell me  what you  mean by 'the
movies'?  Is  it  a  bath-house?  Or,  perhaps,  that's what  you  call  the
market-place, where one can stroll and chat with friends and acquaintances?"
     "Well! Any child can tell  you  what a  movie is. It's a...." At  this,
Volka  waved his hands around vaguely and added,  "Well, anyway, you'll  see
when we get there."
     Over the Saturn Theatre box-office was a sign that read:

     "Children under sixteen not admitted to evening performances."

     "What's the matter, 0 most handsome of all handsome youths?"  Hottabych
inquired anxiously, noticing that Volka had become gloomy again.
     "Nothing much.  It's  just  that  we're  late  for  the  last  day-time
performance! You have to be sixteen  to get in now. I really don't know what
to do, 'cause I don't feel like going home."
     "You won't go home!" Hottabych cried. "In a twinkling of an eye they'll
let  us  through, surrounded by  the respect your truly endless capabilities
command!  I'll just have a  peek  at  those bits of paper everyone's handing
that stern-looking woman at the entrance."
     "That  old  braggart!" Volka thought irritably.  Suddenly, he  felt two
tickets in his right fist.
     "Come!" Hottabych called, beaming again. "Come, they'll let you through
now!"
     "Are you sure?"
     "Just as positive as that a great future awaits you!"
     He  nudged  Volka towards a  mirror  hanging nearby. A boy with a bushy
blond beard on his healthy freckled  face looked  back  from the mirror at a
shocked and gaping Volka.

