rowful moment, when  Volka,  crushed  by all he had
gone through that  day, was  slowly mounting the stairs,  Goga-the-Pill, the
very same Pill who deserved such  happiness less  than anyone  else in their
class,  in  their  school,  or  even in  all of  Moscow, was playing  with a
magnificent, happy, furry puppy right next door, in apartment 37.
     Such were Volka's  thoughts. The only  consideration that  afforded him
some solace was that it was highly unlikely that Goga's mother, even  though
she really  and truly intended to buy her son  a dog, had  done  so already.
After all, Goga had only taken his last exam several  hours before, and it's
not so easy to buy a puppy. You don't walk into  a pet shop and say, "Please
wrap up that puppy for me." You have to look long and hard for a good dog.
     The  very  moment  Volka's grandmother  opened  the  door, he heard the
high-pitched, squeaky yelping of a puppy  coming from behind the closed door
of apartment 37.
     "So she bought it after  all!" he thought bitterly. "An Alsatian.... or
maybe even a Boxer...."
     It  was more than he could bear, to imagine Goga the  proud  owner of a
real,  live service  dog.  Volka  slammed  the  door  shut  to blot out  the
exciting, unimaginably wonderful, magical barking of a dog.
     He also heard the frightened exclamation which  escaped  Goga's mother.
The puppy had probably bitten him. But even this could not console our young
hero.
     Volka's  father had  not  yet  returned, as he was staying  late  at  a
meeting. His mother had apparently called  for him at the factory  after her
evening classes.
     Despite  all his efforts  to appear  calm and happy,  Volka  looked  so
gloomy that  his grandmother decided to give him supper first and then start
asking him questions.
     "Well, how are things, Volka dear?" she asked hesitantly, when her only
grandchild had made quick work of his supper.
     "Uh,  you see.. ."  he  said vaguely,  pulling off  his  polo shirt and
heading towards his room.
     His grandmother followed  him with a sorrowful and kindly gaze that was
full of  silent  sympathy. There  was  no  need  to  ask him any  questions.
Everything was all too clear.
     Volka sighed and got undressed.  Then he stretched  out under the clean
cool sheet. Still, he was restless.
     On  the night  table  near his  bed  lay  a  large, thick  volume in  a
brightly-coloured dust-cover. Volka's heart skipped  a beat.  Yes,  that was
it, the longed-for astronomy book!  On the frontispiece in a  large familiar
hand were the words:
     "To  Vladimir  Kostylkov,  the  Highly  Educated 7th-Grade  Student and
Acting Member of  the  Astronomy Club  of the Moscow Planetarium,  from  his
Loving Grandma."
     What a funny inscription! Grandma  always invented something funny. But
why didn't it make Volka smile? Oh, why didn't it! And imagine, he wasn't at
all happy to  have  finally received such a fascinating book, the one he had
wished  for for so  long. Grief  was eating  out his heart.  He felt a great
weight on his chest.... It was unbearable!
     "Grandma!" he shouted, turning away from the  book. "Grandma, would you
come here a minute?"
     "Well,  what do you want, mischief-maker?"  his  grandmother  answered,
pretending to be angry, but really pleased  that she'd have a chance to talk
to him before he  went to sleep. "Why, the Sandman can't even cope with you,
you astronomer! You night owl!"
     "Grandma," Volka whispered fervently, "close the door  and  come sit on
my bed. I have to tell you something terribly important."
     "Perhaps  we'd  better  put  off  such  an important conversation  till
morning," his grandmother  answered, though she was consumed with  curiosity
as to what it was all about.
     "No, right now. This  very minute. I ...  Grandma, I wasn't promoted, I
mean, I wasn't yet. I didn't pass the exam."
     "Did you fail?" his grandmother gasped.
     "No, I didn't fail. I didn't pass, but I didn't fail, either. I started
to  tell them what the ancients thought  about India, the horizon,  and  all
kinds of  things. Everything I said was right. But I just couldn't tell them
about the scientific point  of view. I began  to feel very  bad and  Varvara
Stepanovna said I should come back after I had had a good rest."
     Even now,  he could not bring himself to talk about Hottabych, not even
to  his  grandma. Anyway, she'd  never believe  him  and would  think he was
really ill.
     "At first, I  didn't want to say anything. I wanted to tell you after I
took the exam again, but I felt ashamed. D'you understand?"
     "What's  there to understand! A  person's  conscience is a great thing.
There's  nothing worse than doing something that's  against your conscience.
Now go to sleep, my dear astronomer!"
     "You can take the book back meanwhile," Volka  suggested in a trembling
voice.
     "Nonsense! And  where would I put it? Let's consider that I've given it
to you for safe-keeping for the time being. Go to sleep now, will you?"
