hen he smiled.
     "It's  wonderful!" Hottabych  whispered  enviously. "What's wonderful?"
Volka asked, clapping as loud as he could.
     "It's  wonderful to  see  a person  who  has  gold teeth growing in his
mouth."
     "You think so?" Volka asked absently as he watched the first trick.
     "I  am  positive," Hottabych replied.  "It's  very beautiful  and  rich
looking."
     Sidorelli completed the trick.
     "Did  you see that?" Volka asked  Zhenya proudly, as if he  himself had
done the trick.
     "It was swell!" Zhenya answered. Volka gasped: Zhenya now had  two rows
of gold teeth in his mouth.
     "Volka! Oh, Volka!" Zhenya whispered in a frightened voice. "I want  to
tell you something-but don't get scared. All your teeth are made of gold."
     "It's all Hottabych's doing, I know," Volka said dejectedly.
     And  true  enough,   the  old  man,  who  was  listening  in  on  their
conversation, nodded and smiled guilelessly. Then they saw that he, too, had
two rows of large, even gold teeth.
     "Even Sulayman, the Son of David (peace be on the holy twain!), did not
have such a luxurious mouth!" he boasted. "But don't bother  thanking me.  I
assure you that you are both worthy of this small surprise."
     "Don't worry, we're in no rush to thank you!" Zhenya muttered.
     Volka was afraid the old man might get angry and he tugged his friend's
sleeve. Zhenya said no more.
     "You  see, Hottabych,"  be  began  diplomatically,  "it'll  be  awfully
obvious if all three of us sitting in a row have gold  teeth. Everybody will
look at us, and we'll feel embarrassed."
     "I won't be embarrassed in the least," Hottabych said.
     "But still, we  won't feel right. There won't be any pleasure in  being
at the circus."
     "So?"
     "Well,  we wanted to ask you to make our teeth plain bone again till we
get home."
     "I am perfectly awed by  your modesty, 0 my young friends!" the old man
said in a somewhat hurt voice.
     It was a relief to feel  that  once  again they had  their own teeth in
their mouths.
     "Will  they  turn  gold  again  when  we  get  home?"  Zhenya whispered
anxiously.
     "Never mind, we'll find out later. Maybe the old man will  forget about
them."
     Once   again  Volka  became  absorbed   watching  Afanasy   Sidorelli's
breath-taking magic. He applauded together with the rest when the man pulled
a pigeon, a hen, and, finally, a  bouncy, fluffy  white poodle from an empty
box.
     There was only one man present who showed no sign of appreciation as he
watched the magician. This was Hottabych.
     He felt very hurt, because everyone was applauding the magician for all
sorts of trifles, while he,  who had  performed such wonderful miracles from
the time he had been liberated from the vessel, had not even heard a  single
sincere word of praise, let alone been applauded.
     That  is  why, when the tent was once  again filled with  applause  and
Sidorelli began bowing to all sides,  Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab grunted
irritably and,  despite the protests of those sitting in front, proceeded to
climb  over them down  to the  arena. An approving murmur passed through the
crowd  and a stout man  said to his  neighbour: "I told you that the old man
was one of them.  You can tell he's a very experienced clown. Look how funny
he is. Sometimes they sit in with the audience on purpose."
     Fortunately  for the man, Hottabych heard nothing of what 'he said,  as
he was  engrossed in watching the magician. Sidorelli was about to begin his
most difficult trick.
     First of all, the famous illusionist set fire  to several long coloured
ribbons and stuffed them into his mouth. Then he picked up a large, brightly
coloured bowl filled with something that looked like sawdust. He stuffed his
mouth full of the sawdust  and began to fan himself quickly with a beautiful
green fan.  The sawdust in his mouth began to smoulder. Then a wisp of smoke
appeared  and,  finally,  when  the  lights  were turned  out,  everyone saw
thousands  of sparks and even a small flame shoot from the famous magician's
mouth.
     Then,  amidst  a  storm of applause  and  shouts of Bravo!  Hottabych's
indignant voice could be heard.
     "It's  a fake!" he shouted at the top of  his  lungs. "That's no magic!
It's simple sleight-of-hand!"
     "Isn't he something!" someone shouted.
     "A  wonderful  clown! Bravo, clown!" And everyone  present except Volka
and his friend applauded Hottabych enthusiastically.
     The old man did not understand which clown they were shouting about. He
waited for the applause he had inspired to die down and continued acidly:
     "What kind of magic is that! Ha, ha, ha!"
     He  shoved  the  thunderstruck  magician aside.  To begin with, fifteen
tremendous multi-coloured flames shot from his mouth; they were so real that
a smell of burning filled the circus.
     The  applause was  balm  to Hottabych's  heart.  Then  he  snapped  his
fingers, and instead of one large Sidorelli, seventy-two tiny Sidorellis ran
off in single file along the barrier surrounding the arena. After completing
several circles, they blended into one  large Sidorelli  again, just as tiny
drops of mercury roll together to form a large drop.
     "That's not  all!" Hottabych thundered  in a  voice that was no  longer
human.  He was excited  by the admiration he had aroused,  and began to draw
forth herds of horses from under the flaps of his jacket.
     The  horses whinnied with fear, they pawed the  ground and tossed their
heads, making their lovely silken manes blow. Then, at a signal from the old
man, the  horses  disappeared. Instead, four  huge,  roaring  African  lions
jumped out from under his  jacket. They raced around the arena several times
and also disappeared.
     There was an unending storm of applause from that moment on.
     Hottabych waved his hand and everything on the arena- Sidorelli and his
assistants, and his various  props, and the elegant uniformed attendants-all
shot into the air, completed several farewell circles  over the heads of the
astounded audience, and dissolved into nothing.
     Suddenly and from nowhere, a  huge African elephant with sly, twinkling
eyes appeared on the arena. On its back was an  elephant of smaller size; on
the second was a  third, still smaller; on the third  was a fourth. . .  the
seventh and smallest of all stood right under the top of the tent and was no
bigger than a dog.
     They trumpeted in unison, their trunks raised on high; then all flapped
their ears like wings and flew off.
     The  band  of  thirty-three  musicians-all  shouting  happily- suddenly
became a single ball; it rolled down  from the  bandstand into the arena and
along the barrier, getting smaller and smaller until it was no larger than a
pea. Then Hottabych picked it up, put  it in his right ear, and the  muffled
sounds of a march could be heard coming from within.

     The old man was really bouncing up and down from excitement. He snapped
all  ten fingers at once  and in a very special way,  and  everyone  present
began to shoot up from their  seats, one at a time,  and disappear far under
the big top.
     Finally, only three people remained in the empty circus: Hottabych, who
had  wearily  sat  down to  rest  on the barrier,  and the two boys, who had
rushed down to him from the last row.
     "Well,  how was  it?" Hottabych asked  limply,  raising his  head  with
difficulty and  looking  at the boys from strangely glazed  eyes. "That's no
Sidorelli for you, is it?"
     "He's certainly no  match for  you," Volka  replied,  winking at Zhenya
angrily, because his friend kept trying to ask the old man something.
     "I can't stand fakers," Hottabych muttered  with unexpected bitterness.
"To pass off simple sleight-of-hand for miracles! And in my presence!"
     "But he didn't know a  wise and mighty Genie was present here,"  Zhenya
put in a word for the magician. "And anyway, he didn't say he was performing
miracles. In fact, he didn't say anything at all."
     "It says so there. It says so in the programme.  You heard  me read it:
'Miracles of Illusion.' "
     "Well, but of illusion, il-lu-sion! Don't you understand?"
     "How they applauded me!" the old man recalled delightedly.  "But you, 0
Volka, have never applauded nor  even approved of me. No,  I'm wrong.  There
was one occasion. But  it was on  account of some very simple magic. I don't
even consider it magic.
     And that evil Varvara Stepanovna is blame. It was she who taught you to
scorn  my gifts! Do not  argue, 0 my  young friends! It was she, it was she!
Such  wonderful  palaces!  Such a lovely little  caravan! Such  devoted  and
healthy slaves! Such excellent camels! And  it was all because of that  evil
Varvara Ste..." but  here, luckily  for the  teacher  and our young friends,
Hottabych's gaze  fell  on  a  long banner hanging  over the bandstand.  His
glazed  eyes,  once  again took on an  intelligent expression; a weak  smile
appeared on his face and, with the satisfaction of one who  has just learned
to read, he pronounced aloud:
     "De-ar child-ren! Con-gra-tu-la-tions  on fi-ni-shing the sch-ool term.
We wish you...."
     The old man fell silent  and closed his eyes.  It seemed as if he  were
about to lose consciousness.
     "Could you bring everyone back to  their seats?" Volka asked anxiously.
"Hottabych, can  you hear me? D'you hear  me?  Can you make everything as it
was before? I bet it's very hard to do, isn't it?"
     "No, not at  all. I mean, it's not hard for me to do at all," Hottabych
answered in a barely audible whisper.
     "I don't think even you can do it," Volka said craftily.
     "Yes, I can, but I feel very tired."
     "See, that's what I said! You can't do it."
     At this, Hottabych rose up  with a sigh. He  yanked thirteen hairs from
his beard, tore them to bits, and shouted a strange and very long word. Then
he sank down onto the sawdust covering the floor. From high under the circus
tent enraptured people came whizzing  down, and each one to  his  own  seat.
Sidorelli and his assistants, the props and the uniformed attendants, headed
by the imposing ring-master, appeared on the arena as from under the ground.
     Flapping  their  ears loudly, all seven African  elephants came  flying
back.  They  landed and formed  a pyramid again, only this time the smallest
one was on the bottom and the big one with the twinkling eyes on  top, right
under  the roof. Then  the pyramid they  formed fell apart and  they  rushed
around the arena in single file, getting smaller and smaller until they were
no bigger than the head of a pin; finally, they got lost in the sawdust.
     The orchestra rolled out of Hottabych's right ear like a pea;
     it mushroomed into a huge pile of laughing people and, contrary  to the
law of  gravity, rolled upwards to  the bandstand, where  it fell apart into
thirty-three men. They took their seats and began to play a march.
     "Let  me  through,  please!  Let  me  through!"  a thin  man  in  large
horn-rimmed glasses  said, as he  made  his way  through  the excited  crowd
standing around Hottabych.  "Won't  you be  so  kind as to  drop in  at  the
manager's office? He'd like to talk to you about performing in Moscow and on
a road tour," he said deferentially.
     "Leave the  old  man  alone," Volka  told him unhappily. "Can't you see
he's sick? He's got a high fever!"
     And true enough, Hottabych was really burning up. He had got  sick from
eating too much ice-cream.

