The Old Genie Hottabych

ONE IN WHICH WE RETURN TO THE BARKING BOY

To tell the truth, each time Volka thought of Goga, he became terribly envious. If he was at home or on the stairs, or downstairs near the entrance, it was difficult not to think of Goga:

ever so often a teasing, wonderful, marvellous barking could be heard — even through closed doors and closed windows.

It was most strange, however, that Goga did not come outside. No other boy in his place could ever have been able to stay away so long and not boast to his friends about his real, pure-breed puppy. And Goga, especially, would have gloated to see the children so envious.

There was something strange about it all. Finally, Volka could not keep from asking Goga’s mother what the matter was. She became terribly embarrassed and mumbled something about her dear boy being sick. Then she rushed off.

“Wait a minute!” Volka pleaded. “Can I ask you something? Just one question?”

Goga’s mother stopped reluctantly.

“Can you just tell me if it’s an Alsatian? Is it?”

“What Alsatian?” the poor woman shrugged.

“The puppy you gave Goga. You know, the one that’s barking. Is it an Alsatian or a Boxer?”

“Goodness, what nonsense!” she sighed and disappeared quickly into her apartment.

As if for spite, a high-pitched angry barking issued forth.

It was all very mysterious.

Just then Hottabych, who was lying in his usual place under Volka’s bed, asked casually:

“I wonder how your enemy named Pill is getting on?”

He yearned to boast about the cunning spell he had cast on him and share with Volka his delight in the trouble Goga was deservedly having.

“No one but I can ever break the spell,” he thought. “I can just imagine how the most greatly-respected Volka ibn Alyosha will be pleased and how amazed he will be at the endless variety of my powers.”

“Pill?” Volka repeated absently, for he had just thought of a very simple and tempting idea. “Pill? He’s not feeling too good. Listen, Hottabych,” he crouched down and stuck his head under the bed, in order to carry on negotiations more comfortably. “I want to ask you for a big favour.”

“This is it,” the old Genie thought unhappily. He suspected that Volka was about to ask him to break the spell he had cast on Goga; and he decided to refuse flatly. At least for the time being. It wouldn’t hurt the horrid tattle-tale and gossip to suffer a bit. It would only do him good. However. Hottabych replied sourly:

“I’ll be only too happy to know your wish.”

“I want to ask you for a present.”

The old man was pleased at not being forced to discuss Goga’s premature pardon. He scurried out from under the bed.

“Just tell me what you want and you’ll have it immediately, O young and benevolent Genie-saviour.”

“Could you give me a dog? An Alsatian?”

“A dog? Nothing could be simpler or more pleasing to my heart!”

Hottabych yanked a hair from his beard. Volka felt faint from happiness: there, at his feet, a magnificent, sleek and muscular three-year-old Alsatian stretched with a pleasant growl. It had lively, intelligent eyes, a cold, wet nose and marvellous pointed ears. Volka patted its neck. The dog wagged its tail politely and barked loudly from an overflow of emotion.

“How do you like this dog?” Hottabych asked, as he bustled about, ready at a sign from Volka to fill the entire room, the entire apartment, and the entire house with the most valuable dogs. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I forgot a small detail.”

The “small detail” was a collar, which appeared immediately. It glittered with such a multitude of precious stones that there would be more than enough for two imperial crowns.

The unexpected happiness was almost more than Volka could bear. He patted the dog with a shaking hand and had such a dazed smile on his face that tears of happiness rolled down the kind-hearted old man’s cheeks.

But there can never be complete happiness in life, at any rate, not when you are dealing with a Genie’s gifts! Suddenly, they heard the clicking of a woman’s heels behind the door. No sooner had Hottabych darted under the bed, there to become invisible, than the door opened and Volka’s mother entered.

“That’s just what I thought,” she said, looking at the animal. In his haste, the old Genie had forgotten to make it invisible. “A dog! I’d like to know where you got it?” Volka knew he was sinking fast and sure. “I got it… It was given to me… You see… What I mean is…”

There was no sense telling her the truth, and Volka didn’t want to lie. Anyway, there was no sense lying — his mother could always tell when he was not telling the truth.

“Volka!” she said, raising her voice, “I don’t like your mumbling. I want you to tell me whose dog it is.”

“It isn’t anyone’s … I mean, it wasn’t anybody’s before, but now it’s mine.”

His mother turned pink with indignation. “I didn’t think you would lie to me. I didn’t think you were capable of it. Tell me whose dog it is. Why, the collar alone is worth hundreds of roubles.”

She thought the stones were just coloured glass. Hottabych became very angry. He was both angry and hurt. He wanted this noble, but naive woman to understand that Has-san Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab was not one to present his best friends with cheap imitations and that this truly priceless collar was worth thousands upon thousands of roubles. But he checked himself in time, since he now realized such bragging would only make Volka’s situation worse.

