The Old Genie Hottabych

HOTTABYCH AND SIDORELLI

It was pitiful to look at the old man. He spent the whole day in the aquarium, saying that he was having an attack of rheumatism. This was certainly a foolish excuse, for nothing can be sillier than sitting in cold water if you have rheumatism.

Hottabych lay on the bottom of the aquarium, moving his fins sluggishly and swallowing water lazily. When either Volka or Zhenya approached, the old man would swim off to the far side and rudely turn his tail towards them. However, whenever Volka left the room, Hottabych would get out of the water to stretch his legs; but as soon as he’d hear him approaching, he’d dash back into the aquarium with a soft splash, as though he had never thought of leaving it. He apparently found some bitter pleasure in the fact that Volka kept pleading with him to get out of the water and stop sulking. The old man would listen to all his entreaties with his tail turned towards the boy. Yet the moment his young friend would open his geography book and begin to study for his exam, Hottabych would stick his head out of the aquarium and accuse Volka of having no heart at all. How could he be occupied with all sorts of nonsense, when an old man was suffering so from rheumatism?!

No sooner would Volka close his book, however, than Hottabych would again turn his tail towards him. This went on till evening. At a little after seven o’clock, he swished his tail and hopped out on to the floor. He squeezed the water from his beard and moustache and dried them quickly at the buzzing table fan. Then he said with some reserve:

“You hurt me by refusing to accept my humble gifts. It’s your good luck that I promised you I wouldn’t get angry. But I did promise and, therefore, I’m not angry at you, for I now see who is really responsible for your offending me so, though you do it unconsciously. It is your teachers — they are the root of all evil! Varvara Stepanovna, not you, O youthful and inexperienced boy, will be held fully responsible for all the bitterness of the past few days. And now that undeserving Varvara, daughter of Stepan, will…”

He yanked four hairs at once from his beard. Something extraordinary was about to happen.

“Oh, no! No, Hottabych! Dear, dear Hottabych!” Volka babbled as he hung on the angry Genie’s arms. “My word of honour! Varvara Stepanovna’s not at all to blame! It was only me…”

“No! She’s to blame, she’s to blame!” Hottabych droned, trying to free his hands.

“She’s not to blame! She’s not to blame! Upon my word of honour, she’s not to blame!” Volka repeated in a frightened voice, while feverishly trying to think of a way to distract the raging Genie’s attention from his teacher. “You know what? You know what?” He had finally thought of something: “Let’s go to the circus. Huh, Hottabych? Let’s go to the circus! Zhenya and I will never get tickets, but it’s so easy for you to get them. You’re the only one who can help us get into the circus. You’re so powerful, so amazingly all-powerful!”

The old man was very inquisitive and an easy prey to flattery. Most important, unlike all other Genies, he never remained angry long.

“And what does this funny word mean?” Hottabych’s eyes burned with interest. “Is it a market where they sell parrots and other unusual birds? Then, know ye, that I am completely indifferent to birds. I’ve had my fill of the sight of parrots.”

“Oh, no, this is a thousand times more interesting. Why, it’s a million times, a million million times more interesting!”

Hottabych immediately forgot about Varvara Stepanovna.

“Let’s go there on a camel. No, better still, on an elephant. Just imagine how everyone will envy you.”

“No, don’t bother. I don’t want you to go to all that trouble,” Volka objected with suspicious haste. “If you’re not afraid, let’s go on the trolley-bus.”

“What’s there to be afraid of?” the old man sounded offended. “Why, I’ve been looking at these iron carts for four days now without any fear at all.”

Half an hour later, Volka, Zhenya and Hottabych reached the recreation park and approached the entrance to the summer circus.

The old man ran over to the box-office to have a look at the tickets, and soon he, Volka and Zhenya were holding pink tickets.

They entered the brightly-lit big top.

There were three empty seats in one of the boxes right near the arena, but Hottabych was quite vigorous in refusing them.

“I cannot agree to having anyone in this place sitting higher than myself and my greatly respected friends. It would be below our dignity.”

It was no use arguing with the old man. With heavy hearts the boys climbed to the last row of the second balcony.

Soon attendants in crimson and gold uniforms lined up along both sides of the entrance to the arena.

The ring-master announced the first act. A bare-back rider dressed in a sequined suit and looking like a Christmas tree ornament rode into the ring.

“Do you like it?” Volka asked Hottabych.

“It is not devoid of interest, and it is pleasant to the eye,” the old man replied cautiously.

The bare-back rider was followed by acrobats, who were followed by clowns, who were followed by a dog act — this attraction met with Hottabych’s reserved praise — who were followed by jugglers and spring-board jumpers. Then there was an intermission.

It was a shame to leave and miss the second half of the show, but a geography book opened at the very first chapter awaited Volka at home.