        A HOSPITAL UNDER THE BED

     He who has never had to take care of a sick Genie cannot imagine what a
tiring and bothersome affair it is.
     First of all, there arises the question of where to keep him. You can't
put  him  in a  hospital, and  there's no question of  keeping him in bed at
home, where everyone can see him.
     Then again, how does one cure a  Genie? Modern medicine  is useful when
one deals with people, not fairy-tale magicians.
     And, finally, can people catch Genies' diseases?
     The boys discussed these problems at great length  as they rode home in
a cab with a delirious Hottabych.
     They came to the following decisions:
     1. They would not take him to a hospital,  but keep him  as comfortable
as possible under  Volka's bed, suggesting first that, for safety's sake, he
become invisible.
     2. They would treat him  as they  would  a person who had a  cold. They
would give him aspirin  and tea with raspberry jam before going to sleep  to
make him perspire.
     3. Genies' diseases could not possibly be catching.
     Fortunately, no one was at home. They made Hottabych comfortable in his
usual place under Volka's bed.
     Zhenya ran off to buy some aspirins and raspberry jam, while Volka went
to the kitchen to make some tea.
     "Well,  tea's  ready!"  he said cheerfully,  entering the  room with  a
boiling kettle. "Let's have some tea, Hottabych. Hm?"
     There was no answer.
     "He's  dead," Volka gasped and suddenly, despite all the unpleasantness
Hottabych had  caused him, he felt he would  miss the old man terribly if he
died. "Dear, dear Hottabych!" he babbled, crawling under the bed.
     The old man was not there.
     "What a crazy old man!" Volka  said angrily,  forgetting all his tender
feelings. "He was here a moment ago, and now he's disappeared!"
     There is no telling what bitter  words Volka would have added if Zhenya
had  not then dashed into the room, dragging  a balky Hottabych  behind. The
old man was mumbling something.
     "What a nut! You  can't imagine what a nut he is!" Zhenya shouted as he
helped Volka settle Hottabych under  the bed again. "I was coming  back from
the shop  and there he was,  standing  on  the  corner with a sack of  gold,
trying to hand it  out to passers-by. I asked him, 'What are you  doing here
with a high fever?' And he said, 'I feel my days are counted. I want to hand
out alms on this occasion.' And I said, 'You're nuts! Whom are you  going to
give alms to?  Did you see any  beggars here?' And  he  said, 'If that's the
case, I'll go back home.' So I dragged him back. You  just lie still and get
well! There's no use rushing death!"
     They gave Hottabych a mouthful of  aspirins, then fed him the whole jar
of raspberry jam with tea, and bundled him up tightly to make him perspire.
     For a while, the old man lay there quietly. Suddenly, he began to fuss,
trying to get up. He said he was going to Sulayman, the Son of David, to ask
forgiveness for some  long-forgotten  ill deeds. Then he  began  to cry  and
asked Volka to run down  to the  Mediterranean Sea and the Indian  Ocean and
find a copper vessel on the bottom in  which his dear brother  Omar Asaf ibn
Hottab was imprisoned. He wanted Volka to free him and bring him back home.
     "We'd all  live so  happily here!" he mumbled deliriously with.  bitter
tears pouring down his cheeks.
     Half an hour later  the old man  came to his  senses and said in a weak
voice from under the bed:
     "Oh, my young  friends, you cannot  imagine how grateful I  am for your
love and  precious attention! Will you please  do me a  last favour: bind my
hands  tightly, because I'm afraid I might do such  magic  while unconscious
that I'll never be able to undo it later."
     They tied him up and he immediately fell soundly asleep.
     Next morning Hottabych awoke in the prime of health.
     "That's what  medical attention administered  in  time can  do!" Zhenya
said  with satisfaction. Then  and there he decided to be a doctor  when  he
grew up.

        ONE IN WHICH WE RETURN TO THE BARKING BOY

     To tell the truth, each time  Volka thought of Goga, he became terribly
envious.  If  he  was at home  or on  the  stairs, or  downstairs  near  the
entrance, it was difficult not to think of Goga:
     ever  so  often  a teasing,  wonderful,  marvellous  barking  could  be
heard-even through closed doors and closed windows.
     It was most strange, however, that Goga did not come  outside. No other
boy  in his place  could ever have  been  able to stay  away so long and not
boast to his friends about his real, pure-breed puppy. And Goga, especially,
would have gloated to see the children so envious.
     There was something strange about it all. Finally, Volka could not keep
from  asking  Goga's  mother  what  the  matter  was.  She  became  terribly
embarrassed and mumbled something about  her dear  boy being sick.  Then she
rushed off.
     "Wait  a minute!" Volka  pleaded. "Can I ask  you something?  Just  one
question?"
     Goga's mother stopped reluctantly.
     "Can you just tell me if it's an Alsatian? Is it?"
     "What Alsatian?" the poor woman shrugged.
     "The  puppy you gave  Goga. You  know, the one that's barking. Is it an
Alsatian or a Boxer?"
     "Goodness, what nonsense!" she sighed and disappeared quickly  into her
apartment.
     As if for spite, a high-pitched angry barking issued forth.
     It was all very mysterious.
     Just then Hottabych,  who  was lying in  his usual  place under Volka's
bed, asked casually:
     "I wonder how your enemy named Pill is getting on?"
     He  yearned to boast  about the  cunning spell  he  had cast on him and
share with Volka his delight in the trouble Goga was deservedly having.
     "No  one  but I  can ever break the spell,"  he thought.  "I  can  just
imagine how the most greatly-respected Volka ibn Alyosha will be pleased and
how amazed he will be at the endless variety of my powers."
     "Pill?" Volka repeated  absently, for he had  just  thought  of  a very
simple  and  tempting  idea.  "Pill?  He's  not  feeling  too  good. Listen,
Hottabych," he crouched down and stuck his head  under the bed,  in order to
carry on negotiations more comfortably.  "I  want  to  ask  you  for  a  big
favour."
     "This is it," the old Genie thought unhappily. He suspected that  Volka
was about to ask him  to break the spell he had cast on Goga; and he decided
to  refuse flatly. At least for the  time being. It wouldn't hurt the horrid
tattle-tale and gossip to suffer a bit. It would only do him good.  However.
Hottabych replied sourly:
     "I'll be only too happy to know your wish."
     "I want to ask you for a present."
     The old man was pleased at not being forced to discuss Goga's premature
pardon. He scurried out from under the bed.
     "Just tell me what you want and you'll have it immediately, 0 young and
benevolent Genie-saviour."
     "Could you give me a dog? An Alsatian?"
     "A dog? Nothing could be simpler or more pleasing to my heart!"
     Hottabych  yanked  a  hair  from  his  beard.  Volka  felt  faint  from
happiness:  there,   at   his  feet,  a  magnificent,  sleek  and   muscular
three-year-old Alsatian  stretched with a pleasant  growl.  It  had  lively,
intelligent eyes, a cold, wet nose and marvellous pointed ears. Volka patted
its  neck.  The  dog wagged  its  tail politely and  barked  loudly  from an
overflow of emotion.
     "How do you like this dog?" Hottabych asked, as he bustled about, ready
at a sign from Volka to  fill the entire room, the entire apartment, and the
entire house with the most valuable dogs. "Oh, I beg your pardon. I forgot a
small detail."
     The  "small  detail"  was  a  collar, which  appeared  immediately.  It
glittered with such a  multitude of precious stones that there would be more
than enough for two imperial crowns.
     The unexpected  happiness was  almost more  than Volka  could bear.  He
patted the dog with a  shaking  hand and had such a dazed smile on  his face
that tears of happiness rolled down the kind-hearted old man's cheeks.
     But there can never  be  complete happiness  in life,  at any rate, not
when you are dealing with a Genie's gifts! Suddenly, they heard the clicking
of a woman's heels behind the door. No sooner had Hottabych darted under the
bed,  there  to  become invisible,  than  the door opened and Volka's mother
entered.
     "That's just what  I thought," she said, looking at the animal.  In his
haste, the old Genie had forgotten to make it invisible. "A dog! I'd like to
know where  you got it?" Volka knew he  was sinking fast  and sure.  "I  got
it.... It was given to me... . You see.... What I mean is...."
     There was no sense telling her the truth, and Volka didn't want to lie.
Anyway, there was no  sense  lying-his mother could always tell when  he was
not telling the truth.
     "Volka!" she said, raising  her voice, "I don't  like your  mumbling. I
want you to tell me whose dog it is."
     "It isn't anyone's ... I mean, it wasn't anybody's before, but now it's
mine."
     His mother  turned pink with indignation. "I didn't think you would lie
to me. I didn't think you were  capable of it. Tell me whose dog it is. Why,
the collar alone is worth hundreds of roubles."
     She thought the stones were just coloured glass.  Hottabych became very
angry. He was both  angry and hurt. He wanted this noble, but naive woman to
understand that Has-san Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab was not one to  present  his
best friends  with cheap imitations and that this truly priceless collar was
worth thousands upon thousands of roubles. But  he  checked himself in time,
since he now realized such bragging would only make Volka's situation worse.
     He  himself was a  straightforward and truthful person and was proud of
Volka for not wanting to lie,  even though it was the tiniest white lie. The
only thing to do was to stop the misunderstanding immediately.
     "Well then, my kind and truthful young friend will have to do without a
dog  for the time being. And let him not  be bothered by dreams  of owning a
dog," Hottabych thought, smiling into his beard.
     A  faint crystal  tinkling  issued  from under  the bed,  and  the  dog
disappeared.
     "Volka,  dear," his mother  said,  completely forgetting what  they had
been  talking about. "If my office calls, please tell them I'll be  there in
an hour or so.  By  the way,  do you know whom the doctor  came to see  next
door?"
     "Goga, I guess."
     "Is he ill?"
     "I think so." -
     "You think so! Isn't he your friend?"
     "Some friend!"
     "I'm ashamed  of you, Volka," his mother said angrily,  and she  turned
and walked out of the room with a stony face.
     "Hm!"  Volka sighed and decided  to visit  Goga as  soon as the  doctor
left. "Hottabych! Hey, Hottabych!"
     There was no answer.
     "He's gone again! Whenever you have to discuss something with him, he's
not there. What a Genie!"
     Meanwhile, Hottabych was making  himself  comfortable in  apartment 37,
this  time under Goga's bed. He was curious to see how the  old doctor,  who
obviously had no idea what  a mighty and unusual opponent he was up against,
would helplessly fumble about in search of a correct diagnosis.
     This is what was happening in the room where the most mysterious of all
the  old district doctor's cases lay high  on fluffed pillows, while  Volka,
taking advantage of  Hottabych's absence, sat down  to study his  geography,
and the old Genie himself lay hidden under Goga's bed.
     The old doctor's name was  Alexander  Alexeyevich.  We want you to know
this, in case you meet him some day. He was very experienced and wise.
     "Now,  will  you please  leave us alone? There's something we  have  to
discuss," he said kindly to Goga's despairing mother.
     "Well, young man," he said when they were  alone (Hottabych  under  the
bed obviously did not count), "how are things? Are we still barking?"
     "It's awful!" Goga moaned.
     "Aha!  Well then,  let's just  chat  a bit. What  kind of poems do  you
like?"
     "Bow-wow-wow!"  Goga barked. His mother, who  was standing just outside
the door, began to sob.
     You can imagine what Goga wanted to reply to the old doctor's question!
He was  indignant  and he  considered it a foolish and unnecessary question.
However, his barking neither surprised nor distressed the old doctor.
     "Don't  get  angry,"  Alexander Alexeyevich said in a  very calm voice.
"This question has direct bearing on your illness."
     "I like 'A Winter's Evening,' a poem by Pushkin," Goga finally answered
after barking for a long while.
     "Won't you recite it for me? Do you know it by heart?"
     Goga recited four lines.
     "That's enough!"  the doctor said. "Now, will you please  tell  me what
you think about your classmate, ah, what's-his-name?  The one who lives next
door?"
     "You mean Volka Kostylkov?"
     "Exactly."
     "Bow-wow-wow!" Goga barked loudly.
     "Now, now. Try to use words."
     "Bow-wow-wow'." Goga replied, shrugging helplessly, as  if to say: "I'd
be only too glad to use words, but I can't. I don't seem to be able to."
     "I see. That's enough. That's enough,  I said! Hm! Well, and what about
the other children in your class?"
     "In my  class?" the ailing Goga smirked. "If you want to  know, all the
kids in my class are bow-wow-wow!"
     "Well,  and what do you think about me? Don't be shy, tell me what  you
really think. What do you think of me as a doctor?"
     "As a doctor, I think you're nothing but a bow-wow-wow!"
     "Wonderful!"  Alexander Alexeyevich exclaimed with  genuine  joy.  "And
what do you think about your mother?"
     "My  mother's very nice," Goga said. His mother, still  standing behind
the  door, burst out in tears,  though  these were tears of happiness.  "But
sometimes  she's bow...." He shuddered  and  fell silent.  "No, she's always
very, very nice."
     "And what about your class wall-newspaper? Do you have  anything to say
about it?" the old doctor asked, but this time only to be doubly certain. He
had finally discovered the essence of the rare illness his young patient was
suffering from. "Did they ever criticize you in the paper?"
     This time Goga kept on barking for at least two  minutes. Hottabych was
tired  of listening to  him, but the  old doctor  was so  delighted that one
would  think it  was not  Goga  Pilukin, nicknamed "Pill" for his  atrocious
temper, barking, but an opera star singing his most famous aria.
     When Goga had barked  his  fill, Alexander Alexeyevich rubbed his hands
together contentedly.
     "It seems quite clear now. But let us not be hasty and, instead, put it
to the test again. Here's my pen  and a sheet of paper. I want you to write:
'There is  no  place in our  country for gossips and tattle-tales!' Have you
written it? Excellent! Let me see it. You have written it nicely and without
a single mistake. Now let's write another  sentence. By the way, what's your
teacher's  name?  Varvara  Stepanovna?  Well  then,   write  this:  'Varvara
Stepanovna!  Vanya  and  Petya  are purposely teaching me  to  swear.  I'm a
conscientious boy and wish you would punish them."
     Goga's  face became  terribly  sour. Something was  obviously wrong. He
kept writing and crossing out what he had written, until the doctor  finally
took  the messy sheet of  paper  away.  This is what he read, chuckling, but
apparently not a bit surprised:
     "Varvara   Stepanovna!   Vanya   and  Petya   bow-wow-wow....   I'm   a
conscientious   boy  and  wish  you  would  bow-wow-wow."   Each   of  these
"bow-wow-wow's"  was  crossed out, but each  time  the unfortunate  Goga had
written in another "bow-wow-wow" over the one that had been crossed out.
     "The committee's findings are clear," the  doctor said, folding the two
papers and putting them away in his  wallet. "Please come in!" he called  to
Goga's mother..
     She entered, dabbing her eyes with a damp hanky.
     After she had sat down,  Alexander Alexeyevich said,  "I have to inform
you that  I  didn't  sleep  a  wink last night, because I  was busy  looking
through my  medical books and  thinking. I  could find nothing  at all which
even vaguely resembled your son's case."
     The poor woman gasped nervously.
     "Do not  despair,  my good woman," the old doctor said. "Things are not
hopeless. I  read on and  on, and thought a  great  deal. And  after  that I
naturally  could  not  fall  asleep, for  I'm getting  on in years.  Seeking
distraction, I picked up a  volume of Arabian Nights and read a tale about a
magician or, rather, a Genie, changing a person he disliked into a dog. Then
I  thought that if there really were Genies  in  the world (Hottabych  lying
under the bed  was  offended) and if one of them decided  to punish someone,
say a boy, for gossiping, tattling, and  thinking  poorly of his friends, he
could  cast  a spell on him that would make him  bark each time he wanted to
say  something bad.  Your son  and I just had a long talk  and we discovered
that he could recite a poem by Pushkin without barking  at all and  speak of
you with hardly a small bark, and then  bark incessantly when talking of his
friends or the school newspaper, in which he had apparently  been criticized
several  times. Do you understand what  I'm  getting at? I do hope I've made
myself clear."
     "Do you mean," Goga's mother said thoughtfully, "that..."
     "Exactly. Naturally, there aren't any Genies and  there never were any.
(Hottabych again felt  hurt, this time even more than before.) What your son
has is a very strange kind of psychological trauma. And I must warn you that
he will continue barking in the future...."
     "Oh my goodness!" the poor woman wailed.
     "Yes,  he will  bark  each time  he decides  to tattle  or  gossip,  or
whenever he  tries  to  say something  unpleasant.  And then  people will no
longer call  him  Goga Pilukin, but Bow-Wow Pilukin. And this will  continue
when he grows up, although no  one  will call  him that  to his face. As you
see, your  son may find himself in a very unhappy situation. However, if  he
makes  a  firm  resolution never  to tattle, gossip,  or spoil good people's
lives, I can guarantee you that he will stop barking once and for all."
     "Bow-Wow  Pilukin!"  Goga's  unfortunate mother thought and  shuddered.
"How horrible! I would never survive it. But what about some medicine? Won't
you at least write out a prescription for some medicine?"
     "In this case, no medicine will help. Well, young man, shall we give it
a try?"
     "And I won't bark at all any more?"
     "Everything depends entirely on you."
     "Then  you  won't leave  a prescription?"  Goga's  mother asked  again,
seeing that the doctor was about to leave.
     "I gave you my prescription,  the only one  that will work. However, we
can check  on it.  Now,  won't  you say a  few fair words  about your friend
Volka? I want you to pay special attention: I said 'fair.'"
     "Sure, Volka Kostylkov's a good fellow," Goga mumbled hesitantly, as if
he were just learning how to talk. "You're right dear,  dear doctor! This is
the first time since the geography exam that I  didn't bark  when  I  talked
about Volka! Hurray!"
     "Exactly what happened at  the  exam?"  the old  doctor  asked,  as  if
casually.
     "Why, nothing special. Can't a boy suddenly  become ill from overwork?"
Goga went on in a much more confident tone.
     "I guess  I'll be going along,"  Alexander Alexeyevich said. "I have to
visit  a  good  dozen real patients. I  take it  you understood  everything,
Goga?"
     "Yes! Oh, yes! Upon my word of honour! Thank you!"
     "Well, then, keep it up! Good-bye, everyone."
     "Where'd you disappear to?"  Volka  shouted  at  the old Genie  several
seconds later, as Hottabych crawled  back  to his place under his bed with a
very thoughtful expression-on his face.
     "Listen,  0  Volka,"  the  old man  said with  great solemnity.  I just
witnessed a  most unusual  scene: a spell  cast by a  Genie  was broken by a
human being! True, this was a very wise and very just human being. He was so
just  that I didn't even think  of  punishing him for not  believing  in  my
existence. Where are you going?
     "I have to visit Goga. I should really be ashamed of myself."
     "Yes, do go and visit your classmate. Though he is no longer ill."
     "Not ill at all? Did he get well so quickly?"
     "That depends entirely on him," Hottabych said.  And  pocketing his own
pride, he told Volka about the only known case of curing a boy who barked.


