The Old Genie Hottabych

A TROUBLED EVENING

It was a good thing Volka didn’t have dark hair. Zhenya Bogorad, for instance, would certainly have had a blue shadow on his cheeks after having been shaved, but Volka’s cheeks after he left the barbershop were no different from those of his friends. It was after seven, but it was still light outdoors and very hot. “Is there any place in your blessed city where they sell sherbets or cold drinks like sherbet and where we could quench our thirst?” Hottabych asked.

“Why, that’s an idea! A glass of cold lemonade would really be grand.”

Entering the first juice and mineral water shop they saw, they took a table.

“We’d like two bottles of lemonade, please,” Volka said. The waitress nodded and headed towards the counter. Hottabych called her back angrily.

“You come right back, unworthy servant! I don’t like the way you responded to the orders of my young friend and master.”

“Hottabych, stop it! Do you hear! Stop…” Volka began to whisper.

But Hottabych covered the boy’s mouth gently with his hand.

“At least don’t interfere when I defend your honour, since your kind heart prevents you from scolding her yourself.”

“You don’t understand,” Volka protested. He was really becoming frightened. “Hottabych, can’t you see…”

Suddenly, he froze, for he felt he had lost the gift of speech. He wanted to throw himself between the old man and the still unsuspecting waitress, but found he could not move a finger.

It was all Hottabych’s doing. To prevent Volka from interfering in something he considered a matter of honour, he had lightly pinched his ear lobe between the first two fingers of his left hand and had thus condemned the boy to silence and immobility.

“How did you reply to the order my young master gave you?” he repeated.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” the waitress answered politely. “It was not an order, it was a request, and I went to fulfil it. And, in the second place, it’s customary to speak politely to strangers. All I can say is that I’m surprised you don’t know such a thing, though every cultured person should.”

“Don’t tell me you want to teach me manners!” Hottabych shouted. “On your knees, or I’ll turn you to dust!”

“Shame on you!” the cashier said. She was the only witness of the disgraceful scene, for there was no one besides Volka and Hottabych in the cafe. “How can you be so rude? And especially a person your age!”

“On your knees!” Hottabych roared. “And you get down on your knees, too,” he added, pointing to the cashier. “And you!” he shouted to another waitress who was rushing to the rescue. “All three of you, get down on your knees immediately, and beg my young friend’s pardon!” At this, Hottabych suddenly began to grow bigger and bigger until finally his head touched the ceiling. It was a strange and terrible sight. The cashier and the second waitress both fainted, but the first waitress only paled and said calmly, “Shame on you! You should behave properly in public. And if you’re a decent sort of hypnotist…”

(She thought the old man was practising hypnotic tricks on them.)

“On your knees!” Hottabych bellowed. “Didn’t you hear me — on your knees?!”

In all his three thousand seven hundred and thirty-two years, this was the first time ordinary mortals had refused to obey him. Hottabych felt the boy would lose respect for him, and he was terribly anxious to have Volka respect him and treasure his friendship.

“Down, O despicable one, if you value your life!”

“That’s entirely out of the question,” the brave waitress answered in a trembling voice. “I can’t understand why you’re raising your voice. If you think something’s wrong, you can ask the cashier for the ‘Complaints and Suggestions Book.’ Anyone can have it. And I’d like to add that the most famous hypnotists and mesmerists visit our cafe, but none have ever behaved like you. Aren’t I right, Katya?” she said, turning to her friend who had by then come to.

“How d’you like that!” Katya sniffled. “He wants us to get down on our knees! It’s outrageous!”

“Is that so?!” Hottabych yelled, losing his temper completely. “Is that how insolent you are? Well, you have only yourselves to blame!”

With a practised gesture he yanked three hairs from his beard and let go of Volka’s ear to tear them to bits. To the old man’s annoyance, Volka regained his power of speech and the freedom to move his limbs at will the moment he let go. The first thing he did was to grab Hottabych’s hand and cry:

“Oh, no, Hottabych! What do you want to do?”

“I want to punish them, O Volka. I’m ashamed to admit I was about to strike them down with thunder. Something even the most worthless Ifrit can do!”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Volka felt he had to stand up for science.

