“Yes!” the blacksmith said. “But the deed cannot be undone. We can’t throw the moneylender back into the pond, after all!”
Hodja Nasreddin perked up:
“I did an evil thing, but I myself will correct it! Listen, blacksmith! I swear that the moneylender Jafar will be drowned by me. I swear on the beard of my father that he will be drowned by me in this very pond! Remember my oath, blacksmith! I have never thrown words to the wind. The moneylender will be drowned! And when you hear it on the bazaar, know that I have redeemed myself before the people of Noble Bukhara!”
Chapter 8
Twilight was already descending upon the city when Hodja Nasreddin finally reached the bazaar square.
Bright fires lit up in the chaikhanas, and soon the entire square was girdled with lights. A great bazaar was set for tomorrow – and the camel caravans, stepping softly, followed one another and disappeared in the darkness, while the air was still filled with the even, mournful, coppery ringing of their bells; and the moment the bells of one caravan would fade in the distance, the bells of another caravan entering the square would begin to moan in their place, and this was endless, as if the darkness itself was ringing and jittering quietly above the square, full of sounds brought here from all corners of the world. Here, invisible, were bells Indian and Afghan, bells Arabian, Iranian, and Egyptian. Hodja Nasreddin kept listening and listening, and he could have listened forever. A tambourine was struck and started jingling in a chaikhana nearby, and the strings of a dutar responded. An unseen singer raised his ringing, tense voice as high as the stars themselves: he was singing of his beloved, he was complaining about her.
To the sounds of this song, Hodja Nasreddin went looking for a place to sleep.
“We have half a tanga between the donkey and me,” he said to a chaikhana keeper.
“For half a tanga, you can spend the night on a mat,” the keeper replied. “No blanket for you.”
“And where should I tie down my donkey?”
“Look at that, as if I’m going to take care of your donkey, too.”
There was no tethering post by the chaikhana. Hodja Nasreddin noticed some kind of metal bracket sticking out from under the platform of the chaikhana. He tied the donkey to the bracket without bothering to see how it was attached and then went inside the chaikhana and lay down: he was very tired.
Suddenly, he heard his own name through his slumber. He opened his eyes slightly.
Some people who had come to the bazaar were sitting in a circle nearby and drinking tea – a camel driver, a shepherd, and two craftsmen. One of them was speaking quietly:
“They also say this of Hodja Nasreddin: once he was walking through the bazaar in Baghdad, and suddenly he heard noise and shouting coming from a cookhouse. Our Hodja Nasreddin, being a curious man, as you know – he glanced inside the cookhouse. And he saw that a fat, red-faced cookhouse keeper was shaking some beggar by the collar and demanding money, while the beggar did not want to pay.
“‘What’s all this noise?’ our Hodja Nasreddin asked. ‘What is your quarrel?’
“‘This beggar,’ the cookhouse keeper shouted in response, ‘this contemptible tramp and swindler, may his insides dry up and shrivel, walked into my cookhouse just now, took out a bread cake, and held it over the brazier for a long time, until the cake was saturated with the smell of kebab and thus became twice as delicious. Then the beggar devoured the cake, and now he does not want to pay, may his teeth fall out and his skin peel off!’
“‘Is that true?’ our Hodja Nasreddin asked sternly of the beggar, who was so frightened he could not speak a single word and only nodded his head in response.
“‘That is not good,’ Hodja Nasreddin said. ‘It is not good at all to use someone’s property for free.’
“‘Can you hear what this respectable and worthy man is telling you, tramp?’ the cookhouse keeper said contentedly.
“‘Do you have money?’ Hodja Nasreddin said to the beggar. The latter took out his last coppers in silence. The cookhouse keeper was already reaching for them with his fat paw.
“‘Just a moment, o esteemed one!’ Hodja Nasreddin stopped him. ‘Let’s have your ear first.’
“And he jingled the coins in his fist for a long time right over the cookhouse keeper’s ear. And then, after returning the coins to the beggar, he said:
“‘Go in peace, poor man!’
“‘What?’ the cookhouse keeper shouted. ‘But I did not receive payment!’
“‘He paid you in full, and you are even,’ our Hodja Nasreddin replied. ‘He smelled the aroma of your kebab, and you heard the jingling of his money.’”
Everyone in the chaikhana burst out in laughter. A hasty warning came from someone:
“Quiet. Or else everyone will guess right away that we are talking about Hodja Nasreddin.”
“How do they even know?” Hodja Nasreddin smiled inwardly. “This was in Istanbul, not Baghdad, of course, but still – how do they know?”
A second man began to narrate quietly – he was wearing shepherd’s clothes and a colorful turban, which gave him away as a resident of Badakhshan.
“They say also this. One day, Hodja Nasreddin was walking past a mullah’s garden. The mullah was gathering gourds into a sack, and in his greed he loaded the sack so heavily that he could not even lift it, much less carry it. So he was standing and pondering: ‘How will I ever bring this sack home?’ Seeing a passerby, he rejoiced:
“‘Listen, my son. Will you help me carry this sack to my house?’
“And Hodja Nasreddin just happened to be broke at the time.
“‘How much will you pay me?’ he asked the mullah.
“‘O, my son! Why do you need money? While you are carrying my gourds, I will tell you three pieces of wisdom that will make you happy for the rest of your life.’
“‘I wonder what sort of wisdom this mullah is promising to reveal to me,’ our Hodja Nasreddin thought to himself.
“He was overcome with curiosity, so he heaved the sack onto his shoulders and began to carry it. The road ran steeply uphill, and passed over a precipice. When Hodja Nasreddin stopped to rest, the mullah said with a mysterious and haughty air:
“‘Listen to the first piece of wisdom, for there has been no greater wisdom in the world since the times of Adam, and if you grasp its full depth, it will be equivalent to understanding the hidden meaning of the letters Alef, Lam, Ra, with which Muhammad, our prophet and teacher, opens the second surah of the Koran. Listen carefully: if any man ever tells you that walking is better than riding – do not believe that man. Remember my words and think on them incessantly night and day – and then you will grasp the wisdom contained within them. But this wisdom is nothing compared to the second piece of wisdom, which I will impart to you by that tree over there. See – riiight there, up ahead!’
“‘All right!’ Hodja Nasreddin thought to himself. ‘Just you wait, mullah!’
“Sweating copiously, he dragged the sack to the tree.
“The mullah raised his finger:
“‘Open your ears and hark, for the second piece of wisdom incorporates the entire Koran, half of Sharia, and a quarter of Tariqah [9]. One who has grasped this wisdom shall never stray from the path of virtue and never stumble on the road to truth. Try to understand this wisdom, my son, and be glad that you have received it for free. The second piece of wisdom states: if someone tells you that life is easier for a poor man than for a rich man, do not believe that man.’
“‘But even this second piece of wisdom is nothing next to the third, whose brilliance can only be compared to the dazzling light of the sun, and whose depth can only be compared to the depth of the ocean. I will relate the third piece of wisdom to you by the gates of my house. Come quickly, for I have already rested.’