Full of rejoicing and delight, Hodja Nasreddin nodded his head: he understood everything right away, far beyond what the rich man was trying to communicate. He thought of only one thing: if only some foolish fly did not crawl into the tax collector’s nostril or throat and wake him up. The guards worried him less: judging by the clouds of thick green smoke drifting from the shadows, they were continuing to indulge enthusiastically in vice.
“You understand yourself,” the rich man continued grandly and haughtily, “that it does not befit you to ride this horse in your torn robe. It would even be dangerous for you, because everyone would ask: ‘Where did that beggar get such an excellent stallion?’ and you could easily end up in jail.”
“You are right, o highborn one!” Hodja Nasreddin replied humbly. “The horse is indeed too good for me. I have been riding a donkey in my torn robe all my life, and I would not even dare think of mounting such a horse.”
The rich man liked his reply.
“It is good that, in your state of poverty, you are not blinded with pride: a poor man must be humble and modest, for luscious flowers befit the noble almond tree, but not a wretched burr. Now tell me – do you wish to receive this purse? It contains exactly three hundred tanga in silver.”
“Of course!” Hodja Nasreddin exclaimed, feeling a chill inside because the pernicious fly had crawled into the tax collector’s nostril after alclass="underline" he sneezed and shifted. “Of course! Who would refuse three hundred tanga in silver? It would be like finding a purse on the road!”
“Well, you seem to have found something else entirely on the road,” the rich man replied with a shrewd smile. “But I am willing to trade that which you have found on the road for silver. Here are your three hundred tanga.”
He handed Hodja Nasreddin the hefty wallet and signaled his servant, who was listening to the conversation silently and scratching his back with his whip. The servant headed towards the stallion. Hodja Nasreddin had time to notice that the servant, judging by his shifty eyes and the smirk on his flat, pockmarked snout, was an inveterate scoundrel, quite worthy of his master. “Three cheats on one road is too many – time for one to leave!” Hodja Nasreddin decided. Praising the rich man’s piety and generosity, he hopped on his donkey and struck the beast with his heels so hard that the donkey broke straight into a gallop in spite of his laziness.
Turning, Hodja Nasreddin saw that the pockmarked servant was tying the bay Arabian stallion to the cart.
Turning once more, he saw that the rich man and the tax collector were tearing at each other’s beards, and the guards were trying in vain to separate them.
Wisely choosing to avoid someone else’s quarrel, Hodja Nasreddin turned and weaved through the alleys until he felt safe. Then he pulled on the reins, restraining the donkey’s gallop.
“Wait, wait,” he began. “We have nowhere to hurry now.”
Suddenly, he heard the alarming, irregular clatter of hooves nearby.
“Hey! Onward, my faithful donkey, onward, save me!” Hodja Nasreddin shouted, but it was too late: a horseman had leapt onto the road from around a corner.
It was the pockmarked servant. He was riding the horse unharnessed from the cart. Swinging his legs, he sped by Hodja Nasreddin and reined in his horse sharply, placing it perpendicularly to the road.
“Let me by, my good man,” Hodja Nasreddin said meekly. “One should ride along these narrow roads, not across.”
“Aha!” the servant replied with gloating in his voice. “You will not escape the dungeon now! Are you aware that the official who is the real owner of the stallion has ripped out half my master’s beard, while my master struck his nose to the point of bleeding? Tomorrow you’ll be dragged before the emir to be judged. O human, your fate is truly dire!”
“You don’t say!” Hodja Nasreddin exclaimed. “What could have caused such a bitter fight between those esteemed persons? But why did you stop me – I cannot be a judge in their quarrel. Let them settle it themselves, somehow!”
“Enough chatter!” the servant said. “Turn back. You’ll have to answer for the stallion.”
“What stallion?”
“You dare ask? The one for which my master gave you a purse of silver.”
“By Allah, you are mistaken,” Hodja Nasreddin replied. “The stallion had nothing to do with it. Judge for yourself – you heard the entire conversation. Your master, a generous and pious man, decided to help a poor man and asked if I wished to receive three hundred tanga in silver – and I replied that, of course, I did. And he gave me three hundred tanga, may Allah extend the days of his life! But prior to that, he decided to test my modesty and my humility so as to determine whether I deserved the reward. He said: ‘I do not ask whose stallion this is, or where it came from,’ wishing to make sure that I would not claim to be the owner of the stallion out of false pride. I remained silent, and the generous, pious merchant was pleased with me. He then said that such a stallion would be too good for me, and I agreed with him completely, and again he was pleased. Then he said that I had found something on the road which could be traded for silver, hinting at my passion and resolve in the practice of Islam, which I had gained through pilgrimages to holy sites. And then he rewarded me, hoping this pious deed would eventually ease his journey to heaven across the otherworldly bridge, which the holy Koran says to be lighter than a hair and thinner than the blade of a sword. In my very next prayer, I will tell Allah of the pious deed of your master, so that Allah may prepare him a railing on this bridge.”
The servant pondered this and then said with a sly smirk, which immediately made Hodja Nasreddin ill at ease:
“You are correct, o wanderer! How did I not guess right away that your conversation with my master had such a virtuous meaning! But since you have decided to aid my master in his journey across the otherworldly bridge, it would be better if there were railings on both sides. That would make things stronger and more reliable. I would gladly pray for my master too, so that Allah may place a railing on the other side as well.”
“So pray!” Hodja Nasreddin exclaimed. “Who’s stopping you? In fact, you are required to do so. Does not the Koran prescribe for servants and slaves to pray daily for their masters, without expecting any special reward…”
“Turn the donkey around!” the servant said rudely. Moving his horse, he pressed Hodja Nasreddin to the fence. “Quickly now, don’t make me waste my time!”
“Wait,” Hodja Nasreddin interrupted him hastily. “I was not finished. I had intended to say a prayer of three hundred words, corresponding to the amount of tanga I received. But now I think a prayer of two hundred and fifty words might suffice. The railing on my side will be just a little thinner and shorter. Meanwhile, you will say a prayer of fifty words, and the omniscient Allah will be able to construct a railing on your side from the same wood.”
“What’s that?” the servant objected. “Do you mean to say that the railing on my side will be five times as short as yours?”
“But it will be in the most dangerous spot of the bridge!” Hodja Nasreddin added in a lively voice.
“No! I do not agree to such short a short railing,” the servant said decisively. “This means part of the bridge will remain exposed! I grow pale, and cold sweat covers my skin at the thought of the terrible danger threatening my master! I believe we should both say prayers of one hundred and fifty words, so that the railings will be the same on either side. Let them be thinner, but on both sides. And if you do not agree, I will interpret this as malicious intent towards my master – you want him to fall off the bridge! In that case, I will call the men immediately, and you’ll go straight to the dungeon!”