        HOTTABYCH AND MR. MONEYBAGS

     "0 blessed Volka," Hottabych said as he basked happily in the sun after
breakfast, "each time I  present you with gifts  which I consider  of  great
value  I  discover  they are the wrong kind of  gifts. Perhaps it would be a
better idea if you were to tell me what you and your young friend would care
for. I would consider it a great  honour and joy to fulfil your  wish on the
spot."
     "If that's the  case,  would you please  give  me a pair  of large navy
binoculars?" Volka said promptly.
     "With the greatest of pleasure and joy."
     "I'd  like a pair of  binoculars, too. I mean, if  it's all  right with
you," Zhenya added shyly.
     "Nothing could be simpler."
     The  three  of them set out for a large second-hand  shop, located on a
busy little side street in the  centre of the city. The shop was crowded and
our friends had difficulty in pushing their way to the  counter. There  were
so many odd  items on the shelves that they could  never be sorted according
to any system, for then  there would have to be a separate section for  each
item.
     "Show me,  0 sweet Volka, what these binoculars  so dear to your  heart
look  like," Hottabych  said happily but then suddenly turned pale and began
to tremble.
     He looked at his young friends sadly,  burst  into tears  and said in a
hollow voice, "Farewell, 0  light of my eyes!" Then, shoving  the  people in
the shop aside, he headed towards a grey-haired ruddy-complexioned foreigner
and fell to his knees before the man.
     "Order  me  as you  will,  for  I  am  your obedient and humble slave!"
Hottabych mumbled, swallowing his tears and  trying to kiss  the flap of the
foreigner's jacket.
     "Shame  on you, citizen, to go  begging in our times!"  one of the shop
assistants said to Hottabych.
     "And  so,  how many I should have  pay  you  for  this  bad  ring?" the
foreigner  continued nervously  in bad Russian,  after being interrupted  by
Hottabych.
     "Only ten roubles and seventy kopeks," the clerk answered "It certainly
is an odd item."
     The clerks of second-hand shops knew Mr. Moneybags  well though he  had
but recently arrived from abroad as a touring businessman. He  spent all his
free time combing the second-hand shops in the hope  of acquiring a treasure
for a song.
     "Quite recently he  had bought half a dozen china cups of the Lomonosov
Pottery very cheaply and now, just when an inconsolable Hottabych had fallen
to  his knees before  him,  he was pricing a  time-blackened  ring which the
clerk thought  was  made of  silver and Mr.  Moneybags  thought was  made of
platinum.
     When he received his purchase he put it in his vest pocket and left the
shop. Hottabych rushed out after him, wiping the  tears that poured down his
wrinkled old face. As he passed his friends, he barely had time to whisper:
     "Alas! This grey-haired foreigner holds the magic ring of Sulayman, the
Son of David (on the twain be  peace!). And I am the slave of this  ring and
must follow its owner.  Farewell, my  friends. I'll always remember you with
gratitude and love...."
     Only now, when  they  had  parted with Hottabych  forever, did the boys
realize how used to him they  had got. They left the shop in silence without
even looking at any binoculars and headed towards  the river bank, where, as
of late, they were wont to sit long hours having  heart-to-heart talks. They
lay on the  bank  for  a long time, right near the place where such a  short
while  ago  Volka  had  found the  slimy  clay  vessel with Hottabych.  They
recalled the old man's  funny but endearing ways  and became  more  and more
convinced that, when  all was said  and done, he had had a very pleasant and
kind nature.
     "There's  no use denying it.  We didn't appreciate  Hottabych  enough,"
Zhenya said critically and heaved a sigh.
     Volka  turned on his other side and was about to reply, but instead  he
jumped to his feet quickly and ran off.
     "Hurray! Hottabych is back! Hurray!"
     And true enough, Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab was approaching them in
a quick old man's  shuffle. Dangling over his  shoulder on  long straps were
two black leather cases containing large naval binoculars.

