Approaching, Hodja Nasreddin saw the pockmarked spy telling fortunes. A woman was standing before him, holding a silver coin. Having strewn beans onto his rug, the fortune teller was leafing through an ancient book.
“If you do not find Hodja Nasreddin,” he was saying, “then woe betide you, o woman, for your husband will leave you forever!”
Hodja Nasreddin decided to teach the fortune teller a lesson – he squatted in front of his rug:
“Tell my fortune, o wise foreseer of other people’s fates.” The fortune teller tossed his beans.
“O woman!” he exclaimed, as if struck by horror. “Woe betide you, woman! Death has already raised its black hand over your head.”
Several curious onlookers had already gathered round.
“I could have helped you to ward off its blow, but I am helpless to do this alone,” the fortune teller continued. “I must consult Hodja Nasreddin. If you could find out where he is hiding and tell me, your life would be saved.”
“Very well. I will bring Hodja Nasreddin to you.”
“You will bring him!” The fortune teller gave a happy start. “But when?”
“I can bring him right now if you want. He is very close.”
“Where is he?”
“Here. Two steps away.”
The fortune teller’s eyes lit up with a greedy fire.
“I do not see him.”
“But you are a fortune teller. Surely you could have guessed? Here he is!”
The woman opened her veil with a brisk motion, and the fortune teller jumped back in amazement when he saw Hodja Nasreddin’s face.
“Here he is!” Hodja Nasreddin repeated. “What did you wish to ask him? You are lying, you are no fortune teller, you are a spy of the emir! Do not believe him, Muslims, he is cheating you! He is here to find Hodja Nasreddin!”
The fortune teller looked around, his eyes darting, but did not see a single guard nearby. With tears in his eyes and his teeth gnashing, he let Hodja Nasreddin escape. The crowd around him rumbled menacingly.
“Emir’s spy! Filthy dog!” came from all directions.
The fortune teller rolled up his rug with trembling hands and dashed to the palace as fast as he could.
Chapter 23
The guards’ quarters were dirty, dusty, smelly, and smoky. The guards were sitting on a worn mat, which was a breeding ground for fleas, and fantasizing about catching Hodja Nasreddin as they scratched themselves.
“Three thousand tanga!” they said. “Just imagine: three thousand tanga and the post of head spy!”
“And to think that someone is going to collect this fortune!”
“Ah, if only it were me!” sighed a lazy, fat guard, who was dumber than everyone else and remained in the emir’s service only because he had learned to swallow raw eggs whole without breaking the shell, which he sometimes used to entertain the luminous emir and obtain small handouts, although this later caused him horrible pain.
The pockmarked spy burst into the guards’ quarters like a whirlwind:
“He is here! Hodja Nasreddin is in the bazaar! He is dressed as a woman!”
Grabbing their weapons as they ran, the guards dashed to the gate.
The pockmarked spy ran after them, screaming:
“The reward is mine! Do you hear? I saw him first! The reward is mine!”
Seeing the guards, the people scattered. A jam ensued. Panic seized the bazaar. The guards plunged into the crowd at full speed, and the most zealous of them, who ran in front, grabbed some woman and tore off her veil, revealing her face to all.
The woman screamed piercingly, and an equally piercing woman’s scream responded from afar. Then a third woman began to scream, trying to free herself from the hands of the guards, a fourth, a fifth… In a minute, the entire bazaar was filled with women’s screams, wails, shouts, and weeping.
The crowd froze, dumbfounded and stunned. Never before had such sacrilege taken place in Bukhara. Many grew pale, others grew purple: not a single heart was calm at that moment. The guards continued to run wild, seizing women, shoving, throwing, beating, tearing off clothes.
“Save us! Save us!” cried the women.
The voice of Yusuf the blacksmith rose menacingly above the crowd:
“Muslims! What are you staring at? It is not enough that they rob us blind, but now they also dishonor our wives in broad daylight!”
“Save us!” cried the women. “Save us!”
The crowd began to hum and stir. Some water-bearer heard the voice of his wife and dashed towards her. The guards pushed him away, but two weavers and three coppersmiths came to his aid and pushed the guards back. A fight broke out.
It grew rapidly. The guards brandished their swords as they were showered from all sides with pots, trays, pitchers, kettles, horseshoes, and firewood, and they could not dodge it all. The fight spread through the entire bazaar.
Meanwhile, the emir was enjoying a peaceful nap in his palace.
Suddenly, he jumped up, ran to the window, opened it, and shut it again in horror.
Bakhtiyar came running, pale and with trembling lips.
“What’s this?” the emir muttered. “What’s going on in the square? Where are the cannons? Where is Arslanbek?” Arslanbek ran in and fell face down on the floor:
“Have me beheaded, my ruler!”
“What is this?! What’s going on in the square?!” Arslanbek responded without rising:
“O ruler, sun-like and eclipsing…”
“Enough!” the emir stomped his foot in rage. “Save that for later! What’s going on in the square?”
“Hodja Nasreddin!… He dressed up as a woman. It’s all because of him, because of Hodja Nasreddin! Order my head to be cut off, my ruler!”
But the emir had other things to worry about!
Chapter 24
That day, Hodja Nasreddin valued every minute of his time. As a result, he did not dally and, after breaking the jaw of one guard, crushing the teeth of another, and flattening the nose of a third, he returned safely to the chaikhana of his friend Ali. Here he took off his woman’s dress in the back room, placed a colorful Badakhshan turban on his head, put on a fake beard, and sat in the highest spot of the chaikhana, where it was easiest to see everything.
Pressed by people on all sides, the guards fought back fiercely. A tussle ensued right near the chaikhana, by Hodja Nasreddin’s feet. He could not resist and poured out the contents of his kettle onto a guard, accomplishing this so deftly that the scalding water went right down the neck of the lazy and fat swallower of raw eggs. The guard howled and fell on his back, flailing his arms and legs. Without even glancing at him, Hodja Nasreddin immersed himself back in thought.
He heard a cracking, elderly voice:
“Let me through! Let me through! In the name of Allah, what’s going on here?”
Not far from the chaikhana, right in the thick of the fighting, a hook-nosed, white-bearded old man was towering atop his camel. His look and dress showed him to be an Arab, while the end of his turban was rolled up, signifying his learnedness. Scared out of his wits, he was clinging to the hump of his camel as the battle boiled around him. Someone grabbed hold of the old man’s leg and would not let go, even though the old man was jerking it fiercely and trying to free himself. Shouts, hoarse cries, and savage howls came from all around.
In search of a safe place, the old man somehow made it to the chaikhana. Looking round and shuddering, he tied his camel by the leg next to Hodja Nasreddin’s donkey and stepped onto the platform.