The Old Genie Hottabych

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, O 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, O 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, O 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, O 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, O 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!”