“The emir! The emir!”
Working their sticks diligently, the palace guards cleared a path in the crowd, and the emir walked down this broad path, which was covered with carpets, to pay his respects to the holy remains. He was barefoot, his head lowered, immersed in virtuous thoughts and impenetrable to earthly sounds. His retinue followed silently in his footsteps, and the servants fussed as they rolled up the carpets behind them and laid them out in front.
Tears of tenderness appeared on many of the faces in the crowd.
The emir ascended an earthen dais adjoining the wall of the tomb. He was handed a prayer rug and, supported on both sides by his viziers, got down on his knees. Mullahs in white garments gathered in a semicircle and began to sing, raising their arms to the sky, which was hazy with heat. The service had begun.
It went on endlessly, interspersed with sermons. Hodja Nasreddin stepped out of the crowd covertly and headed towards a small shed on the side, where the blind, lame, and paralyzed men were waiting for their turn to be healed, as promised.
The doors of the shed were wide open. The curious were peeking inside and exchanging their impressions. The mullahs who were supervising the area were holding large copper trays to gather donations. The senior mullah narrated:
“…and since that day, the blessing of the most holy Sheikh Bogaeddin stands firmly and eternally over sacred Bukhara and her sun-like emirs. And every year on this day, the holy Bogaeddin gives us, humble servants of god, the power to perform miracles. These blind, lame, mad, and paralyzed men are waiting to be healed, and we hope to rid them of their suffering with the aid of the holy Bogaeddin.”
As if responding to him, the men in the shed began to weep, howl, moan, and gnash their teeth. Raising his voice, the mullah continued:
“Make a donation for the embellishment of mosques, o faithful, and your gift will be remembered by Allah!”
Hodja Nasreddin peeked into the shed. The pockmarked, fat-faced servant was lying on his stretcher right by the entrance; many more people could be seen behind him in the shadows, holding crutches, lying on stretchers, and wearing bandages. And then the voice of the head ishan [11] came from the tomb, where he had just finished his sermon:
“A blind man! Bring me a blind man!” Pushing Hodja Nasreddin aside, the mullahs dove into the stuffy darkness of the shed and, a minute later, brought out a blind man wearing pitiful beggar’s rags. He stumbled on rocks as he walked along, feeling the air with his hands.
Approaching the head ishan, the blind man fell before him and kissed the steps of the tomb; the ishan laid his hands on the blind man, who was healed instantly.
“I can see! I can see!” he shouted in a trembling, high-pitched voice. “O most holy Bogaeddin, I can see, I can see! O incredible healing, o great miracle!”
A crowd of worshippers gathered around him, buzzing; many approached and asked him: “Tell me which hand I just raised – right or left?” and he replied without mistake, and everyone ascertained that he was in fact cured.
And then an entire squad of mullahs with copper trays headed into the crowd, calling out:
“O faithful, you have seen the miracle with your own eyes, make a donation for the embellishment of mosques!”
The emir was the first to throw a handful of gold coins onto the tray, then all his viziers and officials tossed a single gold coin each, and then the people began to heap silver and copper on the trays generously; the trays filled up, and the mullahs had to change them three times.
When the stream of donations began to thin, a lame man was led out of the shed. Touching the steps of the tomb, he was cured just as instantly, and, tossing aside his crutches, he began to dance, throwing his feet high in the air. And the mullahs moved into the crowd with fresh trays, calling out:
“Donate, o faithful!”
A gray-bearded mullah approached Hodja Nasreddin, who was pondering something in deep concentration as he looked at the walls of the shed.
“O faithful man! You have seen a great miracle. Make a donation, and your gift will be remembered by Allah.”
Loudly, so that everyone around him could hear, Hodja Nasreddin replied:
“You call this a miracle and ask me for money. Firstly, I have no money, and secondly, mullah, are you aware that I am a holy man myself, and can perform a far greater miracle?”
“You are a blasphemer!” the mullah shouted angrily. “Do not listen to him, Muslims, it is the shaitan himself speaking through his lips!”
Hodja Nasreddin turned to the crowd:
“The mullah does not believe that I can perform miracles! Very well, I will prove it! There are blind, lame, feeble, and paralyzed men gathered in this shed, and I will heal them all at once, without even touching them. I will say but two words – and they will be healed and run away so quickly that even the fastest Arabian stallion will not be able to catch them.”
The walls of the shed were thin, and the clay had deep cracks in several places. Hodja Nasreddin picked out a spot that was completely surrounded by cracks and pressed on it firmly with his shoulder. The clay gave way with a dry, sinister crackle. He pushed again, and a huge part of the wall tumbled inside the shed with a hollow noise; clouds of dust appeared from the gaping black hole.
“Earthquake! Run!” Hodja Nasreddin shouted in a savage voice and knocked over a second piece of clay.
The shed was quiet for a moment, and then a commotion ensued: the paralyzed pockmarked servant was the first to dash to the exit, but his stretchers became stuck, and he barred the way for the rest of the lame, blind, and feeble men who were crowding behind him, yelling and howling. And when Hodja Nasreddin knocked over a third slab of clay into the shed, they pressed mightily on the pockmarked servant and pushed him out, along with the door and the doorposts, and dashed in all directions, forgetting their ailments.
The crowd shouted, whistled, laughed, and hooted. Hodja Nasreddin’s loud voice sounded over the general noise:
“You see, Muslims, I was right when I said they could all be healed with a single word!”
No longer listening to the sermons, the curious ran from all directions, fell to the ground laughing when they heard what happened, and then passed the story of the miraculous healing on to others. Soon, all who had gathered had learned about what happened, and when the head ishan called for quiet by raising his hand, the crowd replied with curses, shouts, and whistles.
And again, as in the square before, the name appeared, hummed, and reverberated in the crowd:
“Hodja Nasreddin! He has returned! He is here, our Hodja Nasreddin!”
Cursed and mocked, the mullahs grabbed their trays and ran from the crowd in fear.
Hodja Nasreddin was far away already. He hid his colorful turban and false beard in his robe, for he had no reason at that moment to fear spies, who had their hands full around the tomb.
He did not notice, however, that the lame moneylender Jafar was following in his footsteps, hiding behind the corners of houses and roadside trees.
Hodja Nasreddin approached a fence in an empty, deserted alley, and pulling himself up with his arms, he coughed lightly. Light steps sounded and a female voice replied:
“It is you, my beloved!”
Hiding behind a tree, the moneylender easily recognized the voice of the beautiful Guljan. Then he heard whispers, restrained laughter, and the sound of kisses. “You have taken her from me to enjoy for yourself,” the moneylender thought, consumed by bitter jealousy.