     "Yes," Volka answered. A load had fallen from his chest. "And I promise
you,  upon my word of  honour,  that  I'll  get an  'A'  in geography. D'you
believe me?"
     "Certainly, I do. Now go to sleep and get strong. What about Father and
Mother? Shall I tell them, or will you tell them yourself?"
     "You'd better tell them."
     "Well,  good  night."  Grandma kissed him good  night,  turned off  the
light, and left the room.
     For some while  after, Volka lay in the darkness,  holding  his breath,
waiting  to  hear  his  grandma tell  his mother and  father  the sad  news.
However, he fell asleep before they came home.

        A RESTLESS NIGHT

     Before an hour passed, however, he was suddenly awakened by the ringing
of the telephone in the hall.
     His father answered the phone:
     "Hello. Yes. Who? Good evening, Varvara Stepanovna?... I'm  fine, thank
you. And you? ... Volka?  He's asleep.... I think he's quite well. He  had a
very  big supper...  .  Yes, I  know. He  told us.... I'm terribly surprised
myself....  Yes, that's probably the only  answer..  ,. Certainly, he should
rest a while, if  you have no objections.... Thank you very much.... Varvara
Stepanovna sends  you her regards,"  his  father  said  to his  mother. "She
wanted to know how Volka is. She said not to worry,  because they think very
highly of him, and she suggests he have a good rest."
     Volka strained  his  ears  listening  to what  his parents were talking
about, but unable to make anything  out, he  fell asleep. This time he slept
no longer than fifteen minutes. The telephone rang again.
     "Yes,  speaking," he  heard  his father's muffled voice. "Yes....  Good
evening.... What?... No, he's  not here.... Yes,  he's at home.... Certainly
he's at home.... That's quite all right.... Good-bye."
     "Who was it?" Volka's  mother called from  the kitchen.  "It was Zhenya
Bogorad's father. He sounded  very worried. Zhenya's not home yet. He wanted
to know whether he was here and if Volka was at home."
     "In my time," Grandma said, "only hussars came home this late, but when
a child...."
     Half  an hour later  the  ringing of the  telephone interrupted Volka's
sleep for the third time that troubled night. It was Zhenya's mother. He had
still not returned. She wanted them to ask Volka if he knew where he was.
     "Volka!" his father called, opening the door. "Zhenya's mother wants to
know where you saw him  last." "At the  movies this evening." "And after the
movie?" "I  didn't  see him after that."  "Did he  say  where  he  was going
afterwards?" "No."
     For a long, long time  after that,  Volka  waited for the grown-ups  to
stop talking about Zhenya's disappearance (he himself was not the least  bit
worried, since he was sure Zhenya had gone to  the  circus in the recreation
park to celebrate), but he fell asleep again before they did. This time till
morning.
     Soon there was a soft splash in the corner. Then the patter of wet bare
feet could be  heard.  Footprints appeared and quickly  dried on the  floor.
Someone invisible was silently pacing  the room, humming a plaintive Eastern
melody.
     The  footprints  headed towards  the  table  where  an  alarm clock was
ticking away.  There was the sound of lips smacking together  with pleasure.
Then the alarm clock floated into the air, and for a while it hung suspended
between the ceiling and  the floor.  Then  it  returned to the table and the
footprints headed towards the aquarium. Once again there was  a splash. Then
all was quiet.
     Late that night it began to rain. The raindrops pattered on the window,
they rustled  the  leaves of the trees  and gurgled in  the drain-pipes.  At
times  the rain  would die  down,  and  then one  could hear the large drops
falling into the rain barrel below with a  loud, ringing splash. Then, as if
having gathered its. strength, the rain would again pour down in torrents.
     Towards  morning,  when the  sky  was nearly clear  of clouds,  someone
tapped Volka lightly on the shoulder. He was sound asleep and did not waken.
Then, whoever it was who had tried to awaken him, sighed sadly, mumbled, and
shuffled  towards  the high stand with Volka's  aquarium. There was a  faint
splash. Once again a sleepy quiet fell on the room.

        THE UNUSUAL EVENTS IN APARTMENT 37

     Goga's mother  had not bought him a dog  after all. She had not had the
time to, and later on she never got  him one, for after the fantastic events
of  that  terrible evening, both  Goga and his  mother lost all  interest in
Man's oldest and truest friend.
     But Volka had clearly heard a dog barking m apartment 37. Could he have
been mistaken?
     No, he was not mistaken.
     And  yet, there had been  no dog  in apartment 37 that  evening. If you
want to  know, not so much  as  a dog's paw entered  their  house after that
evening.
