“For Allah’s sake, what is going on here in Bukhara?”
“The bazaar,” Hodja Nasreddin replied curtly.
“Is the bazaar always like this in Bukhara? How will I make it to the palace through all this fighting?”
As soon as he said the word ‘palace,’ Hodja Nasreddin realized immediately that his meeting with the old man was that very encounter, that very chance that could enable him to carry out his plan: penetrate the emir’s harem and free Guljan.
But haste, as it is known, stems from the devil, and moreover anyone can recall the verses of the most wise Sheikh Saadi of Shiraz: “Only the patient man will complete his task, the hasty one will fall.” Hodja Nasreddin rolled up the carpet of impatience and placed it in the coffer of waiting.
“O almighty Allah, o shelter of the faithful,” the old man sighed and moaned. “How will I get to the palace now?”
“Wait here until tomorrow,” Hodja Nasreddin replied.
“I cannot!” the old man exclaimed. “I am expected in the palace!”
Hodja Nasreddin laughed:
“O esteemed and white-haired old sage, I do not know your rank or your business, but why do you think that they cannot live without you in the palace, even for a day? Many respectable people in Bukhara wait for weeks to get into the palace; why do you think you deserve an exception?”
“Let it be known to you,” the old man said with dignity, somewhat wounded by Hodja Nasreddin’s words, “that I am a famous sage, astrologer, and healer who has come here from none other than Baghdad, at the emir’s request, in order to serve him and aid him in governing the country.”
“O!” Hodja Nasreddin replied, bowing respectfully. “Greetings to you, wise old sage. I have been to Baghdad before, and I know the sages there. Tell me your name.”
“If you have been to Baghdad, then you have surely heard of me and of my services to the caliph, whose favorite son I saved from death, which was announced throughout the land. Hussein Huslia is my name.”
“Hussein Huslia!” Hodja Nasreddin exclaimed. “Are you really Hussein Huslia himself?”
The old man could not conceal a smile, quite pleased by the fact that his fame had spread so far beyond his native Baghdad.
“Why are you surprised?” the old man continued. “Yes, I am the famous Hussein Huslia himself, a great sage that no one can match in wisdom, or the art of reading the stars, or the art of curing illnesses. But I am completely free of pride and smugness – look how easily I can speak to someone as lowly as you.”
The old man took a pillow and leaned on it, preparing to extend his condescension to his companion even further and speak in detail about his great wisdom – hoping that the companion, driven by vanity, would start telling on every corner how he met the famous sage Hussein Huslia, extolling the sage’s wisdom and even exaggerating it in order to inspire more respect for the sage, and consequently for himself, among his listeners – for this is exactly how people act when they have garnered the attention of highly placed persons. “And this will serve to increase and strengthen my fame among the common folk,” Hussein Huslia thought, “which cannot hurt; the talk among the people will reach the emir himself through spies and eavesdroppers, and confirm my wisdom to him, for confirmation from a third party is, undoubtedly, the best kind of confirmation, and through all this I will obtain benefit for myself.”
In order to completely convince his companion in his incredible learnedness, the sage began to tell him about constellations and their locations, referring at every opportunity to great sages of antiquity.
Hodja Nasreddin listened carefully, trying to remember every word.
“No,” he said at last. “I still cannot believe it! Are you really that same Hussein Huslia?”
“Of course!” the old man exclaimed. “What is so surprising about it?”
Hodja Nasreddin moved away warily. Then he exclaimed with alarm and compassion in his voice:
“O wretch! Your head is lost!” The old man choked and dropped his cup. It was like a game of chess, where, incidentally, few could rival Hodja Nasreddin.
All the pomp and haughtiness evaporated from the old man in an instant.
“How? What? Why?” he asked fearfully. Hodja Nasreddin pointed at the square, where the battle had not yet quieted down:
“Don’t you know that all this confusion is because of you?! The illustrious emir has heard that, upon leaving Baghdad, you swore publicly to penetrate the emir’s harem – o, woe betide you, Hussein Huslia! – and dishonor the emir’s wives!”
The sage’s mouth fell open, his eyes turned white, and he began to hiccup repeatedly in fear…
“Me?” he muttered. “Me – the harem?”
“You swore this by the foundation of Allah’s throne. The heralds announced it today. And our emir ordered to seize you as soon as you entered the city, and immediately have you beheaded.”
The sage moaned in exhaustion. He could not understand which of his enemies had managed to deal him this blow; the rest he did not doubt, for, during courtly skirmishes, he frequently crushed his enemies in similar ways and then admired their heads contentedly as they hung on posts.
“And so, today,” Hodja Nasreddin continued, “spies informed the emir that you had arrived, and he ordered the guards to seize you. The guards dashed to the bazaar and began to search for you everywhere, rummaging through shops, and trade was disrupted, and the peace was disturbed. By mistake, the guards seized a man who looked like you, and hastily removed his head, while he turned out to be a mullah well known for his piety and virtue. The worshippers from his mosque were incensed – and now look what is going on in Bukhara thanks to you!”
“O woe to me!” the sage exclaimed in horror and despair.
He began to clamor, moan, and complain bitterly, leading Hodja Nasreddin to conclude that the ploy had been a complete success.
In the meantime, the fight moved on towards the palace gates, where the beaten and mangled guards were retreating, having lost their weapons. The bazaar continued to rumble in agitation, but less loudly than before.
“To Baghdad!” the sage exclaimed, moaning. “Back to Baghdad!”
“But you will be seized at the city gates!” Hodja Nasreddin objected.
“O woe! O great misfortune! Allah knows that I am innocent; I have never given such a bold, such an impious oath to anyone! My enemies have slandered me to the emir! Help me, good Muslim!”
This was exactly what Hodja Nasreddin wanted, for he did not wish to arouse suspicion by offering his aid first.
“Help?” he asked. “How can I help you, even if we forget that I, as a faithful and devoted slave of my ruler, should hand you over to the guards without delay?”
Hiccuping and trembling, the sage directed a pleading gaze at Hodja Nasreddin.
“But you say that you were slandered unjustly,” Hodja Nasreddin hastened to calm him down. “I believe you, for your age is so great that you have no business being in a harem.”
“True!” the old man exclaimed. “But is there a way to save me?”
“There is,” Hodja Nasreddin replied and then led the old man to the dark back room of the chaikhana, where he handed him a bundle of women’s clothing. “I happened to buy this today for my wife, and, if you like, I can trade these clothes for your robe and turban. Under a woman’s veil, you will be able to escape the spies and the guards.”
The old man grabbed the women’s clothing with declarations of delight and gratitude, and put it on. Hodja Nasreddin dressed himself in the sage’s white robe and put on the turban with the rolled-up end, as well as the sage’s broad belt with images of stars. The old man offered to trade his camel for the donkey as well, but Hodja Nasreddin did not wish to part with his faithful friend.