And since blasphemy was indeed punished very severely, all the relatives froze in terror, while the moneylender began to babble something, trying to explain himself. But Hodja Nasreddin would not listen; he turned abruptly and left, slamming the gate behind him…
Soon, the moon rose in the sky, flooding all of Bukhara with soft, warm light. And sounds of shouting and bickering came from the house of the moneylender until late in the night: they were trying to sort out who was the first to think of a monkey…
Chapter 31
After fooling the moneylender, Hodja Nasreddin headed to the palace.
Bukhara was asleep, its daily labors over. A cool darkness enveloped the alleys, water babbled sonorously under the bridges. Hodja Nasreddin smelled wet earth, and his feet slid on the dirt in a couple of spots: this meant that an overzealous street waterer had passed here, moistening the road copiously so that a gust of wind at night would not raise dust and disturb the tired people sleeping in the courtyards and on the roofs. The gardens had sunk into the darkness, their fragrant nighttime freshness breathing over the fences. Distant stars winked at Hodja Nasreddin from above, promising him good fortune. “Yes!” he smirked. “The world is not such a bad place for those who have heads on their shoulders instead of empty pots!”
He passed by the bazaar square on the way and saw bright, welcoming lights in the chaikhana of his friend Ali. Hodja Nasreddin went around the chaikhana and knocked on the door. The master opened it himself. They embraced and went into the warm room. Voices, laughter, and the clatter of dishes could be heard on the other side of the partition. Ali locked the door and lit an oil lamp.
“Everything is ready,” he informed. “I will wait for Guljan in the chaikhana. The blacksmith Yusuf has prepared a safe sanctuary for her. The donkey remains saddled night and day; he is healthy, eats well, and has put on quite a lot of weight.”
“Thank you, Ali. I do not know if I will ever be able to repay you.”
“You will,” said the chaikhana keeper. “You can do anything, Hodja Nasreddin, and let us speak of gratitude no more.”
They sat and began to whisper to each other. The chaikhana keeper took out a man’s robe prepared for Guljan and a large turban to hide her hair braids.
They arranged everything. Hodja Nasreddin was already preparing to leave when he heard a familiar voice through the wall. It was the voice of the pockmarked spy. Hodja Nasreddin opened the door a crack and looked out.
The pockmarked spy, wearing an expensive robe and turban, with a false beard on his face, was sitting in a circle of commoners and bloviating:
“The man who had previously been trying to pass for Hodja Nasreddin was not Hodja Nasreddin at all, but simply an impostor. I am the real Hodja Nasreddin! But I have long since renounced all my errors, having realized their destructiveness and impiety. And I – the real, genuine Hodja Nasreddin – advise all of you to follow my example. I understood at last that Islam is the only righteous faith; I understood that our great, sun-like emir is truly Allah’s deputy on earth, which is proven by his incomparable wisdom, his piety, and his kindness. You have heard this from me, the genuine and true Hodja Nasreddin!”
“Hey!” Hodja Nasreddin said quietly, prodding the chaikhana keeper with his elbow. “Take a look at the stunts they pull when they think I am out of town. I’ll have to remind them about me. Ali, I am going to leave you my false beard, brocade robe, and turban for a little bit, in exchange for some old rags.”
The chaikhana keeper handed him a robe that had long been serving as a floor mat – dirty, torn, and full of fleas.
“Are you breeding them on purpose?” Hodja Nasreddin asked as he put on the robe. “You must be hoping to profit by selling flea meat. But the fleas will eat you first, Ali.”
With these words, he walked out onto the street. The chaikhana keeper returned to his guests, waiting impatiently for what would come next. He did not have to wait for long. Hodja Nasreddin emerged from an alley with the tired gait of a man who had been traveling all day. He walked into the chaikhana, sat down in the shadows, and asked for tea. No one paid any attention to Hodja Nasreddin: who knows what different people wander the streets of Bukhara?
The pockmarked spy continued:
“My delusions were countless, but now I, Hodja Nasreddin, have repented and made a vow to always be pious, perform all the directives of Islam, and obey the emir and all of his viziers, governors, and guards. Since then, I have attained peace and bliss, and multiplied my fortune; before, I was a worthless vagrant, while now I live as befitting every good Muslim.”
Some camel driver with a whip tucked in his belt handed a bowl of tea respectfully to the pockmarked spy.
“I have come to Bukhara from Kokand, o incomparable Hodja Nasreddin. I have heard much of your wisdom, but never in my life have I thought that I would get to meet you and even speak with you. Now I will tell everyone about my meeting with you and relay your words.”
“Good, good!” the pockmarked spy nodded in approval. “Tell everyone that Hodja Nasreddin has reformed and renounced his delusions; he is now a devout Muslim and a faithful slave of the great emir. Let everyone know this.”
“I have a question for you, o incomparable Hodja Nasreddin,” the camel driver continued. “I am a devout Muslim, and I do not wish to break any laws even out of ignorance. At the same time, I am unsure of how to act when I hear the call of a muezzin while bathing in the river. Where should I direct my eyes at such a time?”
The pockmarked spy smirked condescendingly:
“Towards Mecca, of course…” But then someone said from a dark corner:
“Towards your clothes. That’s the best way to make sure you won’t have to return home naked.”
Despite their respect for the pockmarked spy, all the people lowered their heads, concealing smiles.
The spy stared at Hodja Nasreddin, but did not recognize him in the shadows.
“Who is that croaking from the corner?” he said haughtily. “Hey, beggar, have you taken it in your head to challenge Hodja Nasreddin in wit?”
“I am far too unworthy for that,” Hodja Nasreddin replied and began to drink his tea modestly in the corner.
Some peasant addressed the spy:
“Tell me, o devout Hodja Nasreddin: when a Muslim has to participate in a funeral procession, what is the best location for him according to the directives of Islam – in front of the bier, or behind?”
The spy lifted his finger meaningfully, intending to reply, but the voice from the corner interrupted him:
“It really doesn’t matter if you are in front or behind, so long as you are not in the bier itself.”
The easily amused chaikhana keeper grabbed his belly and sank down in laughter. The others could not restrain themselves either. This man in the corner had a way with words, and could, perhaps, match wits with Hodja Nasreddin himself.
Growing enraged, the spy turned his head slowly:
“Hey, you, what’s your face! I see you have a very long tongue, it would be a shame for you to lose it!… It would not pose any difficulty for me to destroy him with my wit,” the spy added, turning to the people around him, “but wit does not befit our pious and edifying conversation. There is a proper time for everything, and therefore I will leave the beggar’s words without a reply. And so, I, Hodja Nasreddin, call upon you, o Muslims, to follow my example: respect the mullahs, obey the authorities, and good fortune will bless you and your homes. And most importantly, do not listen to any suspicious vagrants who falsely claim to be Hodja Nasreddin, such as the one who terrorized Bukhara recently and then disappeared without a trace as soon as he heard about the arrival of the real Hodja Nasreddin. Seize and capture these impostors, and hand them over to the emir’s guards.”