nd  and your kind heart," Hottabych said in
a touched voice, basking in Volka's happiness and surprise.
     Then Volka did something that any other boy  or girl would have done in
his place,  having  found themselves  the  proud  possessors of their  first
watch. He raised his arm to his ear to hear it tick.
     "O-o-o-o," he drawled. "It's not wound.  I'll have to wind  it." To his
great disappointment, he found he could not move the winding button. Then he
got out his  pen-knife to open the watch case. However, try as he would,  he
could not find a trace of a slit in which to insert the knife.
     "It's made of solid gold," the old man boasted and winked. "I'm not one
of those people who give presents made of hollow gold."
     "Does  that  mean  there's  nothing inside  of it?"  Volka  asked  with
disappointment.
     "Why,  should  there  be  anything  inside?"  the  old  Genie  inquired
anxiously.  Volka unbuckled the strap in silence and returned  the  watch to
Hottabych.
     "All right, then,  I'll  give you a  watch  that  doesn't have  to have
anything inside."
     Once again a gold  watch appeared on Volka's wrist, but now it was very
small and  flat. There  was no glass  on it and instead of hands there was a
small vertical gold rod in the middle. The face was  studded  with  the most
exquisite emeralds set where the numbers should be.
     "Never before did anyone, even the  wealthiest  of all  sultans, have a
hand  sun  watch!" the old man boasted again. "There were sun dials in  city
squares, in market places, in gardens and in  yards.  And they were all made
of stone. But I just invented this one. It's not bad, is it?"
     It certainly was exciting to be the only owner  of  a sun  watch in the
whole world.
     Volka grinned broadly, while the old man beamed.
     "How do you tell the time on it?" Volka asked.
     "Here's how," Hottabych said, taking hold of Volka's hand gently. "Hold
your arm  straight out like this and the shadow cast by  the little gold rod
will fall on the right number."
     "But the sun has to be  shining," Volka said, looking with  displeasure
at a small cloud that just obscured it.
     "The cloud will pass in a minute," Hottabych promised.  True enough, in
a  minute  the sun began to shine  once  again. "See, it  points  somewheres
between  2 and 3  p.m.  That means it's about  2:30."  As  he was  speaking,
another cloud covered the sun.
     "Don't pay any attention  to  it,"  Hottabych said. "I'll clear the sky
for you whenever you want to find out what time it is."
     "What about the autumn?" Volka asked.
     "What about it?"
     "What  about the autumn and the  winter, when the sky  is covered  with
clouds for months on end?"
     "I've already  told  you, 0 Volka, the sun will shine whenever you want
it to. You have but to order me and everything will be as you wish."
     "But what if you're not around?"
     "I'll always be near-by. All you have to do is call me."
     "But  what  about the  evenings  and nights?"  Volka asked maliciously.
"What about the night, when there's no sun in the sky?"
     "At night  people must surrender themselves  to sleep,  and not look at
their  watches," Hottabych snapped. He had  to control himself not to  teach
the  insolent youth a good lesson. "All right then, tell me whether you like
that man's watch. If you do, you shall have it."
     "What  do you  mean? It belongs  to him. Don't tell  me  you are  going
to...."
     "Don't worry, 0  Volka ibn Alyosha. I won't touch a hair on  his  head.
He'll offer you the watch himself, for you are certainly worthy of receiving
the most treasured gifts."
     "You'll force him to and then he'll...."
     "And he'll be  overjoyed that I did not  wipe him  off  the face of the
Earth, or change him into a foul rat, or a cockroach hiding  in a crack of a
hovel, or the last beggar...."
     "That's real  blackmail,"  Volka said angrily. "Tricks like that send a
man to jail, my friend. And you'll well deserve it."
     "Send me  to jail?!"  the old man flared up. "Me?!  Hassan Abdurrakhman
ibn Hottab? And does  he know, that most despicable of all passers-by, who J
am? Ask the first Genie, or Ifrit, or Shaitan you see, and they'll tell you,
as they tremble from fear, that Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab  is the chief
of all Genie bodyguards. My army consists of 72 tribes, with 72,000 warriors
in each tribe; every  warrior rules over one thousand Marids and every Marid
rules over  a thousand Aides and every Aide rules  over  a thousand Shaitans
and  every Shaitan rules over a thousand Genies.  I  rule  over them all and
none can disobey  me!  If only this  thrice-miserable of all most  miserable
passers-by tries to...."