     HASSAN ABDURRAKHMAN IBM  HOTTAB'S STORY OF HIS ADVENTURES AFTER LEAVING
THE SHOP

     "Know ye,  0  my  young  friends,  that  my  story  is strange  and  my
adventures most unusual. I want you to sit beside me  while I tell you how I
came to be here again.
     "It so happened, that when the ruddy-faced foreigner left  the shop, he
continued on foot, in order to shake off a little of the fat that covers his
well-fed body so plentifully. He walked so quickly that I was barely able to
keep  up with  him.  I  caught up with him on another  street and  fell down
before him crying, 'Order me to follow you, 0 my master!'
     "But he would not listen and continued on his way. I caught up with him
eighteen times  in all and eighteen times  I fell on my knees before him and
eighteen times he left me where I was.
     "And so we continued on until we came to  his house. I wanted to follow
him in, but he shouted, 'You do not push into my rooms or I will  be calling
a militia man!' Then I asked him whether I was to stand  by his door all day
and he replied, 'Till next year if you want to!'
     "And I remained outside the  door,  for the words of  one who possesses
Sulayman's ring are law to me. And I stood there for some time until I heard
a noise  overhead  and the window opened. I  looked up and saw  a tall  thin
woman in a green silk dress standing by the window. Her laugh was bitter and
taunting. Behind her stood  the same foreigner who  now looked extremely put
out. The woman said derisively, 'Alas, how mistaken I was when I married you
fourteen years ago! You  always were  and  always  will  be a very  ordinary
haberdasher! My goodness,  not  to  be  able to tell a worthless silver ring
from a platinum one! Oh, if only my poor father had known!'
     "And  she tossed the ring down on the pavement and shut the window with
a bang.  I saw this and dropped senseless  to the ground, for if  Sulayman's
ring is  thrown  to  the  ground  terrible calamities  may occur. But then I
opened my eyes and became convinced that I was alive and nothing unfortunate
had happened. I gathered from this that I can consider myself lucky.
     "Then I jumped to my feet and blessed my fate. I picked up the ring and
ran  back to you, my friends, having previously procured the presents you so
desired. That's all I have to say."
     "It's just like  in a fairy-tale," Zhenya  cried excitedly when the old
man had finished his story. "Can I hold the magic ring a little?"
     "Of course! Put it on the index  finger of your left hand. Then turn it
and say your wish out loud. It will be fulfilled immediately."
     "Golly!"  Zhenya said, putting on the ring. He turned it  and said in a
loud  voice, "I want  a  bicycle right now!" All three held their breaths in
expectation. However, no bicycle appeared.
     Zhenya repeated  still louder, "I want to  have a  bicycle immediately!
This very minute!"
     But the bicycle just wouldn't appear.
     "Something must have gone wrong with  the ring,"  Volka said, taking it
from Zhenya  and looking  at  it closely.  "Look, there's  something written
inside. It's written in Russian!" he said and read aloud: "Wear this, Katya,
and remember me. Vasya Kukushkin, May 2, 1916."

        THE SAME AND MR. MONEYBAGS

     "Anyone  can make  a mistake," Volka said magnanimously,  looking  at a
confused Hottabych with sympathy. "I'm glad the ring has turned out to  be a
plain ordinary one. And thanks a lot for the presents."
     The boys turned away tactfully, took their binoculars  from the leather
cases and began  enjoying their wonderful presents. The far-off  houses came
right  up  to  the river, tiny dots  turned  into walking people, and  a car
speeding down  the  road seemed about to knock the happy  owner of a pair of
binoculars off his feet. One could not even dream of bigger enlargement.
     "Hottabych," Volka said  several minutes later,  "here, have  a look at
who's  coming towards  us."  He handed his binoculars over to Hottabych, who
had already discerned Mr. Harry  Moneybags in person walking rapidly towards
them. In fact, he was running, huffing and puffing from his great weight.
     When Mr. Moneybags noticed that he was being watched he slowed down and
continued on nonchalantly, as if he were in no hurry  at all, as if he  were
merely strolling  along to  get away  from the  city noises. When he came up
close, his red face contorted into a sickeningly sweet smile and he said:
     "Oh, my goodness! How pleasant and unexpected meetings!"
     As he approaches  our friends to shake their hands enthusiastically, we
shall explain why he has again appeared in our story.
     It so happened that  Mrs. Moneybags was in a black temper that day, and
that is why she tossed the ring out of  the window so hastily. After she had
tossed it out,  she remained standing at the  window to calm her nerves.  It
was then that she noticed with interest an old man picking the  ring up from
the gutter and dashing off as fast as he could.
     "Did you  see that?" she said to her crestfallen husband. "What a funny
old  man! He grabbed up that cheap ring  as if it  had an emerald in  it and
scampered off."
     "Oh, that was  a very bothersome  old man!"  her  husband answered in a
more lively tone. "He came up to me back in the second-hand shop and hung on
to me right to our  doorstep, and just imagine, my dear, he  kept falling to
his  knees  before  me and  shouting, 'I  am your slave,  because  you  have
Sulayman's  ring!' and I said, 'Sir, you  are greatly mistaken.  I have just
bought this ring and it belongs  to no one but me.' But he was stubborn as a
mule and kept on saying, 'No, it's Sulayman's ring! It's a magic ring!'  And
I  said, 'No, it's not a magic ring, its a  platinum one!' And he said, 'No,
my master, it's not platinum, it's a magic ring!' and he pretended he wanted
to kiss the flap of my jacket."
     His wife  gazed  at him  with loathing  and then, apparently unable  to
stand his  smug  expression,  she looked away. Her  eyes came upon a copy of
Arabian Nights lying  on the couch. Suddenly she was struck by an idea. Mrs.
Moneybags collapsed into the nearest armchair and whispered bitterly:
     "My God!  How  unlucky I  am  to be obliged to  live with  such a  man!
Someone  with  your  imagination,  Sir,  should  be  an  undertaker,  not  a
businessman. A lizard has more brains than you!"
     "What's the matter, my dear?" her husband asked anxiously.
     "Gentlemen," Mrs. Moneybags wailed  tragically, though there was no one
save themselves in the room. "Gentlemen, this man  wants to  know what's the
matter! Sir,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  catch  up  with  the old  man
immediately and get the ring back before it's too late!"
     "But  what  do  we want it for? It's a  cheap little silver ring, and a
home-made one at that."
     "This man  will surely drive me to  my grave! He  keeps asking me why I
want King  Solomon's  magic ring! Gentlemen, he wants to know why I  need  a
ring  that can fulfil one's any wish, that can make one the richest and most
powerful man in the world!"
     "But, my dove, where have you ever seen a magic ring before?"
     "And  where have you ever seen anyone in this country fall on his knees
before another and try to kiss his hand?"
     "Not my hand, my sweet, my jacket!"
     "All the more so! Will you  please be so kind as  to catch up  with the
old man immediately and take back the ring! And I don't envy you if you come
back without it!"
     Such were the events which caused the red-faced husband of the terrible
Mrs. Moneybags to appear so suddenly before Hottabych and his friends.
     Had  Mr.  Moneybags  been  in Hottabych's  place,  he would  never have
returned the ring, even  if it were an ordinary one, and especially so if it
were a magic one. That is why he decided to begin from afar.
     "Oh, my goodness! How happy and unexpected surprise!" he cried  with so
sweet a  smile that one would think  he had dreamed of becoming their friend
all his life. "What a wonderful weather! How you feel?"
     Hottabych bowed silently.
     "Oh!"  Mr.  Moneybags exclaimed with  feigned  surprise. "I see on your
finger one silver ring. You give me look at this silver ring?"
     "With the utmost of pleasure,"  Hottabych  answered, extending his hand
with the ring on it.
     Instead of  admiring  the ring, Mr. Moneybags  suddenly snatched it off
Hottabych's finger and squeezed it onto his own fleshy finger.
     "I  thanking  you! I thanking you!" he wheezed  and his already  purple
face became still redder, so that Hottabych feared  Mr. Moneybags might even
have a stroke.
     "You have buy this ring someplace?"
     He expected the old man to lie, or at least to try every means possible
to get back the almighty ring. Mr. Moneybags sized up the skinny old man and
the two  boys and decided he would be more than a match for  them  if things
took a bad turn.
     However,  to his great surprise the  old man  did not lie. Instead,  he
said quite calmly:
     "I did not buy the  ring, I picked it up in the gutter near your house.
It is your ring, 0 grey-haired foreigner!"
     "Oh!" Mr. Moneybags exclaimed happily.  "You  are very honest  old man!
You will be my favourite servant!"
     At these words  the boys winced, but said nothing. They were interested
to know what would follow.
     "You  have very  good explained to me before that  this  ring is  magic
ring.  I can  actually have fulfil any wish?"  Hottabych  nodded.  The  boys
giggled. They  decided  that  Hottabych was about  to play  a  trick on this
unpleasant man and were ready to have a good laugh.
     "Oh, thank you, thank you!" Mr. Moneybags said. "You will be explaining
how I use magic ring."
     "With  the greatest of  pleasure, 0  most  ruddy-faced of  foreigners!"
Hottabych  answered,  bowing low.  "You take the magic  ring,  put it on the
index finger of your left hand, turn it and say your wish."
     "And it has to by all means come true?"
     "Exactly."
     "Most different various kind of wish?"
     "Any wish at all."
     "Ah,  so?"  Mr. Moneybags said with satisfaction and  his face at  once
became cold and  arrogant.  He turned the ring around quickly and shouted to
Hottabych, "Hey,  you foolish  old  man! Coming  here!  You  be  packing  my
moneys!"
     His insolent tone  enraged Volka and Zhenya. They moved  a step forward
and were  about to open their  mouths to reprimand  him, but Hottabych waved
them away angrily and approached Mr. Moneybags.
     "Begging your pardon, sir," the old man said humbly. "I don't know what
kind of money you mean. Show me some, so I know what it looks like."
     "Cultured man must know how moneys look," Mr. Moneybags muttered.
     And  taking  a foreign  bill from his pocket, he waved  it in  front of
Hottabych and then put it back.
     Hottabych bowed.
     "And now. Now is time to begin  business," said Mr. Moneybags. "Let  me
have now one hundred bags of moneys!"
     "You have  a  long wait coming!" Volka  snickered and winked at Zhenya.
"That Mr. Moneybags has  got his teeth into the magic ring. 'Wear it, Katya,
and remember me.' "
     "Let  me have  immediately coming  one  thousand  bags  of moneys," Mr.
Moneybags repeated.
     He  was disappointed: the  money did not appear.  The boys  watched him
with open malice.
     "I  can't see moneys!  Where is my  one  thousand bags of moneys?"  Mr.
Moneybags bellowed and immediately fell senseless to the ground, having been
struck by a huge sack which dropped out of the blue.
     While Hottabych was bringing him back to  his  senses,  the boys opened
the sack.
     One hundred carefully tied bags of money were stuffed in side. Each bag
contained one hundred bills.
     "What a funny  ring!" Zhenya muttered unhappily. "It won' even  give  a
decent person a bike, but this character gets hundred bags of money just for
nothing! That sure is some 'Wear it, Katya, and remember me,' for you!"
     "It sure is strange," Volka shrugged.
     Mr.  Moneybags opened his eyes,  saw the  bags of money;  jumped to his
feet, counted the bags and saw  that there were exactly one hundred of them.
However, his happy smile soon vanished. No sooner had his shaking hands tied
the valuable sack than his eyes once again began to glitter greedily.
     He pressed the sack to his fat  chest, turned the ring around again and
shouted heatedly:
     "One hundred bags is little! I want immediately one million! Right away
now!"
     He barely had time to jump aside when a huge sack weighing at least ten
tons crashed to the ground. The force of the crash split the canvas sack and
a  million bags  of  money  spilled  out on the  grass. Each bag contained a
hundred bills.
     These bills in no  way differed from  real money,  except  for the fact
that they  all had the same serial number. This was the number Hottabych had
seen on the bill the greedy owner of the magic ring had shown him.
     Mr. Moneybags would certainly have  been grieved  to discover this, for
any bank-teller would have noticed that all  the numbers were the same,  and
that would mean it was counterfeit money. However, Mr. Moneybags had no time
to check the serial numbers  just now. Pale from excitement,  he  climbed to
the top  of the precious  pile  and  stood  up to  his  full  height  like a
monument,  like a  living  embodiment  of greed.  Mr.  Moneybag's  hair  was
dishevelled,  his  eyes burned with insane fire, his hands trembled and  his
heart thundered in his breast.
     "And now ... and now... and now I want ten thousand gold watches strewn
with diamonds,  twenty thousand gold cigarette cases, thirty  . .. no, fifty
thousand  strings of  pearls, fifteen thousand  antique  China services!" he
shouted darting back and forth in order to dodge the great treasures falling
from all sides.
     "0 red-faced  foreigner, don't  you think what  you  have  received  is
enough?" Hottabych asked sternly.
     "Silence!" Mr. Moneybags yelled and stamped his feet in rage. "When the
boss do business, the servant must silence! Ring, do as my wish is! Fast!"
     "Go back where you came from, you  old grabber!" Volka shouted. "Out of
our country! We'll propel you out of here!"
     "May it be so," Hottabych agreed and yanked four hairs from his beard.
     That very  moment the sacks of money, the crates  of china, watches and
necklaces,  everything   the  silver  ring  had  brought-  disappeared.  Mr.
Moneybags  himself  rolled down the grass  and along the  path very quickly,
heading in the direction from which he  had recently come so full of  hopes.
In no time he was gone with just a little puff of dust to show where he  had
been.
     After the boys had regained their composure and calmed down, Volka said
in a thoughtful tone, "I can't understand what sort of a  ring it is-a plain
one or a magic one?"
     "Why, a plain one, of course," Hottabych answered kindly.
     "Then why did it fulfil that robber's wishes?"
     "It was I who fulfilled them, not the ring."
     "You? Why?"
     "It was just  a matter of politeness, 0 curious youth. I felt  indebted
to  the man, because I bothered him in  the  shop and annoyed him on the way
home,  right up to his very doorstep.  1  felt  it  wouldn't be fair  not to
fulfil  a few of his  wishes,  but his  greed and  his  black soul turned my
stomach."
     "That's right!"
     When they  left the river bank  and walked along the  street, Hottabych
stepped on a small round object. It was the ring with the inscription: "Wear
it, Katya, and remember me," which Mr. Moneybags must have lost as he rolled
away.
     The  old  man  picked  it  up,  wiped  it  with  his huge,  bright-blue
handkerchief, and put it on his right small finger.
     The boys and the old  man  came home, went to bed and woke up  the next
morning,  but Mr. Moneybags was still rolling and rolling away home to where
he had come from.