He sighed heavily and whispered to Zhenya, “Well, I guess I’ll be going. But you try and keep him here for at least another two hours. Go for a walk with him after the show, or something…”

Zhenya mumbled softly, but with great emphasis:

“We should all three leave, all three of us. V. S. is here! V. S. is here!”

And he nodded towards the side isle.

Volka turned round and froze: Varvara Stepanovna and her five-year-old granddaughter Irisha were making their way down the isle to the foyer.

As if by agreement, the boys jumped to their feet and stood in front of the unsuspecting old man in a way to shield their teacher from him.

“You know what, Hottabych?” Volka choked. “Let’s go home! Huh? There’s nothing of interest here today.”

“Sure,” Zhenya agreed, trembling like a leaf in his fear for Varvara Stepanovna’s life. “That’s right, let’s go home. We’ll walk in the park and all kinds of things…”

“Oh, no, my young friends!” Hottabych answered innocently. “Never before have I been so interested as I am in this truly magic tent. I’ll tell you what: you run along and I’ll return as soon as this amazing performance ends.”

What an idea — to leave Varvara Stepanovna alone with a Genie who hated her so!

They had to think of something, of anything at all, to occupy him during intermission. Once the performance was resumed, his eyes would be glued on the arena. They had to think of something urgently, but, fearing for Varvara Stepanovna’s very life, Volka was completely at a loss. His teeth even began to chatter. This attracted Hottabych’s attention, for he was interested in everything.

“I tell you, Hottabych,” Zhenya came to the rescue, “it’s either one way or the other: either we study or not!”

Both Volka and Hottabych looked at him in bewilderment.

“What I mean is, since we’ve promised Hottabych to teach him to read and write, we should use every free minute for study. Isn’t that right, Hottabych?”

“Your perseverance is worthy of the greatest praise, O Zhenya,” Hottabych answered. He was really touched.

“Well, if that’s the case, here’s the circus programme. Let’s sit right down and learn the alphabet. We’ll study all through intermission…”

“With happiness and pleasure, O Zhenya.”

Zhenya opened the programme and pointed to the first letter “A” he saw.

“This is the letter ‘A,’ understand?”

“Yes, O Zhenya.”

“Now, what letter did I say it was?”

“It’s the letter ‘A,’ O Zhenya.”

“Right. Now find me all the ‘A’s you can on this page.”

“Here’s a letter ‘A,’ O Zhenya.”

“Fine! Do you see any more?”

“Here, and here, and here, and here, and here…”

Hottabych was so engrossed in his studies that he paid no attention at all to anything else. By the time the intermission was over and the audience had returned to its seats, Hottabych had learned the alphabet and was reading in syllables:

“An ac-ro-bat on a spring … board.”

“D’you know, Hottabych, you really are gifted!” Zhenya said with true amazement.

“What did you think?” Volka replied. “Why, there has never been such a talented Genie in all the world.”

Hottabych read on delightedly: “ ‘Jum-ping ac-ro-bats un-der the di-rec . … di-rec-tion of Phil-lip Bel-ykh.’ We saw that already. ‘Ev-en-ing per-for-man-ces beg-in at 8 p.m. Ma-ti-nees at 12 no-on.’ O my young teachers, I have read the entire programme. Does that mean I’ll now be able to read the newspapers, too?”

“Certainly! Sure you will!” the boys said. “Now let’s try to read the greetings hanging over the orchestra pit,” Volka said.

Just then a young lady in a little white apron carrying a large tray appeared.

“Would you care for some ice-cream?” she asked the old man. He looked at Volka questioningly.

“Take some, Hottabych, it’s very nice. Try it!” Hottabych tried it and he liked it. He bought some for the boys and another portion for himself, then a third and, finally, being carried away, he bought the astounded young lady’s entire supply — forty-three bars of ice-cream covered with delicate frost. The girl said she’d be back later for the tray and went off, turning back to look at the strange customers.

“Oho!” Zhenya winked. “Look at him pack it away.” In the space of five minutes’ time, Hottabych had gulped down all forty-three bars. He ate it as one would eat a cucumber, biting off big chunks and chewing loudly. He swallowed the last mouthful just as the performance began.

“A world-famous act! Presenting Afanasy Sidorelli!” The audience applauded and the band played a loud viva. A short, middle-aged man in a blue silk robe embroidered with gold dragons entered the arena, bowing and smiling in all directions. It was the famous Sidorelli himself. While his assistants laid out his props on a small lacquered table, in preparation for the first magic trick, he continued to bow and smile. A gold tooth glittered in his mouth when he smiled.

“It’s wonderful!” Hottabych whispered enviously. “What’s wonderful?” Volka asked, clapping as loud as he could.

“It’s wonderful to see a person who has gold teeth growing in his mouth.”