     Meanwhile,  the man in question was strolling down the street, glancing
at the shop windows, and in no way aware of the terrible danger hanging over
him because of an ordinary watch glittering on his wrist.
     ' "Why, I'll..." Hottabych raged on in  his boastfulness, "why,  if you
only so desire, I'll turn him into a...."
     Each second counted. Volka shouted:
     "Don't!"
     "Don't what?"
     "Don't touch that man! I don't need a watch! I don't need anything!"
     "Nothing  at all?" the  old man asked doubtfully, quickly calming down.
The only sun watch in the world disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
     "Nothing at all," said  Volka.  He  heaved such  a sigh that  Hottabych
realized  he  must  apply  himself  to  cheering  up his young  saviour  and
dispelling his gloomy thoughts.

     HOTTABYCH'S SECOND SERVICE

     Volka was in the dumps. Hottabych  sensed that something  was wrong. He
never  dreamed  he had done the boy such  a bad turn during the exam, but it
was all too clear  that  Volka was upset. And the one to blame,  apparently,
was none other than himself, Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab.
     "Would  you, 0  moon-like,  feel inclined  to listen to stories of most
unusual and strange adventures?" he asked  slyly. "For instance, do you know
the story of the Baghdad barber's three  black roosters and his lame son? Or
the   one  about  the  copper  camel  with  a  silver  hump?  Or  about  the
water-carrier Ahmet and his magic pail?"
     Volka kept on  frowning. This did  not stop  the old man,  and he began
hurriedly:
     "Be  it known to you, 0 most wonderful of  all secondary school pupils,
that once upon  a time  in Baghdad  there lived a skilled barber named Selim
who had three roosters  and a lame son named Tub. It so happened that Caliph
Harun al Rashid once passed his shop. But, 0 most attentive of all youths, I
suggest we sit down on this  bench in order that your  young legs don't tire
during this long and most educational story."
     Volka agreed. They sat down in the shade of an old linden tree.
     For  three  long  hours  Hottabych  went  on  and  on  with  the  truly
interesting story. He finally ended it with these crafty words:
     "But  more marvellous still is the  story of  the copper  camel with  a
silver hump," and immediately proceeded with  it. When he came to the  part:
"Then the  stranger  took  a  piece  of coal  from the brazier and drew  the
outline of a camel on the wall.  The camel waved its tail,  nodded its head,
walked  off the wall and onto the cobblestones..  ."-he stopped to enjoy the
impression his  story of  a drawing  coming to life  had  made on  his young
listener.
     But Hottabych  was in for some disappointment, because  Volka  had seen
enough cartoons in his life. However, the old man's words gave him an idea.
     "You know  what?  Let's  go to  the movies.  You can  finish the  story
after."
     "Your  every  word  is my  command, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha," the  old  man
replied obediently. "But  do me a favour and tell me  what you  mean by 'the
movies'?  Is  it  a  bath-house?  Or,  perhaps,  that's what  you  call  the
market-place, where one can stroll and chat with friends and acquaintances?"
     "Well! Any child can tell  you  what a  movie is. It's a...." At  this,
Volka  waved his hands around vaguely and added,  "Well, anyway, you'll  see
when we get there."
     Over the Saturn Theatre box-office was a sign that read:

     "Children under sixteen not admitted to evening performances."

     "What's the matter, 0 most handsome of all handsome youths?"  Hottabych
inquired anxiously, noticing that Volka had become gloomy again.
     "Nothing much.  It's  just  that  we're  late  for  the  last  day-time
performance! You have to be sixteen  to get in now. I really don't know what
to do, 'cause I don't feel like going home."
     "You won't go home!" Hottabych cried. "In a twinkling of an eye they'll
let  us  through, surrounded by  the respect your truly endless capabilities
command!  I'll just have a  peek  at  those bits of paper everyone's handing
that stern-looking woman at the entrance."