        EXTRA TICKETS

     On a bright and sunny summer day our friends set out  to see a football
game. During the soccer season  the entire  population  of Moscow is divided
into two alien  camps.  In the one are the football  fans; in the other  are
those queer people who are entirely indifferent to this fascinating sport.
     Long before the beginning of the game, these  first stream  towards the
high entrance gates of the Central Stadium from all parts of the city.
     They  look upon those who are heading in  the opposite direction with a
feeling of superiority.
     In  turn,  these  other  Muscovites shrug in  amazement when  they  see
hundreds of crowded buses  and trolley-buses and thousands  of cars crawling
through the turbulent sea of pedestrian fans.
     But  the  army  of  fans  which  appears  so unified  to an onlooker is
actually torn into two camps. This is unnoticeable while the fans are making
their way to the stadium. However, as they approach the gates, this division
appears  in  all its ugliness. It suddenly becomes  evident that some people
have tickets,  while others do  not. The possessors  of tickets pass through
the gates  confidently; the others dart back and forth excitedly, rushing at
new arrivals with the same plaintive plea: "D'you  have an extra ticket?" or
"You don't have an extra ticket, do you?"
     As a rule, there are so few extra tickets and so many people in need of
them, that if  not for Hottabych, Volka and Zhenya would have certainly been
left outside the gates.
     "With the greatest of pleasure," Hottabych murmured in reply to Volka's
request. "You'll have as many as you need in a minute."
     No sooner were  these words  out of  his  mouth, than the boy  saw  him
holding  a whole  sheaf  of blue, green  and yellow  tickets. "Will  this be
enough, 0  wonderful Volka?  If not,  I'll...." He  waved the tickets.  This
gesture  nearly cost him his  life. "Look, extra  tickets!" a  man  shouted,
making a dash for him. A few seconds  later no less than a hundred and fifty
excited people were pressing  Hottabych's  back against the  concrete fence.
The old man would have been as good  as dead if not for Volka.  He ran  to a
side and shouted at the top of his voice:
     "Over here! Who needs an extra ticket? Who needs some extra tickets?"
     At these magic words the people who had been closing in on a distraught
Hottabych  rushed towards  Volka,  but  the boy darted  into  the crowd  and
disappeared. A moment later he and  his two  friends handed  the gate-keeper
three  tickets  and passed through  the North Gate to  the  stadium, leaving
thousands of inconsolable fans behind.

        ICE-CREAM AGAIN

     No sooner  had the  friends found their seats, than  a  girl in a white
apron carrying a white lacquered box approached them.
     "Would  you like  some ice-cream?" she asked  and  shrieked. We must be
fair.  Anyone else in her place would have been just as frightened, for what
answer could an ice-cream vendor expect?
     In the best of cases:  "Yes, thank you. Two,  please." In the  worst of
cases: "No, thank you."
     Now, just imagine that upon hearing the young lady's polite question, a
little  old man in a straw boater turned  as red as a beet,  his eyes became
bloodshot and he bristled all over. He leaned over to her and whispered in a
fierce voice:
     "A-a-ah! You want to kill me with your foul ice-cream! Well, you won't,
despicable thing! The forty-six ice-creams  which I, old fool that I am, ate
in the circus nearly sent me to my grave.
     They have been enough to last me the  rest of my life. Tremble, wretch,
for I'll turn you into a hideous toad!"
     At  this, he rose and  raised  his  dry wrinkled  arms over  his  head.
Suddenly a boy with sun-bleached eyebrows on his freckled face hung onto the
old man's arms and shouted in a frightened voice, "She's not to blame if you
were greedy and stuffed yourself  with ice-cream! Please sit down, and don't
be silly!"
     "I hear and  I obey," the old man answered obediently.  He let down his
arms  and resumed  his seat. Then he addressed the  frightened young lady as
follows, "You  can go now. I forgive  you. Live in peace and be grateful  to
this youth till the end of your days, for he has saved your life."
     The young  lady did not appear in their section again for the remainder
of the afternoon.

        HOW MANY FOOTBALLS DO YOU NEED?

     Meanwhile, the stadium was full of that very special festive atmosphere
which pervades it during decisive  football matches. Loud-speakers blared. A
hundred thousand people were heatedly discussing the possible outcome of the
game, thus giving rise  to  a hum of human  voices  incomparable to anything
else. Everyone was impatiently awaiting the umpire's whistle.
     Finally, the  umpire  and  the  linesmen appeared on  the emerald-green
field.  The  umpire was carrying a ball which  was  to  be  kicked back  and
forth-thus covering quite a few miles on land  and in the  air-and, finally,
having landed in one goal more times than  in the other, was to decide which
team  was the  winner  that day. He put the ball down  in the  centre of the
field. The two teams appeared  from their locker rooms and lined up opposite
each other. The captains shook hands  and drew lots to see which team was to
play against the  sun. The unfortunate lot fell to the Zubilo  team, to  the
great satisfaction of the Shaiba team 4 and a portion of the fans.
     "Will you, 0  Volka, consider it  possible to explain  to your unworthy
servant what these twenty-two pleasant  young men are  going  to do with the
ball?" Hottabych asked respectfully.
     Volka  waved his hand impatiently and said, "You'll see for yourself in
a minute."
     At  that  very moment a  Zubilo player kicked  the ball smartly and the
game was on.
     "Do you  mean that these twenty-two  nice  young men  will have  to run
about such a great field, get tired, fall and shove each other, only to have
a chance to kick  this plain-looking leather ball around for  a few seconds?
And all  because  they gave them just  this one ball  for all twenty-two  of
them?" Hottabych asked in a very displeased voice a few minutes later.
     Volka was completely engrossed in the  game and did not reply. He could
not be bothered with  Hottabych at a time when the Shaiba's forwards had got
possession of the ball and were approaching the Zubilo goal.
     "You  know what, Volka?"  Zhenya whispered. "It's real  luck  Hottabych
doesn't know a thing about football, because he'd surely stick his finger in
the pie!"
     "I know," Volka agreed. Suddenly, he gasped and jumped to his feet.
     At that very  moment, the other hundred  thousand  fans also jumped  to
their feet and began to shout. The umpire's whistle pierced the air, but the
players had already come to a standstill.
     Something unheard-of in the history of football had happened, something
that  could  not  be  explained by  any  law of nature: twenty-two  brightly
coloured balls dropped  from somewhere  above in the sky and rolled down the
field. They were all made of top-grain morocco leather.
     "Outrageous! Hooliganism! Who did this?" the fans shouted.
     The culprit should have certainly been taken away and even handed  over
to the  militia, but no one could discover who he  was. Only three people of
the  hundred  thousand-Hottabych and  his  two young  friends-knew  who  was
responsible.
     "See what you've gone and done?"  Volka whispered.  "You've stopped the
game and prevented the Shaiba team from making a sure point!"
     However, Volka was  not especially displeased at the team's misfortune,
for he was a Zubilo fan.
     "I wanted to improve things," Hottabych whispered guiltily.  "I thought
it  would be much better if each player could play with his own ball as much
as he wanted to, instead of shoving  and  chasing around like  mad on such a
great big field."
     "Golly!  I don't know  what to do with you!" Volka cried in despair and
pulled the old man down. He hurriedly  explained the basic rules of football
to him. "It's a shame that the Zubilo team has to play opposite the sun now,
because after they change places in the second half it  won't be in anyone's
eyes any more. This  way, the Shaiba players  have a terrific advantage, and
for no  good reason  at all," he  concluded  emphatically, hoping  Hottabych
would bear his words in mind.
     "Yes, it really is  unfair,"  the old  man  agreed. Whereupon  the  sun
immediately disappeared behind a little cloud and stayed  there till the end
of the game.
     Meanwhile,  the extra balls had been  taken  off  the field, the umpire
totalled up the time wasted, and the game was resumed.
     After Volka's explanation, Hottabych began to  follow the course of the
match with ever-increasing interest. The Shaiba players, who had lost a sure
point because of the twenty-two balls, were nervous and were  playing badly.
The old man felt guilty and was conscience-stricken.