     Truly, Volka had  no reason to be envious of Goga. There was nothing to
be envious of: it was Goga who had barked! It all began while he was washing
up for supper.  He was  very anxious to tell his mother a long and elaborate
story  about  how his classmate and  neighbour, Volka Kostylkov,  had made a
fool  of himself at the examination  that morning.  And it was then that  he
started  barking.  Goga  didn't  bark  all  the  time-some  words  were real
words-but instead of very many other ones, he was surprised and horrified to
hear a genuine dog's bark issue from his mouth.
     He wanted to say that Volka suddenly began to talk such nonsense at the
exam and that Varvara Stepanovna je-ee-st crashed her fist down on the table
and je-ee-st  screamed,  "What nonsense you're babbling, you fool!  Why, you
hooligan, I'll leave you back another term for this!"
     But this is what Goga said instead:
     "And  suddenly  Volka  je-ee-st  began  to bow-wow-wow ...  and Varvara
Stepanovna je-ee-st crashed her bow-wow-wow!"
     Goga was struck dumb with surprise. He was silent for a moment, then he
took a deep breath and tried  to repeat  the sentence. But instead of saying
the rude  words,  this little  liar and  tattle-tale  wanted  to  ascribe to
Varvara Stepanovna, he began to bark again.
     "Oh, Mummie!" he wailed. "Mummie dear!"
     "What's the matter with you, darling?" his mother asked anxiously. "You
look terrible!"
     "I wanted to say that bow-wow-wow.... Oh, Mummie, what's the matter?"
     Goga had really turned blue from fright.
     "Stop barking, dearest! Please stop, my darling, my sweet!"
     "I'm not doing it on purpose," Goga whined. "I only wanted to say...."
     And once again, instead of human speech, all he could do was to produce
an irritable bark.
     "Darling! My  pet, don't frighten me!"  his poor mother pleaded, as the
tears ran down her kind face. "Don't bark! I beg you, don't bark!"
     At this point Goga could think  of nothing better to  do than to become
angry at his mother. And since he was not used to choosing his words on such
occasions,  he began barking so fiercely that  someone shouted from the next
balcony:
     "Tell your boy to stop teasing that dog! It's  a shame!  You've spoiled
your child beyond all reason!"
     With the tears still  pouring down her cheeks, Goga's mother  rushed to
close the windows. Then she tried  to feel  Goga's forehead,  but  this only
brought on a new attack of angry barking.
     She finally put a completely frightened Goga to bed, wrapped  him up in
a  heavy quilt, though  it  was a  hot summer evening,  and ran down to  the
telephone booth to call an ambulance.
     Since she should not tell them  the truth, she  was  forced to say that
her son had a very high fever and was delirious.
     Soon a  doctor arrived. He  was a  stout, middle-aged  man with a  grey
moustache, many years of experience and an unruffled manner.
     The first  thing he  did,  naturally, was  to feel Goga's  forehead. He
discovered the boy had no fever at all. This made him angry, but  he did not
show it, since the boy's mother looked so terribly grief-stricken. He sighed
and sat down on a chair by the bed. Then he asked Goga's mother  to  explain
why she had called an ambulance instead of her regular doctor.
     She told him the truth.
     The  doctor  shrugged. He asked  her  to  repeat  her  story  from  the
beginning. Then  he shrugged again, thinking that if this  were really true,
she should have called a psychiatrist and not a general practitioner.
     "Perhaps you think you are a dog?" he asked Goga, as if casually.
     Goga shook his head.
     "Well,  that's something,"  the  doctor thought.  "At  least it isn't a
mania when people imagine they're dogs."
     Naturally, he did not say this aloud, so as not to frighten the patient
or his mother, but it was obvious that the doctor was feeling more cheerful.
     "Stick out your tongue," he said.
     Goga stuck out his tongue.
     "It's  a very normal-looking tongue. And now, young man, let  me listen
to your heart. Ah, an excellent heart.  His lungs are clear.  And how is his
stomach?" . "His stomach's fine," his mother said.
     "And has he been uh ... barking a long time?"
     "For over two hours. I just don't know what to do."
     "First of all, calm down. I don't see anything terrible yet. Now, young
man, won't you tell me how it all began?"
     "Well, it all began from nothing," Goga complained in a small voice. "I
was just telling my mother how Volka Kostylkov .bow-wow-wow."
     "You see, doctor?"  his mother  sobbed loudly. "It's terrible. Maybe he
needs some pills, or powders, or perhaps he needs a physic?"
     The doctor frowned.
     "Give me time  to  think, and I'll look through  my books. It's a  rare
case, a very rare case, indeed. Now, I want him to  have a complete rest, no
getting  off the bed, a light diet, just vegetables and  milk  products,  no
coffee or cocoa, weak tea  with milk, if desired. And by no means should  he
go out."
     "I couldn't drag him outside if  I  tried, he's so ashamed. .One of his
friends dropped in, and poor Goga barked so long and loud, I had a hard time
persuading the boy not to tell anyone about it. But don't you think he needs
a physic?"
