Meanwhile, the rumble of the crowd grew stronger, and a certain word came up ever more frequently and ever more loudly. It seemed as if everything around – the earth, the air, the wind – was saturated with this word; it hummed, rumbled, roared, and reverberated in the distance. The moneylender grew quiet and listened. And then he heard it.
“Hodja Nasreddin!” the crowd hummed in thousands of voices. “Hodja Nasreddin! Hodja Nasreddin!”
Suddenly, everything grew quiet, and in the dead silence the moneylender heard the hissing of lit torches, the rustling of the wind, and the splashing of water. Goosebumps appeared on his ugly back, and black horror began to crawl towards him, chilling him with its icy, immobilizing breath.
A new voice appeared, and the moneylender could have sworn that it belonged to Grand Vizier Bakhtiyar.
“In the name of Allah, all-merciful and all-powerful! By decree of the great and sun-like emir of Bukhara, the criminal Hodja Nasreddin, defiler of faith, disturber of peace, and sower of discord, will now be put to death by drowning in a sack!”
Someone’s hands grabbed the sack and lifted it. Then the moneylender realized that he had fallen into a deadly trap.
“Wait! Wait!” he wailed. “What are you doing to me? Wait, I am not Hodja Nasreddin, I am the moneylender Jafar! Let me go! I am the moneylender Jafar, I am not Hodja Nasreddin! Where are you taking me, I say again that I am the moneylender Jafar!”
The emir and his retinue took in these wails silently. The Baghdad sage Hussein Huslia, who was sitting closest to the emir, shook his head ruefully and said:
“Within this criminal lies a veritable abyss of shamelessness. First he called himself Hussein Huslia, the Baghdad sage, and now he is trying to deceive us by calling himself the moneylender Jafar!”
“And he thinks someone here is dumb enough to believe him,” Arslanbek added. “Listen, listen how skillfully he alters his voice!”
“Let me go! I am not Hodja Nasreddin, I am Jafar!” the moneylender strained his voice, while two guards who were standing at the edge of the platform were swaying the sack rhythmically back and forth, preparing to toss it in the dark water. “I am not Hodja Nasreddin, how many times must I tell you!”
But then Arslanbek waved his hand and the sack flew down, turning slowly in the air. A loud splash was heard, droplets of water sparkled in the red light of the torches, and the water closed heavily, swallowing the sinful body and sinful soul of the moneylender Jafar…
A single enormous gasp rose and hung over the crowd in the darkness. A horrible silence ensued for several moments, and then everyone was shaken by a piercing scream, full of inexpressible torment.
Screaming and convulsing in her old father’s arms was the beautiful Guljan.
Ali the chaikhana keeper turned away, grasping his head in his hands. Yusuf the blacksmith shuddered haltingly…
Chapter 37
After the execution, the emir and his retinue departed for the palace.
Fearing that someone would pull out the criminal before he had drowned, Arslanbek ordered the guards to surround the pond and not let anyone through. The crowd swayed, retreated under the push of the guards, and stood still – a silent, living black hulk. Arslanbek tried to disperse the crowd, but the people only moved from one place to another or hid in the darkness to return later to their spot.
A great rejoicing ensued in the palace. The emir was celebrating his victory over his enemy. Gold and silver shone everywhere, cauldrons were boiling, braziers were smoking, tambourines were ringing, trumpets were roaring, and drums were rumbling and shaking the air. There were so many lights at this celebration that a glow floated over the emir’s palace, as if it was on fire.
But the city around the palace was quiet, plunged into darkness and seized with a mournful silence.
The emir gave out gifts generously, and many made a good haul that day. The poets became hoarse from endless praising, and their backs were beginning to feel a gentle but sweet ache, so often did they have to bend down to pick up silver and gold coins.
“Summon a scribe!” the emir commanded; a scribe ran in and began to scribble quickly with a reed pen.
“From the Great and Brilliant and Sun-eclipsing Ruler, Sovereign, and Lawgiver of Bukhara, the Emir of Bukhara – to the Great and Brilliant and Sun-eclipsing Ruler, Sovereign, and Lawgiver of Khiva, the Khivian Khan, We send roses of greeting and lilies of goodwill. We bring You, Our Beloved and Regal Brother, a certain piece of news which may warm Your Heart with the flames of joy and sweetly relax Your Liver. Namely: today, on the seventeenth day of the month of Safar, We, the Great Emir of Bukhara, have publicly executed the criminal Hodja Nasreddin, known to the whole world with his blasphemous and indecent acts, may he be cursed by Allah, by drowning him in a sack, which was performed in Our presence and before Our Eyes, so that We can personally vouch with Our regal word that the aforementioned villain, disturber of peace, defiler of faith, and sower of discord, is no longer alive and will no longer be able to trouble You, Our Beloved Brother, with his unholy escapades…”
The emir wrote similar letters to the caliph of Baghdad, the sultan of Turkey, the shah of Iran, the khan of Kokand, the Afghan emir, and many other sovereigns of both neighboring and distant countries. Grand Vizier Bakhtiyar rolled up the letters, attached seals, and handed them to messengers, who were commanded to leave at once. And at that nightly hour, all the eleven gates of Bukhara opened up, their hinges creaking and squealing loudly, and messengers dashed off in all directions along the major roads, spraying ringing debris and striking sparks from their horseshoes – to Khiva, to Teheran, to Istanbul, to Baghdad, to Kabul, and to many other cities.
…Late at night, four hours after the execution, Arslanbek removed the guards from the pond.
“Even if he were the shaitan himself, he could not stay alive after four hours in the water!” Arslanbek said. “And don’t take him out, let whoever wants to muck around with his filthy corpse do so.”
As soon as the final guardsman vanished in the darkness, the crowd dashed to the shore, humming and rumbling. People lit torches, which had been prepared in advance and lay nearby in the bushes. Women began to cry woefully, mourning Hodja Nasreddin.
“We should bury him like a good Muslim,” said old Niyaz.
Guljan stood next to him, leaning on his shoulder; she was motionless and silent.
Ali the chaikhana keeper and Yusuf the blacksmith went into the water with boat-hooks. They rummaged around for a long time until they managed to hook the sack and drag it to shore. When it emerged from the water – black, glittering in the light of the torches, and covered in clingy weeds – the women began to wail even louder, drowning out the sounds of merriment coming from the palace.
Dozens of hands picked up the sack.
“Follow me,” said Yusuf, lighting the way with his torch.
They laid the sack on the grass beneath a branchy tree. The people crowding around waited silently.