        HOTTABYCH ENTERS THE GAME

     Thus,  the  sympathies of  Volka Kostylkov  and Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn
Hottab were fatally  divided. When the first  beamed with pleasure (and this
happened every time a Shaiba player missed the other  team's goal),  the old
man became darker than a cloud. However, when the Zubilo forwards missed the
Shaiba  goal,  the reaction was reversed. Hottabych would burst out in happy
laughter and Volka would become terribly angry.
     "I don't see what's so funny about it, Hottabych. Why, they nearly made
a point!"
     "'Nearly' doesn't count, my dear boy," Hottabych would answer.
     Hottabych, who was witnessing a football game for the first time in his
life, did  not know there was such a thing as a fan. He had regarded Volka's
concern about  the sun  being in the  Zubilo's eyes as the boy's desire  for
fair play. Neither he nor Volka suspected that he had suddenly become a fan,
too.  Volka was so engrossed in what was happening on the field that he paid
not the slightest attention to  anything else-and  this forgetfulness of his
caused all the unusual events which took place at the stadium that day.
     It  all began during a very tense moment, when the Zubilo forwards were
approaching  the  Shaiba  goal  and Volka  bent  over  to  Hottabych's  ear,
whispering hotly:
     "Hottabych, dear,  please make the Shaiba goal  a little wider when the
Zubilo men kick the ball." The old man frowned.
     "Of what good will this be to the Shaiba team?"
     "Why should you worry about them? It's good for the Zubilo team."
     The  old man said nothing. Once again the Zubilo players missed. Two or
three minutes later  a happy  Shaiba player kicked the  ball into the Zubilo
goal, to the approving yells of the Shaiba fans.
     "Yegor, please don't laugh, but I'm  ready  to swear the goal post's on
the Shaiba's side," the Zubilo goalie said to one of  the spare players when
the game had passed over to the far end of the field.
     "Wha-a-at?"
     "You see, when they  kicked the  ball, the right  goal post.. . upon my
sacred word of  honour ... the right goal post... moved  about a half a yard
away and let the ball pass. I saw it with my own eyes!"
     "Have you taken your temperature?" the spare player asked,
     "Why?"
     "You sure must have a high fever!"
     "Humph!" the goalie spat and stood tensely in the goal.
     The  Shaiba  players  were out-manoeuvring  the defence  and were  fast
approaching the Zubilo goal.
     Barn! The second goal in three minutes! And  it had not been the Zubilo
goalie's fault either time. He was  fighting like a tiger. But what could he
do? At  the moment  the ball was hit, the cross-bar rose of its own  accord,
just high enough to let it pass through, brushing the tips of his fingers.
     Whom could he complain to? Who would ever believe him? The goalie  felt
scared  and forlorn, just like a  little boy who finds himself in the middle
of a forest at night.
     "See that?" he asked Yegor in a hopeless voice. "I th-th-th-ink I did,"
the spare player stuttered. "But you c-c-c-an't tell anyone, n-n-no one will
ever  b-b-believe you." "That's just it, no  one'll believe me," the  goalie
agreed  sadly. Just then,  a  quiet  scandal  was taking place in the  North
Section.  A  moment  before  the  second goal,  Volka  noticed  the old  man
furtively yank a hair from his beard.
     "What  did he do  that for?" he wondered uneasily, still unaware of the
storm gathering over the field. However, even this thought did  not  come to
Volka immediately.
     The game was going so badly for the  Zubilo team that he had no time to
think of the old man.
     But soon everything became perfectly clear.
     The first  half of the game was nearing an end, and it seemed that Luck
had finally turned its face towards the Zubilo team, The ball was now on the
Shaiba side of the field. The Zubilo men were ploughing up the earth, as the
saying  goes, and soon their best forward  kicked the ball  with  tremendous
force into the top corner of the Shaiba goal.
     All one hundred thousand fans  jumped to their feet. This sure goal was
to give the team its first point. Volka  and Zhenya, two ardent Zubilo fans,
winked happily to  each other, but immediately groaned  with disappointment:
it was  a sure  goal, but the ball smacked against  the cross-bar so  loudly
that the sound echoed all over the stadium.
     This sound was echoed by a loud wail from the Shaiba goalie:
     the lowered cross-bar had fouled a goal, but it had knocked him smartly
on the head.
     Now Volka understood all and was terrified.
     "Hassan  Abdurrakhman  ibn Hottab," he said in a shaking voice. "What's
this  I see? You know both Zhenya and  I are  Zubilo fans, and here you are,
against us! You're a Shaiba fan!"
     "Alas, 0 blessed one, it is so!" the old man replied unhappily.
     "Didn't  I  save  you  from imprisonment  in  the  clay vessel?"  Volka
continued bitterly.
     "This is  as true as  the fact that  it  is now day and that there is a
great future ahead of you," Hottabych replied in a barely audible voice.
     "Then why are you helping the Shaiba team instead of the Zubilo team?"
     "Alas,  I have no power over my actions,"  Hottabych answered sadly, as
large  tears  streamed down his  wrinkled  face. "I want  the Shaiba team to
win."

        THE SITUATION BECOMES MORE TENSE

     "Just wait, nothing good will come of it!" Volka threatened.
     "Be that as it may."
     That very moment the Zubilo goalie slipped on an extremely dry spot and
let the third ball into the goal.
     "Oh, so  that's how  it is!  You won't listen to  reason, will you? All
right then!" Volka jumped onto the bench and shouted, pointing to Hottabych:
     "Listen; everyone! He's been helping the Shaiba team all the time!"
     "Who's  helping  them? The umpire?  What do you mean?"  people began to
shout.
     "No, not the umpire! What has  he to do with it? It's this old man here
who's helping them.... Leave me alone!"
     These last  words  were addressed  to Zhenya, who  was  tugging at  his
sleeve nervously. Zhenya realized that no good would come of Volka's quarrel
with  Hottabych.  But  Volka  would  not stop, though no  one took his words
seriously.
     "So  you say the old man is shifting the goal  posts from over here, in
the North  Section?"  People roared with laughter. "Ha, ha, ha!  He probably
has  a  special gimmick in his pocket to regulate the goals at  a  distance.
Maybe he even tossed all those balls into the field?"
     "Sure, it was him,"  Volka agreed readily,  calling forth a new wave of
laughter.
     "I  bet he was also responsible for the  earthquake in Chile! Ho-ho-ho!
Ha-ha-ha!"
     "No,  he  wasn't  responsible for  that." Volka was  an honest boy. "An
earthquake is the  result of a catastrophic shifting  of soil. Especially in
Chile. And he was just recently released from a vessel."
     A middle-aged man sitting behind Volka entered the  conversation. Volka
knew him, since they lived  in  the same house. He was the one who had named
his cat Homych in honour of the famous goalie.
     "Keep your shirt on,  and don't make a fool of yourself,"  the man said
kindly,  when the laughter had died  down a bit.  "Stop talking nonsense and
bothering us.  The  way things are now, it's bad enough without  you  adding
your bit." (He was also a Zubilo fan.)
     And true enough, there were still eleven long minutes left till the end
of the first time, but the  score was already  14:0  in favour of the Shaiba
team.
     Strange things  kept  happening to the Zubilo players.  They seemed  to
have forgotten how to  play: their tackling was amazingly feeble and stupid.
The men kept falling; it was as if they had just learned how to walk.
     And  then the  defence began  to  act queerly. Those old football lions
began to shy away in fright as soon as they saw the  ball approaching, as if
it were a bomb about to explode.
     Oh,  how  miserable  our  young  friends  were! Just  think:  they  had
explained  the rules  of soccer to  Hottabych  to their own misfortune! What
were  they  to  do? How were they to help the unfortunate Zubilo players see
justice restored? And what should they do with Hottabych? Even a scandal had
proved useless. How could they at least  distract the  old Genie's attention
from the field on which this unique sports tragedy was unfolding?
     Zhenya  found  the  answer.  He  stuck  a  copy  of  Soviet Sports into
Hottabych's hand,  saying, "Here,  read  the paper and  see what a wonderful
team you're  disgracing in the  eyes  of the nation!" He pointed towards the
heading: "An Up-and-Coming Team." Hottabych read aloud:
     "The Zubilo  team  has improved considerably during the current season.
In  their last  game  in  Kuibyshev against the local 'Krylya Sovetov'- team
they  demonstrated  their... . That's interesting!"  he  said and buried his
nose in the paper.
     The boys grinned at each other. No sooner had Hottabych begun to  read,
than the Zubilo men came to life. Their forwards immediately proved that the
article in Soviet Sports had all the facts  straight.  A  great  roar coming
from tens of thousands of excited  throats accompanied nearly every kick. In
a  few  seconds the  game was  on the Shaiba half  of  the  field.  One kick
followed another in quick succession. Those Zubilo players were really good!
     A few more moments, and they would finally be able to score.
     "Aha!"  Volka's neighbour  shouted behind his  back. "See?! What did  I
say! They'll show those Shaiba imbeciles a thing or two...."
     Ah, how much better it would  have been for all  concerned  if  he  had
curbed his joy. He should not have nudged Hottabych in  the side with such a
triumphant look on his face, as if every man on  the Zubilo team was his own
favourite son, or at least his favourite pupil!
     Hottabych  started, tore his eyes from the paper, and took in the field
at a glance. He sized up the situation like an expert  and handed the  paper
back to Zhenya, who accepted it with a long face.
     "I'll finish reading it later," the old man said. He hurriedly yanked a
hair from  his beard, and  the  Zubilo team's unexplainable  and disgraceful
sufferings began anew.

        15:0! 16:0! 18:0! 23:0!

     The  ball  flew into  the Zubilo goal  on an average of  once every  40
seconds.


     But what had happened to the goalie? Why did he clutch at the side-post
and  wail "Mamma!" every time the ball was kicked into the goal? Why did  he
suddenly walk to the  side with  a thoughtful expression on his face-and for
no apparent reason at all-and this at  a most decisive moment, in the middle
of a heated tangle right in front of the goal?
     "Shame! It's outrageous! What's the matter with  you!" the fans shouted
from all  sides.  But  he,  the  famous  goalie, the pride  of  his country,
staggered out of the goal and  off  to  a side every time the opposite  team
closed in.
     "What's  the  matter with you? Have you gone  crazy?" the spare  player
croaked.
     And the goalie moaned in reply:
     "I sure have. Someone seems to be  pulling me. I try to hold my ground,
but something keeps pushing me out of the goal.
     When I want  to  turn towards the ball, that same  something presses me
toward the goal-post so hard that I can't tear myself away."
     "Things are really bad!"
     "Couldn't be worse!"
     The situation was so extraordinary that  there was not a person present
at  the  stadium,  including the  ticket  collectors, militia  men and  food
vendors, who was not taking the strange events
     to heart and discussing them loudly.
     There was only one fan among the thousands who, though
     suffering  keenly,  was   remarkably  silent.  This  was  an  amazingly
uncommunicative man of about fifty-five, grey-haired, tall and lanky, with a
long, yellowish stony face. His face was equally stony during an unimportant
game and during  the finals, when a successful kick decides the  champion of
the year. He was always equally dour, straightlaced and immobile.
     This  day  he  was  in his  usual seat,  which was  right in  front  of
Hottabych. As  he was a Zubilo fan, one  can well imagine the anguish in his
sunken, bony  chest.  However, only the shifting of his  eyes and the barely
discernible movements of his head indicated that he was far from indifferent
to the events taking place on the field. He apparently had a bad  heart, and
had to take  good  care  of  himself, for  any amount of emotion might  have
produced  grave results. However, even as  he felt around  with a  practised
gesture for  his box  of  sugar and his  bottle of medicine and dropped  the
medicine onto a bit of sugar, without ever tearing  his  eyes from the game,
his face remained as immobile as if he were staring into space.
     When the  score became 23:0 it  nearly finished him. He opened his thin
pale lips and squeaked in a wooden voice:
     "They could at least sell mineral water here!"
     Hottabych, whose soul was singing joyfully at the unheard-of success of
the Shaiba team, was more willing than ever to do people favours.
     Upon  hearing the  words of his  phlegmatic  neighbour,  he snapped his
fingers softly. The man suddenly saw that he was holding a glass of ice-cold
mineral water which had appeared from nowhere.
     Anyone else in  his place would  have been astounded, or, at any  rate,
would have looked around at the people sitting to all sides of him. But this
man  merely  raised  the  frosted glass  to  his lips  with  the  same stony
expression. However,  he did  not even  take a sip: the  poor Zubilo players
were  about to get  the twenty-fourth ball  kicked into  their goal.  He sat
frozen  to  the  spot  with  his  glass raised  and  Zhenya, who  was  still
frantically  searching  for  a way to save the  disgraced team, snatched the
mineral water from him and dashed it onto Hottabych's beard.
     "What treachery! What vile treachery!" the  old Genie gasped and  began
feverishly yanking out one  hair after another. Instead of the clear crystal
tinkling, the boys were happy  to hear  a dull sound like  that of a tightly
pulled piece of string.
     "And  isn't  it  treachery  to  help  the Shaiba players?" Volka  asked
acidly. "You'd better keep mum."
     Meanwhile, just  as had happened after the fourteenth goal, the revived
Zubilo players once again tore through  the forward and defence lines of the
Shaiba team and raced the ball towards their goal.
     The Shaiba defence  had become  unkeyed from their  long  idleness  and
could not collect their wits quickly to  ward  off  the  unexpected  danger.
Their goalie was  really something  to look at. There he sat on  the  grass,
shelling melon seeds.
     Choking,  he jumped to  his feet,  but the Zubilo players  had  already
kicked the ball straight towards the centre of the unprotected goal.
     Just  then,  to the  great  torment of our young  friends, they heard a
clear  crystal tinkling.  Yes, Hottabych had finally been able to find a dry
hair in his beard.
     Oh,  Zhenya, Zhenya! Where was your keen eye and sure hand?  Why didn't
you take good aim? The Zubilo team was as good as dead now!
     "Hottabych!  Dear,  sweet Hottabych!  Let the Zubilo  players score  at
least once!" Volka wailed.
     But  Hottabych pretended to hear  nothing.  The  ball, which was flying
straight at  the centre  of the  goal,  suddenly swerved to the left and hit
against the  post with such force that it flew back across the  whole field,
careful to avoid the Zubilo players in its way, as though it was alive. Then
it rolled softly into the long-suffering Zubilo goal!
     "24:0!"
     This was an amazing score, considering that the teams were equal.
     Volka lost his temper completely.
     "I demand-no, I order you to stop this mockery immediately!" he hissed.
"Otherwise, I'll never be  friends with you again! You have your choice: the
Shaiba team or me!"
     "Why,  you're  a  football   fan  yourself.  Can't  you  understand  my
feelings?"  the old man  pleaded, but he sensed from Volka's expression that
this time their friendship might really end. And so, he  whispered back,  "I
await your further orders."
     "The Zubilo team isn't to blame that  you're  a Shaiba fan. You've made
them the laughing-stock of the country.  Make it so that everyone should see
they're not to blame for losing."
     "I hear and I obey, 0 young goalie of my soul!"
     No sooner had the umpire's whistle died down, announcing the end of the
first time, than the entire Zubilo team began to sneeze and cough for all it
was worth.
     Forming  a semblance of a formation, they dragged their feet listlessly
to their locker room, sneezing and coughing loudly.
     A  moment  later a  doctor was summoned, since all eleven  players were
feeling ill. The doctor felt each one's pulse in turn, he asked them to take
off their  shirts,  then  looked  in  their mouths and  finally summoned the
umpire. "I'm afraid you'll have to call off the game."
     "Why? What do you mean?"
     "Because the Zubilo team  can't play for at least  seven more days. The
whole team is sick," the doctor answered dazedly.
     "Sick! What's the matter?"
     "It's a very  strange case. All these  eleven grown men  have come down
with the measles. I would never have believed it if I  had not given them  a
thorough check-up just now."
     Thus ended  the only football match  in history in which  a fan  had an
opportunity to influence the game. As you see, it did not come to any good.
     The   unusual  instance   of   eleven  adult   athletes  simultaneously
contracting the measles for the second time in their lives and waking up the
following morning in the pink of health was described in great detail  in an
article by the famous Professor  Hooping Cough  and published in the medical
journal Measles and  Sneezles.  The article  was entitled "That's a Nice How
D'You Do!" and is still so popular  that  one  can never get  a copy of  the
magazine  in the  libraries, as  they are always  on loan. That is why, dear
readers,  you might  as well not look  for it, since you'll  only waste your
time for nothing.

