The moneylender drew nearer and the crowd quickly began to thin, for every third man owed him money.
The moneylender recognized Hodja Nasreddin:
“It seems the man who pulled me from the water yesterday is trading here. But how did you get so many goods?”
“You yourself gave me half a tanga yesterday, o esteemed Jafar,” Hodja Nasreddin replied. “I put this money to use and was blessed with good fortune in my trade.”
“You’ve managed to trade this entire pile of merchandise in one morning?” the moneylender exclaimed in surprise. “My money has been good for you. How much do you want for this pile?”
“Six hundred tanga.”
“You have gone mad! Have you no shame, trying to rip off your benefactor like that? Do you not owe your good fortune to me? Two hundred tanga – that is my price.”
“Five hundred,” Hodja Nasreddin replied. “In view of my respect for you, esteemed Jafar – five hundred tanga!”
“Ingrate! I repeat, do you not owe your good fortune to me?”
“And do you not owe your life to me, moneylender?” Hodja Nasreddin replied, losing his patience. “Of course, you gave me only half a tanga for saving your life, but since your life is not worth any more, I bear no grudge! If you wish to buy, then name a fair price!”
“Three hundred!”
Hodja Nasreddin remained silent.
The moneylender dawdled for a long time, pricing the goods with his trained eye, and when he determined that all the robes, shoes, and skullcaps could be sold for seven hundred tanga at the very least, decided to raise the price.
“Three hundred fifty.”
“Four hundred.”
“Three hundred seventy five.”
“Four hundred.”
Hodja Nasreddin stood firm. The moneylender left and came back again, raising the price one tanga at a time, and finally he agreed. They shook hands, and the moneylender began to count off the money with loud lamentations.
“By Allah, I paid twice what this merchandise is worth. But such is my character that I always bear a loss because of my kindness.”
“Fake,” Hodja Nasreddin interrupted, returning a coin. “And there are not four hundred tanga here. There are three hundred and eighty, you must have poor eyesight, esteemed Jafar.”
The moneylender had to add twenty tanga and replace the fake coin. Then he hired a carrier for a quarter tanga, loaded him up, and commanded him to follow. The poor carrier doubled over and nearly collapsed under the heavy load.
“We are headed in the same direction,” Hodja Nasreddin said. He could not wait to see Guljan again, and he kept putting on speed. The moneylender, with his lame leg, kept falling behind.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” the moneylender asked, wiping off sweat with his sleeve.
“The same place as you,” Hodja Nasreddin, and a sly spark flashed in his dark eyes. “You and I are going to the same place on the same business, esteemed Jafar.”
“But you do not know my business,” the moneylender replied. “If you knew, you would envy me.”
Hodja Nasreddin understood the hidden meaning of these words, and he replied with a hearty laugh:
“But if you knew my business, moneylender, you would envy me ten times more.”
The moneylender frowned: he had caught the insolence in Hodja Nasreddin’s reply.
“You have an intemperate tongue; one of your stature should tremble when speaking to me. There are not many people in Bukhara I would envy. I am rich, and there are no barriers to my desires. I have come to desire the most beautiful girl in Bukhara, and today she will be mine.”
Just then, they bumped into a cherry salesman carrying a flat basket on his head. As he passed by, Hodja Nasreddin took a single cherry with a long stalk from the basket and showed it to the moneylender:
“Hear me, esteemed Jafar. They tell of a certain jackal who once saw a cherry high up on a tree. And he said to himself: ‘I must eat that cherry at any cost.’ And he spent the next two hours trying to climb the tree and tearing his hide on the boughs. But as soon as he flung his maw wide open to enjoy the cherry, a falcon swooped from somewhere, grabbed the cherry, and carried it away. It took the jackal another two hours to descend from the tree, and he injured himself even more. Spilling bitter tears, he said: ‘Why did I climb to get the cherry? It has long been known to all that cherries do not grow on trees for jackals to eat.’”
“You are a fool,” the moneylender said haughtily. “I see no meaning in your tale.”
“Deep meanings are not grasped right away,” Hodja Nasreddin replied.
The cherry was hanging behind his ear, the stalk tucked under his skullcap. The road turned a corner. The potter and his daughter were sitting on the rocks just past the turn.
The potter got up; his eyes, which had still held the glimmer of hope, faded. He decided that the stranger did not manage to get the money. Guljan turned away with a brief moan.
“Father, we are doomed!” she said, and her voice was so full of suffering that it could have made a stone shed tears, but the moneylender’s heart was harder than any stone. As he spoke, the only emotions expressed on his face were spiteful triumph and voluptuousness.
“The time is up, potter. From now on, you are my slave, and your daughter is my slave and concubine.”
He wanted to wound and demean Hodja Nasreddin, and so he exposed the girl’s face with an authoritative, masterly hand:
“Look at her, is she not beautiful? Tonight I will sleep with her. Tell me now who should envy whom.”
“She truly is beautiful!” Hodja Nasreddin said. “But do you have the potter’s receipt?”
“Of course. How can one deal in money without receipts? All men are cheats and thieves. Here is the receipt: it indicates both the amount of the debt and the term. The potter’s fingerprint is right below.”
He handed the receipt to Hodja Nasreddin.
“The receipt is valid,” Hodja Nasreddin confirmed. “So take the money you are owed on this receipt. Stop for a moment, esteemed folk! Be our witnesses,” he added to the people passing by on the road.
He tore the receipt in half, and then four more times in half, and tossed the pieces into the wind. Then he untied his belt and returned all of the moneylender’s coins that he had just received.
The potter and his daughter froze in surprise and joy, and the moneylender in anger. The witnesses winked at each other, happy to see the hated moneylender disgraced.
Hodja Nasreddin took the cherry, put it in his mouth, and, winking at the moneylender, smacked his lips loudly.
The moneylender’s ugly body shook slowly, his hands twisted, his only eye spun angrily in its socket, his hump shuddered.
The potter and Guljan asked Hodja Nasreddin:
“O passerby, tell us your name so that we know who to mention in our prayers!”
“Yes!” the moneylender echoed, spraying spittle. “Tell me your name, so that I know who to curse!”
Hodja Nasreddin’s face was glowing, and he replied in a firm and ringing voice:
“In Baghdad and in Teheran, in Istanbul and in Bukhara, I am known by one name – Hodja Nasreddin!”
The moneylender shrank away and turned pale:
“Hodja Nasreddin!”
And he dashed away in horror, prodding his carrier in the back.
Everyone else shouted in welcoming voices:
“Hodja Nasreddin! Hodja Nasreddin!” Guljan’s eyes shone under the veil, while the potter could not even come to his senses and understand that he had been saved – he only muttered incoherently, spreading his hands in confusion.