He dove headfirst into the sweet river of fantasy. Meanwhile, the donkey stopped feeling the pull of the reins and took advantage of his master’s pensiveness. Encountering a small bridge, he did not cross it, like other donkeys, but instead took a running start and jumped right over the ditch. “And when my children grow up, I will gather them and say…” Hodja Nasreddin was thinking at the time. “But why am I flying through the air? Has Allah decided to make me an angel and give me wings?”
The very next moment, Hodja Nasreddin was seeing stars, which convinced him that he did not have wings after all. Flying out of his saddle, he plopped down on the road a dozen feet in front of the donkey.
When Hodja Nasreddin got up, grunting and groaning, covered in dust, the donkey approached with a most innocent expression on his snout, flicking his ears gently, as if inviting his master to reoccupy the saddle.
“O you, who have been sent to me as punishment for my sins and for the sins of my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, for, by the truth of Islam, it would be unjust to punish a man thus for his own sins alone!” Hodja Nasreddin began, his voice shaking with indignation. “O you, despicable cross between a spider and a hyena! O you, who…”
But then he stopped short, having noticed a group of people who were sitting nearby in the shade of a half-ruined fence.
The curses froze on Hodja Nasreddin’s lips.
He understood that a man who had found himself in a funny and undignified situation in plain view of others had to, first and foremost, laugh at himself.
Hodja Nasreddin winked at the sitting group and smiled broadly, displaying all his teeth at once.
“Ha!” he said loudly and cheerfully. “That was a fine flight I took! Tell me, how many times did I flip in the air? I didn’t have time to count, myself. Oh, you naughty beast!” he continued, slapping the donkey good-naturedly with the palm of his hand, even though he was of a good mind to give him a sound thrashing with the whip. “Oh, you naughty beast! That’s just the way he is: look away for a second, and he will surely pull something like this!”
Hodja Nasreddin burst out in cheerful laughter, but to his surprise he noticed that no one was following his example. The people continued to sit with downcast heads and grim faces, while the women, many with infants in their arms, were weeping quietly.
“Something is not right here,” Hodja Nasreddin said to himself, approaching.
“Esteemed old sage,” he said to a gray-bearded old man with a haggard face. “Tell me, what happened here? Why do I not see smiles or hear laughter, why are the women crying? Why do you sit here on the road amid the heat and the dust, when it would surely be better to sit in the coolness of your homes?”
“It is better to sit at home when you have one,” the old man replied mournfully. “Ah, passer-by, do not ask – our misfortune is great, and you will not be able to help us anyway. I am old and frail, and I pray to god now that he send me death as soon as possible.”
“Why speak such words?” Hodja Nasreddin said with reproach. “A man must never think this way. Tell me of your misfortune, and disregard the fact that I appear poor. Perhaps I will be able to help you.”
“My tale will be brief. A mere hour ago, the moneylender Jafar came down our street, accompanied by the emir’s guards. I owe money to Jafar, and my debt is due tomorrow morning. So here I am, banished from my house, where I had lived all my life, and I no longer have a family or a quiet corner where I may bow my head in rest… As for all my property – my house, my livestock, and my vineyards – it will all be sold tomorrow by Jafar.”
Tears appeared in the old man’s eyes, and his voice trembled.
“And do you owe him a large amount?” Hodja Nasreddin asked.
“A very large amount, passer-by. I owe him two hundred and fifty tanga.”
“Two hundred and fifty tanga!” Hodja Nasreddin exclaimed. “A man wishes for death because of some lousy two hundred and fifty tanga! All right now, hold still,” he added to the donkey, untying his saddlebag. “Here are two hundred and fifty tanga, old sage. Give them to the moneylender, chase him from your house with kicks, and live out the rest of your days in peace and prosperity.”
Everyone stirred upon hearing the jingling of the silver, while the old man could not pronounce a single word, and could only thank Hodja Nasreddin with his eyes, which glistened with tears.
“See? And you did not even want to tell me of your misfortune,” Hodja Nasreddin said, counting off the final coin and thinking: “It’s all right, I will hire seven tradesmen instead of eight, that will be enough for me!”
Suddenly, a woman sitting next to the man fell before Hodja Nasreddin’s feet and held up her child towards him, weeping loudly.
“Look!” she said through her tears. “He is sick, his lips are dry and his face is aflame. And he will die now, my poor boy, somewhere on the road, for I have been chased from my home.”
Hodja Nasreddin glanced at the child’s thin, pale face, at his frail arms, and then looked over the group of sitting people. And as he peered more carefully into their faces, crisscrossed with wrinkles and wrought with grief, when he saw their eyes, which had grown dim from endless tears – it was as if a hot knife had been plunged into his heart. A quick spasm seized his throat, and a hot wave of blood colored his face. He turned away.
“I am a widow,” the woman continued. “My husband, who died half a year ago, owed the moneylender two hundred tanga, and, by law, his debt was transferred to me.”
“The child is indeed ill,” Hodja Nasreddin said. “And he really should not be kept in the heat of the sun, for the sun’s rays thicken the blood, according to Avicenna, which is surely not good for the boy. Here are two hundred tanga. Return to your home as soon as you can, and put a compress on his forehead; here are fifty more tanga so you can call a doctor and purchase medicine.”
Silently, he thought: “I can manage with six tradesmen.”
But then a bearded mason of enormous height tumbled before Hodja Nasreddin’s feet, for his family was due to be sold into slavery tomorrow because of a four hundred tanga debt to the moneylender Jafar. “Five tradesmen is pushing it, of course,” thought Hodja Nasreddin, untying his bag. But he did not have time to tie it again before two women fell on their knees before him, and their tales were so mournful that Hodja Nasreddin gave them enough money to settle with the moneylender without any hesitation. Seeing that the remaining money was barely enough to keep three tradesmen, he decided that, in this case, he should avoid shops altogether, and, with a generous hand, began to hand out money to the rest of the debtors of the moneylender Jafar.
The bag had no more than five hundred tanga left. And then Hodja Nasreddin saw one last man to the side, who had not asked for help even though grief was evident on his face.
“Hey you, listen!” Hodja Nasreddin called. “Why are you sitting there? Have you no debt to the moneylender?”
“I owe him,” the man said in a hollow voice. “Tomorrow, I will go in chains to the slave market.”
“Why have you been silent up till now?”
“O generous, beneficent traveler, I do not know who you are. Are you the holy Bogaeddin, emerged from his grave to help the poor, or Harun-al-Rashid himself? I did not ask you only because you have spent quite a lot already, and I owe more than anyone else – five hundred tanga – and I was afraid that, if you were to give them to me, there would not be enough left for the women and the elderly.”