The Old Genie Hottabych

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At 7:32 a.m. a merry sun-spot slipped through a hole in the curtain and settled on the nose of Volka Kostylkov, a 6th-grade pupil. Volka sneezed and woke up.

Just then, he heard his mother say in the next room:

“Don’t rush, Alyosha. Let the child sleep a bit longer, he has an exam today.”

Volka winced. When, oh when, would his mother stop calling him a child?

“Nonsense!” he could hear his father answer. “The boy’s nearly thirteen. He might as well get up and help us pack. Before you know it, this child of yours will be using a razor.”

How could he have forgotten about the packing!

Volka threw off the blankets and dressed hurriedly. How could he ever have forgotten such a day!

This was the day the Kostylkov family was moving to a different apartment in a new six-storey house. Most of their belongings had been packed the night before. Mother and Grandma had packed the dishes in a little tin tub that once, very long ago, they had bathed Volka in. His father had rolled up his sleeves and, with a mouthful of nails, just like a shoemaker, had spent the evening hammering down the lids on crates of books.

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