        RECONCILIATION

     The little cloud that was covering the sun floated off and disappeared,
as  it was no  longer needed. Once again it became hot.  A  hundred thousand
fans were slowly leaving the stadium through the narrow concrete passages.
     No one  was in a hurry.  Everyone wanted  to voice an opinion about the
amazing game which had ended so strangely.
     These opinions were each more involved than  the previous one. However,
not  even the  most vivid  imaginations could think  of an explanation  that
would so much as resemble the true reason for all the  queer things they had
witnessed.
     Only three  people took no part  in these  discussions. They  left  the
North Section in deep silence. They entered a crowded trolley-bus in silence
and alighted in silence at Okhotny Ryad, where they separated.
     "Football  is an excellent  game," Hottabych  finally mustered  up  the
courage to say.
     "Mm-m-m," Volka replied.
     "I can just imagine how sweet the moment is when you kick the ball into
the  enemy's goal!" Hottabych continued  in a crestfallen voice. "Isn't that
so, 0 Volka?"
     "Mm-m-m."
     "Are  you still angry with me, 0  goalie  of my heart? I'll  die if you
don't answer me!"
     He scurried  along beside his  angry friend,  sighing sadly and cursing
the hour he had agreed to go to the game.
     "What do you think!"  Volka snapped,  but then  continued  in a  softer
tone, "Boy, what a mess! I'll never forget it as long as I live. Have a look
at this new-found fan! No sir, we'll never take
     you to a football game again! And we don't need your tickets, either."
     "Your every  word  is  my  command," Hottabych hurried to  assure  him,
pleased  to  have  got  off  so  easily.  "I'll  be  quite  content  if  you
occasionally find the time to tell me of the football matches."
     So they continued on as good friends as ever.

        WHERE SHOULD THEY LOOK FOR OMAR?

     To look at Hottabych's healthy face, no one  would ever suspect  he had
been seriously ill so recently.
     His  cheeks were a  soft, even  shade of old-age pink. His step  was as
light and  as quick as  always, and  a broad smile lighted his artless face.
And only Volka,  who knew  Hottabych so  well, noticed that a secret thought
was  constantly gnawing at the old Genie. Hottabych often sighed, he stroked
his  beard thoughtfully, and  large tears would  ever so often roll from his
frank, friendly eyes.
     Volka  would  pretend not to notice and did not bother the old man with
tactless questions. He  was convinced that in the end Hottabych would be the
first to speak. That is exactly what happened.
     "Grief  and  sadness rent  my old  heart, 0  noble  saviour of Genies,"
Hottabych said softly one day when a magnificent sunset coloured the evening
waters  of the  Moskva River  a delicate  pink.  "Thoughts of my  poor  lost
brother and of his terrible and hapless fate do not  leave me for  a moment.
The more I think of him, the more I feel I should set out to search  for him
as soon  as possible. What do  you think of this,  0 wise Volka ibn Alyosha?
And  if  you regard this  decision kindly, would  you  not make me happy  by
sharing the joys and sorrows of this journey with me?"
     "Where do you want to start looking for your brother?" Volka asked in a
business-like way, since he was  no longer surprised at  the most unexpected
suggestions Hottabych might have.
     "If  you  remember, 0 Volka,  at  the very dawn of  our extremely happy
acquaintance, I told you that Sulayman's  Genies threw  him into one of  the
Southern Seas, sealed in a copper vessel. There, along the shores of the hot
countries, is where one must naturally look for Omar Asaf."
     The possibility of setting out on a journey to the Southern Seas really
appealed to Volka.
     "All right. I'll come  along with you. Wherever you go,  I go. It would
be nice if.. ." Volka fumbled.
     But a cheerful Hottabych continued: ".. .if we could take our wonderful
friend  Zhenya ibn  Kolya  along. Have I understood you correctly, 0 my kind
Volka ibn Alyosha?"
     "Uh-huh."
     "There could not have been a  shadow of doubt,"  Hottabych said. It was
decided  then  and there  that  the expedition setting  out  to  search  for
Hottabych's unfortunate brother would leave no later than in two days' time.
     However, if the  time of departure caused ho discord, it quite suddenly
became apparent that there  were  serious  differences on  the question of a
means of transportation.
     "Let's  go by magic  carpet," Hottabych suggested. "There's enough room
for all of us."
     "Oh no," Volka objected strongly. "No more magic carpets for me. Thanks
a lot! Our  last trip was enough for me. I don't want to freeze like a dog a
second time."
     "I'll  supply you both with warm clothing, 0  blessed Volka. And if you
so desire, a large bonfire will constantly burn in the middle of the carpet.
We can warm ourselves beside it during our flight."
     "No, no,  no!  The magic carpet is out of the  question.  Let's  go  to
Odessa by train. Then, from Odessa...."
     Hottabych immediately accepted Volka's plan and Zhenya, who was told of
it in detail a short half hour later, enthusiastically approved.


        THE STORY  TOLD BY THE CONDUCTOR OF  THE MOSCOW-ODESSA EXPRESS  OF WHAT
HAPPENED ON THE NARA-MALY YAROSLAYETS LINE
     (Told  by  the conductor to  Ms  assistant,  who  was asleep during the
events described herein)

