The Old Genie Hottabych

HAVE MERCY ON US, O MIGHTY RULER!

Twice that day the magic carpet passed through heavy cloud banks, and each time Hottabych’s nearly dry beard would again become so damp it was no use thinking about even the simplest kind of magic — something that would get them some food, for instance. They were beginning to feel hungry. Even Zhenya’s description of his adventures of the previous day could not take their minds away from food. But, most important, there was no end to their flight in sight.

They were hungry, bored, and extremely uncomfortable. The carpet seemed to be stuck in mid-air, so slowly did it fly and so monotonous was the steppe stretching far below them. At times, cities or little blue ribbons of rivers would drift by slowly, and then once again they saw nothing but steppe and endless fields of ripening wheat. Zhenya was right in saying they were flying over the southern part of the country. Then, suddenly, ahead and to the right of them, as far as the eye could see, there was blue water below. To the left was the ragged line of distant mountains.

“It’s the Black Sea !” the boys shouted in unison.

“O woe is us,” Hottabych cried. “We’re going straight out to sea!”

Fortunately, a capricious air current turned the carpet a bit to the left and tossed it into another cloud bank at top speed. Thus, it was carried along the Caucasian coastline.

Through an opening in the clouds, Zhenya noticed the city of Tuapse far below, its boats on anchor at the long, jutting pier.

Then everything was lost in a thick fog again. Our travellers’ clothing once again — for the hundredth time! — became wet. The carpet was so water-logged and heavy that it began to fall sharply with a whistling sound. In a few short seconds the clouds were left far above. Soon, the famous resort city of Sochi flashed by below in the blinding rays of the setting sun.

As it descended lower and lower, the carpet passed over the broad white band of the Sochi-Matsesta Highway . The three passengers, horror-stricken in expectation of their near and terrible end, thought that the highway, studded on both sides by former palaces which were now rest homes, was dashing towards them at a mad speed.

They had a momentary glimpse of a beautiful bridge thrown over a deep, narrow valley.

Then they were grazing the tree-tops. It seemed as if they could touch them if they leaned over.

Then they flew over a sanatorium with a high escalator which took the bathers up from the beach in a pretty little car.

Several minutes later, amidst a shower of spray, the carpet plunged into the swimming pool of another sanatorium. The place was quiet and deserted, as it was supper time and all the vacationers were in the dining room. Shedding water and puffing, our ill-fated travellers climbed out of the pool.

“It could have been worse,” Volka said, looking around curiously.

“Sure,” Zhenya agreed. “We could have crashed into a building just as easy as pie. Or into a mountain.”

It was a good thing there was no one close by. The travellers sat down on beach chairs placed near the pool. They undressed, wrung out their wet clothes, pulled them on again, shivering and groaning with cold, and then left the swimming enclosure.

“If only I could dry my beard, everything would be just lovely,” Hottabych said with concern and touched it, just to make sure. “Ah, me! It’s quite damp!”

“Let’s look for the kitchen,” Zhenya suggested. “Maybe they’ll let you dry it near the stove. Boy, what wouldn’t I give for a big chunk of bread and some sausage!”

“Or some fried potatoes,” Volka added.

“You’re breaking my heart, O my young friends,” Hottabych cried woefully. “It’s all my fault that you…” .

“No, it’s not your fault at all,” Volka consoled him. “Let’s go look for the kitchen.”

They passed the deserted tennis court, went down a paved path under a high arch and found themselves before the majestic, snow-white columns of a miners’ sanatorium. A circular fountain with a pool as big as a dance floor shot up foaming sprays of water, right to the third-storey windows. All the windows of the main building were brightly lit.

“Our end has come!” Hottabych gasped. “We’re in the palace of a most wealthy and mighty potentate. His guards will be on us any minute and chop off our heads, and I’m the only one to blame! O woe! Oh, such terrible shame on my old grey head!”