     "Well, a physic can't hurt him," the doctor said thoughtfully.
     "And  what about mustard plasters  before he  goes to  bed?" she asked,
still sobbing.
     "That's not bad, either. Mustard plasters are always helpful."
     The doctor was about to pat Goga's head, but Pill, anticipating all the
bitter medicines he had  prescribed, barked so viciously that the old doctor
jerked his hand away, frightened lest the unpleasant boy really bite him.
     "By the way," he  said, gaining control over himself, "why are all  the
windows closed on such a hot day? The child needs fresh air."
     Goga's mother reluctantly explained why she had closed the windows.
     "Hm.... A  rare case,  a very rare  case, indeed!" the doctor repeated.
Then he  wrote  out a prescription and left, promising to come back the next
day.

        A NO LESS TROUBLED MORNING

     Morning dawned bright and beautiful.
     At 6:30 a.m. Grandma opened the door softly, tiptoed to the window  and
opened it wide. Cool, invigorating air rushed  into the room. This  was  the
beginning of  a  cheerful, noisy, busy  Moscow morning. But  Volka would not
have awakened had not his blanket slipped off the bed.
     The  first  thing  he did  was  to  feel the  bristles on his chin.  He
realized there was no way out. The situation was hopeless. There could be no
question  of his  going  out  to greet his parents  looking as  he  did.  He
snuggled under the blanket again and began to think of what to do.
     "Volka! Come on, Volka!  Get up!" he heard his father calling  from the
dining room. He pretended to be asleep and did not answer.  "I don't see how
anyone can sleep on a morning like this!"
     Then he heard his grandmother say:
     "Someone should make you take examinations, Alyosha, and  then wake you
up at the crack of dawn!"
     "Well, let him sleep then,"  his father grumbled. "But don't you worry,
he'll get up as soon as he's hungry."
     Was  it Volka who was supposed not to be hungry?! Why, he kept catching
himself  thinking about an omlette and a chunk of bread  more than about the
reddish bristle on  his  cheeks. But common sense triumphed over hunger, and
Volka remained in  bed until his father had left for work and his mother had
gone shopping.
     "Here goes,"  he decided,  hearing the outside door click  shut.  "I'll
tell Grandma everything. We'll think of something together."
     Volka stretched, yawned and headed toward the door. As he  was  passing
the aquarium, he glanced at it absently . .. and stopped dead in his tracks.
During the night, something had happened in  this small, four-cornered glass
reservoir,  a mysterious  event which could in no  way  be  explained from a
scientific point of view: yesterday, there were three fishes swimming around
inside, but this morning there were four. There was a new fish, a large, fat
goldfish which was waving  its  bright  red  fins  solemnly. When a startled
Volka looked at it  through the thick glass  wall he was nearly certain  the
fish winked at him slyly.
     "Gosh!" he mumbled, forgetting his beard for the moment.
     He stuck his hand into the water  to  catch the mysterious fish, and it
seemed that this was just what it was waiting for. The fish slapped its tail
against the water, jumped out of the aquarium and turned into Hottabych.
     "Whew!" the  old man said, shaking  off the water and wiping his  beard
with a magnificent towel embroidered with gold and silver roosters which had
appeared from thin air. "I've been waiting to offer my respects all morning,
but you wouldn't wake up and I  didn't have the heart to waken you. So I had
to  spend  the  night with  these pretty  fishes,  0 most  happy  Volka  ibn
Alyosha!"
     "Aren't  you ashamed  of  yourself for  making fun of  me!" Volka  said
angrily. "It's really a poor joke to call a boy with a beard happy!"

        WHY S. S. PIYORAKI BECAME LESS TALKATIVE

     This wonderful morning Stepan Stepanych Pivoraki decided to combine two
joys at once. He decided to shave, while taking  in the picturesque  view of
the Moskva River. He moved the little table with his shaving things close to
the window and began to lather his cheeks  as he  hummed  a merry tune. We'd
like to pause here and say a few words about our new acquaintance.
     Pivoraki was a very talkative man, a trait which often made him, though
he was actually no fool and very well read, extremely tiresome, even  to his
best friends.
     On the whole, however,  he was a nice person  and a great master of his
trade-which was pattern-making.
     When he had  finished lathering his cheeks, Stepan Stepanych  picked up
his razor,  drew it back and forth over his  palm, and  then began to  shave
with the greatest ease and skill. When he had finished  shaving,  he sprayed
some "Magnolia" cologne  on his face and then began to wipe his razor clean.
Suddenly,  an  old  man  in a white  suit and  gold-embroidered,  petal-pink
morocco slippers with queer turned-up toes appeared beside him.
     "Are you  a barber?" the old man asked a flabbergasted Stepan Stepanych
in a stern voice.
