“Where did you come from?” Volka inquired cautiously, swaying back and forth under the ceiling like a pendulum. “Are you… from an amateur troupe?”

“Oh, no, my young lord,” the old man replied grandly, though he remained in the same uncomfortable pose and continued to sneeze. “I am not from the strange country of Anamateur Troupe you mentioned. I come from this most horrible vessel.”

With these words he scrambled to his feet and began jumping on the vessel, from which a wisp of smoke was still curling upward, until there was nothing left but a small pile of clay chips. Then, with a sound like tinkling crystalware, he yanked a hair from his beard and tore it in two. The bits of clay flared up with a weird green flame until soon there was not a trace of them left on the floor.

Still, Volka was dubious. You must agree, it’s not easy to accept the fact that a live person can crawl out of a vessel no bigger than a decanter.

“Well, I don’t know…” Volka stammered. “The vessel was so small, and you’re so big compared to it.”

“You don’t believe me, O despicable one?!” the old man shouted angrily, but immediately calmed down; once again he fell to his knees, hitting the floor with his forehead so strongly that the water shook in the aquarium and the sleepy fish began to dart back and forth anxiously. “Forgive me, my young saviour, but I am not used to having my words doubted. Know ye, most blessed of all young men, that I am none other than the mighty Genie Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab — that is, the son of Hottab, famed in all four corners of the world.”

All this was so interesting it made Volka forget he was hanging under the ceiling on a chandelier hook.

“A ‘gin-e’? Isn’t that some kind of a drink?”

“I am not a drink, O inquisitive youth!” the old man flared up again, then took himself in hand once more and calmed down.