The Old Genie Hottabych

THE OLD GENIE

While Volka was swaying back and forth on the hook, trying to understand what had happened, the smoke began to clear. Suddenly, he realized there was someone else in the room besides himself. It was a skinny, sunburnt old man with a beard down to his waist and dressed in an elegant turban, a white coat of fine wool richly embroidered in silver and gold, gleaming white silk puffed trousers and petal pink morocco slippers with upturned toes.

“Hachoo!” the old man sneezed loudly and prostrated himself. “I greet you, O Wonderful and Wise Youth!”

Volka shut his eyes tight and then opened them again. No, he was not seeing things. The amazing old man was still there. Kneeling and rubbing his hands, he stared at the furnishings of Volka’s room with lively, shrewd eyes, as if it were all goodness-knows what sort of a miracle.

“Where did you come from?” Volka inquired cautiously, swaying back and forth under the ceiling like a pendulum. “Are you… from an amateur troupe?”

“Oh, no, my young lord,” the old man replied grandly, though he remained in the same uncomfortable pose and continued to sneeze. “I am not from the strange country of Anamateur Troupe you mentioned. I come from this most horrible vessel.”

With these words he scrambled to his feet and began jumping on the vessel, from which a wisp of smoke was still curling upward, until there was nothing left but a small pile of clay chips. Then, with a sound like tinkling crystalware, he yanked a hair from his beard and tore it in two. The bits of clay flared up with a weird green flame until soon there was not a trace of them left on the floor.

Still, Volka was dubious. You must agree, it’s not easy to accept the fact that a live person can crawl out of a vessel no bigger than a decanter.

“Well, I don’t know…” Volka stammered. “The vessel was so small, and you’re so big compared to it.”

“You don’t believe me, O despicable one?!” the old man shouted angrily, but immediately calmed down; once again he fell to his knees, hitting the floor with his forehead so strongly that the water shook in the aquarium and the sleepy fish began to dart back and forth anxiously. “Forgive me, my young saviour, but I am not used to having my words doubted. Know ye, most blessed of all young men, that I am none other than the mighty Genie Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab — that is, the son of Hottab, famed in all four corners of the world.”

All this was so interesting it made Volka forget he was hanging under the ceiling on a chandelier hook.

“A ‘gin-e’? Isn’t that some kind of a drink?”

“I am not a drink, O inquisitive youth!” the old man flared up again, then took himself in hand once more and calmed down. “I am not a beverage, but a mighty, unconquerable spirit. There is no magic in the world which I cannot do, and my name, as I have already had the pleasure of conveying to your great and extremely respected attention, is Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab, or, as you would say in Russian, Hassan Abdurrakhman Hottabych. If you mention it to the first Ifrit or Genie you meet, you’ll see him tremble, and his mouth will go dry from fear,” the old man continued boastfully.

“My story — hachoo! — is strange, indeed. And if it were written with needles in the corners of the eyes, it would be a good lesson for all those who seek learning. I, most unfortunate Genie that I am, disobeyed Sulayman, son of David (on the twain be peace!) — I, and my brother, Omar Asaf Hottabych. Then Sulayman sent his Vizier Asaf, son of Barakhiya, to seize us, and he brought us back against our will. Sulayman, David’s son (on the twain be peace!), ordered two bottles brought to him: a copper one and a clay one. He put me in the clay vessel and my brother Omar Hottabych in the copper one. He sealed both vessels and imprinted the greatest of all names of Allah on them and then ordered his Genies to carry us off and throw my brother into the sea and me into the river, from which you, O my blessed saviour — hachoo, hachoo! — have fished me. May your days be prolonged. O… Begging your pardon, I would be indescribably happy to know your name, most beautiful of all youths.”

“My name’s Volka,” our hero replied as he swayed softly to and fro under the ceiling.

“And what is your fortunate father’s name, may he be blessed for eternity? Tell me the most gentle of all his names, as he is certainly deserving of great love and gratitude for presenting the world with such an outstanding offspring.”

“His name’s Alexei. And his most gentle … most gentle name is Alyosha.”

“Then know ye, most deserving of all youths, the star of my heart, Volka ibn Alyosha, that I will henceforth fulfil all your wishes, since you have saved me from the most horrible imprisonment. Hachoo!”

“Why do you keep on sneezing so?” Volka asked, as though everything else was quite clear.

“The many thousand years I spent in dampness, deprived of the beneficial rays of the sun, in a cold vessel lying on the bottom of a river, have given me, your undeserving servant, a most tiresome running nose. Hachoo! Hachoo! But all this is of no importance at all and unworthy of your most treasured attention. Order me as you wish, O young master!” Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab concluded heatedly with his head raised, but still kneeling.

“First of all, won’t you please rise,” Volka said.

“Your every word is my command,” the old man replied obediently and rose. “I await your further orders.”

“And now,” Volka mumbled uncertainly, “if it’s not too much trouble … would you be kind enough … of course, if it’s not too much trouble… What I mean is, I’d really like to be back on the floor again.”

That very moment he found himself standing beside old man Hottabych, as we shall call our new acquaintance for short. The first thing Volka did was to grab the seat of his pants. There was no hole at all.

Miracles were beginning to happen.