     "No, I'm not a professional barber. However,  on the other hand, I  can
truthfully say I am a barber, because,  while I  am not actually a barber, I
am a match  for any professional barber, for not a  single  barber can outdo
me. And do you know why? Because, while a professional barber...."
     The old man interrupted the chattering Pivoraki rudely:
     "Can you,  0 unnecessarily talkative barber, shave a young man well and
without cutting  him once, although you are not even  worthy of  kissing the
dust beneath his feet?"
     "As to the essence of your question, I would say...."
     He was about  to  continue his speech, but  here  the old  man silently
gathered  up  his  shaving  equipment, took  Stepan Stepanych, who was still
going  a mile  a minute, by the scruff of his neck and, without further ado,
flew out the window with him, headed for parts unknown.
     Soon they flew into a familiar room, where Volka Kostylkov sat sadly on
his bed, moaning every time he looked at himself and his bristly chin in the
mirror.
     "Happiness and luck accompany  you in all your undertakings, 0 my young
master!" Hottabych  announced triumphantly, still holding on to  the kicking
Stepan Stepanych. "I was about  to despair of ever finding you a barber when
I suddenly came upon  this unusually talkative man, and I brought him  along
to  this room beneath the blessed roof of your house. Here he is before you,
with everything necessary for shaving. And now," he said to Pivoraki who was
gaping  at  the bristly boy,  "lay out your  tools  properly and shave  this
honourable youth  so that his cheeks become as smooth  as those  of a  young
maiden."
     Pivoraki  stopped struggling. The razor glistened in his  skilled  hand
and a few minutes later Volka was excellently shaved.
     "Now  put away your tools," the old  man  said.  "I'll fly over for you
again early tomorrow morning, and you'll shave this youth once more."
     "I can't come tomorrow,"  Pivoraki objected in a tired  voice. "I'm  in
the morning shift tomorrow."
     "That doesn't  concern  me in  the  least," Hottabych replied  icily. A
heavy  silence fell on  the room.  Suddenly, Stepan  Stepanych had  a bright
idea.
     "Why don't you try a Tbilisi preparation? It's an excellent remedy."
     "Is  that  some  kind of a  powder?" Volka  interrupted.  "Isn't that a
greyish powder? I heard about it, or read something about it...."
     "Yes, that's it! A greyish powder!" Pivoraki cried happily. "It's  made
in Georgia, a wonderful and sunny land. I personally am crazy about Georgia.
I've travelled back and  forth across all the roads in the country during my
many vacations. Sukhumi, Tbilisi, Kutaisi... . There's no better place for a
rest! From the bottom  of my  heart and  from  my own  experience, I  highly
recommend that  you visit.... Pardon  me, I  seem  to  have drifted  off the
point. Anyway, getting back to the powder.... All you have to do is apply it
to  your  cheeks,  and  the  heaviest  beard  disappears  without  a  trace.
Naturally, it'll grow back again after a while."
     "It won't grow back in my young friend's case," Hottabych interrupted.
     "Are you positive?"
     Hottabych assumed a haughty expression and said nothing. He  considered
it beneath his dignity to take a lowly barber into his confidence.
     A  short  minute later,  an  old  man wearing  an  old-fashioned  straw
-boater,  a white linen suit and  pink morocco  slippers with turned-up toes
was seen in the locker room of a local bath-house in Tbilisi.
     Without  bothering to  get  undressed, he entered  the steam  room. The
smell  of sulphur stung his nostrils, but this  was to be expected, as these
were  the famous  Tbilisi sulphur baths.  However,  a  person  entering  the
crowded, steam-filled room fully dressed could not but attract the attention
of the other patrons.
     Curious  eyes  followed  him  as  he slowly  made  his  way  towards  a
bright-eyed attendant. He halted  within a few steps of the attendant, whose
name was Vano, and began to remove his linen coat with an unhurried gesture.
     "Genatsvale"  (A  friendly  form  of  address  (Georgian).,  Vano  said
affably,  "you are supposed to. get  undressed in the  locker room. This  is
where you wash."
     The old  man smirked. He had  no intention of washing. It was just that
he felt a bit warm with his coat on.
     "Come over here!" he said to Vano and fanned himself languidly with his
hat. "But hurry, if you value your life."
     The attendant smiled pleasantly.
     "Genatsvale, on such a lovely  morning one values one's  life more than
ever. What would you like, Grandfather?"
     The old man addressed him in a stern voice:
     "Tell me nothing but the truth, 0 bath  attendant. Are these really the
very famous Tbilisi Baths, of which I've heard so much worthy of amazement?"
     "Yes, they're the  very same  ones,"  Vano  said with  pride.  "You can
travel all over the world,  but you'll  never find  another bath-house  like
this. I take it you're a stranger here."