     "That  old  braggart!" Volka thought irritably.  Suddenly, he  felt two
tickets in his right fist.
     "Come!" Hottabych called, beaming again. "Come, they'll let you through
now!"
     "Are you sure?"
     "Just as positive as that a great future awaits you!"
     He  nudged  Volka towards a  mirror  hanging nearby. A boy with a bushy
blond beard on his healthy freckled  face looked  back  from the mirror at a
shocked and gaping Volka.

        AN UNUSUAL EVENT AT THE MOVIES

     A triumphant Hottabych dragged  Volka up the stairs to the second-floor
foyer. At the entrance to the projection room stood Zhenya Bogorad, the envy
of every pupil of 6B. This darling of fate was the  theatre manager's nephew
and  therefore permitted to attend evening performances. But  today, instead
of being the happiest  of boys, he was suffering terribly.  He was suffering
from loneliness. He  was dying to have a companion, someone he could talk to
about Volka Kostylkov's  behaviour at  the  morning's geography examination.
Alas! There was not a familiar face in sight.
     He then decided to go downstairs, in the hope that  Luck would send him
someone. At the landing he was nearly knocked off his feet by an old man  in
a white suit and embroidered morocco slippers who was dragging along-whom do
you  think?-  Volka  Kostylkov, in person!  For reasons  unknown, Volka  was
covering his face with his hands.
     "Volka!" Bogorad shouted happily. "Kostylkov!"
     Unlike Zhenya, Volka  did  not seem at all pleased at the encounter. In
fact, he even  pretended not  to have recognized his best  friend. He darted
into  the thick of the crowd which  stood  listening  to an orchestra  while
awaiting the next showing.
     "Don't think I care!"  Zhenya said in an offended  tone and went off to
buy an ice-cream.
     That  is why he  didn't see the people gathering round the  strange old
man and Volka.  Later,  when  he tried to push his way  through  to the spot
which was attracting so many eager eyes,  his friend  was already surrounded
by a rapidly-growing crowd. He could hear  the folding seats hitting against
the backs  of the chairs as those who were listening to the orchestra rushed
off. Soon the musicians were playing to rows of empty seats.
     "What happened?" Zhenya asked, vainly trying to elbow  his way through.
"If  there's been an accident,  I can phone for help. My uncle's the manager
here. What's the matter?"
     But no one seemed to know what the matter was. And, since hardly anyone
could see anything and everyone wanted to know  what was going on inside the
circle, they all kept  asking each other questions  and  demanding  sensible
answers, until they raised such a  ruckus they began to drown out the music,
though the musicians were playing as loud as they could.
     Zhenya's  uncle  finally  appeared,  climbed on  a chair  and  shouted,
"Everyone  please  disperse!  What's the matter? Haven't  you  ever  seen  a
bearded child before?"
     The moment these words reached the snack bar, everyone there  rushed to
see the bearded child.
     "Volka!" Zhenya yelled at  the  top  of  his  voice, despairing of ever
getting through the crowd. "I can't  see anything! Can you see? Does he have
a big beard?"
     "Golly!" the unfortunate Volka wailed. "What if he...."
     "Poor child!" the curious onlookers sighed.
     "What a pity!"
     "Is science helpless in his case?"
     At  first, Hottabych misunderstood  the attention  his young friend was
attracting.  He  thought  the people  were  crowding round to  express their
respect for Volka. Then he began to get angry.
     "Disperse, my good people!"  he shouted, drowning out the noise  of the
crowd and the band. "Disperse, or I'll do something terrible to all of you!"
     A timid girl gasped from fear, but the others only laughed. Really now,
what was there to fear from such a funny old  man  in  silly  pink slippers?
Why, if someone as much as touched him, he'd probably fall to pieces!
     No, no one took his threats seriously. However, the old man was used to
having people tremble at his words.  He felt that  he  and Volka  were being
insulted and was becoming more and more enraged. There is  no telling how it
all could have ended, if the first bell had not rung just then.