AN UNUSUAL EVENT AT THE MOVIES

     A triumphant Hottabych dragged  Volka up the stairs to the second-floor
foyer. At the entrance to the projection room stood Zhenya Bogorad, the envy
of every pupil of 6B. This darling of fate was the  theatre manager's nephew
and  therefore permitted to attend evening performances. But  today, instead
of being the happiest  of boys, he was suffering terribly.  He was suffering
from loneliness. He  was dying to have a companion, someone he could talk to
about Volka Kostylkov's  behaviour at  the  morning's geography examination.
Alas! There was not a familiar face in sight.
     He then decided to go downstairs, in the hope that  Luck would send him
someone. At the landing he was nearly knocked off his feet by an old man  in
a white suit and embroidered morocco slippers who was dragging along-whom do
you  think?-  Volka  Kostylkov, in person!  For reasons  unknown, Volka  was
covering his face with his hands.
     "Volka!" Bogorad shouted happily. "Kostylkov!"
     Unlike Zhenya, Volka  did  not seem at all pleased at the encounter. In
fact, he even  pretended not  to have recognized his best  friend. He darted
into  the thick of the crowd which  stood  listening  to an orchestra  while
awaiting the next showing.
     "Don't think I care!"  Zhenya said in an offended  tone and went off to
buy an ice-cream.
     That  is why he  didn't see the people gathering round the  strange old
man and Volka.  Later,  when  he tried to push his way  through  to the spot
which was attracting so many eager eyes,  his friend  was already surrounded
by a rapidly-growing crowd. He could hear  the folding seats hitting against
the backs  of the chairs as those who were listening to the orchestra rushed
off. Soon the musicians were playing to rows of empty seats.
     "What happened?" Zhenya asked, vainly trying to elbow  his way through.
"If  there's been an accident,  I can phone for help. My uncle's the manager
here. What's the matter?"
     But no one seemed to know what the matter was. And, since hardly anyone
could see anything and everyone wanted to know  what was going on inside the
circle, they all kept  asking each other questions  and  demanding  sensible
answers, until they raised such a  ruckus they began to drown out the music,
though the musicians were playing as loud as they could.
     Zhenya's  uncle  finally  appeared,  climbed on  a chair  and  shouted,
"Everyone  please  disperse!  What's the matter? Haven't  you  ever  seen  a
bearded child before?"
     The moment these words reached the snack bar, everyone there  rushed to
see the bearded child.
     "Volka!" Zhenya yelled at  the  top  of  his  voice, despairing of ever
getting through the crowd. "I can't  see anything! Can you see? Does he have
a big beard?"
     "Golly!" the unfortunate Volka wailed. "What if he...."
     "Poor child!" the curious onlookers sighed.
     "What a pity!"
     "Is science helpless in his case?"
     At  first, Hottabych misunderstood  the attention  his young friend was
attracting.  He  thought  the people  were  crowding round to  express their
respect for Volka. Then he began to get angry.
     "Disperse, my good people!"  he shouted, drowning out the noise  of the
crowd and the band. "Disperse, or I'll do something terrible to all of you!"
     A timid girl gasped from fear, but the others only laughed. Really now,
what was there to fear from such a funny old  man  in  silly  pink slippers?
Why, if someone as much as touched him, he'd probably fall to pieces!
     No, no one took his threats seriously. However, the old man was used to
having people tremble at his words.  He felt that  he  and Volka  were being
insulted and was becoming more and more enraged. There is  no telling how it
all could have ended, if the first bell had not rung just then.
     The  doors to  the projection room were thrown open and everyone rushed
to take their seats. Zhenya thought this was his chance to get a peek at the
weird boy.  But the same crowd  that had blocked his view now caught him  up
and carried him into the projection room.
     No sooner had he found a seat  in the first row than  the  lights  went
out.
     "Whew!" Zhenya  breathed. "Just in time. I'll still be able to  see the
bearded  boy on the  way out." Nonetheless, he  kept fidgeting in  his seat,
trying to catch a glimpse of the freak who was sitting somewhere behind him.
     "Stop fidgeting! You're bothering us!" the man next to  him said.  "Sit
still!"  However,  to  his   utter  amazement,  the  fidgety   boy  suddenly
disappeared.
     Volka and Hottabych were the  last  to  enter  the darkened  projection
room.  To tell the  truth, Volka was so upset he was  ready to leave without
seeing the film.
     Hottabych pleaded:
     "If you're  so displeased with  the  beard I  thought you'd appreciate,
I'll free you of it the moment we find our seats. That's easy enough.  Let's
follow the others  in, for I'm impatient to discover  what a 'movie'  is. It
must indeed  be something wonderful, if even  grown  men attend it on such a
hot summer day!"
     When  they were seated, Hottabych snapped the fingers of his left hand.
Contrary to his promises, nothing happened to Volka's beard.
     "Why is it taking you so long? Remember how you boasted!"
     "I  wasn't  boasting,  0  most wonderful of 6B  pupils.  Fortunately, I
changed my mind in time. If you don't have  a beard, you'll be turned out of
the movie which is so dear to your heart."
     It soon became  clear that this  was merely a cunning excuse. Volka was
not yet aware of the old man's craftiness.
     "That's all right, they won't turn me out of here," he said.
     Hottabych pretended not  to have heard  him. Volka repeated his  words.
Once again, Hottabych played deaf. Then Volka raised his voice:
     "Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab!"
     "I'm listening, 0 my young master," the old man answered obediently.
     "Sh-h-h!" someone hissed.
     Volka continued in a whisper, bending close to his friend who  suddenly
looked very sad.
     "Do something to make this stupid beard disappear immediately!"
     "It's not a  bit  stupid," the  old  man whispered back. "It is a  most
grand and noble beard."
     "This very second! Do you hear? This very second!"
     "I  hear and I obey,"  Hottabych muttered  and began whispering  again,
snapping his fingers.
     The hairy growth on Volka's face remained unchanged.
     "Well?"
     "One moment,  0  most blessed Volka ibn Alyosha," the  old man replied,
still whispering and snapping his fingers nervously.
     The beard on Volka's chin remained where it was.
     "Look!  Look  who's  sitting  in  the  ninth  row!"  Volka   whispered,
forgetting his great misfortune for the moment.
     As far as Hottabych could see, the two men in the ninth row appeared in
no way remarkable.
     "They're  famous  actors,"  Volka  explained and told  Hottabych  their
names, which, though they were very well known, meant nothing to him.
     "Do  you mean  they're performers?" the  old man asked condescendingly.
"Are they tight-rope walkers?"
     "They're movie actors! They're the most famous movie actors, that's who
they are!"
     "Then why  aren't they doing anything? Why are they  sitting back doing
nothing?"  Hottabych  demanded  critically.  "They're  probably   very  lazy
performers. It pains me  to see you praising them  so thoughtlessly, 0 movie
of my heart."
     "Ha, ha!"  Volka  laughed. "Movie actors never act  in a theatre. Movie
actors act in studios."
     "Does that mean we are going to see some others, and not movie  actors,
