The Old Genie Hottabych

TRA-LA-LA, O IBN ALYOSHA!

There is nothing more dangerous than falling asleep on a magic carpet without having first taken the necessary precautions.

Tired from all their experiences and lulled to sleep by the complete quiet that surrounded them, Hottabych and Volka did not notice how they dozed off under the warm quilted robes that had appeared from nowheres.

Volka had curled up cosily and slept a dreamless sleep, but Hottabych, who had fallen asleep sitting up uncomfortably, with his chest pressed against his sharp old knees, had a terrible dream.

He dreamt that the servants of Sulayman, son of David, led by the Vizier Asaf ibn Barakhiya, were once again about to imprison him in a clay vessel and that they had stuffed him halfway in already, but that he was struggling desperately, pressing his chest against the mouth of the bottle. He dreamt that his wonderful young friend and saviour was about to be stuffed into another vessel and then neither of them would ever be rescued, while poor Zhenya would have to suffer the slave’s lot to the end of his days, with no one to save him. Worst of all, someone had a firm hold on Hottabych’s arms so that he was unable to yank a single hair from his beard and therefore was unable to use his magic powers to save himself and Volka. Realizing that it would be too late to do anything in a few more moments, Hottabych exerted all his energy. In great despair he plunged sideways, forcefully enough to fall completely out of the vessel. Before really waking up, he slipped off the carpet into the cold black void below.

Fortunately, his shout awakened Volka. The boy was just able to grab his left arm. Now it was Hottabych’s turn to fly in tow behind the carpet. However, the tow was not very firm: the old man was too heavy for Volka. They would probably have plunged downwards from this great height to the unseen Earth below, if Hottabych had not managed to yank a whole batch of hair from his beard with his free hand and rattle off the necessary magic words.

Suddenly, Volka found he could pull the old man up quite easily.

Our young fellow’s happiness would have been complete, had not Hottabych been bellowing, “Aha, O Volka! Everything’s in top shape, O my precious one!” and trying to sing something and laughing with such wild glee all the while Volka was pulling him up that he really became worried: what if the old man had lost his mind from fright? True, once Hottabych found himself on the carpet, he stopped singing. Yet, he could think of nothing better to do than begin a jig. And this in the middle of the night! On a shabby, threadbare old magic carpet!

“Tra-la-la, O Volka! Tra-la-la, O ibn Alyosha!” Hottabych yelled in the darkness, raising his long skinny legs high and constantly running the danger of falling off the carpet again.

Finally, he gave in to Volka’s pleas and stopped dancing. Instead, he began to sing again. At first he sang “When Your Far-off Friend is Singing,” terribly off-key and then went on to mutilate an old Gypsy love song called “Open the Garden Gate,” which he had heard goodness knows where. All at once, he stopped singing, crouched, and yanked several hairs from his beard. Volka guessed what he was doing by the slight crystal tinkling.

In a word, if you ever forget something very important and just can’t recall it, there’s no better remedy than to fall off a magic carpet, if even for a second. Such a fall really clears one’s memory. At least it helped Hottabych recall how to break spells he himself had cast.

Now there was no need to continue the difficult and dangerous flight to rescue the unfortunate Zhenya Bogorad from slavery. Indeed, the sound of crystal tinkling was still in the air when Zhenya fell out of the darkness and onto the magic carpet, clutching a twenty-pound bunch of bananas.

“Zhenya!” Volka shouted happily.

The magic carpet could not withstand the extra weight and plunged downward with a whistling sound. Suddenly, it became damp and chilly. The stars shining overhead disappeared. They had entered a cloud bank.

“Hottabych!” Volka shouted. “We have to get out of here, up over the clouds!”

But Hottabych did not answer. Through the heavy fog they could barely make out the shrivelled figure with his collar turned up. The old man was hurriedly yanking one hair after another from his beard. There was a sound like plink, like a tightly stretched string on a home-made children’s balalaika. With a moan of despair, Hottabych would throw out the hair and yank out another. Once again they’d hear the plink, once again the moan of despair, and the despondent mumbling of the old Genie.

“Hey, Volka,” Zhenya said, “What’s this we’re flying on? It looks like a magic carpet.”

“That’s exactly what it is. Hottabych, what’s taking you so long?”

“There’s no such thing as a magic carpet,” Zhenya said. “Help!”

The carpet had dipped sharply.

Volka had no time to argue with Zhenya.

“Hottabych, what’s the matter?” he said, tugging at the old man’s damp coat sleeve.

“O woe is me!” came the hollow, sobbing voice of a faintly visible Hottabych through the whistling of the falling carpet. “O woe is all of us! I’m soaked from head to toe!”

“We’re all drenched!” Volka shouted back angrily. “What selfishness!”

“My beard! Alas, my beard is wet!”

“Ha, what a thing to worry about!” Zhenya smirked.

“My beard is wet!” Hottabych repeated in terrible grief. “I’m as helpless as a babe. You need dry hair for magic, the very driest kind of hair!”

“We’ll go smack against the ground!” Volka said in a wooden voice. “There’ll just be a little wet spot left from all of us.”

“Wait! Wait a minute!” Zhenya panted. “The main thing is not to get panicky! What do people in balloons do in such a case?

In such a case, people flying in balloons throw their extra ballast overboard. Farewell, my dear Indian bananas!”

With these words he tossed the heavy bunch of bananas into the darkness. They began to fall more slowly. Then they stopped falling altogether. The carpet swerved upwards and was caught in an air current which carried them to the right of their previous course.

Zhenya was dying to know what this was all about, and so he asked Volka in a whisper:

“Volka, Volka! Who’s the old man?”

“Later,” Volka whispered back. “I’ll tell you later, when we get back on the ground. Understand?”

All Zhenya understood was that for some very important reason or other all his questions would have to wait till later.

Volka shared his robe with Zhenya and gradually all three dozed off.