The Old Genie Hottabych

HOTTABYCH AND MR. MONEYBAGS

“O blessed Volka,” Hottabych said as he basked happily in the sun after breakfast, “each time I present you with gifts which I consider of great value I discover they are the wrong kind of gifts. Perhaps it would be a better idea if you were to tell me what you and your young friend would care for. I would consider it a great honour and joy to fulfil your wish on the spot.”

“If that’s the case, would you please give me a pair of large navy binoculars?” Volka said promptly.

“With the greatest of pleasure and joy.”

“I’d like a pair of binoculars, too. I mean, if it’s all right with you,” Zhenya added shyly.

“Nothing could be simpler.”

The three of them set out for a large second-hand shop, located on a busy little side street in the centre of the city. The shop was crowded and our friends had difficulty in pushing their way to the counter. There were so many odd items on the shelves that they could never be sorted according to any system, for then there would have to be a separate section for each item.

“Show me, O sweet Volka, what these binoculars so dear to your heart look like,” Hottabych said happily but then suddenly turned pale and began to tremble.

He looked at his young friends sadly, burst into tears and said in a hollow voice, “Farewell, O light of my eyes!” Then, shoving the people in the shop aside, he headed towards a grey-haired ruddy-complexioned foreigner and fell to his knees before the man.

“Order me as you will, for I am your obedient and humble slave!” Hottabych mumbled, swallowing his tears and trying to kiss the flap of the foreigner’s jacket.

“Shame on you, citizen, to go begging in our times!” one of the shop assistants said to Hottabych.

“And so, how many I should have pay you for this bad ring?” the foreigner continued nervously in bad Russian, after being interrupted by Hottabych.

“Only ten roubles and seventy kopeks,” the clerk answered “It certainly is an odd item.”

The clerks of second-hand shops knew Mr. Moneybags well though he had but recently arrived from abroad as a touring businessman. He spent all his free time combing the second-hand shops in the hope of acquiring a treasure for a song.

“Quite recently he had bought half a dozen china cups of the Lomonosov Pottery very cheaply and now, just when an inconsolable Hottabych had fallen to his knees before him, he was pricing a time-blackened ring which the clerk thought was made of silver and Mr. Moneybags thought was made of platinum.

When he received his purchase he put it in his vest pocket and left the shop. Hottabych rushed out after him, wiping the tears that poured down his wrinkled old face. As he passed his friends, he barely had time to whisper:

“Alas! This grey-haired foreigner holds the magic ring of Sulayman, the Son of David (on the twain be peace!). And I am the slave of this ring and must follow its owner. Farewell, my friends. I’ll always remember you with gratitude and love…”

Only now, when they had parted with Hottabych forever, did the boys realize how used to him they had got. They left the shop in silence without even looking at any binoculars and headed towards the river bank, where, as of late, they were wont to sit long hours having heart-to-heart talks. They lay on the bank for a long time, right near the place where such a short while ago Volka had found the slimy clay vessel with Hottabych. They recalled the old man’s funny but endearing ways and became more and more convinced that, when all was said and done, he had had a very pleasant and kind nature.

“There’s no use denying it. We didn’t appreciate Hottabych enough,” Zhenya said critically and heaved a sigh.

Volka turned on his other side and was about to reply, but instead he jumped to his feet quickly and ran off.

“Hurray! Hottabych is back! Hurray!”

And true enough, Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab was approaching them in a quick old man’s shuffle. Dangling over his shoulder on long straps were two black leather cases containing large naval binoculars.