“You are just, noble, and conscientious,” Hodja Nasreddin said, deeply moved. “But I am also just, noble, and conscientious, and I swear that you will not go in chains to the slave market tomorrow. Hold out the flap of your robe!”
He poured out everything from his saddlebag to the last tanga. Then, holding the flap of his robe with his left hand, the man hugged Hodja Nasreddin with his right and pressed against Hodja Nasreddin’s chest in tears.
Hodja Nasreddin looked over all the people he saved and saw smiles, red cheeks, and sparkling eyes.
“You know something? That really was some flight you took off your donkey back there,” the enormous bearded mason said suddenly, bursting out in laughter, and everyone began to laugh together – men in rough voices, and women in high-pitched voices – and the children began to smile, stretching their hands out to Hodja Nasreddin, who was laughing the loudest of all.
“O!” he said, convulsing with laughter. “You don’t know the half of this donkey! He’s one bastard of a donkey!…”
“No!” the woman with the sick child interrupted. “Do not speak thus of your donkey. It is the smartest, noblest, most precious donkey in the world, who has no equal and never will. I would take care of him all my life, feed him select grain, never burden him with work, clean him, and brush his tail with a comb. For if this incomparable donkey, who is not unlike a blooming rose and filled with virtue alone, had not jumped across the ditch and thrown you from your saddle, o wanderer who has come before us like the sun in darkness, you would have passed by without noticing us, and we would not have dared to stop you!”
“She is right,” the old man noted thoughtfully. “In many ways, we owe our salvation to this donkey, who truly graces this world and stands out, like a diamond, among all other donkeys.”
Everyone began to heap praise on the donkey and vie with each other to thrust flat bread cakes, fried corn, and dried apricots and peaches in his direction. Brushing aside annoying flies with his tail, the donkey accepted the offerings in a calm and dignified manner, although he did blink when he saw the whip that Hodja Nasreddin was shaking clandestinely in his direction.
But time went on, the shadows began to lengthen, and the red-footed storks, calling and flapping their wings, returned to their nests, where the open beaks of their chicks were stretching out greedily towards them.
Hodja Nasreddin began to say his goodbyes.
Everyone bowed and thanked him:
“Thank you. You understood our misfortune.”
“How could I not understand?” he replied. “As recently as today, I lost four shops with eight most skilled tradesmen, as well as a house with a garden full of fountains and with songbirds in gold cages on all the trees. How could I not understand?”
The old man mumbled with his toothless mouth:
“I have no way to return your favor, wanderer. Here is the only thing I took when leaving my house. This is the Koran, a holy book; take it, and let it be your guiding light in the worldly ocean.”
Hodja Nasreddin did not have much respect for holy books, but, because he did not wish to upset the old man, he took the Koran, placed it in his saddlebag, and jumped in the saddle.
“Your name, your name!” everyone shouted in unison. “Tell us your name, so that we know who to thank in our prayers.”
“Why do you wish to know my name? True virtue has no need of glory, and, as for prayers, Allah has many angels informing him of pious deeds… And if the angels are being lazy and negligent, sleeping somewhere on the soft clouds instead of tallying up all the pious and impious deeds on earth, then your prayers would not help anyway, for Allah would be a fool to take people’s word for everything instead of demanding confirmation from his subordinates.”
All of a sudden, one of the women gasped quietly, then another, and then the old man gave a start and stared right at Hodja Nasreddin. But Hodja Nasreddin was in a hurry and did not notice any of this.
“Farewell. May peace and prosperity abide with you.”
Accompanied by blessings, he disappeared behind a turn in the road.
The people who stayed behind were silent, a single thought flashing in everyone’s eyes.
The old man broke the silence. In a heartfelt and solemn voice, he said:
“There is only one man in the world who can do something like this, and only one man in the world can speak like this, and only one man in the world can carry such a soul inside, which bathes all miserable and unfortunate people with its light and warmth, and that man is our…”
“Quiet!” another man interrupted quickly. “Or have you forgotten that fences have eyes, that rocks have ears, and that scores of hounds would dash along his tracks.”
“You are right,” a third man added. “We must remain silent, for it is as though he walks a tightrope now, and the smallest push can doom him.”
“I would rather my tongue be cut off than pronounce his name aloud anywhere!” said the woman with the sick child.
“I will be silent,” a second woman exclaimed, “for I would rather die than accidentally give him the rope!”
Everyone agreed, except for the mighty bearded mason, who was not distinguished by a particularly sharp mind and, as he listened to the conversation, could not understand why dogs would follow the tracks of the wanderer if he was not a butcher or an offal salesman, and, if the wanderer was a tightrope walker, why it was forbidden to say his name aloud, and why the woman would sooner die than give her savior a rope, so necessary in his profession. Here the mason became utterly confused; he began to breathe loudly, let out a heavy sigh, and decided to take a break from thinking, lest he lose his mind.
Meanwhile, Hodja Nasreddin was already far away, but the exhausted faces of the poor remained fresh before his eyes; he recalled the sick child with a feverish blush on his cheeks and with his lips parched from the heat, he recalled the gray hair of the old man, thrown out of his childhood home, and rage boiled up from the depths of his heart.
He could not sit still in the saddle, so he hopped off and walked next to the donkey, kicking aside the stones under his feet.
“Just you wait, moneylender, just you wait!” he whispered, and a sinister fire flared up in his black eyes. “We will meet, and your fate will be a bitter one! You too, emir,” he continued, “grow pale and tremble, emir, for I, Hodja Nasreddin, am in Bukhara! O contemptible leeches that suck the blood of my poor people, o greedy hyenas and filthy jackals. You will not rejoice forever, nor will the people suffer forever! As for you, moneylender Jafar, may my name be covered in shame for all eternity if I do not get even with you for all the grief you are causing the poor!”
Chapter 7
Even for Hodja Nasreddin, who had seen a lot in his life, this day – his first day back in his homeland – was a little too restless and too rich with adventures. Hodja Nasreddin grew tired and was looking to find shelter and rest in some quiet place.
“Oh, no!” he sighed, seeing a great multitude of people gathered around a pond in the distance. “It seems I will not get any rest today! It looks like something else has happened!”
The pond was situated on the side of a large road, and Hodja Nasreddin could have passed right by, but our Hodja Nasreddin was not the kind of man who missed an opportunity to get involved in a quarrel, scandal, or brawl.
The donkey, who had learned his master’s personality perfectly well over the long years, turned towards the pond without waiting for a command.