perform?"
     "No,  we'll  see movie actors.  Don't  you understand,  they  act in  a
studio,  but  we  see their acting here, in a theatre. Why, any  child knows
that."
     "Pray forgive  me, but  what  you're  saying  is  a  lot  of nonsense,"
Hottabych reproached him sternly. "However, I'm not angry at you,  because I
don't  think you  meant to play  a trick on your most obedient  servant. You
seem to be affected by the heat in this building. Unfortunately, I don't see
a single window which could be opened to let in some fresh air."
     Volka realized that  in the few remaining  minutes before the beginning
of the film  he would never be able to explain a  movie actor's work  to the
old man. He decided  to put off all explanations till  later, and especially
since he suddenly recalled his terrible misfortune.
     "Dear, dear Hottabych, it's really  no trouble to you-please, can't you
do something right now?"
     The old man heaved a sigh, yanked a hair from his beard, then a second,
and a third, and, finally, in great anger, a whole bunch together. He  began
tearing them to bits savagely,  muttering something  with his eyes fixed  on
Volka's face. There was no change whatsoever. Then  Hottabych began snapping
his fingers in  the most  varied combinations:  first two fingers at a time,
then all five fingers of the right hand,  then the left hand,  then all  ten
fingers together, then once with the right and twice with the left, then the
other  way  round-but  all to  no avail. Finally, he began  ripping off  his
clothes.
     "Are you mad?" Volka cried. "What're you doing?"
     "Woe is  me!"  Hottabych replied in a whisper and began  scratching his
face.  "Woe  is   me!  The  centuries  I  spent  in  that  accursed   vessel
have-alas!-left  their  mark!  A  lack  of  practice  has   been   extremely
detrimental to my profession. Forgive me, 0 my young  saviour, but I  can do
nothing with your  beard! 0 woe is  me,  poor Genie  Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn
Hottab that I am!"
     "What are you whispering?" Volka asked. "Say it louder,  I  can't  make
out a word."
     And Hottabych replied, tearing at his clothes:
     "0 most treasured of  youths, 0 most pleasing of  all, do not vent your
rightful anger upon me! I  cannot  rid you of your beard! I forgot how to do
it!"
     "Have a  heart!"  someone hissed.  "You'll talk it all  over  at  home.
You're bothering us. Do you want me to call the usher?"
     "Such  disgrace  has fallen upon my old head!" Hottabych whimpered. "To
forget  such  simple  magic!  And  who  is  it  that forgot it?  Me,  Hassan
Abdurrakhman  ibn  Hottab, the most powerful of all Genies-me, the very same
Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab whom even Sulayman son of David (on the twain
be peace!) could not subdue for twenty years!"
     "Stop  whining!"  Volka  whispered  with  unconcealed scorn.  "Tell  me
honestly: how much longer will I have to go around with this beard?"
     "Oh,  calm your  fears, my young master!  Luckily,  I  only  used small
magic. In two days your face will be as smooth as that of  a new-born  babe.
Perhaps I'll even remember how to break small magic spells before that."
     Just  then, the many credits which  usually precede a film flashed  off
the  screen and  were  replaced  by people  who moved and  spoke.  Hottabych
whispered smugly:
     "Hm! This is all quite  clear. And very  simple. All these  people have
appeared through the wall. You can't surprise me  with that sort of stuff. I
can do that myself."
     "You don't understand  a thing," Volka said  with a smile, upon hearing
such  nonsense.  "If you  really  want to  know,  films  are  based  on  the
principle...."
     There was hissing from all sides now, and Volka's explanations were cut
short. For a moment  Hottabych seemed  entranced.  Then he  began  squirming
nervously, turning round ever so often to look at the ninth row  and the two
movie actors  sitting  there. He  became  convinced that they  were  sitting
quietly behind him and, at the same time, galloping at top speed in front of
him on the only lighted wall in this most mysterious building.
     He became pale with fear.  He raised his  eyebrows and whispered, "Look
behind us, 0 fearless Volka ibn Alyosha!"
     "Sure, those are the actors.  They play the leads and have come  to see
how the audience likes their acting."
     "I don't like it!" Hottabych informed him quickly. "I don't like people
to split in two. Even I don't know how to sit in a chair with my arms folded
and gallop away as fast as the wind-  and all at one and the same time! Even
Sulayman, son of David (on the twain be peace!), could not do such a  thing.
And that's why I'm frightened."
     "There's nothing to  worry  about," Volka said patronizingly.  "Look at
everyone  else.  See?  No  one's afraid. I'll  explain what  it's  all about
later."
     Suddenly, the  mighty roar  of a  locomotive cut through the stillness.
Hottabych grabbed Volka's arm.
     "0 royal  Volka!"  he  whispered,  breaking  out  in  a cold sweat.  "I
recognize that  voice. It's the voice of  Jirjis,  the ruler  of all Genies!
Let's flee before it's too late!"
     "What nonsense! Sit still! Nothing's threatening us."
     "I hear and I obey," Hottabych mumbled obediently, though  he continued
to tremble.
     But a split-second  later, when  a  thundering locomotive  seemed to be
rushing off the screen and right into the audience,  a scream of terror rent
the projection room.
     "Let's flee! Let's flee!" Hottabych shrieked as he dashed off.
     At the exit  he remembered about  Volka and  in several leaps returned,
grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him to the door.
     "Let's flee, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha! Let's flee before it's too late!"
     "Now, wait a minute. .." the usher began,  appearing  in front of them.
However, she immediately did a long, graceful loop in the air and  landed on
the stage in front of the screen.
     "What were  you screeching about?  What was all the panic about?" Volka
asked angrily when they were out in the street again.
     "How can I help shouting  when the most terrifying  of all  dangers was
threatening you!  The  great Jirjis, son  of Rejmus, grandson of the Aunt of
Ikrash, was heading straight for us, spitting fire and death!"
     "What Jirjis? Which aunt? It was just an ordinary locomotive!"
     "Has my young master decided to teach his old Genie Hassan Abdurrakhman
ibn Hottab what a Shaitan is?" Hottabych asked acidly.
     Volka realized that it would take much more than  five minutes and much
more than an hour to tell him what a movie and a locomotive were.
     After Hottabych recovered his  breath, he asked mildly, "What would you
desire now, 0 treasured apple of my eye?"
     "As if you didn't know. I want to get rid of my beard!"
     "Alas," the old man sighed, "I am as yet helpless  to fulfil your wish.
But perhaps you'd like something else instead? Just tell me, and you'll have
it in a flash."
     "I'd like to  have a shave. And as quickly as possible."  A few minutes
later they  entered a barbershop. Ten minutes later a tired barber stuck his
head into the waiting room and shouted:
     "Next!"
     Then, from a corner  near  the coat-rack, rose  a  boy whose  face  was
wrapped in an expensive silk scarf.  He  hurriedly sat  down in the barber's
chair.
     "You  want  a  hair-cut?"  the  barber  asked.  "No,  a shave!" the boy
answered  in a hollow voice and removed the scarf  that had  covered most of
his face.