Zhenya giggled. Volka nudged him, to make him still and not tease the old man.

“What guards? Which heads?” Volka asked with annoyance. “It’s a very ordinary sanatorium. What I mean is, not very ordinary, but very nice. Though I think they’re all the same here in Sochi .”

“I was an expert on palaces, O Volka, when your great-great-great-grandfather wasn’t even born, and I, for one, certainly know that guards will come running any minute and… O woe is us! Here they come!”

The boys also heard the sounds of running feet on the staircase of the main building.

“Jafar!” someone hanging over the banister shouted from above. “We’ll look for them together after supper! They can’t disappear this late at night! Jafar!”

“Did you hear him?” Hottabych cried, grabbing the boys’ hands. He dragged them off to a side path as fast as he could and from there into the nearest bushes.

“Did you hear him? That was the Sergeant of the Guard shouting. They’ll go looking for us after supper, and they’ll certainly find us. But my beard has soaked up as much water as a sponge, and I’m as helpless as a babe!”

Just then he happened to glance at two towels hanging over the back of a park bench.

“Allah be praised!” he cried excitedly, running towards the towels. “These will help me dry my beard! Then we won’t have to fear any guards in the world.”

He picked up first one and then the other towel and groaned:

“O Allah! They are quite damp! And the guards are so close!”

Nevertheless, he hurriedly began to dry his beard.

It was while he was drying it that an Azerbaijanian of tremendous height, dressed in a dark red robe, came upon them. He appeared from behind the pink bushes as unexpectedly as a Jack-in-the-box.

“Aha!” he said rather calmly. “Here they are. Tell me, my dear man, is this your towel?”

“Spare us, O mighty ruler!” Hottabych cried, falling to his knees. “You can chop off my head, but these youths are in no way guilty. Let them go free! They have lived but such a short while!”

“Hottabych, get up and don’t make a fool of yourself!” Volka said in great embarrassment. “What kind of a ruler are you talking about? He’s just a very ordinary man here on a holiday.”

“I won’t get up until this wonderful and merciful sultan promises to spare your lives, O my young friends!”

The Azerbaijanian shrugged his mighty shoulders and said, “My dear citizen, why are you insulting me? What kind of a sultan am I? I’m an ordinary Soviet citizen.” He puffed out his chest and added, “I’m Jafar Alt Muhammedov, a drilling foreman. Do you know where Baku is?”

Hottabych shook his head.

“Do you know where Bibi-Aibat is?”

Hottabych shook his head again.

“Don’t you read the papers? Now, what are you kneeling for? That’s shameful. Oh, how very shameful and embarrassing, my dear man!” Muhammedov pulled the old man to his feet.

“Wait a minute!” Volka whispered like a conspirator, taking Muhammedov off to a side. “Don’t pay any attention to the old man. He’s off his rocker. And the worst part of it is, we’re so wet.”

“Ah! Did you get caught in the rain in the mountains too? I came back as wet as a mouse. Vai, vai! The old man may catch cold. Dear man,” he said, catching Hottabych under the arms as he was about to fall to his knees again. “You look very familiar. Are you from Gandji? You look like my father, except that he’s older. My father’s going on eighty-three.”

“Then know ye, O mighty ruler, that I am going on three thousand seven hundred and thirty-three!” Hottabych replied hotly.

It was only to Muhammedov’s credit that he didn’t bat an eyelid upon hearing these words. He merely nodded understandingly to Volka, who was winking hard from behind Hottabych’s back.

Pressing his right hand to his heart, the drilling foreman answered Hottabych politely, “Of course, my good man, of course. But you’re so well preserved. Let’s go and warm up. We’ll have something to eat and rest or else you might catch cold. Va, how you remind me of my father!” -

“I don’t dare disobey, O mighty ruler,” Hottabych answered fawningly, touching his beard ever so often. Alas! It was still very, very damp.