     The  doors to  the projection room were thrown open and everyone rushed
to take their seats. Zhenya thought this was his chance to get a peek at the
weird boy.  But the same crowd  that had blocked his view now caught him  up
and carried him into the projection room.
     No sooner had he found a seat  in the first row than  the  lights  went
out.
     "Whew!" Zhenya  breathed. "Just in time. I'll still be able to  see the
bearded  boy on the  way out." Nonetheless, he  kept fidgeting in  his seat,
trying to catch a glimpse of the freak who was sitting somewhere behind him.
     "Stop fidgeting! You're bothering us!" the man next to  him said.  "Sit
still!"  However,  to  his   utter  amazement,  the  fidgety   boy  suddenly
disappeared.
     Volka and Hottabych were the  last  to  enter  the darkened  projection
room.  To tell the  truth, Volka was so upset he was  ready to leave without
seeing the film.
     Hottabych pleaded:
     "If you're  so displeased with  the  beard I  thought you'd appreciate,
I'll free you of it the moment we find our seats. That's easy enough.  Let's
follow the others  in, for I'm impatient to discover  what a 'movie'  is. It
must indeed  be something wonderful, if even  grown  men attend it on such a
hot summer day!"
     When  they were seated, Hottabych snapped the fingers of his left hand.
Contrary to his promises, nothing happened to Volka's beard.
     "Why is it taking you so long? Remember how you boasted!"
     "I  wasn't  boasting,  0  most wonderful of 6B  pupils.  Fortunately, I
changed my mind in time. If you don't have  a beard, you'll be turned out of
the movie which is so dear to your heart."
     It soon became  clear that this  was merely a cunning excuse. Volka was
not yet aware of the old man's craftiness.
     "That's all right, they won't turn me out of here," he said.
     Hottabych pretended not  to have heard  him. Volka repeated his  words.
Once again, Hottabych played deaf. Then Volka raised his voice:
     "Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab!"
     "I'm listening, 0 my young master," the old man answered obediently.
     "Sh-h-h!" someone hissed.
     Volka continued in a whisper, bending close to his friend who  suddenly
looked very sad.
     "Do something to make this stupid beard disappear immediately!"
     "It's not a  bit  stupid," the  old  man whispered back. "It is a  most
grand and noble beard."
     "This very second! Do you hear? This very second!"
     "I  hear and I obey,"  Hottabych muttered  and began whispering  again,
snapping his fingers.
     The hairy growth on Volka's face remained unchanged.
     "Well?"
     "One moment,  0  most blessed Volka ibn Alyosha," the  old man replied,
still whispering and snapping his fingers nervously.
     The beard on Volka's chin remained where it was.
     "Look!  Look  who's  sitting  in  the  ninth  row!"  Volka   whispered,
forgetting his great misfortune for the moment.
     As far as Hottabych could see, the two men in the ninth row appeared in
no way remarkable.
     "They're  famous  actors,"  Volka  explained and told  Hottabych  their
names, which, though they were very well known, meant nothing to him.
     "Do  you mean  they're performers?" the  old man asked condescendingly.
"Are they tight-rope walkers?"
     "They're movie actors! They're the most famous movie actors, that's who
they are!"
     "Then why  aren't they doing anything? Why are they  sitting back doing
nothing?"  Hottabych  demanded  critically.  "They're  probably   very  lazy
performers. It pains me  to see you praising them  so thoughtlessly, 0 movie
of my heart."
     "Ha, ha!"  Volka  laughed. "Movie actors never act  in a theatre. Movie
actors act in studios."
     "Does that mean we are going to see some others, and not movie  actors,
perform?"
     "No,  we'll  see movie actors.  Don't  you understand,  they  act in  a
studio,  but  we  see their acting here, in a theatre. Why, any  child knows
that."
     "Pray forgive  me, but  what  you're  saying  is  a  lot  of nonsense,"
Hottabych reproached him sternly. "However, I'm not angry at you,  because I
don't  think you  meant to play  a trick on your most obedient  servant. You
seem to be affected by the heat in this building. Unfortunately, I don't see
a single window which could be opened to let in some fresh air."