A TROUBLED EVENING

     It  was  a good  thing Volka didn't have dark hair. Zhenya Bogorad, for
instance, would certainly have  had a blue shadow on his cheeks after having
been  shaved,  but Volka's  cheeks  after  he  left  the  barbershop were no
different from those of  his friends. It was  after seven, but it  was still
light outdoors and  very hot. "Is there any place in your blessed city where
they sell sherbets or cold drinks like sherbet and where we could quench our
thirst?" Hottabych asked.
     "Why, that's an idea! A glass of cold lemonade would really be grand."
     Entering the first  juice and mineral water shop they saw,  they took a
table.
     "We'd like two bottles of  lemonade, please," Volka said. The  waitress
nodded and headed towards the counter. Hottabych called her back angrily.
     "You come  right back,  unworthy  servant! I  don't like  the  way  you
responded to the orders of my young friend and master."
     "Hottabych, stop it! Do you hear! Stop..." Volka began to whisper.
     But Hottabych covered the boy's mouth gently with his hand.
     "At least don't interfere when I defend  your  honour,  since your kind
heart prevents you from scolding her yourself."
     "You  don't  understand,"  Volka  protested.  He  was  really  becoming
frightened. "Hottabych, can't you see...."
     Suddenly, he froze,  for  he felt  he had  lost  the gift of speech. He
wanted  to  throw himself  between the  old  man and the still  unsuspecting
waitress, but found he could not move a finger.
     It was all  Hottabych's doing.  To prevent  Volka  from  interfering in
something he considered a matter of honour, he had  lightly  pinched his ear
lobe between the first  two fingers  of his left hand and had thus condemned
the boy to silence and immobility.
     "How did you reply to the order my young master gave you?" he repeated.
     "I'm afraid I don't  understand you," the  waitress answered  politely.
"It was not an order, it was a request, and I went to fulfil it. And, in the
second place, it's customary to speak politely to strangers.  All I can  say
is that  I'm  surprised you don't know such  a thing,  though every cultured
person should."
     "Don't tell me  you  want to teach me  manners!" Hottabych shouted. "On
your knees, or I'll turn you to dust!"
     "Shame  on  you!"  the cashier said. She  was the  only witness  of the
disgraceful scene,  for there was no one besides Volka and Hottabych  in the
cafe. "How can you be so rude? And especially a person your age!"
     "On your knees!"  Hottabych  roared. "And you  get down  on your knees,
too," he added,  pointing to the cashier.  "And you!" he  shouted to another
waitress  who was rushing to the rescue. "All three of you, get down on your
knees  immediately, and beg my young  friend's  pardon!" At  this, Hottabych
suddenly began to grow bigger and bigger until finally  his head touched the
ceiling. It  was a strange and terrible  sight. The  cashier and  the second
waitress both fainted, but the first  waitress only  paled and said  calmly,
"Shame on you! You should behave properly in public.  And if you're a decent
sort of hypnotist..."
     (She thought the old man was practising hypnotic tricks on them.)
     "On your  knees!" Hottabych bellowed.  "Didn't  you hear  me-  on  your
knees?!"
     In all his  three thousand seven hundred and thirty-two years, this was
the  first time ordinary mortals had refused to obey him. Hottabych felt the
boy would  lose respect for him, and he  was terribly anxious  to have Volka
respect him and treasure his friendship.
     "Down, 0 despicable one, if you value your life!"
     "That's entirely out of the question," the brave waitress answered in a
trembling voice. "I  can't understand why you're  raising your voice. If you
think  something's wrong, you can  ask  the  cashier for the 'Complaints and
Suggestions  Book.' Anyone can have it.  And I'd like  to add that the  most
famous hypnotists and mesmerists visit  our cafe, but none have ever behaved
like you. Aren't I right, Katya?" she said, turning to her friend who had by
then come to.
     "How d'you like that!" Katya sniffled. "He  wants us to get down on our
knees! It's outrageous!"
     "Is that so?!" Hottabych yelled, losing his temper completely. "Is that
how insolent you are? Well, you have only yourselves to blame!"
     With  a practised gesture he yanked three hairs  from his beard and let
go of Volka's ear  to tear them to bits. To  the old  man's annoyance, Volka
regained  his power  of speech and the freedom to move his limbs at will the
moment he let go. The first  thing he did was  to grab  Hottabych's hand and
cry:
     "Oh, no, Hottabych! What do you want to do?"
     "I want to punish  them, 0 Volka.  I'm ashamed to admit I  was about to
strike  them down  with thunder. Something even the most worthless Ifrit can
do!"
     Despite the gravity of the situation, Volka felt he had to stand up for
science.
     "A clap of thunder cannot kill anyone," he said, thinking feverishly of
how to ward off the danger now hanging over the poor waitresses. "What kills
people  is  lightning-a  charge  of  atmospheric   electricity.  Thunder  is
harmless, it's only a sound."
     "I wouldn't be so sure," Hottabych answered dryly, not wishing to lower
himself  to an argument  with  such an inexperienced youth.  "I don't  think
you're right.  But  I've changed my mind. I  won't strike them with thunder,
I'll change them into sparrows instead. Yes, that's the best thing to do."
     "But why?"
     "I must punish them, 0 Volka. Evil must always be punished."
     "There's no reason to punish them! Do you hear!"
     Volka tugged at Hottabych's hand, for the old man was about to tear the
hairs, and then it would really  be  too late.  But the  hairs  which he had
knocked  out of  his hand miraculously  returned to  Hottabych's rough  dark
palm.
     "Just you try!" Volka shouted, seeing that  the old  man was  about  to
tear them anyway.  "You can turn me into a sparrow, too! Or into a toad!  Or
into anything you want! And you can consider  our friendship dissolved as of
this minute.  I don't like your  ways, that's what. Go on,  turn me  into  a
sparrow! And I hope the first cat that sees me gobbles me up!"
     The old man was dismayed.
     "Can't you  see,  I'm  only  doing this  to prevent  anyone  from  ever
approaching you without the great respect your endless merits call for?"
     "No, I can't, and I don't want to!"
     "Your  every   word  is  my  command,"  Hottabych  replied  obediently,
sincerely  puzzled at  his saviour's  strange softheartedness.  "All  right,
then. I won't turn them into sparrows."
     "Nor into anything else!"
     "Nor into  anything  else,"  the  old man agreed  meekly.  However,  he
gathered up the hairs with the obvious intention of tearing them to bits.
     "Why  do you  want to tear them?" Volka cried.  ; "I'll  turn  all  the
goods,  all the tables and  all the equipment  of this despicable  shop into
dust!"
     "You're  mad!" Volka said, really angry  by now. "Don't you know that's
government property, you dope!"
     "And may I inquire, 0 diamond of my soul, what you  mean by the strange
word 'dope'?" Hottabych asked.
     Volka turned as red as a beet.
     "Well you see. . . What I mean is.... Uh... . Well, anyway, 'dope' is a
sort of wise man."
     Hottabych decided  to remember the  word,  in order  to use  it in some
future conversation.
     "But. .." he began.
     "No buts! I'll count to three. If, after I say 'three,' you don't leave
this cafe  alone, we'll call  off our friendship  and.. . I'm counting: one!
two! th...."
     Volka  did  not finish. Shrugging sadly, the  old man resumed his usual
appearance and muttered in a gloomy voice:
     "All right, have it your  way. Your good graces are more precious to me
than the pupils of my eyes."
     "Well, there you are! Now all you have to do is to apologize and we can
leave."
     "You  should  be forever  grateful  to your  young  saviour," Hottabych
shouted sternly to the waitresses, and Volka realized he would never be able
to pry an apology from the old man's lips.
     "Please excuse us," he said. "And I wish you wouldn't be  too  angry at
this old man. He's a foreigner and doesn't know our ways yet. Good-bye!"
     "Good-bye," the waitresses answered politely.
     They were still rather upset and were both puzzled and frightened. But,
of course, they never  dreamed how  great  a  danger they had  avoided. They
followed  Hottabych and  Volka out  and  watched the curious old  man in  an
ancient straw boater go down the street and disappear around the corner.
     "I can't imagine  where  such  naughty old men come from," Katya sighed
and wiped a tear.
     "I  suppose  he's  an  old-time  hypnotist,"   her  brave  friend  said
compassionately. "He's probably a pensioner. Maybe he's just lonely."
     "It's no  fun to be old," the cashier joined  in.  "Come  on  back  in,
girls."
     The day's mischief was not to end there. As Hottabych and Volka reached
Gorky  Street,  they  were blinded  by an automobile's  headlights. A  large
ambulance, its screaming siren piercing the calm  of  twilight, seemed to be
rushing straight at them.
     Hottabych changed colour and wailed loudly:
     "Oh,  woe  is  me,  an  old,  unfortunate  Genie! Jirjis,  the  mighty,
merciless king of all Shaitans and Ifrits, has  not  forgotten  our  ancient
feud and has sent his most awful monster after me!"
     With these words  he shot straight  up from the pavement and, somewhere
on the level of the third or fourth storey, he took off his hat, waved it to
Volka, and slowly dissolved in the air, shouting:
     "I'll find you again, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha! I kiss the dust beneath your
feet! Good-bye!"
     To tell the  truth, Volka was  happy  the old  man had vanished.  Other
things were pressing on his mind, and he felt faint at the thought of having
to return home.
     Really now, try to imagine yourself in his place. He had left the house
in the morning to take a geography examination, then go to the movies and be
back for supper  as expected, at six-thirty. Instead, he was returning after
nine, having failed his examination miserably, and, what was most  horrible,
with shaved cheeks!  And him not even thirteen yet! No  matter how he racked
his brains, he could  not find  a solution. Thus, without  having thought of
anything,  he dragged his feet  back to his quiet  side street, now  full of
long evening shadows.
     He walked  past the  surprised janitor,  entered  the downstairs  hall,
climbed a flight of stairs and,  with a heavy sigh,  pressed  the  bell.  He
could hear someone's steps, and a strange voice asked through the door:
     "Who's there?"
     "It's  me,"  Volka wanted to say, but suddenly remembered  that, as  of
this morning, he didn't live there any more.
     Without  answering the new  tenant, he  ran downstairs, marched  by the
still puzzled  janitor nonchalantly, reached the main  street, and boarded a
trolley-bus. This certainly was his unlucky day: somewhere, most probably at
the  movies, he had lost his change-purse, so he had  to  get  out  and walk
home.
     Least of all, Volka wanted to meet a classmate, but most unbearable was
the thought  that  he would have  to face Goga-the-Pill. Sly Fate  had added
insult  to injury: from this day forth they were both to  live  in the  same
house.
     Sure enough, no sooner did  he enter the yard of  his new house than an
unbearable, familiar voice shouted:
     "Hi, nutty! Who was the old bird you left school with today?"
     Goga-the-Pill  ran up to Volka, winking insolently and pulling the most
insulting faces.
     "He wasn't an old bird, he was a nice old man,"  Volka  said peaceably,
as he  didn't want to end the day with  a fight. "He's ... he's  my father's
friend from Tashkent."
     "What if I je-ee-st go to your father  and je-ee-st tell him about your
monkey-business at the exam!"
     "Oh, Pill, you've gone crying for a beating too long!" Volka flared up,
imagining what an impression Pill's words would have on his  parents.  "Why,
you dirty tattle-tale! I'll push your face in!"
     "Now, now,  take it easy! A  person  can't even  joke  any more. You're
really a nut!"
     Fearing  Volka's  fists, which, after several encounters, Goga chose to
avoid, he dashed headlong into the entrance of the house in which he was now
to live in dangerous closeness to Volka, whose new apartment was on the same
landing.
     "Bald  people!  A country of bald people!"  Goga  shouted, sticking his
head out the front door. He showed Volka his tongue and, fearing the other's
righteous anger, flew up the stairs, two at a time, to his own door.
     However,  he was  distracted by  the  mysterious behaviour  of  a  huge
Siberian cat  from apartment 43. The  cat, named "Homych" in  honour  of the
popular football goalie, was standing on the stairs with his back arched and
hissing at nothing at all.
     Goga's first thought was that the cat had gone  mad. He reflected again
and was nearly certain that  mad cats  kept their tails between  their legs,
while Homych's tail was sticking up straight, and in all  other respects the
animal looked quite healthy.
     Goga kicked it-just  in case. Homych's yowl of pain,  surprise and hurt
could be heard on the tenth floor. He jumped so high and gracefully that his
famous namesake could have been proud of such a leap.
     Then something completely unexpected happened.
     A  good half  yard from the wall, Homych yowled again and flew  back in
the  opposite direction,  straight at Goga,  just as though the  unfortunate
animal had  hit an invisible  but very hard rubber wall. At the same  time a
gasp could  be heard nearby, as  if someone had trodden very hard on another
person's foot. Courage had never been one of Goga's outstanding virtues, but
now he nearly died of fright.
     "Oh-h-h!" he moaned  softly, feeling  all  numb.  Finally,  tearing his
leaden feet from the stairs, he made a dash for his flat.
     When the  apartment  door  banged  shut behind  him,  Hottabych  became
visible. He  was writhing  with pain and examining  his left  leg, which had
been severely scratched by the cat's claws.
     "Oh, cursed youth!" Hottabych groaned,  after  first making sure he was
alone on the stairs. "Oh, dog among boys!"
     He fell silent  and listened. Coming slowly up the stairs, lost  in the
most grievous thoughts, was his young saviour, Volka Kostylkov.
     The sly old  man did  not  want the boy  to  see him and  so  dissolved
quickly in the air.


