"Lazar Lagin. The Old Genie Hottabych (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

matter of principle. We're conducting an organized fight against prompting."
Now, how could an old Genie who had spent so many years in prison know
such a scholarly term as "a matter of principle"? However, the sigh his
young saviour heaved to accompany his sad and honourable words convinced
Hottabych that Volka ibn Alyosha needed his help more than ever before.
"Your refusal grieves me," Hottabych said. "After all, no one will
notice me prompting you."
"Ha!" Volka said bitterly. "You don't know what keen ears our teacher
Varvara Stepanovna has."
"You not only upset me, you now offend me, 0 Volka ibn Alyosha! If
Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab says that no one will notice, it means no one
will notice!"
"Not a single soul?" Volka asked again, just to make sure.
"Not a single soul. The words which I will have the pleasure of telling
you will go straight from my deferential lips to your greatly respected
ears."
"I really don't know what to do, Hassan Hottabych," Volka said sighing,
as though with reluctance. "I really hate to upset you by refusing. All
right, have your own way! Geography isn't Math or Grammar. I'd never agree
to even the tiniest prompt in those subjects, but since geography isn't
really the most important subject.... Come on, let's hurry!" He looked at
the old man's unusual clothing with a critical eye. "Hm-m-m.... D'you think
you could change into something else, Hassan Hottabych?"
"Don't my garments please your gaze, 0 most noble of Volkas?" Hottabych
asked unhappily.
"Sure they do, they certainly do," Volka answered diplomatically. "But
you're dressed ... if you know what I mean.... Our styles are a little bit
different.... Your clothes will attract too much attention."
"But how do respectable, honourable gentlemen of advanced age dress
nowadays?"
Volka tried to explain what a jacket, trousers and a hat were, but
though he tried very hard, he wasn't very successful. He was about to
despair, when he suddenly glanced at his grandfather's portrait on the wall.
He led Hottabych over to the time-darkened photograph and the old man gazed
long at it with curiosity, surprised to see clothing so unlike his own.
A moment later, Volka, holding Hottabych's arm, emerged from the house.
The old man was magnificent in a new linen suit, an embroidered Ukrainian
shirt, and a straw boater. The only things he had refused to change,
complaining of three thousand-year-old corns, were his slippers. He remained
in his pink slippers with the upturned toes, which, in times gone by, would
have probably driven the most stylish young man at the Court of Caliph Harun
al Rashid out of his mind with envy.
When Volka and a transformed Hottabych approached the entrance of
Moscow Secondary School No. 245 the old man looked at himself coyly in the
glass door and remained quite pleased with what he saw.
The elderly doorman, who was sedately reading his paper, put it aside
with pleasure at the sight of Volka and his companion. It was hot and the
doorman felt like talking to someone.
Skipping several steps at a time, Volka dashed upstairs. The corridors
were quiet and empty, a true and sad sign that the examination had begun and