He himself was a straightforward and truthful person and was proud of Volka for not wanting to lie, even though it was the tiniest white lie. The only thing to do was to stop the misunderstanding immediately.

“Well then, my kind and truthful young friend will have to do without a dog for the time being. And let him not be bothered by dreams of owning a dog,” Hottabych thought, smiling into his beard.

A faint crystal tinkling issued from under the bed, and the dog disappeared.

“Volka, dear,” his mother said, completely forgetting what they had been talking about. “If my office calls, please tell them I’ll be there in an hour or so. By the way, do you know whom the doctor came to see next door?”

“Goga, I guess.”

“Is he ill?”

“I think so.” -

“You think so! Isn’t he your friend?”

“Some friend!”

“I’m ashamed of you, Volka,” his mother said angrily, and she turned and walked out of the room with a stony face.

“Hm!” Volka sighed and decided to visit Goga as soon as the doctor left. “Hottabych! Hey, Hottabych!”

There was no answer.

“He’s gone again! Whenever you have to discuss something with him, he’s not there. What a Genie!”

Meanwhile, Hottabych was making himself comfortable in apartment 37 , this time under Goga’s bed. He was curious to see how the old doctor, who obviously had no idea what a mighty and unusual opponent he was up against, would helplessly fumble about in search of a correct diagnosis.

This is what was happening in the room where the most mysterious of all the old district doctor’s cases lay high on fluffed pillows, while Volka, taking advantage of Hottabych’s absence, sat down to study his geography, and the old Genie himself lay hidden under Goga’s bed.

The old doctor’s name was Alexander Alexeyevich. We want you to know this, in case you meet him some day. He was very experienced and wise.

“Now, will you please leave us alone? There’s something we have to discuss,” he said kindly to Goga’s despairing mother.

“Well, young man,” he said when they were alone (Hottabych under the bed obviously did not count), “how are things? Are we still barking?”

“It’s awful!” Goga moaned.

“Aha! Well then, let’s just chat a bit. What kind of poems do you like?”

“Bow-wow-wow!” Goga barked. His mother, who was standing just outside the door, began to sob.

You can imagine what Goga wanted to reply to the old doctor’s question! He was indignant and he considered it a foolish and unnecessary question. However, his barking neither surprised nor distressed the old doctor.

“Don’t get angry,” Alexander Alexeyevich said in a very calm voice. “This question has direct bearing on your illness.”

“I like ‘A Winter’s Evening,’ a poem by Pushkin,” Goga finally answered after barking for a long while.

“Won’t you recite it for me? Do you know it by heart?”

Goga recited four lines.

“That’s enough!” the doctor said. “Now, will you please tell me what you think about your classmate, ah, what’s-his-name? The one who lives next door?”

“You mean Volka Kostylkov?”

“Exactly.”

“Bow-wow-wow!” Goga barked loudly.

“Now, now. Try to use words.”

“Bow-wow-wow’.” Goga replied, shrugging helplessly, as if to say: “I’d be only too glad to use words, but I can’t. I don’t seem to be able to.”

“I see. That’s enough. That’s enough, I said! Hm! Well, and what about the other children in your class?”

“In my class?” the ailing Goga smirked. “If you want to know, all the kids in my class are bow-wow-wow!”

“Well, and what do you think about me? Don’t be shy, tell me what you really think. What do you think of me as a doctor?”

“As a doctor, I think you’re nothing but a bow-wow-wow!”

“Wonderful!” Alexander Alexeyevich exclaimed with genuine joy. “And what do you think about your mother?”

“My mother’s very nice,” Goga said. His mother, still standing behind the door, burst out in tears, though these were tears of happiness. “But sometimes she’s bow…” He shuddered and fell silent. “No, she’s always very, very nice.”

“And what about your class wall-newspaper? Do you have anything to say about it?” the old doctor asked, but this time only to be doubly certain. He had finally discovered the essence of the rare illness his young patient was suffering from. “Did they ever criticize you in the paper?”

This time Goga kept on barking for at least two minutes. Hottabych was tired of listening to him, but the old doctor was so delighted that one would think it was not Goga Pilukin, nicknamed “Pill” for his atrocious temper, barking, but an opera star singing his most famous aria.

When Goga had barked his fill, Alexander Alexeyevich rubbed his hands together contentedly.

“It seems quite clear now. But let us not be hasty and, instead, put it to the test again. Here’s my pen and a sheet of paper. I want you to write: ‘There is no place in our country for gossips and tattle-tales!’ Have you written it? Excellent! Let me see it. You have written it nicely and without a single mistake. Now let’s write another sentence. By the way, what’s your teacher’s name? Varvara Stepanovna? Well then, write this: ‘Varvara Stepanovna! Vanya and Petya are purposely teaching me to swear. I’m a conscientious boy and wish you would punish them.”