A CHAPTER WHICH IS A CONTINUATION OF THE PREVIOUS ONE

     No  matter how tempting  it  is  to  present Volka Kostylkov as  a  boy
without faults, the well-known truthfulness of the author of this tale won't
permit him  to do  so. And if envy is to be justly considered a fault, then,
to our great sorrow, we must  admit  that  at times  Volka experienced  this
feeling keenly. During the last few days he had been very envious  of  Goga.
Long before their exams had begun, Goga boasted that his mother had promised
him an Alsatian puppy as soon as he was promoted to the 7th grade.
     "Sure,  you just wait!" Volka had sniffed  at the time, feeling that he
was turning cold from envy.
     In  his heart of hearts, he had to  admit  that Pill's  words certainly
resembled the  truth. The  whole class knew that Goga's mother never skimped
on  anything  for  her  little  darling.  She'd   refuse  herself  the  bare
necessities of life, but  she'd get Goga a present that would leave them all
speechless.
     "She'll  certainly get me a  puppy,"  Goga persisted.  "If you  want to
know, my mother never refuses me anything.  If she promised, it means she'll
buy me one. If the worst comes to  the worst, she'll borrow  some money  and
buy it. You don't know how highly they think of her at the factory!"
     That  was true. Goga's mother was greatly respected at the factory. She
was  the  senior  draughtsman and was a  modest,  hard-working  and cheerful
person.  Everyone  liked her, both her  fellow-workers and her neighbours at
home. Even Goga  was  fond  of  her in his  own way. And she really doted on
Goga. Anyway, if she had promised to buy him a puppy, it meant she would.
     Perhaps, at this sorrowful moment, when  Volka,  crushed  by all he had
gone through that  day, was  slowly mounting the stairs,  Goga-the-Pill, the
very same Pill who deserved such  happiness less  than anyone  else in their
class,  in  their  school,  or  even in  all of  Moscow, was playing  with a
magnificent, happy, furry puppy right next door, in apartment 37.
     Such were Volka's  thoughts. The only  consideration that  afforded him
some solace was that it was highly unlikely that Goga's mother, even  though
she really  and truly intended to buy her son  a dog, had  done  so already.
After all, Goga had only taken his last exam several  hours before, and it's
not so easy to buy a puppy. You don't walk into  a pet shop and say, "Please
wrap up that puppy for me." You have to look long and hard for a good dog.
     The  very  moment  Volka's grandmother  opened  the  door, he heard the
high-pitched, squeaky yelping of a puppy  coming from behind the closed door
of apartment 37.
     "So she bought it after  all!" he thought bitterly. "An Alsatian.... or
maybe even a Boxer...."
     It  was more than he could bear, to imagine Goga the  proud  owner of a
real,  live service  dog.  Volka  slammed  the  door  shut  to blot out  the
exciting, unimaginably wonderful, magical barking of a dog.
     He also heard the frightened exclamation which  escaped  Goga's mother.
The puppy had probably bitten him. But even this could not console our young
hero.
     Volka's  father had  not  yet  returned, as he was staying  late  at  a
meeting. His mother had apparently called  for him at the factory  after her
evening classes.
     Despite  all his efforts  to appear  calm and happy,  Volka  looked  so
gloomy that  his grandmother decided to give him supper first and then start
asking him questions.
     "Well, how are things, Volka dear?" she asked hesitantly, when her only
grandchild had made quick work of his supper.
     "Uh,  you see.. ."  he  said vaguely,  pulling off  his  polo shirt and
heading towards his room.
     His grandmother followed  him with a sorrowful and kindly gaze that was
full of  silent  sympathy. There  was  no  need  to  ask him any  questions.
Everything was all too clear.
     Volka sighed and got undressed.  Then he stretched  out under the clean
cool sheet. Still, he was restless.
     On  the night  table  near his  bed  lay  a  large, thick  volume in  a
brightly-coloured dust-cover. Volka's heart skipped  a beat.  Yes,  that was
it, the longed-for astronomy book!  On the frontispiece in a  large familiar
hand were the words:
     "To  Vladimir  Kostylkov,  the  Highly  Educated 7th-Grade  Student and
Acting Member of  the  Astronomy Club  of the Moscow Planetarium,  from  his
Loving Grandma."
     What a funny inscription! Grandma  always invented something funny. But
why didn't it make Volka smile? Oh, why didn't it! And imagine, he wasn't at
all happy to  have  finally received such a fascinating book, the one he had
wished  for for so  long. Grief  was eating  out his heart.  He felt a great
weight on his chest.... It was unbearable!
     "Grandma!" he shouted, turning away from the  book. "Grandma, would you
come here a minute?"
     "Well,  what do you want, mischief-maker?"  his  grandmother  answered,
pretending to be angry, but really pleased  that she'd have a chance to talk
to him before he  went to sleep. "Why, the Sandman can't even cope with you,
you astronomer! You night owl!"
     "Grandma," Volka whispered fervently, "close the door  and  come sit on
my bed. I have to tell you something terribly important."
     "Perhaps  we'd  better  put  off  such  an important conversation  till
morning," his grandmother  answered, though she was consumed with  curiosity
as to what it was all about.
     "No, right now. This  very minute. I ...  Grandma, I wasn't promoted, I
mean, I wasn't yet. I didn't pass the exam."
     "Did you fail?" his grandmother gasped.
     "No, I didn't fail. I didn't pass, but I didn't fail, either. I started
to  tell them what the ancients thought  about India, the horizon,  and  all
kinds of  things. Everything I said was right. But I just couldn't tell them
about the scientific point  of view. I began  to feel very  bad and  Varvara
Stepanovna said I should come back after I had had a good rest."
     Even now,  he could not bring himself to talk about Hottabych, not even
to  his  grandma. Anyway, she'd  never believe  him  and would  think he was
really ill.
     "At first, I  didn't want to say anything. I wanted to tell you after I
took the exam again, but I felt ashamed. D'you understand?"
     "What's  there to understand! A  person's  conscience is a great thing.
There's  nothing worse than doing something that's  against your conscience.
Now go to sleep, my dear astronomer!"
     "You can take the book back meanwhile," Volka  suggested in a trembling
voice.
     "Nonsense! And  where would I put it? Let's consider that I've given it
to you for safe-keeping for the time being. Go to sleep now, will you?"
     "Yes," Volka answered. A load had fallen from his chest. "And I promise
you,  upon my word of  honour,  that  I'll  get an  'A'  in geography. D'you
believe me?"
     "Certainly, I do. Now go to sleep and get strong. What about Father and
Mother? Shall I tell them, or will you tell them yourself?"
     "You'd better tell them."
     "Well,  good  night."  Grandma kissed him good  night,  turned off  the
light, and left the room.
     For some while  after, Volka lay in the darkness,  holding  his breath,
waiting  to  hear  his  grandma tell  his mother and  father  the sad  news.
However, he fell asleep before they came home.

A RESTLESS NIGHT

     Before an hour passed, however, he was suddenly awakened by the ringing
of the telephone in the hall.
     His father answered the phone:
     "Hello. Yes. Who? Good evening, Varvara Stepanovna?... I'm  fine, thank
you. And you? ... Volka?  He's asleep.... I think he's quite well. He  had a
very  big supper...  .  Yes, I  know. He  told us.... I'm terribly surprised
myself....  Yes, that's probably the only  answer..  ,. Certainly, he should
rest a while, if  you have no objections.... Thank you very much.... Varvara
Stepanovna sends  you her regards,"  his  father  said  to his  mother. "She
wanted to know how Volka is. She said not to worry,  because they think very
highly of him, and she suggests he have a good rest."
     Volka strained  his  ears  listening  to what  his parents were talking
about, but unable to make anything  out, he  fell asleep. This time he slept
no longer than fifteen minutes. The telephone rang again.
     "Yes,  speaking," he  heard  his father's muffled voice. "Yes....  Good
evening.... What?... No, he's  not here.... Yes,  he's at home.... Certainly
he's at home.... That's quite all right.... Good-bye."
     "Who was it?" Volka's  mother called from  the kitchen.  "It was Zhenya
Bogorad's father. He sounded  very worried. Zhenya's not home yet. He wanted
to know whether he was here and if Volka was at home."
     "In my time," Grandma said, "only hussars came home this late, but when
a child...."
     Half  an hour later  the  ringing of the  telephone interrupted Volka's
sleep for the third time that troubled night. It was Zhenya's mother. He had
still not returned. She wanted them to ask Volka if he knew where he was.
     "Volka!" his father called, opening the door. "Zhenya's mother wants to
know where you saw him  last." "At the  movies this evening." "And after the
movie?" "I  didn't  see him after that."  "Did he  say  where  he  was going
afterwards?" "No."
     For a long, long time  after that,  Volka  waited for the grown-ups  to
stop talking about Zhenya's disappearance (he himself was not the least  bit
worried, since he was sure Zhenya had gone to  the  circus in the recreation
park to celebrate), but he fell asleep again before they did. This time till
morning.
     Soon there was a soft splash in the corner. Then the patter of wet bare
feet could be  heard.  Footprints appeared and quickly  dried on the  floor.
Someone invisible was silently pacing  the room, humming a plaintive Eastern
melody.
     The  footprints  headed towards  the  table  where  an  alarm clock was
ticking away.  There was the sound of lips smacking together  with pleasure.
Then the alarm clock floated into the air, and for a while it hung suspended
between the ceiling and  the floor.  Then  it  returned to the table and the
footprints headed towards the aquarium. Once again there was  a splash. Then
all was quiet.
     Late that night it began to rain. The raindrops pattered on the window,
they rustled  the  leaves of the trees  and gurgled in  the drain-pipes.  At
times  the rain  would die  down,  and  then one  could hear the large drops
falling into the rain barrel below with a  loud, ringing splash. Then, as if
having gathered its. strength, the rain would again pour down in torrents.
     Towards  morning,  when the  sky  was nearly clear  of clouds,  someone
tapped Volka lightly on the shoulder. He was sound asleep and did not waken.
Then, whoever it was who had tried to awaken him, sighed sadly, mumbled, and
shuffled  towards  the high stand with Volka's  aquarium. There was a  faint
splash. Once again a sleepy quiet fell on the room.