     The haughty old man let the question go unanswered.
     "Well,  if  these are the very same  baths  I've been looking for,  why
don't  I see  any of that  truly magic salve  which people  who know and are
worthy of trust say removes human hair without a trace?"
     "Ah, so that's what it's all about!" Vano cried happily. "You want some
'taro.' You should have said so right away."
     "All right, if it's called 'taro,' then bring me some 'taro,' but hurry
if you...."
     "I know, I know: if I value my life. I'm off!"
     The  experienced  bath attendant had  met many a queer character in his
life and he knew that the wisest thing to do was never to argue.
     He returned with a clay  bowl  filled with something that  looked  like
ashes.
     "Here," he said, panting heavily as he handed the old man the bowl. "No
place  in the  world will you find such a wonderful powder. You can take the
word of a bath-house attendant!"
     The old man's face turned purple with rage.
     "You're making a  fool  of me,  0  most  despicable of  all  bath-house
attendants!" he said in a voice terrible in all its  softness. "You promised
to bring  me a wonderful  salve, but like a  marketplace crook, you  want to
pass off an old dish of powder the colour of a sick mouse!"
     The old man snorted so loudly that the entire contents of the bowl rose
in a cloud and settled  on  his hair, eyebrows, moustache and beard,  but he
was too furious to bother shaking it off.
     "You  shouldn't  be so angry, Genatsvale," the attendant laughed. "Just
add some water and you'll have the salve you longed for."
     The   old   man  realized  he  was  shouting  for  nothing  and  became
embarrassed.
     "It's  hot," he mumbled in some confusion.  "May this tiring heat be no
more!" and he added very  softly:  "and while  my beard is wet, may my magic
powers remain in my fingers.... And so, may this tiresome heat be no more!"
     "I'm  sorry,  but  that's something  I've no power over," Vano said and
shrugged.
     "But  I  have,"  Hottabych (naturally,  it  was  he)  muttered  through
clenched teeth and snapped the fingers of his left hand.
     The attendant gasped. And no wonder: he felt  an  icy chill coming from
where the strange  old  man stood; the  wet floor became covered with a thin
sheet of ice and clouds of hot steam from the entire room were drawn towards
the  cold pole which had formed  over Hottabych's head; there,  they  turned
into rain clouds and came down in a drizzle over his head.
     "This is much better," he said with pleasure. "Nothing is so refreshing
as a cool shower on a hot day."
     After  enjoying  this  both  unnatural  and natural  shower for  a  few
minutes, he  snapped the  fingers of his right hand. The current of cold air
was  cut  off immediately,  while the ice melted. Once  again clouds  of hot
steam filled the room.
     "And so," Hottabych said, pleased at the impression these unaccountable
changes of temperature had made on the other patrons, "and so, let us return
to the  'taro.' I  am  inclined to believe that the powder will really  turn
into the salve I have come in search of if one adds  water to it. I want you
to bring me a  barrel of this marvellous potion, for I do not have much time
at my disposal."
     "A barrel?!"
     "Even two."
     "Oh, Genatsvdle! One bowl-full  will be more than  enough for even  the
heaviest beard!"
     "All right then, bring me five bowls of it."
     "In  a second!" Vano said,  disappearing  into  an  adjoining room.  He
reappeared in a moment  with a heavy bottle  stopped with a cork. "There are
at least twenty portions here. Good luck."
     "Beware, 0  bath attendant, for I'd not wish anyone to be in your boots
if you have tricked me!"
     "How  could you even think of such  a thing,"  Vano protested. "Would I
ever dare trick such a respectable old man as you! Why, I would never...."
     He  stood  there and gaped, for  the  amazing,  quarrelsome old man had
suddenly disappeared into thin air.
     Exactly a minute later, a bald old man without eyebrows, a moustache or
a beard and dressed in a straw boater, a linen  suit  and pink slippers with
turned-up  toes  touched Volka  Kostylkov's  shoulder as the boy  was  sadly
devouring a huge piece of jam tart.
     Volka turned round, looked at him, and nearly  choked on  the  cake  in
amazement.
     "Dear Hottabych, what's happened to you?"
     Hottabych looked at himself in the  wall mirror  and forced a laugh. "I
suppose it  would be  exaggerating things to say I  look  handsome.  You may
consider me  punished for lack of trust  and  you  won't be wrong. I snorted
when I was  kind-heartedly offered a bowl  of  'taro' powder in that far-off
bath-house. The powder settled on my eyebrows, moustache and beard. The rain
which  I called  forth in  that justly famous place turned  the powder  into
mush, and the rain I was  caught in on the way back to Moscow washed off the
mush  together with my beard, moustache, and eyebrows. But don't worry about
my appearance.  Let's  better  worry  about yours." Then  he  sprinkled some
powder into a plate.