Goga’s face became terribly sour. Something was obviously wrong. He kept writing and crossing out what he had written, until the doctor finally took the messy sheet of paper away. This is what he read, chuckling, but apparently not a bit surprised:

“Varvara Stepanovna! Vanya and Petya bow-wow-wow… I’m a conscientious boy and wish you would bow-wow-wow.” Each of these “bow-wow-wow’s” was crossed out, but each time the unfortunate Goga had written in another “bow-wow-wow” over the one that had been crossed out.

“The committee’s findings are clear,” the doctor said, folding the two papers and putting them away in his wallet. “Please come in!” he called to Goga’s mother…

She entered, dabbing her eyes with a damp hanky.

After she had sat down, Alexander Alexeyevich said, “I have to inform you that I didn’t sleep a wink last night, because I was busy looking through my medical books and thinking. I could find nothing at all which even vaguely resembled your son’s case.”

The poor woman gasped nervously.

“Do not despair, my good woman,” the old doctor said. “Things are not hopeless. I read on and on, and thought a great deal. And after that I naturally could not fall asleep, for I’m getting on in years. Seeking distraction, I picked up a volume of Arabian Nights and read a tale about a magician or, rather, a Genie, changing a person he disliked into a dog. Then I thought that if there really were Genies in the world (Hottabych lying under the bed was offended) and if one of them decided to punish someone, say a boy, for gossiping, tattling, and thinking poorly of his friends, he could cast a spell on him that would make him bark each time he wanted to say something bad. Your son and I just had a long talk and we discovered that he could recite a poem by Pushkin without barking at all and speak of you with hardly a small bark, and then bark incessantly when talking of his friends or the school newspaper, in which he had apparently been criticized several times. Do you understand what I’m getting at? I do hope I’ve made myself clear.”

“Do you mean,” Goga’s mother said thoughtfully, “that…”

“Exactly. Naturally, there aren’t any Genies and there never were any. (Hottabych again felt hurt, this time even more than before.) What your son has is a very strange kind of psychological trauma. And I must warn you that he will continue barking in the future…”

“Oh my goodness!” the poor woman wailed.

“Yes, he will bark each time he decides to tattle or gossip, or whenever he tries to say something unpleasant. And then people will no longer call him Goga Pilukin, but Bow-Wow Pilukin. And this will continue when he grows up, although no one will call him that to his face. As you see, your son may find himself in a very unhappy situation. However, if he makes a firm resolution never to tattle, gossip, or spoil good people’s lives, I can guarantee you that he will stop barking once and for all.”

“Bow-Wow Pilukin!” Goga’s unfortunate mother thought and shuddered. “How horrible! I would never survive it. But what about some medicine? Won’t you at least write out a prescription for some medicine?”

“In this case, no medicine will help. Well, young man, shall we give it a try?”

“And I won’t bark at all any more?”

“Everything depends entirely on you.”

“Then you won’t leave a prescription?” Goga’s mother asked again, seeing that the doctor was about to leave.

“I gave you my prescription, the only one that will work. However, we can check on it. Now, won’t you say a few fair words about your friend Volka? I want you to pay special attention: I said ‘fair.’”

“Sure, Volka Kostylkov’s a good fellow,” Goga mumbled hesitantly, as if he were just learning how to talk. “You’re right dear, dear doctor! This is the first time since the geography exam that I didn’t bark when I talked about Volka! Hurray!”

“Exactly what happened at the exam?” the old doctor asked, as if casually.

“Why, nothing special. Can’t a boy suddenly become ill from overwork?” Goga went on in a much more confident tone.

“I guess I’ll be going along,” Alexander Alexeyevich said. “I have to visit a good dozen real patients. I take it you understood everything, Goga?”

“Yes! Oh, yes! Upon my word of honour! Thank you!”

“Well, then, keep it up! Good-bye, everyone.”

“Where’d you disappear to?” Volka shouted at the old Genie several seconds later, as Hottabych crawled back to his place under his bed with a very thoughtful expression-on his face.

“Listen, O Volka,” the old man said with great solemnity. I just witnessed a most unusual scene: a spell cast by a Genie was broken by a human being! True, this was a very wise and very just human being. He was so just that I didn’t even think of punishing him for not believing in my existence. Where are you going?

“I have to visit Goga. I should really be ashamed of myself.”

“Yes, do go and visit your classmate. Though he is no longer ill.”

“Not ill at all? Did he get well so quickly?”

“That depends entirely on him,” Hottabych said. And pocketing his own pride, he told Volka about the only known case of curing a boy who barked.