“A clap of thunder cannot kill anyone,” he said, thinking feverishly of how to ward off the danger now hanging over the poor waitresses. “What kills people is lightning — a charge of atmospheric electricity. Thunder is harmless, it’s only a sound.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Hottabych answered dryly, not wishing to lower himself to an argument with such an inexperienced youth. “I don’t think you’re right. But I’ve changed my mind. I won’t strike them with thunder, I’ll change them into sparrows instead. Yes, that’s the best thing to do.”

“But why?”

“I must punish them, O Volka. Evil must always be punished.”

“There’s no reason to punish them! Do you hear!”

Volka tugged at Hottabych’s hand, for the old man was about to tear the hairs, and then it would really be too late. But the hairs which he had knocked out of his hand miraculously returned to Hottabych’s rough dark palm.

“Just you try!” Volka shouted, seeing that the old man was about to tear them anyway. “You can turn me into a sparrow, too! Or into a toad! Or into anything you want! And you can consider our friendship dissolved as of this minute. I don’t like your ways, that’s what. Go on, turn me into a sparrow! And I hope the first cat that sees me gobbles me up!”

The old man was dismayed.

“Can’t you see, I’m only doing this to prevent anyone from ever approaching you without the great respect your endless merits call for?”

“No, I can’t, and I don’t want to!”

“Your every word is my command,” Hottabych replied obediently, sincerely puzzled at his saviour’s strange softheartedness. “All right, then. I won’t turn them into sparrows.”

“Nor into anything else!”

“Nor into anything else,” the old man agreed meekly. However, he gathered up the hairs with the obvious intention of tearing them to bits.

“Why do you want to tear them?” Volka cried. ; “I’ll turn all the goods, all the tables and all the equipment of this despicable shop into dust!”

“You’re mad!” Volka said, really angry by now. “Don’t you know that’s government property, you dope!”

“And may I inquire, O diamond of my soul, what you mean by the strange word ‘dope’?” Hottabych asked.

Volka turned as red as a beet.

“Well you see… What I mean is… Uh… Well, anyway, ‘dope’ is a sort of wise man.”

Hottabych decided to remember the word, in order to use it in some future conversation.

“But. …” he began.

“No buts! I’ll count to three. If, after I say ‘three,’ you don’t leave this cafe alone, we’ll call off our friendship and… I’m counting: one! two! th…”

Volka did not finish. Shrugging sadly, the old man resumed his usual appearance and muttered in a gloomy voice:

“All right, have it your way. Your good graces are more precious to me than the pupils of my eyes.”

“Well, there you are! Now all you have to do is to apologize and we can leave.”

“You should be forever grateful to your young saviour,” Hottabych shouted sternly to the waitresses, and Volka realized he would never be able to pry an apology from the old man’s lips.

“Please excuse us,” he said. “And I wish you wouldn’t be too angry at this old man. He’s a foreigner and doesn’t know our ways yet. Good-bye!”

“Good-bye,” the waitresses answered politely.

They were still rather upset and were both puzzled and frightened. But, of course, they never dreamed how great a danger they had avoid. They followed Hottabych and Volka out and watched the curious old man in an ancient straw boater go down the street and disappear around the corner.

“I can’t imagine where such naughty old men come from,” Katya sighed and wiped a tear.

“I suppose he’s an old-time hypnotist,” her brave friend said compassionately. “He’s probably a pensioner. Maybe he’s just lonely.”

“It’s no fun to be old,” the cashier joined in. “Come on back in, girls.”

The day’s mischief was not to end there. As Hottabych and Volka reached Gorky Street , they were blinded by an automobile’s headlights. A large ambulance, its screaming siren piercing the calm of twilight, seemed to be rushing straight at them.

Hottabych changed colour and wailed loudly:

“Oh, woe is me, an old, unfortunate Genie! Jirjis, the mighty, merciless king of all Shaitans and Ifrits, has not forgotten our ancient feud and has sent his most awful monster after me!”

With these words he shot straight up from the pavement and, somewhere on the level of the third or fourth storey, he took off his hat, waved it to Volka, and slowly dissolved in the air, shouting:

“I’ll find you again, O Volka ibn Alyosha! I kiss the dust beneath your feet! Good-bye!”