THE UNUSUAL EVENTS IN APARTMENT 37

     Goga's mother  had not bought him a dog  after all. She had not had the
time to, and later on she never got  him one, for after the fantastic events
of  that  terrible evening, both  Goga and his  mother lost all  interest in
Man's oldest and truest friend.
     But Volka had clearly heard a dog barking m apartment 37. Could he have
been mistaken?
     No, he was not mistaken.
     And  yet, there had been  no dog  in apartment 37 that  evening. If you
want to  know, not so much  as  a dog's paw entered  their  house after that
evening.
     Truly, Volka had  no reason to be envious of Goga. There was nothing to
be envious of: it was Goga who had barked! It all began while he was washing
up for supper.  He was  very anxious to tell his mother a long and elaborate
story  about  how his classmate and  neighbour, Volka Kostylkov,  had made a
fool  of himself at the examination  that morning.  And it was then that  he
started  barking.  Goga  didn't  bark  all  the  time-some  words  were real
words-but instead of very many other ones, he was surprised and horrified to
hear a genuine dog's bark issue from his mouth.
     He wanted to say that Volka suddenly began to talk such nonsense at the
exam and that Varvara Stepanovna je-ee-st crashed her fist down on the table
and je-ee-st  screamed,  "What nonsense you're babbling, you fool!  Why, you
hooligan, I'll leave you back another term for this!"
     But this is what Goga said instead:
     "And  suddenly  Volka  je-ee-st  began  to bow-wow-wow ...  and Varvara
Stepanovna je-ee-st crashed her bow-wow-wow!"
     Goga was struck dumb with surprise. He was silent for a moment, then he
took a deep breath and tried  to repeat  the sentence. But instead of saying
the rude  words,  this little  liar and  tattle-tale  wanted  to  ascribe to
Varvara Stepanovna, he began to bark again.
     "Oh, Mummie!" he wailed. "Mummie dear!"
     "What's the matter with you, darling?" his mother asked anxiously. "You
look terrible!"
     "I wanted to say that bow-wow-wow.... Oh, Mummie, what's the matter?"
     Goga had really turned blue from fright.
     "Stop barking, dearest! Please stop, my darling, my sweet!"
     "I'm not doing it on purpose," Goga whined. "I only wanted to say...."
     And once again, instead of human speech, all he could do was to produce
an irritable bark.
     "Darling! My  pet, don't frighten me!"  his poor mother pleaded, as the
tears ran down her kind face. "Don't bark! I beg you, don't bark!"
     At this point Goga could think  of nothing better to  do than to become
angry at his mother. And since he was not used to choosing his words on such
occasions,  he began barking so fiercely that  someone shouted from the next
balcony:
     "Tell your boy to stop teasing that dog! It's  a shame!  You've spoiled
your child beyond all reason!"
     With the tears still  pouring down her cheeks, Goga's mother  rushed to
close the windows. Then she tried  to feel  Goga's forehead,  but  this only
brought on a new attack of angry barking.
     She finally put a completely frightened Goga to bed, wrapped  him up in
a  heavy quilt, though  it  was a  hot summer evening,  and ran down to  the
telephone booth to call an ambulance.
     Since she should not tell them  the truth, she  was  forced to say that
her son had a very high fever and was delirious.
     Soon a  doctor arrived. He  was a  stout, middle-aged  man with a  grey
moustache, many years of experience and an unruffled manner.
     The first  thing he  did,  naturally, was  to feel Goga's  forehead. He
discovered the boy had no fever at all. This made him angry, but  he did not
show it, since the boy's mother looked so terribly grief-stricken. He sighed
and sat down on a chair by the bed. Then he asked Goga's mother  to  explain
why she had called an ambulance instead of her regular doctor.
     She told him the truth.
     The  doctor  shrugged. He asked  her  to  repeat  her  story  from  the
beginning. Then  he shrugged again, thinking that if this  were really true,
she should have called a psychiatrist and not a general practitioner.
     "Perhaps you think you are a dog?" he asked Goga, as if casually.
     Goga shook his head.
     "Well,  that's something,"  the  doctor thought.  "At  least it isn't a
mania when people imagine they're dogs."
     Naturally, he did not say this aloud, so as not to frighten the patient
or his mother, but it was obvious that the doctor was feeling more cheerful.
     "Stick out your tongue," he said.
     Goga stuck out his tongue.
     "It's  a very normal-looking tongue. And now, young man, let  me listen
to your heart. Ah, an excellent heart.  His lungs are clear.  And how is his
stomach?" . "His stomach's fine," his mother said.
     "And has he been uh ... barking a long time?"
     "For over two hours. I just don't know what to do."
     "First of all, calm down. I don't see anything terrible yet. Now, young
man, won't you tell me how it all began?"
     "Well, it all began from nothing," Goga complained in a small voice. "I
was just telling my mother how Volka Kostylkov .bow-wow-wow."
     "You see, doctor?"  his mother  sobbed loudly. "It's terrible. Maybe he
needs some pills, or powders, or perhaps he needs a physic?"
     The doctor frowned.
     "Give me time  to  think, and I'll look through  my books. It's a  rare
case, a very rare case, indeed. Now, I want him to  have a complete rest, no
getting  off the bed, a light diet, just vegetables and  milk  products,  no
coffee or cocoa, weak tea  with milk, if desired. And by no means should  he
go out."
     "I couldn't drag him outside if  I  tried, he's so ashamed. .One of his
friends dropped in, and poor Goga barked so long and loud, I had a hard time
persuading the boy not to tell anyone about it. But don't you think he needs
a physic?"
     "Well, a physic can't hurt him," the doctor said thoughtfully.
     "And  what about mustard plasters  before he  goes to  bed?" she asked,
still sobbing.
     "That's not bad, either. Mustard plasters are always helpful."
     The doctor was about to pat Goga's head, but Pill, anticipating all the
bitter medicines he had  prescribed, barked so viciously that the old doctor
jerked his hand away, frightened lest the unpleasant boy really bite him.
     "By the way," he  said, gaining control over himself, "why are all  the
windows closed on such a hot day? The child needs fresh air."
     Goga's mother reluctantly explained why she had closed the windows.
     "Hm.... A  rare case,  a very rare  case, indeed!" the doctor repeated.
Then he  wrote  out a prescription and left, promising to come back the next
day.