     "I woke you  up just to tell you that a very strange thing has happened
in our car.
     "Well, I made  up the beds for the passengers, the same as  always, and
the ones in Compartment 7, too. The passengers there were a bearded old bird
in  an  old-fashioned  straw boater and two boys. The boys  looked about the
same age. And what do you think: not a single piece of luggage !No, sir, not
a single one!
     "Just then, one of the boys, a blond freckled lad, says:
     " 'Can you please tell us where the dining car is?'
     "And I says, 'I'm sorry, but we don't  have a  dining car, There'll  be
tea and crackers in the morning.'
     "Then the boy looks at the old man and the old man winks at him. So the
boy says, 'Never  mind, we'll manage  without your tea, since you  haven't a
dining car.'
     " 'Ha,' I thought, 'I'd like to see how you'll make  out all the way to
Odessa without my tea.' So I came back here to our compartment, but I left a
chink in the door when I closed it.
     "Everyone in the car was sound asleep, having sweet dreams, but all the
time there was buzz-buzz-buzz coming from Compartment 7-they kept on talking
and  whispering all the time.  I couldn't  hear what they were saying, but I
can tell you for sure they were talking.
     "Then suddenly their  door  opens and the  same old man  sticks out his
head. He didn't notice me watching him so  he pushed his old  hat  back. And
what d'you think he  did? Upon my word,  I'm tellin' the truth! He pulled  a
fistful of hair from his beard-may I drop dead on the spot if he didn't!
     " 'Goodness,' I  thought, 'he's crazy! Just my  luck  to  get a  madman
while I'm on duty.'  Well, I  didn't  say anything and  waited to see what'd
happen.
     "Well, the old man tore this same  fistful of hair into little  pieces,
then he threw this litter on  the floor  and mumbled something. I  felt more
and more sure he was mad and that  I'd  have  to put  him off at Bryansk, no
doubt about it.
     " 'Well,'  I  thought, 'there'll be no end of worry! Why,  maybe  he'll
start attacking the passengers this very minute, or breaking the windows!'
     "No, he didn't start any trouble, but just stood there  mumbling. After
he mumbled a while more, he went back into his compartment.
     "All of  a sudden  I heard someone  walking barefoot  down the passage,
coming from behind. That meant whoever it was had come in from the platform.
I sure  was surprised,  because I always lock the platforms when we pull out
of a station.  Well, I looked round, and-upon  my sacred word of honour, I'm
telling  the  truth!-I saw four young  fellows  coming towards  me from  the
platform. They were as sunburned as vacationers  and quite  naked. All  they
had on were little cloths round their hips. And barefoot. As skinny as could
be! You could count every rib.
     "I came out of  our compartment  and  said, 'Citizens, I believe you've
got your cars mixed. All our compartments are occupied.'
     "And they all answered together, 'Silence, infidel! We know where we're
going! We've come exactly to the place we want.'
     "So I says, 'Then I'd like to see your tickets, please.'
     "And they all said together again, 'Don't annoy us,  foreigner,  for we
are hurrying to our lord and master!'
     "So I says, 'I'm surprised that you call me a  foreigner. I'm a  Soviet
citizen and I'm in my  own country. That's for one. And in the second place,
we haven't had any masters  here since the Revolution. That,' I said, 'is in
the second place.'
     "So their leader says,  'You should be ashamed, infidel! You are taking
advantage of the fact that our hands are occupied  and  we  therefore cannot
kill you for your terrible insolence. It , is most  dishonourable of  you to
take advantage of us so.'
     "I forgot to tell you that they were piled high with all sorts of food.
One was carrying a heavy tray  with roast lamb and  rice. Another had a huge
basket of apples, pears, apricots and grapes.
     The third one was balancing something that looked like a pitcher on his
head, and something was splashing inside the pitcher. The fourth was holding
two large platters of meat pies  and pastries. To tell you the truth, I just
stood there gaping.
     "Then  the leader says, 'Infidel,  you'd  do  better to  show  us where
Compartment 7 is, for we are in a hurry to fulfil our orders.'
     "Then I began to put two  and two  together and asked,  'What does your
boss look like? Is he a little old man with a beard?'
     " 'Yes, that is he. That is whom we serve.'
     "I  showed them to Compartment 7, and on  the way I said, 'I'll have to
fine your boss for letting you travel without tickets. Have you been working
for him long?'
     "So the leader says,  'We've been serving him  for  three thousand five
hundred years."
     "To tell you the truth, I thought  I  didn't  hear him right. So I says
again, 'How many years did you say?'
     "  'You heard  me, that's  exactly  how long we've  served  him-  three
thousand five hundred years.'
     "The other three nodded.
     " 'Good gracious,'  I thought, 'as if one crazy man wasn't enough-now I
have four more on my neck!'
     "But I  went  on talking to them  as I would to  any normal passengers.
'What a shame!  Look how many years you've been working for him and he can't
even get you some ordinary overalls. If you'll pardon the expression, you're
absolutely naked.'
     "So the leader says, 'We don't need  overalls. We don't  even know what
they are.'
     " 'It's strange to hear that coming  from someone  who's worked so many
years. I guess you're from far away. Where d'you live?'
     " 'We've just come from Ancient Arabia.'
     "Then I says, 'Well,  that  clears everything up. Here's Compartment 7.
Knock on the door.'
     "Just then, the same little old man comes out and  all his  men fall to
their knees  and stretch  out  the  food and drinks  they've  brought. But I
called the old man off to a side and said, 'Are these your employees?'
     " 'Yes, they are.'
     "  'They have no tickets. That  means you have  to pay a fine. Will you
pay it?'
     " 'Right  away, if you wish. But won't  you first tell me  what a  fine
is?'
     "I saw the old man was being  sensible, so I began to explain things in
a whisper, 'One of your men has gone out of his mind:
     he  says he's been  working  for  you for  three thousand  five hundred
years. I'm sure you'll agree he's crazy.'
     "Then  the  old man says, 'I cannot agree, since he is  not lying. Yes,
that's right-three thousand five hundred years. Even a  little longer, since
I  was  only  two  hundred  or  two hundred  and thirty  when I became their
master.'
     "So I says to  him, 'Stop making a  fool of me! It  doesn't become your
age. If you don't  pay the fine immediately, I'll put them off  at  the next
station. And, anyway, you look  like a suspicious character, going on such a
long journey without any luggage.'
     " 'What's luggage?'
     " 'You know, bundles, suitcases and such stuff.'
     "The  old man  laughed  and  said, 'Why are  you  inventing  things,  0
conductor? Saying that I have no luggage. Just look at the shelves.'
     "I looked  up at the luggage racks  and they were jammed! I'd  looked a
moment  before  and  there  hadn't  been  anything there,  and suddenly-just
imagine!-so many suitcases and bundles!
     "Then I  said,  'Something's wrong here. Pay the fine  quickly and I'll
bring  the chief  conductor over at the  next stop. Let him decide.  I can't
understand what's going on.'
     "The  old man laughed again.  'What fine?' says he. 'Whom do I  have to
pay a fine for?'
     "Then  I really got angry. I turned around and  pointed to the passage,
but there was no one there! I ran  up  and down the whole  car, but couldn't
find a trace of my four stray passengers.
     "Then  the old man said,  '0  conductor, you had better go back to your
own compartment.' And so I went back.
     "Now d'you understand why I woke you up? Don't you believe me?"
     An  hour  before the  train  arrived  in Odessa, the  conductor entered
Compartment 7 to remove the bedding. Hottabych treated him to some apples.
     It was  quite  apparent that the man did  not remember anything  of the
incident which had taken place the night before.
     After  he had left their  compartment, Zhenya said with admiration:  "I
must admit, Volka is a bright chap!"
     "I  should  think  so!"  Hottabych  exclaimed.  "Volka  ibn Alyosha  is
unquestionably an excellent fellow and his  suggestion is  worthy  of  great
praise."
     Since  the reader  might not be too clear on the meaning of this  short
conversation, we hurry to explain.
     When the completely confused conductor left Compartment 7 the  previous
night,  Volka said to Hottabych,  "Can you do something to  make  him forget
what's happened?"
     "Why, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha, that's as simple as pie."
     "Then please  do it and as quickly as possible. He'll go to sleep then,
and when he wakes up in the morning he won't remember anything."
     "Excellent,   0  treasure-store   of  common  sense!"   Hottabych  said
admiringly, waved his hand and made the conductor forget everything.

        THE STRANGE SAILING SHIP

     Several passengers were talking leisurely as they leaned on the rail of
the  excursion  ship  "Kolkhida,"  sailing from Odessa to  Batumi.  Powerful
diesel engines hummed  far  below,  in the depths  of  the  ship. The  water
whispered  dreamily as  it lapped against the steep  sides, and high  above,
over the spar deck, the ship's wireless piped anxiously.
     "You  know, it's  really a shame that the large sailing ships  of yore,
those white-winged beauties, are a thing of the  past. How happy I  would be
to  find myself on a real frigate...  .  Just  to enjoy the  sight  of those
billowing white sails, to listen to  the creaking of the mighty yet graceful
masts, to  watch  in  amazement  as,  at  the  captain's command,  the  crew
scrambles  up the rigging! If I could only see a real sailing ship! I mean a
real  genuine one! Nowadays even a bark has to have a motor,  you know, even
though-mark my words-it's considered a sailboat!"
     "A motor-sailboat," a  man wearing  the uniform  of the Merchant Marine
added. They fell silent. All except the sailor went over to the left side to
watch a school of  tireless dolphins splash  and cavort  in the warm noonday
sea.  Dolphins were nothing new to  the sailor. He stretched out  in a  deck
chair and picked up a  magazine lazily.  Soon  the  sun  made him drowsy. He
closed the magazine and fanned himself with it.
     Then something attracted his  attention.  He  stopped  fanning himself,
jumped to  his feet  and  rushed  to  the railing.  Far off,  near  the very
horizon, he saw a beautiful but terribly old-fashioned sailing ship skimming
over the waves. It seemed like something from a fairy tale.
     "Everybody!  Everybody  hurry  over  here!"  he  shouted. "Look at that
sailing ship! Isn't it ancient! Oh, and something's wrong with its mainmast!
It doesn't have a mainmast!  Why,  it just isn't there!  My  goodness!  Just
look!  The sails are all billowed  out the wrong way! According to every law
of nature,  the  foremast should  have been blown  overboard long  ago! It's
really a miracle!"
     However, by the time the other passengers heeded his words and returned
to the starboard side, the unknown vessel had disappeared from sight. We say
"unknown," because  the sailor was ready to swear that the wonderful sailing
ship was not  registered at any Soviet port  on the Black Sea. This is true.
In fact,  it  wasn't registered  at  any  foreign  port,  either;  it wasn't
registered any place,  for  the  simple reason  that it had appeared  in the
world and was launched but a few short hours before.
     The  name  of  the vessel  was  the  "Sweet  Omar,"  in honour  of  the
unfortunate brother of our old friend, Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab.


        ABOARD THE "SWEET OMAR"

     Had our friend the conductor on  the Moscow-Odessa express miraculously
found himself aboard the twin-masted  "Sweet Omar," he would  not have  been
most amazed  at the fact that he had suddenly found himself aboard a sailing
vessel,  nor that  this vessel did  not in any way resemble  a  usual sea or
river  craft. He  would have been most amazed at finding that he was already
acquainted with the passengers and crew.
     The  old man and his  two young  companions who had  left Compartment 7
that morning were its passengers, while the four dark-skinned citizens whose
term of service dated back to the 16th century B.C. were its crew.
     One  can  well  imagine  that a second encounter would have landed  the
impressive conductor in bed for a long time.
     Despite  the fact  that  Volka  and  Zhenya  had become  accustomed  to
witnessing  the  most unexpected events during the past few days,  they were
most  amazed  to  find  their  recent acquaintances aboard the  ship and  to
discover that they were also excellent sailors.
     After the  boys had stood gazing at  the quick and skilful movements of
the small crew scurrying up and down the riggings just as if  they were on a
polished floor, they went  to explore  the rest  of  the ship.  It was  very
beautiful,  but  small-no  larger  than  a  Moscow  river  launch.  However,
Hottabych assured  them that even Sulayman, the Son of David, did not have a
ship as big as the "Sweet Omar."
     Everything  on the ship glittered with cleanliness  and  splendour. Its
sides and high, carved  bow  and stern were inlaid with gold  and ivory. The
priceless  rosewood deck was covered with rugs as magnificent as those which
adorned the cabins.
     That is why Volka was so surprised at suddenly coming  upon a dark  and
filthy cubby-hole in the prow. In it were plank beds covered with rags.
     As he looked in disgust at  the meagre  furnishings of this  tiny room,
Zhenya joined him. After careful scrutiny, Zhenya decided the unsightly hole
was intended for the pirates they might capture on the way.
     "Not  at all," Volka persisted. "This place was forgotten about after a
complete overhauling. Sometimes, after repairs,  there's a forgotten  corner
full of rags and all kinds of rubbish."
     "What do  you  mean  by 'a complete overhauling' when this ship  didn't
even exist this morning?" Zhenya protested.
     Volka had no answer  to this  question, and so the boys set off to find
Hottabych,  to ask him to help solve the mystery. But they found the old man
asleep and thus  did not speak to him until an  hour or two later, at dinner
time.
     Tucking their feet under them  uncomfortably, they sat down on a thick,
brightly-coloured carpet.  There were neither chairs nor tables in the cabin
or anywhere else on board.
     One of the crew  remained above at the wheel, while the others  brought
in  and placed before  them many various dishes, fruits  and beverages. When
they turned to leave, the boys called to them:
     "Why are you leaving?"
     And Volka added politely, "Aren't you going to have lunch?"
     The servants only shook their heads in reply.
     Hottabych was confused.
     "I must not have  been listening intently, 0  my  young friends.  For a
moment, I thought you had invited these servants to join us at the table."
     "Sure we did," Volka said. "Why, what's wrong with that?"
     "But they  are only  ordinary sailors," Hottabych objected  in  a voice
that indicated that the matter was now closed.
     However, to his great surprise, the boys held their ground.
     "All  the more  so, if they're  sailors. They're not parasites, they're
real hard workers," Volka said.
     And Zhenya added:
     "And let's  not forget that they seem to be Negroes and that means they
are an oppressed nation. That's why we should be especially considerate."
     "This seems to be a most unfortunate  misunderstanding," Hottabych said
excitedly, confused by the  solid  opposition of the  boys. "I must  ask you
again to remember that these are plain sailors. It  is not becoming to us to
sit down to eat with them. This would lower us both in their eyes and in our
own."
     ' "It wouldn't lower me at all," Volka objected heatedly.
     "Or me,  either. On the contrary,  it'll be  very  interesting," Zhenya
said,  looking at the  steaming turkey with hungry eyes.  "Hurry up  and ask
them to sit down, otherwise the turkey'll get cold."
     "I don't  feel like  eating, 0 my  young friends.  I'll eat  later on,"
Hottabych said glumly and clapped loudly three times.
     The sailors appeared immediately.
     "These young gentlemen  have kindly expressed the desire to partake  of
their meal together with you, my undeserving servants."
     "0 great and mighty ruler!" the eldest of the sailors cried, falling to
his  knees  before  Hottabych  and  touching the  precious carpet  with  his
foreh