Oh, how restless his soul was! All his many years’ experience rose up against the fact that the owner of the palace should invite a strange old man and two young boys — all dressed in a far from elaborate fashion — to share his meal. That meant there was some mischief to be expected. Perhaps this Jafar Alt ibn Mohammed was trying to coax them into his palace in order to play a joke on them and then, having had his fill of torturing them, would order his servants to chop off their heads, or throw them into cages with wild beasts. Oh, how cautious he had to be!

So thought Hottabych as he and his young friends ascended the broad stairway to the first block of dormitories.

They encountered no one, either on the stairs or in the hall, and this but served to confirm Hottabych’s suspicions. Muhammedov took them to his room, induced the old man to change into a pair of pyjamas, and left, telling them to make themselves at home. “I’ll be back soon, after I give a few orders. I’ll be right back.”

“Aha! We know to whom you’ll give those orders and what they’ll be about, you crafty, two-faced ruler!” Hottabych thought. “You have a heart of stone, one that is immune to mercy. To chop off such noble boys’ heads!”

Meanwhile, the noble boys were looking round the comfortable room.

“Look, d’you see this?” Volka cried happily. He picked up a small table fan, a thing Hottabych had never seen.

“It’s a fan,” Volka explained. “We’ll dry your beard in a flash!”

True enough, in two minutes’ time Hottabych’s beard was ready for use.

“We’ll test it,” the sly old man mumbled innocently.

He yanked out two hairs. Before the crystal tinkling sound had died down, our friends suddenly found themselves about three miles away, on the warm sandy beach. At their feet, the blue-black waves of the rising tide softly lapped against the shore.

“This is much better,” Hottabych said contentedly. Before the boys could utter a sound, he yanked three more hairs from his beard.

That very instant a large tray of steaming roast lamb and a second, smaller tray of fruit and biscuits appeared on the sand.

Hottabych snapped his fingers and two strange-looking bronze pitchers with sherbet appeared.

“Golly!” Zhenya cried. “But what about our clothes?”

“Alas, I am becoming forgetful before my time,” Hottabych said critically and yanked out another hair. Their clothes and shoes became dry the same instant.

Moreover, their things appeared freshly pressed and their shoes shined brightly and even smelling of the most expensive shoe polish.

“And may this treacherous ruler, Jafar Alt ibn Muhammed, call for as many guards as he wishes!” the old man said with satisfaction, pouring himself a cup of icy, fragrant sherbet. “The birds have flown out from under the knife!”

“Why, he’s no ruler!” Volka said indignantly. “He’s a real nice man. And if you want to know, he didn’t go off to call any guards, he went to get us something to eat.”

“You’re too young to teach me, O Volka!” Hottabych snapped, for he was really displeased that his young companions were not in the least thankful for having been saved from death’s jaws. “Who but I should know what rulers look like and how they behave! Know ye, that there are no more treacherous men than sultans.”

“But he’s no sultan, he’s a foreman. D’you understand, a drilling foreman!”

“Let’s not argue, O Volka,” the old man answered glumly.

“Don’t you think it’s time we sat down to eat?”

“What about your pyjamas?” Zhenya said, seeing that they could not out-talk the old man this time. “You’ve carried off someone else’s pyjamas!”

“Oh, Allah! I’ve never yet degraded myself by stealing,” Hottabych cried unhappily.

If all the people at the sanatorium were not then in the dining hall, they probably would have seen a pair of striped pyjamas appear suddenly in the dark sky, coming from the direction of Matsesta, flying at the height of the third-storey windows. The pyjamas flew into Muhammedov’s room through the open balcony doors and draped themselves neatly over the back of the chair, from which the kind drilling foreman had so recently picked them up and handed them to a shivering Hottabych.

Muhammedov, however, forgot all about the old man and the boys before he even reached the dining hall.

“I found them,” he said to his room-mate. “I found both towels. We left them on the bench when we sat down to rest.”

Then he joined the others at the table and applied himself to his supper.