     When Volka's beard and  moustache were  disposed  of, Hottabych snapped
the fingers of his left hand and once again assumed his previous appearance.
     Now  he  looked at himself  in  the mirror with true  satisfaction.  He
stroked his recovered beard and  twisted the ends of his moustache jauntily.
Then he passed his hand over his hair, smoothed his eyebrows and sighed with
relief.
     "Excellent ! Now both our faces are back to normal again."
     As  concerns Stepan Stepanych Pivoraki, who will  never again appear on
the pages of our extremely truthful story, it is a known fact that he became
a changed man after the events described above. Why, it seems only yesterday
that his friends,  who suffered so  acutely  from his  talkativeness,  named
every chatter-box "Pivoraki." However, he has now become so sparing with his
words, weighing each one carefully beforehand,  that it is a  joy to talk to
him and listen to him speak at meetings.
     Just think what an effect this incident had on him!

        AN INTERVIEW WITH A DIVER

     Zhenya Bogorad's parents were up all night. They  telephoned  all their
friends and, taking a cab, made the  rounds of every militia station in  the
city, and of every  hospital. They even  stopped off at the  criminal court,
but all to no avail. Zhenya had disappeared without a trace.
     The following morning  the  principal of the school  called in Zhenya's
classmates, including Volka, and questioned each one.
     Volka  told the principal  about meeting Zhenya at the movies the night
before, though he quite naturally said  nothing about his beard. The boy who
sat next to  Zhenya in class recalled that he had seen him on Pushkin Street
close to six o'clock the previous  evening, that he was in high  spirits and
was rushing to the movies.  Other children said the same, but this was of no
help.
     Suddenly, one boy remembered Zhenya said he wanted to go swimming too.
     In half an hour's time  every volunteer  life  guard in  the  city  was
searching for Zhenya Bogorad's  body. The river  was dragged within the city
limits, but yielded  nothing. Divers traversed  the entire river-bed, paying
special attention to holes and depressions, but they, too, found nothing.
     The fiery blaze  of sunset was slowly sinking beyond the river, a faint
breeze carried the low sounds of a siren from the recreation park,  a signal
that the second act of the evening's play at the summer theatre was about to
begin, but the dark  silhouettes of the river  boats  could still be seen on
the water. The search was still on.
     This  cool, quiet  evening  Volka  was  too  restless to  sit at  home.
Terrifying thoughts of  Zhenya's fate gave  him  no peace. He  decided to go
back  to school, perhaps there  was some news there. As  he  was leaving the
school  yard,  Hottabych  joined him silently  at the gate,  appearing  from
nowhere at  all. The old man  saw Volka was upset, yet he was too tactful to
annoy  him with his questions. Thus, they continued on in silence, each lost
in his own thoughts. Soon they were walking down the wide granite embankment
of the Moskva River.
     "What  kind of  strange-headed  people  are  standing  in  those  frail
vessels?" the old man asked, pointing to the river boats.
     "Those are divers," Volka answered sadly.
     "Peace be  with you, 0 noble  diver," Hottabych said  grandly to one of
the divers climbing out of a boat near the bank. "What are you searching for
on the bottom of this beautiful river?"
     "A boy drowned," the  diver answered  and hurried  up the steps  of the
first-aid station.
     "I have no more questions, 0 highly respected diver," Hottabych said to
his disappearing back.
     Then he returned to Volka, bowed low and exclaimed:
     "I kiss the ground beneath your feet, 0 most noble student of Secondary
School No. 245!"
     "Huh?" Volka started, shaken from his unhappy thoughts.
     "Am I correct  in  understanding that this  diver is searching for  the
youth who has the great honour of being your classmate?"
     Volka nodded silently and heaved a great sigh.
     "Is  he  round  of face,  sturdy of body, snub of nose  and sporting  a
haircut unbecoming to a boy?"
     "Yes, that was Zhenya. He  had a haircut like a real dandy," Volka said
and sighed heavily again.
     "Did we see him in the movies? Was it he who shouted something  to  you
and made you sad, because he'd tell everyone you had such a beard?"
     "Yes. How did you know what I was thinking then?"
     "Because  that's  what  you mumbled  when  you  tried to  conceal  your
honourable and most beautiful face from  him," the old man continued. "Don't
fear, he won't tell!"
     "That's not true!"  Volka said angrily. "That doesn't bother me at all.
On the contrary, I'm sad because Zhenya drowned."
     Hottabych smirked triumphantly.
     "He didn't drown!"
     "What do you mean? How d'you know he didn't drown?"