“You think so?” Volka asked absently as he watched the first trick.

“I am positive,” Hottabych replied. “It’s very beautiful and rich looking.”

Sidorelli completed the trick.

“Did you see that?” Volka asked Zhenya proudly, as if he himself had done the trick.

“It was swell!” Zhenya answered. Volka gasped: Zhenya now had two rows of gold teeth in his mouth.

“Volka! Oh, Volka!” Zhenya whispered in a frightened voice. “I want to tell you something — but don’t get scared. All your teeth are made of gold.”

“It’s all Hottabych’s doing, I know,” Volka said dejectedly.

And true enough, the old man, who was listening in on their conversation, nodded and smiled guilelessly. Then they saw that he, too, had two rows of large, even gold teeth.

“Even Sulayman, the Son of David (peace be on the holy twain!), did not have such a luxurious mouth!” he boasted. “But don’t bother thanking me. I assure you that you are both worthy of this small surprise.”

“Don’t worry, we’re in no rush to thank you!” Zhenya muttered.

Volka was afraid the old man might get angry and he tugged his friend’s sleeve. Zhenya said no more.

“You see, Hottabych,” be began diplomatically, “it’ll be awfully obvious if all three of us sitting in a row have gold teeth. Everybody will look at us, and we’ll feel embarrassed.”

“I won’t be embarrassed in the least,” Hottabych said.

“But still, we won’t feel right. There won’t be any pleasure in being at the circus.”

“So?”

“Well, we wanted to ask you to make our teeth plain bone again till we get home.”

“I am perfectly awed by your modesty, O my young friends!” the old man said in a somewhat hurt voice.

It was a relief to feel that once again they had their own teeth in their mouths.

“Will they turn gold again when we get home?” Zhenya whispered anxiously.

“Never mind, we’ll find out later. Maybe the old man will forget about them.”

Once again Volka became absorbed watching Afanasy Sidorelli’s breath-taking magic. He applauded together with the rest when the man pulled a pigeon, a hen, and, finally, a bouncy, fluffy white poodle from an empty box.

There was only one man present who showed no sign of appreciation as he watched the magician. This was Hottabych.

He felt very hurt, because everyone was applauding the magician for all sorts of trifles, while he, who had performed such wonderful miracles from the time he had been liberated from the vessel, had not even heard a single sincere word of praise, let alone been applauded.

That is why, when the tent was once again filled with applause and Sidorelli began bowing to all sides, Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab grunted irritably and, despite the protests of those sitting in front, proceeded to climb over them down to the arena. An approving murmur passed through the crowd and a stout man said to his neighbour: “I told you that the old man was one of them. You can tell he’s a very experienced clown. Look how funny he is. Sometimes they sit in with the audience on purpose.”

Fortunately for the man, Hottabych heard nothing of what he said, as he was engrossed in watching the magician. Sidorelli was about to begin his most difficult trick.

First of all, the famous illusionist set fire to several long coloured ribbons and stuffed them into his mouth. Then he picked up a large, brightly coloured bowl filled with something that looked like sawdust. He stuffed his mouth full of the sawdust and began to fan himself quickly with a beautiful green fan. The sawdust in his mouth began to smoulder. Then a wisp of smoke appeared and, finally, when the lights were turned out, everyone saw thousands of sparks and even a small flame shoot from the famous magician’s mouth.

Then, amidst a storm of applause and shouts of Bravo! Hottabych’s indignant voice could be heard.

“It’s a fake!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “That’s no magic! It’s simple sleight-of-hand!”

“Isn’t he something!” someone shouted.

“A wonderful clown! Bravo, clown!” And everyone present except Volka and his friend applauded Hottabych enthusiastically.

The old man did not understand which clown they were shouting about. He waited for the applause he had inspired to die down and continued acidly:

“What kind of magic is that! Ha, ha, ha!”

He shoved the thunderstruck magician aside. To begin with, fifteen tremendous multi-coloured flames shot from his mouth; they were so real that a smell of burning filled the circus.

The applause was balm to Hottabych’s heart. Then he snapped his fingers, and instead of one large Sidorelli, seventy-two tiny Sidorellis ran off in single file along the barrier surrounding the arena. After completing several circles, they blended into one large Sidorelli again, just as tiny drops of mercury roll together to form a large drop.

“That’s not all!” Hottabych thundered in a voice that was no longer human. He was excited by the admiration he had aroused, and began to draw forth herds of horses from under the flaps of his jacket.

The horses whinnied with fear, they pawed the ground and tossed their heads, making their lovely silken manes blow. Then, at a signal from the old man, the horses disappeared. Instead, four huge, roaring African lions jumped out from under his jacket. They raced around the arena several times and also disappeared.

There was an unending storm of applause from that moment on.