To tell the truth, Volka was happy the old man had vanished. Other things were pressing on his mind, and he felt faint at the thought of having to return home.

Really now, try to imagine yourself in his place. He had left the house in the morning to take a geography examination, then go to the movies and be back for supper as expected, at six-thirty. Instead, he was returning after nine, having failed his examination miserably, and, what was most horrible, with shaved cheeks! And him not even thirteen yet! No matter how he racked his brains, he could not find a solution. Thus, without having thought of anything, he dragged his feet back to his quiet side street, now full of long evening shadows.

He walked past the surprised janitor, entered the downstairs hall, climbed a flight of stairs and, with a heavy sigh, pressed the bell. He could hear someone’s steps, and a strange voice asked through the door:

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” Volka wanted to say, but suddenly remembered that, as of this morning, he didn’t live there any more.

Without answering the new tenant, he ran downstairs, marched by the still puzzled janitor nonchalantly, reached the main street, and boarded a trolley-bus. This certainly was his unlucky day: somewhere, most probably at the movies, he had lost his change-purse, so he had to get out and walk home.

Least of all, Volka wanted to meet a classmate, but most unbearable was the thought that he would have to face Goga-the-Pill. Sly Fate had added insult to injury: from this day forth they were both to live in the same house.

Sure enough, no sooner did he enter the yard of his new house than an unbearable, familiar voice shouted:

“Hi, nutty! Who was the old bird you left school with today?”

Goga-the-Pill ran up to Volka, winking insolently and pulling the most insulting faces.

“He wasn’t an old bird, he was a nice old man,” Volka said peaceably, as he didn’t want to end the day with a fight. “He’s … he’s my father’s friend from Tashkent .”

“What if I je-ee-st go to your father and je-ee-st tell him about your monkey-business at the exam!”

“Oh, Pill, you’ve gone crying for a beating too long!” Volka flared up, imagining what an impression Pill’s words would have on his parents. “Why, you dirty tattle-tale! I’ll push your face in!”

“Now, now, take it easy! A person can’t even joke any more. You’re really a nut!”

Fearing Volka’s fists, which, after several encounters, Goga chose to avoid, he dashed headlong into the entrance of the house in which he was now to live in dangerous closeness to Volka, whose new apartment was on the same landing.

“Bald people! A country of bald people!” Goga shouted, sticking his head out the front door. He showed Volka his tongue and, fearing the other’s righteous anger, flew up the stairs, two at a time, to his own door.

However, he was distracted by the mysterious behaviour of a huge Siberian cat from apartment 43 . The cat, named “Homych” in honour of the popular football goalie, was standing on the stairs with his back arched and hissing at nothing at all.

Goga’s first thought was that the cat had gone mad. He reflected again and was nearly certain that mad cats kept their tails between their legs, while Homych’s tail was sticking up straight, and in all other respects the animal looked quite healthy.

Goga kicked it — just in case. Homych’s yowl of pain, surprise and hurt could be heard on the tenth floor. He jumped so high and gracefully that his famous namesake could have been proud of such a leap.

Then something completely unexpected happened.

A good half yard from the wall, Homych yowled again and flew back in the opposite direction, straight at Goga, just as though the unfortunate animal had hit an invisible but very hard rubber wall. At the same time a gasp could be heard nearby, as if someone had trodden very hard on another person’s foot. Courage had never been one of Goga’s outstanding virtues, but now he nearly died of fright.

“Oh-h-h!” he moaned softly, feeling all numb. Finally, tearing his leaden feet from the stairs, he made a dash for his flat.

When the apartment door banged shut behind him, Hottabych became visible. He was writhing with pain and examining his left leg, which had been severely scratched by the cat’s claws.

“Oh, cursed youth!” Hottabych groaned, after first making sure he was alone on the stairs. “Oh, dog among boys!”

He fell silent and listened. Coming slowly up the stairs, lost in the most grievous thoughts, was his young saviour, Volka Kostylkov.

The sly old man did not want the boy to see him and so dissolved quickly in the air.