     Volka realized that  in the few remaining  minutes before the beginning
of the film  he would never be able to explain a  movie actor's work  to the
old man. He decided  to put off all explanations till  later, and especially
since he suddenly recalled his terrible misfortune.
     "Dear, dear Hottabych, it's really  no trouble to you-please, can't you
do something right now?"
     The old man heaved a sigh, yanked a hair from his beard, then a second,
and a third, and, finally, in great anger, a whole bunch together. He  began
tearing them to bits savagely,  muttering something  with his eyes fixed  on
Volka's face. There was no change whatsoever. Then  Hottabych began snapping
his fingers in  the most  varied combinations:  first two fingers at a time,
then all five fingers of the right hand,  then the left hand,  then all  ten
fingers together, then once with the right and twice with the left, then the
other  way  round-but  all to  no avail. Finally, he began  ripping off  his
clothes.
     "Are you mad?" Volka cried. "What're you doing?"
     "Woe is  me!"  Hottabych replied in a whisper and began  scratching his
face.  "Woe  is   me!  The  centuries  I  spent  in  that  accursed   vessel
have-alas!-left  their  mark!  A  lack  of  practice  has   been   extremely
detrimental to my profession. Forgive me, 0 my young  saviour, but I  can do
nothing with your  beard! 0 woe is  me,  poor Genie  Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn
Hottab that I am!"
     "What are you whispering?" Volka asked. "Say it louder,  I  can't  make
out a word."
     And Hottabych replied, tearing at his clothes:
     "0 most treasured of  youths, 0 most pleasing of  all, do not vent your
rightful anger upon me! I  cannot  rid you of your beard! I forgot how to do
it!"
     "Have a  heart!"  someone hissed.  "You'll talk it all  over  at  home.
You're bothering us. Do you want me to call the usher?"
     "Such  disgrace  has fallen upon my old head!" Hottabych whimpered. "To
forget  such  simple  magic!  And  who  is  it  that forgot it?  Me,  Hassan
Abdurrakhman  ibn  Hottab, the most powerful of all Genies-me, the very same
Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab whom even Sulayman son of David (on the twain
be peace!) could not subdue for twenty years!"
     "Stop  whining!"  Volka  whispered  with  unconcealed scorn.  "Tell  me
honestly: how much longer will I have to go around with this beard?"
     "Oh,  calm your  fears, my young master!  Luckily,  I  only  used small
magic. In two days your face will be as smooth as that of  a new-born  babe.
Perhaps I'll even remember how to break small magic spells before that."
     Just  then, the many credits which  usually precede a film flashed  off
the  screen and  were  replaced  by people  who moved and  spoke.  Hottabych
whispered smugly:
     "Hm! This is all quite  clear. And very  simple. All these  people have
appeared through the wall. You can't surprise me  with that sort of stuff. I
can do that myself."
     "You don't understand  a thing," Volka said  with a smile, upon hearing
such  nonsense.  "If you  really  want to  know,  films  are  based  on  the
principle...."
     There was hissing from all sides now, and Volka's explanations were cut
short. For a moment  Hottabych seemed  entranced.  Then he  began  squirming
nervously, turning round ever so often to look at the ninth row  and the two
movie actors  sitting  there. He  became  convinced that they  were  sitting
quietly behind him and, at the same time, galloping at top speed in front of
him on the only lighted wall in this most mysterious building.
     He became pale with fear.  He raised his  eyebrows and whispered, "Look
behind us, 0 fearless Volka ibn Alyosha!"
     "Sure, those are the actors.  They play the leads and have come  to see
how the audience likes their acting."
     "I don't like it!" Hottabych informed him quickly. "I don't like people
to split in two. Even I don't know how to sit in a chair with my arms folded
and gallop away as fast as the wind-  and all at one and the same time! Even
Sulayman, son of David (on the twain be peace!), could not do such a  thing.
And that's why I'm frightened."
     "There's nothing to  worry  about," Volka said patronizingly.  "Look at
everyone  else.  See?  No  one's afraid. I'll  explain what  it's  all about
later."
     Suddenly, the  mighty roar  of a  locomotive cut through the stillness.
Hottabych grabbed Volka's arm.