Hottabych waved his hand and everything on the arena — Sidorelli and his assistants, and his various props, and the elegant uniformed attendants — all shot into the air, completed several farewell circles over the heads of the astounded audience, and dissolved into nothing.

Suddenly and from nowhere, a huge African elephant with sly, twinkling eyes appeared on the arena. On its back was an elephant of smaller size; on the second was a third, still smaller; on the third was a fourth… the seventh and smallest of all stood right under the top of the tent and was no bigger than a dog.

They trumpeted in unison, their trunks raised on high; then all flapped their ears like wings and flew off.

The band of thirty-three musicians — all shouting happily — suddenly became a single ball; it rolled down from the bandstand into the arena and along the barrier, getting smaller and smaller until it was no larger than a pea. Then Hottabych picked it up, put it in his right ear, and the muffled sounds of a march could be heard coming from within.

The old man was really bouncing up and down from excitement. He snapped all ten fingers at once and in a very special way, and everyone present began to shoot up from their seats, one at a time, and disappear far under the big top.

Finally, only three people remained in the empty circus: Hottabych, who had wearily sat down to rest on the barrier, and the two boys, who had rushed down to him from the last row.

“Well, how was it?” Hottabych asked limply, raising his head with difficulty and looking at the boys from strangely glazed eyes. “That’s no Sidorelli for you, is it?”

“He’s certainly no match for you,” Volka replied, winking at Zhenya angrily, because his friend kept trying to ask the old man something.

“I can’t stand fakers,” Hottabych muttered with unexpected bitterness. “To pass off simple sleight-of-hand for miracles! And in my presence!”

“But he didn’t know a wise and mighty Genie was present here,” Zhenya put in a word for the magician. “And anyway, he didn’t say he was performing miracles. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all.”

“It says so there. It says so in the programme. You heard me read it: ‘Miracles of Illusion.’ ”

“Well, but of illusion, il-lu-sion! Don’t you understand?”

“How they applauded me!” the old man recalled delightedly. “But you, O Volka, have never applauded nor even approved of me. No, I’m wrong. There was one occasion. But it was on account of some very simple magic. I don’t even consider it magic.

And that evil Varvara Stepanovna is blame. It was she who taught you to scorn my gifts! Do not argue, O my young friends! It was she, it was she! Such wonderful palaces! Such a lovely little caravan! Such devoted and healthy slaves! Such excellent camels! And it was all because of that evil Varvara Ste…” but here, luckily for the teacher and our young friends, Hottabych’s gaze fell on a long banner hanging over the bandstand. His glazed eyes, once again took on an intelligent expression; a weak smile appeared on his face and, with the satisfaction of one who has just learned to read, he pronounced aloud:

“De-ar child-ren! Con-gra-tu-la-tions on fi-ni-shing the sch-ool term. We wish you…”

The old man fell silent and closed his eyes. It seemed as if he were about to lose consciousness.

“Could you bring everyone back to their seats?” Volka asked anxiously. “Hottabych, can you hear me? D’you hear me? Can you make everything as it was before? I bet it’s very hard to do, isn’t it?”

“No, not at all. I mean, it’s not hard for me to do at all,” Hottabych answered in a barely audible whisper.

“I don’t think even you can do it,” Volka said craftily.

“Yes, I can, but I feel very tired.”

“See, that’s what I said! You can’t do it.”

At this, Hottabych rose up with a sigh. He yanked thirteen hairs from his beard, tore them to bits, and shouted a strange and very long word. Then he sank down onto the sawdust covering the floor. From high under the circus tent enraptured people came whizzing down, and each one to his own seat. Sidorelli and his assistants, the props and the uniformed attendants, headed by the imposing ring-master, appeared on the arena as from under the ground.

Flapping their ears loudly, all seven African elephants came flying back. They landed and formed a pyramid again, only this time the smallest one was on the bottom and the big one with the twinkling eyes on top, right under the roof. Then the pyramid they formed fell apart and they rushed around the arena in single file, getting smaller and smaller until they were no bigger than the head of a pin; finally, they got lost in the sawdust.

The orchestra rolled out of Hottabych’s right ear like a pea;

it mushroomed into a huge pile of laughing people and, contrary to the law of gravity, rolled upwards to the bandstand, where it fell apart into thirty-three men. They took their seats and began to play a march.

“Let me through, please! Let me through!” a thin man in large horn-rimmed glasses said, as he made his way through the excited crowd standing around Hottabych. “Won’t you be so kind as to drop in at the manager’s office? He’d like to talk to you about performing in Moscow and on a road tour,” he said deferentially.

“Leave the old man alone,” Volka told him unhappily. “Can’t you see he’s sick? He’s got a high fever!”

And true enough, Hottabych was really burning up. He had got sick from eating too much ice-cream.