A NO LESS TROUBLED MORNING

     Morning dawned bright and beautiful.
     At 6:30 a.m. Grandma opened the door softly, tiptoed to the window  and
opened it wide. Cool, invigorating air rushed  into the room. This  was  the
beginning of  a  cheerful, noisy, busy  Moscow morning. But  Volka would not
have awakened had not his blanket slipped off the bed.
     The  first  thing  he did  was  to  feel the  bristles on his chin.  He
realized there was no way out. The situation was hopeless. There could be no
question  of his  going  out  to greet his parents  looking as  he  did.  He
snuggled under the blanket again and began to think of what to do.
     "Volka! Come on, Volka!  Get up!" he heard his father calling  from the
dining room. He pretended to be asleep and did not answer.  "I don't see how
anyone can sleep on a morning like this!"
     Then he heard his grandmother say:
     "Someone should make you take examinations, Alyosha, and  then wake you
up at the crack of dawn!"
     "Well, let him sleep then,"  his father grumbled. "But don't you worry,
he'll get up as soon as he's hungry."
     Was  it Volka who was supposed not to be hungry?! Why, he kept catching
himself  thinking about an omlette and a chunk of bread  more than about the
reddish bristle on  his  cheeks. But common sense triumphed over hunger, and
Volka remained in  bed until his father had left for work and his mother had
gone shopping.
     "Here goes,"  he decided,  hearing the outside door click  shut.  "I'll
tell Grandma everything. We'll think of something together."
     Volka stretched, yawned and headed toward the door. As he  was  passing
the aquarium, he glanced at it absently . .. and stopped dead in his tracks.
During the night, something had happened in  this small, four-cornered glass
reservoir,  a mysterious  event which could in no  way  be  explained from a
scientific point of view: yesterday, there were three fishes swimming around
inside, but this morning there were four. There was a new fish, a large, fat
goldfish which was waving  its  bright  red  fins  solemnly. When a startled
Volka looked at it  through the thick glass  wall he was nearly certain  the
fish winked at him slyly.
     "Gosh!" he mumbled, forgetting his beard for the moment.
     He stuck his hand into the water  to  catch the mysterious fish, and it
seemed that this was just what it was waiting for. The fish slapped its tail
against the water, jumped out of the aquarium and turned into Hottabych.
     "Whew!" the  old man said, shaking  off the water and wiping his  beard
with a magnificent towel embroidered with gold and silver roosters which had
appeared from thin air. "I've been waiting to offer my respects all morning,
but you wouldn't wake up and I  didn't have the heart to waken you. So I had
to  spend  the  night with  these pretty  fishes,  0 most  happy  Volka  ibn
Alyosha!"
     "Aren't  you ashamed  of  yourself for  making fun of  me!" Volka  said
angrily. "It's really a poor joke to call a boy with a beard happy!"