     "0 royal  Volka!"  he  whispered,  breaking  out  in  a cold sweat.  "I
recognize that  voice. It's the voice of  Jirjis,  the ruler  of all Genies!
Let's flee before it's too late!"
     "What nonsense! Sit still! Nothing's threatening us."
     "I hear and I obey," Hottabych mumbled obediently, though  he continued
to tremble.
     But a split-second  later, when  a  thundering locomotive  seemed to be
rushing off the screen and right into the audience,  a scream of terror rent
the projection room.
     "Let's flee! Let's flee!" Hottabych shrieked as he dashed off.
     At the exit  he remembered about  Volka and  in several leaps returned,
grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him to the door.
     "Let's flee, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha! Let's flee before it's too late!"
     "Now, wait a minute. .." the usher began,  appearing  in front of them.
However, she immediately did a long, graceful loop in the air and  landed on
the stage in front of the screen.
     "What were  you screeching about?  What was all the panic about?" Volka
asked angrily when they were out in the street again.
     "How can I help shouting  when the most terrifying  of all  dangers was
threatening you!  The  great Jirjis, son  of Rejmus, grandson of the Aunt of
Ikrash, was heading straight for us, spitting fire and death!"
     "What Jirjis? Which aunt? It was just an ordinary locomotive!"
     "Has my young master decided to teach his old Genie Hassan Abdurrakhman
ibn Hottab what a Shaitan is?" Hottabych asked acidly.
     Volka realized that it would take much more than  five minutes and much
more than an hour to tell him what a movie and a locomotive were.
     After Hottabych recovered his  breath, he asked mildly, "What would you
desire now, 0 treasured apple of my eye?"
     "As if you didn't know. I want to get rid of my beard!"
     "Alas," the old man sighed, "I am as yet helpless  to fulfil your wish.
But perhaps you'd like something else instead? Just tell me, and you'll have
it in a flash."
     "I'd like to  have a shave. And as quickly as possible."  A few minutes
later they  entered a barbershop. Ten minutes later a tired barber stuck his
head into the waiting room and shouted:
     "Next!"
     Then, from a corner  near  the coat-rack, rose  a  boy whose  face  was
wrapped in an expensive silk scarf.  He  hurriedly sat  down in the barber's
chair.
     "You  want  a  hair-cut?"  the  barber  asked.  "No,  a shave!" the boy
answered  in a hollow voice and removed the scarf  that had  covered most of
his face.

        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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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  avoided. 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, 0 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.


        A CHAPTER WHICH IS A CONTINUATION OF THE PREVIOUS ONE

     No  matter how tempting  it  is  to  present Volka Kostylkov as  a  boy
without faults, the well-known truthfulness of the author of this tale won't
permit him  to do  so. And if envy is to be justly considered a fault, then,
to our great sorrow, we must  admit  that  at times  Volka experienced  this
feeling keenly. During the last few days he had been very envious  of  Goga.
Long before their exams had begun, Goga boasted that his mother had promised
him an Alsatian puppy as soon as he was promoted to the 7th grade.
     "Sure,  you just wait!" Volka had sniffed  at the time, feeling that he
was turning cold from envy.
     In  his heart of hearts, he had to  admit  that Pill's  words certainly
resembled the  truth. The  whole class knew that Goga's mother never skimped
on  anything  for  her  little  darling.  She'd   refuse  herself  the  bare
necessities of life, but  she'd get Goga a present that would leave them all
speechless.
     "She'll  certainly get me a  puppy,"  Goga persisted.  "If you  want to
know, my mother never refuses me anything.  If she promised, it means she'll
buy me one. If the worst comes to  the worst, she'll borrow  some money  and
buy it. You don't know how highly they think of her at the factory!"
     That  was true. Goga's mother was greatly respected at the factory. She
was  the  senior  draughtsman and was a  modest,  hard-working  and cheerful
person.  Everyone  liked her, both her  fellow-workers and her neighbours at
home. Even Goga  was  fond  of  her in his  own way. And she really doted on
Goga. Anyway, if she had promised to buy him a puppy, it meant she would.
     Perhaps, at this sor