But then the most ancient of the potters, who was over a hundred years old, raised his voice:
“Who says that we, potters, have not given anything to Hodja Nasreddin? Does not his bride, this beautiful girl, come from the fine and famous clan of Bukharian potters?”
The potters began to shout excitedly, delighted by the words of the old man. Then they gave Guljan firm instructions – to be a faithful and devoted friend to Hodja Nasreddin, so as to uphold the glory and honor of the clan.
“Dawn is approaching,” Hodja Nasreddin said to the people. “The city gates will open soon. My bride and I must leave inconspicuously; if all of you come with us to the gate, the guards will imagine that all of the people of Bukhara have decided to leave the city and settle elsewhere, so they will close the gate and let no one out. Therefore, go home, o people of Noble Bukhara. May your sleep be peaceful, may the black wings of trouble never touch your heads, and may your endeavors be successful. Hodja Nasreddin bids you farewell! For how long? I do not know it myself…”
Already, a narrow, barely noticeable band of light began to congeal in the east. Faint steam was rising from the pond. The crowd began to thin, people were extinguishing their torches and shouting their goodbyes:
“Farewell, Hodja Nasreddin! Do not forget your native Bukhara!”
Saying goodbye to the blacksmith Yusuf and the chaikhana keeper Ali was especially touching. The portly chaikhana keeper could not restrain his tears, which were pouring copiously down his plump cheeks.
Hodja Nasreddin stayed in Niyaz’s house until the city gates were opened, but as soon as the first muezzin sent out the mournful, ringing thread of his voice over the city, Hodja Nasreddin and Guljan set off. Old Niyaz saw them to the corner – Hodja Nasreddin would not let him go further – and stopped there, looking after them with moist eyes, until they disappeared around the turn. A light morning breeze fluttered by and set to work on the dusty road, blowing away the footprints.
Niyaz ran home in a hurry and climbed up onto his roof, where he could see far beyond the city wall. Straining his old eyes and brushing off uninvited tears, he looked for a long time at the brown, sun-burned hillside where the gray ribbon of a road was winding towards distant lands. He waited for a long time, and worry crept into his heart: could Hodja Nasreddin and Guljan have fallen into the hands of the guards? But then, looking closer, the old man discerned two spots far away – a white one and gray one. They drew further and further away, shrinking, and then the gray spot disappeared as it blended into the hillside, while the white one could be seen for a long time as it disappeared in the valleys and dips, and reappeared again. Finally, it disappeared as well, dissolving in the rising haze. The day had come, and with it came the heat. But the old man sat on the roof in bitter contemplation, without noticing the sun. His gray head was shaking, and a stuffy lump sat in his throat. He did not resent Hodja Nasreddin and his daughter, he wished them lasting happiness, but he felt bitter and sorry for himself. His house had emptied, and no one would brighten his lonely old age with ringing songs and cheerful laughter. A hot wind blew across the roof, disturbing the leaves of the vineyard and kicking up dust. Its wing brushed the pots that were drying on the roof, and they emitted a long, sorrowful, high-pitched ringing, as if they, too, were pining for those who had left the house…
Hearing a noise behind his back, Niyaz came to his senses and turned around: one after another, three brothers were climbing up the ladder onto the roof – all strapping young lads, and all of them potters. They approached and bowed with deepest respect before the old man.
“O esteemed Niyaz!” the oldest of them said. “Your daughter has left you for Hodja Nasreddin, but you must not grieve and complain, for such is the eternal law of this world that the doe cannot live without the buck, the cow without the bull, and the duck without the drake. So, then, can a girl live without a faithful and devoted friend, and did not Allah create all living things in pairs, even separating the shoots of cotton into male and female? But so that your old age is not darkened, o esteemed Niyaz, we three have decided to tell you the following: he who is kin to Hodja Nasreddin is kin to all of Bukhara, and you, o Niyaz, are now our kin. You know that, last fall, with grief and lamentation, we buried our father and your friend, the esteemed Usman Ali. Since then, there has been an empty spot by our fire intended for an elder, and we are deprived of the daily joy of respectfully contemplating a white beard, without which, as without the cry of an infant, a home is half empty – for a man’s soul is well and at peace only when he is between the bearded elder, who gave him life, and the infant lying in the crib, whom he has given life. And therefore, o esteemed Niyaz, we ask you to hearken to our words, accept our request, enter our house, and take the place intended for the elder, to be a father to the three of us and a grandfather to our children.”
The brothers were so insistent that Niyaz could not refuse: he entered their home and was met with great respect. Thus, in his old age, he received for his honest and straightforward life the greatest reward a Muslim can obtain: he became Niyaz-bobo, or grandfather, the head of a large family with fourteen grandsons, and his gaze could always rejoice as it passed from one set of pink cheeks, smeared with mulberries and grapes, to another, no less dirty. Since then, his hearing was never burdened again by silence, so much so that he even grew tired at times and retreated to his old house to rest and to grieve for the ones so near to his heart and yet so far away, in some unknown place… On bazaar days, he would head to the square and ask the caravaneers, who had come to Bukhara from all corners of the earth, whether they happened to meet two travelers along the way: a man riding a gray donkey, and a woman on a spotless white donkey. The caravaneers would furrow their tanned brows and shake their heads: no, they had not met such people.
Hodja Nasreddin had disappeared without a trace, as always, only to turn up where no one expected him.
Chapter 38
which could serve as the start of a new book.
“I have taken seven journeys, and there is an amazing tale, which baffles the mind, about each journey.”
And he turned up where no one expected him. He turned up in Istanbul.
It happened three days after the sultan had received the letter from the emir of Bukhara. Hundreds of messengers were passing through the towns and villages of the Sublime Porte [14], informing the people of Hodja Nasreddin’s death. Happy mullahs relayed the emir’s letter in their mosques twice a day, in the morning and in the evening, and expressed their gratitude to Allah.
The sultan was feasting in the palace garden, in the cool shade of the poplars, amid the wet mist coming from the fountains. Viziers, sages, poets, and various palace servants crowded around him, greedily anticipating handouts.
Black slaves walked one after the other, carrying steaming trays, hookahs, and pitchers. The sultan was in excellent spirits and joked incessantly.
“Why is it that, despite the heat, the air feels sweet, light, and fragrant?” he asked of the sages and poets, squinting slyly. “Who has a worthy answer to this question?”
Casting tender glances at the purse in the sultan’s hands, they replied:
“It is the breath of our luminous sovereign which makes the air sweet and light, while the fragrance has spread because the soul of the impious Hodja Nasreddin has finally ceased to emit its foul stench, which poisoned the whole world.”