WHY S. S. PIYORAKI BECAME LESS TALKATIVE

     This wonderful morning Stepan Stepanych Pivoraki decided to combine two
joys at once. He decided to shave, while taking  in the picturesque  view of
the Moskva River. He moved the little table with his shaving things close to
the window and began to lather his cheeks  as he  hummed  a merry tune. We'd
like to pause here and say a few words about our new acquaintance.
     Pivoraki was a very talkative man, a trait which often made him, though
he was actually no fool and very well read, extremely tiresome, even  to his
best friends.
     On the whole, however,  he was a nice person  and a great master of his
trade-which was pattern-making.
     When he had  finished lathering his cheeks, Stepan Stepanych  picked up
his razor,  drew it back and forth over his  palm, and  then began to  shave
with the greatest ease and skill. When he had finished  shaving,  he sprayed
some "Magnolia" cologne  on his face and then began to wipe his razor clean.
Suddenly,  an  old  man  in a white  suit and  gold-embroidered,  petal-pink
morocco slippers with queer turned-up toes appeared beside him.
     "Are you  a barber?" the old man asked a flabbergasted Stepan Stepanych
in a stern voice.
     "No, I'm not a professional barber. However,  on the other hand, I  can
truthfully say I am a barber, because,  while I  am not actually a barber, I
am a match  for any professional barber, for not a  single  barber can outdo
me. And do you know why? Because, while a professional barber...."
     The old man interrupted the chattering Pivoraki rudely:
     "Can you,  0 unnecessarily talkative barber, shave a young man well and
without cutting  him once, although you are not even  worthy of  kissing the
dust beneath his feet?"
     "As to the essence of your question, I would say...."
     He was about  to  continue his speech, but  here  the old  man silently
gathered  up  his  shaving  equipment, took  Stepan Stepanych, who was still
going  a mile  a minute, by the scruff of his neck and, without further ado,
flew out the window with him, headed for parts unknown.
     Soon they flew into a familiar room, where Volka Kostylkov sat sadly on
his bed, moaning every time he looked at himself and his bristly chin in the
mirror.
     "Happiness and luck accompany  you in all your undertakings, 0 my young
master!" Hottabych  announced triumphantly, still holding on to  the kicking
Stepan Stepanych. "I was about  to despair of ever finding you a barber when
I suddenly came upon  this unusually talkative man, and I brought him  along
to  this room beneath the blessed roof of your house. Here he is before you,
with everything necessary for shaving. And now," he said to Pivoraki who was
gaping  at  the bristly boy,  "lay out your  tools  properly and shave  this
honourable youth  so that his cheeks become as smooth  as those  of a  young
maiden."
     Pivoraki  stopped struggling. The razor glistened in his  skilled  hand
and a few minutes later Volka was excellently shaved.
     "Now  put away your tools," the old  man  said.  "I'll fly over for you
again early tomorrow morning, and you'll shave this youth once more."
     "I can't come tomorrow,"  Pivoraki objected in a tired  voice. "I'm  in
the morning shift tomorrow."
     "That doesn't  concern  me in  the  least," Hottabych replied  icily. A
heavy  silence fell on  the room.  Suddenly, Stepan  Stepanych had  a bright
idea.
     "Why don't you try a Tbilisi preparation? It's an excellent remedy."
     "Is  that  some  kind of a  powder?" Volka  interrupted.  "Isn't that a
greyish powder? I heard about it, or read something about it...."
     "Yes, that's it! A greyish powder!" Pivoraki cried happily. "It's  made
in Georgia, a wonderful and sunny land. I personally am crazy about Georgia.
I've travelled back and  forth across all the roads in the country during my
many vacations. Sukhumi, Tbilisi, Kutaisi... . There's no better place for a
rest! From the bottom  of my  heart and  from  my own  experience, I  highly
recommend that  you visit.... Pardon  me, I  seem  to  have drifted  off the
point. Anyway, getting back to the powder.... All you have to do is apply it
to  your  cheeks,  and  the  heaviest  beard  disappears  without  a  trace.
Naturally, it'll grow back again after a while."
     "It won't grow back in my young friend's case," Hottabych interrupted.
     "Are you positive?"
     Hottabych assumed a haughty expression and said nothing. He  considered
it beneath his dignity to take a lowly barber into his confidence.
     A  short  minute later,  an  old  man wearing  an  old-fashioned  straw
-boater,  a white linen suit and  pink morocco  slippers with turned-up toes
was seen in the locker room of a local bath-house in Tbilisi.
     Without  bothering to  get  undressed, he entered  the steam  room. The
smell  of sulphur stung his nostrils, but this  was to be expected, as these
were  the famous  Tbilisi sulphur baths.  However,  a  person  entering  the
crowded, steam-filled room fully dressed could not but attract the attention
of the other patrons.
     Curious  eyes  followed  him  as  he slowly  made  his  way  towards  a
bright-eyed attendant. He halted  within a few steps of the attendant, whose
name was Vano, and began to remove his linen coat with an unhurried gesture.
     "Genatsvale"  (A  friendly  form  of  address  (Georgian).,  Vano  said
affably,  "you are supposed to. get  undressed in the  locker room. This  is
where you wash."
     The old  man smirked. He had  no intention of washing. It was just that
he felt a bit warm with his coat on.
     "Come over here!" he said to Vano and fanned himself languidly with his
hat. "But hurry, if you value your life."
     The attendant smiled pleasantly.
     "Genatsvale, on such a lovely  morning one values one's  life more than
ever. What would you like, Grandfather?"
     The old man addressed him in a stern voice:
     "Tell me nothing but the truth, 0 bath  attendant. Are these really the
very famous Tbilisi Baths, of which I've heard so much worthy of amazement?"
     "Yes, they're the  very same  ones,"  Vano  said with  pride.  "You can
travel all over the world,  but you'll  never find  another bath-house  like
this. I take it you're a stranger here."
     The haughty old man let the question go unanswered.
     "Well,  if  these are the very same  baths  I've been looking for,  why
don't  I see  any of that  truly magic salve  which people  who know and are
worthy of trust say removes human hair without a trace?"
     "Ah, so that's what it's all about!" Vano cried happily. "You want some
'taro.' You should have said so right away."
     "All right, if it's called 'taro,' then bring me some 'taro,' but hurry
if you...."
     "I know, I know: if I value my life. I'm off!"
     The  experienced  bath attendant had  met many a queer character in his
life and he knew that the wisest thing to do was never to argue.
     He returned with a clay  bowl  filled with something that  looked  like
ashes.
     "Here," he said, panting heavily as he handed the old man the bowl. "No
place  in the  world will you find such a wonderful powder. You can take the
word of a bath-house attendant!"
     The old man's face turned purple with rage.
     "You're making a  fool  of me,  0  most  despicable of  all  bath-house
attendants!" he said in a voice terrible in all its  softness. "You promised
to bring  me a wonderful  salve, but like a  marketplace crook, you  want to
pass off an old dish of powder the colour of a sick mouse!"
     The old man snorted so loudly that the entire contents of the bowl rose
in a cloud and settled  on  his hair, eyebrows, moustache and beard,  but he
was too furious to bother shaking it off.
     "You  shouldn't  be so angry, Genatsvale," the attendant laughed. "Just
add some water and you'll have the salve you longed for."
     The   old   man  realized  he  was  shouting  for  nothing  and  became
embarrassed.
     "It's  hot," he mumbled in some confusion.  "May this tiring heat be no
more!" and he added very  softly:  "and while  my beard is wet, may my magic
powers remain in my fingers.... And so, may this tiresome heat be no more!"
     "I'm  sorry,  but  that's something  I've no power over," Vano said and
shrugged.
     "But  I  have,"  Hottabych (naturally,  it  was  he)  muttered  through
clenched teeth and snapped the fingers of his left hand.
     The attendant gasped. And no wonder: he felt  an  icy chill coming from
where the strange  old  man stood; the  wet floor became covered with a thin
sheet of ice and clouds of hot steam from the entire room were drawn towards
the  cold pole which had formed  over Hottabych's head; there,  they  turned
into rain clouds and came down in a drizzle over his head.
     "This is much better," he said with pleasure. "Nothing is so refreshing
as a cool shower on a hot day."
     After  enjoying  this  both  unnatural  and natural  shower for  a  few
minutes, he  snapped the  fingers of his right hand. The current of cold air
was  cut  off immediately,  while the ice melted. Once  again clouds  of hot
steam filled the room.
     "And so," Hottabych said, pleased at the impression these unaccountable
changes of temperature had made on the other patrons, "and so, let us return
to the  'taro.' I  am  inclined to believe that the powder will really  turn
into the salve I have come in search of if one adds  water to it. I want you
to bring me a  barrel of this marvellous potion, for I do not have much time
at my disposal."
     "A barrel?!"
     "Even two."
     "Oh, Genatsvdle! One bowl-full  will be more than  enough for even  the
heaviest beard!"
     "All right then, bring me five bowls of it."
     "In  a second!" Vano said,  disappearing  into  an  adjoining room.  He
reappeared in a moment  with a heavy bottle  stopped with a cork. "There are
at least twenty portions here. Good luck."
     "Beware, 0  bath attendant, for I'd not wish anyone to be in your boots
if you have tricked me!"
     "How  could you even think of such  a thing,"  Vano protested. "Would I
ever dare trick such a respectable old man as you! Why, I would never...."
     He  stood  there and gaped, for  the  amazing,  quarrelsome old man had
suddenly disappeared into thin air.
     Exactly a minute later, a bald old man without eyebrows, a moustache or
a beard and dressed in a straw boater, a linen  suit  and pink slippers with
turned-up  toes  touched Volka  Kostylkov's  shoulder as the boy  was  sadly
devouring a huge piece of jam tart.
     Volka turned round, looked at him, and nearly  choked on  the  cake  in
amazement.
     "Dear Hottabych, what's happened to you?"
     Hottabych looked at himself in the  wall mirror  and forced a laugh. "I
suppose it  would be  exaggerating things to say I  look  handsome.  You may
consider me  punished for lack of trust  and  you  won't be wrong. I snorted
when I was  kind-heartedly offered a bowl  of  'taro' powder in that far-off
bath-house. The powder settled on my eyebrows, moustache and beard. The rain
which  I called  forth in  that justly famous place turned  the powder  into
mush, and the rain I was  caught in on the way back to Moscow washed off the
mush  together with my beard, moustache, and eyebrows. But don't worry about
my appearance.  Let's  better  worry  about yours." Then  he  sprinkled some
powder into a plate.
     When Volka's beard and  moustache were  disposed  of, Hottabych snapped
the fingers of his left hand and once again assumed his previous appearance.
     Now  he  looked at himself  in  the mirror with true  satisfaction.  He
stroked his recovered beard and  twisted the ends of his moustache jauntily.
Then he passed his hand over his hair, smoothed his eyebrows and sighed with
relief.
     "Excellent ! Now both our faces are back to normal again."
     As  concerns Stepan Stepanych Pivoraki, who will  never again appear on
the pages of our extremely truthful story, it is a known fact that he became
a changed man after the events described above. Why, it seems only yesterday
that his friends,  who suffered so  acutely  from his  talkativeness,  named
every chatter-box "Pivoraki." However, he has now become so sparing with his
words, weighing each one carefully beforehand,  that it is a  joy to talk to
him and listen to him speak at meetings.
     Just think what an effect this incident had on him!

AN INTERVIEW WITH A DIVER

     Zhenya Bogorad's parents were up all night. They  telephoned  all their
friends and, taking a cab, made the  rounds of every militia station in  the
city, and of every  hospital. They even  stopped off at the  criminal court,
but all to no avail. Zhenya had disappeared without a trace.
     The following morning  the  principal of the school  called in Zhenya's
classmates, including Volka, and questioned each one.
     Volka  told the principal  about meeting Zhenya at the movies the night
before, though he quite naturally said  nothing about his beard. The boy who
sat next to  Zhenya in class recalled that he had seen him on Pushkin Street
close to six o'clock the previous  evening, that he was in high  spirits and
was rushing to the movies.  Other children said the same, but this was of no
help.
     Suddenly, one boy remembered Zhenya said he wanted to go swimming too.
     In half an hour's time  every volunteer  life  guard in  the  city  was
searching for Zhenya Bogorad's  body. The river  was dragged within the city
limits, but yielded  nothing. Divers traversed  the entire river-bed, paying
special attention to holes and depressions, but they, too, found nothing.
     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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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,  0 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 magic  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, 0 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!"
     "0 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,  0  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, 0 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