“Yes, I have heard a few things. But tell me, what happened to this saddle-maker Shir-Mamed, father of the famous Hodja Nasreddin? What happened to his family?”
“Quiet, my son. There are thousands upon thousands of spies in Bukhara – they might hear us, and then we will have no end of trouble. You must have come from far away, and you do not know that it is strictly forbidden to mention the name of Hodja Nasreddin in our city, for it is punished by imprisonment. Lean closer to me, and I will tell you.”
Concealing his excitement, Hodja Nasreddin leaned very close to him.
“It happened in the times of the old emir,” the old man began. “A year and a half after Hodja Nasreddin was exiled, rumors spread in the bazaar that he had returned and was living secretly in Bukhara, composing mocking songs about the emir. The rumors reached the emir’s palace, and the guards dashed off to search for Hodja Nasreddin, but they could not find him. Then the emir ordered them to seize Hodja Nasreddin’s father, his two brothers, his uncle, and all his distant relatives and friends, and to torture them until they revealed where Hodja Nasreddin was hiding. Praise be to Allah that he sent them so much courage and resolve that they managed to keep quiet, and our Hodja Nasreddin escaped the emir’s grasp. But his father, the saddle-maker Shir-Mamed, fell ill after the torture and soon died, while all his relatives and friends left Bukhara to escape the emir’s wrath, and no one knows where they are now. And then the emir ordered their dwellings destroyed and their gardens uprooted, so as to destroy the very memory of Hodja Nasreddin in Bukhara.”
“Why were they tortured?” Hodja Nasreddin exclaimed; tears were flowing down his face, but the old man was nearsighted and did not notice them. “Why were they tortured? Hodja Nasreddin was not in Bukhara at that time, I know this very well!”
“No one knows that!” the old man replied. “Hodja Nasreddin appears where he wishes and disappears when he wishes. He is everywhere and nowhere, our incomparable Hodja Nasreddin!”
With these words, the old man pressed onwards, coughing and sighing, while Hodja Nasreddin covered his face with his hands and walked to his donkey.
He hugged the donkey, pressing his face into the donkey’s warm, pungent neck. “You see, my kind, faithful friend,” Hodja Nasreddin spoke, “I have no close friends or relatives left, only you are my constant, unchanging companion in my travels.” And, as if sensing his master’s grief, the donkey stood quietly, without moving, and even stopped chewing the burr that was hanging on his lips.
But an hour later, Hodja Nasreddin steeled his heart, and the tears dried on his face. “No matter!” he cried, slapping his donkey firmly on the back. “No matter! They have not forgotten me in Bukhara, they know me and remember me, and we will manage to find friends! And then we will compose such a song about the emir that he’ll burst of rage on his throne, and his foul entrails will stick to the luxurious palace walls. Onward, my faithful donkey, onward!”
Chapter 4
It was a quiet, stuffy hour in the afternoon. The dust, the rocks, and the clay fences and walls were all searing hot and exuding heat. The sweat on Hodja Nasreddin’s face would dry before he could wipe it off.
Excited, Hodja Nasreddin recognized familiar streets, chaikhanas, and minarets. Nothing had changed in Bukhara in ten years – the same scruffy dogs were napping by the ponds; a slender woman was leaning down to lower a narrow, ringing pitcher into the dark water, holding her veil with her dark-skinned hand with painted fingernails. And just as tightly shut were the gates of the famous Mir-Arab madrassa, where learned ulema [6] and mudarrises [7], who had long forgotten the color of the spring leaves, the scent of the sun, and the babbling of streams, were sitting beneath heavy arches, their eyes lit with a grim fire, and laboring on thick volumes devoted to the glory of Allah and to proving the necessity of destroying to the seventh generation anyone who did not practice Islam. Hodja Nasreddin prodded his donkey with his heels as he passed this terrible place.
But where would he eat? Hodja Nasreddin tightened his belt for the third time since the previous day.
“I must think of something,” he said. “Let us stop and think, my faithful donkey. And look, there is a chaikhana!”
He unbridled his donkey and sent him off to collect uneaten clover by the tethering post. Gathering the flaps of his robe, Hodja Nasreddin sat down by the aryk, where the water, thick with clay, bubbled and foamed on the turns. “This water knows not where it comes from, where it is headed, or why,” Hodja Nasreddin pondered bitterly. “I, too, have not known my way, or any rest, or a home. Why have I come to Bukhara? Where will I go tomorrow? And where will I find half a tanga for dinner? Am I going to have to go hungry again? That accursed tax collector robbed me blind and then had the gall to talk to me about bandits!”
At that moment, he saw the cause of his misfortune. The tax collector himself rode up to the chaikhana. Two guards were leading his Arabian stallion by the bridle – a handsome bay horse with a noble and passionate fire in his dark eyes. Bending his neck, the stallion shuffled his thin legs impatiently, as if disgusted at having to carry the tax collector’s fat bulk on his back.
The guards unloaded their master respectfully, and he entered the chaikhana, where the keeper, trembling in servility, sat him down on silken pillows, brewed him the best tea, and handed him a fine drinking bowl of Chinese craftsmanship. “That’s some reception he is getting on my money!” thought Hodja Nasreddin.
The collector drank himself full of tea and soon dozed off on the pillows, filling the chaikhana with wheezing, snoring, and smacking. All the other visitors lowered their voices to a whisper, afraid to disturb his sleep. The guards sat over him – one to the right, and one to the left – chasing off annoying flies with twigs, until they were sure that the tax collector was sound asleep. Then they winked at each other, unbridled the horse, tossed him a sheaf of clover, and retreated to the back of the chaikhana with a hookah. A minute later, the sweet smell of hashish began to drift from the darkness towards Hodja Nasreddin: the guards were using their free time to indulge in vice. “Well, time for me to go,” Hodja Nasreddin decided, recalling his morning adventures at the city gates and fearing that the guards might perchance recognize him. “But still, where will I get half a tanga? O omnipotent fate that has rescued Hodja Nasreddin many times, turn your benevolent gaze towards him!” And then, someone called out to him.
“Hey you, tramp!”
He turned and saw a covered, richly decorated cart on the road. A man in a large turban and expensive robe had drawn apart the curtains and was peeking out.
And no sooner did this man – some rich merchant or official – pronounce his next word, than Hodja Nasreddin knew that his appeal to fate had not gone unanswered: as always, his good fortune had turned her gracious gaze towards him at this difficult time.
“I like this stallion,” the rich man said haughtily, looking past Hodja Nasreddin and admiring the bay Arabian beauty. “Tell me, is this stallion for sale?”
“There is no horse in the world that’s not for sale,” Hodja Nasreddin replied evasively.
“There is probably not a lot of money in your pocket,” the rich man continued. “Listen carefully. I do not know whose stallion this is, where he came from, or his previous owners. I am not even going to ask. It is enough for me to see that, judging by your dusty clothes, you have come to Bukhara from afar. It is enough for me. Do you understand?”