     "Certainly I am the one to  know," Hottabych said. "I lay  in  wait for
him near the first row in the dark room and I said to myself in great anger,
'No,  you will  tell nothing, 0 Zhenya! Nothing which is unpleasant  to your
great, wise  friend Volka ibn Alyosha, for never  again will  you see anyone
who will believe you or will be interested in such news!' That's what I said
to myself as I tossed him far away to the  East, right to where  the edge of
the Earth meets the edge of the Heavens and where, I assume,  he has already
been  sold into slavery. There he can tell  whomever he  wants to about your
beard."

        CHARTING A FLIGHT

     "What do  you  mean-slavery?!  Sell Zhenya  Bogorad  into slavery?!"  a
shaken Volka asked.
     The old man saw that something had gone wrong again, an his face became
very sour.
     "It's very simple. It's quite usual. Just like they always  sell people
into slavery," he mumbled, rubbing his hands together nervously and avoiding
Volka's eyes. "That's  so he won't babble for nothing, 0 most pleasant  dope
in the world."
     The old man was very pleased at having been able to put the new word he
had learned from Volka the night before into the conversation. But his young
saviour was  so  upset by  the  terrible  news  that  he  really didn't  pay
attention to having been called dope for nothing.
     "That's horrible!" Volka  cried,  holding  his head. "Hottabych,  d'you
realize what you've done?"
     "Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab always realizes what he does!"
     "Like hell you  do! For no reason  at  all, you're  ready  to turn good
people into sparrows  or  sell  them  into slavery.  Bring Zhenya back  here
immediately!"
     "No!" Hottabych shook his head. "Don't demand the impossible of me!"
     "But  do you  find it possible to sell people into slavery? Golly,  you
can't even imagine what I'll do if you don't bring Zhenya right back!"
     To  tell the  truth, Volka himself  had no  idea what he could do -s to
save  Zhenya from  the clutches  of unknown slave dealers, but he would have
thought of something. He would have written to some  ministry or  other. But
which ministry? And what was he to say?
     By now  the readers of this  book know Volka  well enough to agree that
he's  no  cry-baby.  But  this  was  too  much,  even  for  Volka. Yes,  our
courageous, fearless Volka sat  down on the edge of the first bench  he came
upon and broke into tears of helpless rage.
     The old man asked anxiously:
     "What is the meaning of  this crying that has overcome  you? Answer me,
and do not tear my heart apart, 0 my young saviour."
     But Volka, regarding the old man with hate-filled eyes;
     pushed him away as he leaned over him with concern.
     Hottabych  looked  at  Volka  closely,   sucked  his  lips   and   said
thoughtfully:
     "I'm really amazed.  No  matter what I do, it just doesn't seem to make
you happy. Though I'm  trying  my best to please you, all my efforts  are in
vain. The most powerful potentates of the  East and  West would often appeal
to my magic powers, and  there was not  a  single one among them who was not
grateful  to me later and did not glorify my name in words and thoughts. And
look at me now! I'm  trying to understand what's  wrong, but I cannot. Is it
senility? Ah, I'm getting old!"
     "Oh no, no, Hottabych, you  still look very young," Volka  said through
his tears.
     And true enough, the old man was well preserved for being close on four
thousand years of age. No one would have ever given him more than seventy or
seventy-five. Any of our readers would have looked much older at his age.
     "You flatter me," Hottabych smiled and  added: "No, it is not within my
powers to return your friend Zhenya immediately."
     Volka's face turned ashen from grief.
     "But," the old man continued significantly, "if his absence  upsets you
so, we can fly over and fetch him."
     "Fly?! So far away? How?"
     "How?  Not  on  a   bird,  of  course,"  Hottabych  answered  craftily.
"Obviously, on a magic carpet, 0 greatest dope in the world."
     This time Volka noticed  that he had been called  such an  unflattering
name. "Whom did you call a dope?!" he flared.
     "Why, you, of course, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha, for you are wise beyond your
years," Hottabych replied, being extremely pleased that he was again able to
use his new word so successfully in a conversation.
     Volka was about to  feel offended.  However, he  blushed as he recalled
that he had no one to blame but himself. Avoiding the old man's honest eyes,
he asked him never again to call him a dope, for he was not worthy of such a
great honour.
     "I praise your modesty,  0 priceless Volka ibn Alyosha," Hottabych said
with great respect.
     "When  can  we  start?"  Volka  asked,  still  unable  to  overcome his
embarrassment.
     "Right now, if you wish."
     "Then let's be off!" However, he added anxiously, "I don't know what to
do about Father  and  Mother.  They'll worry if  I fly away without  telling
them, but if I tell them, they won't let me go."
     "Let it worry you no more," the old man  said. "I'll  cast  a spell  on
them and they won't think of you once during our absence."
     "You don't know my parents!"
     "And you don't know Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab!"


        THE FLIGHT

     In  one  corner  of the magic  carpet th