Aladdin and the Enchanted Lamp, page 1
CONTENTS
Cover
Introduction
Aladdin and the Enchanted Lamp
About the Author and Illustrator
Copyright
I have always loved the story of Aladdin. It’s got everything: comedy, drama, fantasy, magic, fear, excitement, and a terrific plot, as well as a setting that must have been exotic even to the first people who told it; because although it was originally written in an Arabic-speaking part of the world, Aladdin itself is set thousands of miles away in China.
Being allowed to tell a great story like this is a privilege and a responsibility as well as a thrill. You have to be true to the shape and the feeling of the original tale, but it’s important to add something new as well. If you can’t bring something of your own to a story, leave it in the hands of those who can!
It’s gone through hundreds of transformations, and been told in dozens of languages. For two centuries at least, it’s been one of the best-loved of all pantomimes; it’s been told in countless storybooks, and played with in thousands of toy theatres. There will be many other retellings of Aladdin in the future. Telling it in this book was enormous fun, and I am very happy to take my place among those who have passed it on.
Once upon a time in China, there lived a boy called Aladdin. He was the son of a tailor called Mustafa, and he made his poor father’s life a misery. He ran about the marketplace all day long with a lot of other rogues and scoundrels, getting into trouble, making mischief, and laughing at everyone who tried to make him behave. He wouldn’t take up any trade, he wouldn’t get a job, and in the end it was too much for Mustafa, who went into a decline and died of worry.
Aladdin’s mother was left to look after him on her own. The only work she could find was spinning cotton, so she had to do that while Aladdin hung about the streets with his idle friends.
“Why don’t you find some decent work to do, you lazy wretch?” she said.
“Everyone to their trade, mother! You spin cotton and I make mischief. That’s a fine trade; it suits me well.”
She felt like following her husband to the grave.
One day in the bazaar, as Aladdin was sitting by the fountain flicking water at the passers-by, a certain Moor happened to be sipping mint tea in a nearby coffee shop, twisting his beard into a point and listening to everything that went on. As he heard the name “Aladdin”, his ears pricked up, his sharp eyes glittered, and his long fingers curled like claws, because he knew something about Aladdin that Aladdin didn’t know.
He watched the boy for some time, and finally he came up to him and said, “Young man, what is your name?”
“Aladdin.”
“Not Aladdin the son of Mustafa the tailor?”
“Yes, that’s me. But my father’s been dead for a year now; there’s just me and my mother left.”
At that, the Moor began to wail as if his heart was broken. He tore his hair, he pulled his beard, he beat his breast, and the tears ran down his cheeks like rivers down a mountainside. Aladdin was astonished.
“My brother!” the Moor sobbed. “My poor brother Mustafa! I came all this way only to find him dead! Oh, oh, oh, the pity of it – the sorrow of it – but his son is alive, at least! Aladdin, my nephew, heart of my brother’s heart, my blood calls out to you!”
And he threw his arms around Aladdin and kissed him on both cheeks. Aladdin was deeply impressed, and so were all his idle friends watching from the fountain nearby, because the Moor was a rich man: he had a silver buckle on his belt and a golden dagger at his waist, and a blood-red ruby sparkled in his turban.
Then Aladdin was even more impressed, because the Moor took out a purse and gave him ten dinars, saying, “Take these to your mother, Aladdin, my dear nephew, and tell her to buy the best food she can find and prepare a meal, and I’ll call round tonight and pay my respects to my dear brother’s widow. Oh! Oh! Brother of mine! Dead! My heart is broken! Where did you say you lived, dear boy?”
Aladdin realised that the Moor’s emotions were so stirred that he’d forgotten his brother’s address.
“In the Street of the Oil-Sellers,” he said. “Over the house of Shaheed the Nervous Poet.”
And off he ran to tell his mother of their good luck. Naturally, she didn’t believe a word of it.
“Your poor father never had a brother, you impudent boy! What do you mean by this crazy story? Surely I’d know if he had a brother! Get out of the house and find a job! You’ll break my heart with your lies and deceptions!”
But he showed her the money and she had to believe that. So she went out and bought lamb and rice, and saffron and turmeric, and aubergines and plums and pomegranates, and prepared the best meal she knew how to, just in case.
And sure enough, when the meal was cooked there came a knock on the door, and there was the Moor. He’d changed his robe, and oiled his beard with spikenard, and put a gold pin in his turban, and he looked more gaudy and splendid than ever.
“Oh! My dear brother’s wife! My heart is breaking!
Oh, these beloved old rooms – the carpet where he and I knelt to pray side by side – the old copper bowl in which he washed his hands – oh, oh, oh!”
And he flung himself to the floor and rolled from side to side, beating his breast with grief. Aladdin was so moved that he began to cry too, but his mother was still a bit suspicious, for the wife of Shaheed the Nervous Poet had given her that copper bowl only the year before. And something else made her uneasy: every single one of the teeth in the Moor’s mouth was pointed like a needle.
However, tears are tears, and the man was weeping and wailing so much that Aladdin’s mother thought he’d die as well, so she raised him up and said, “Peace be with you, sir, and will you sit and eat the meal I’ve prepared?”
So they sat down to break bread. As they ate, the Moor told them about his life, and a pack of shameless lies it was too, but Aladdin believed every word of it.
“I spent many years trading in spices between China and Morocco, and I made a great fortune, intending one day to leave it to my dear brother and his family.
“Then I became interested in the learning of the dervishes, the holy men whose wisdom shines brighter than any other. I spent thirty years in the desert with these good and devout men, and then I woke up one day and thought of my brother Mustafa and of his family whom I’d never seen. And at once a great longing to see him filled my heart, and I left that very day, pausing only to say my prayers, and set out on the long journey. Only to find – alas! alas! – my dear brother dead, but a fine son taking his place and looking after his mother as a son should do. How happy that makes me!”
Aladdin looked down and twiddled his thumbs. But his mother said: “I wish Aladdin was as good as his father was, sir. I wish he was as good as you. But in fact he’s a scapegrace and a wastrel, and the only money that comes into this house is the little I earn by spinning cotton. And as soon as I get any money the wretch makes off with it. He won’t learn a trade, he won’t do a steady job, and altogether it broke his father’s heart, the way he carried on.”
Aladdin felt ashamed. The Moor frowned severely and said, “Oh, dear me, I’m not pleased to hear that. Aladdin, you’re nearly a grown man, it’s time you started bearing your share of responsibility. But never mind, I’m sure you mean well, and it’s just that you haven’t found the right opening. Tomorrow morning we’ll go and see about setting you up as a merchant with a fine shop of your own.”
Aladdin perked up at once, and that night he could hardly sleep for thinking of the splendid clothes he’d wear, and the lordly way he’d order his slaves about, and the rare and choice goods he’d display to his wealthy customers… What should he sell? Carpets, sweetmeats, gold and silver? His dreams were glorious.
Next morning the Moor called early and took Aladdin to the baths, where they washed and perfumed themselves, and then they went to the tailor’s, where the Moor paid for a suit of clothes for Aladdin – the finest he’d ever seen.
After that they went to the bazaar, where all the rich merchants gathered to sip coffee and exchange their news, and the Moor joined in, talking of prices and qualities with such an air of knowledge that the other merchants took him for an important man, and bought him spice-cakes and flattered him. Aladdin was included in all his lordly talk, and he felt no end of a fine fellow.
When they left the bazaar, the Moor said, “Now, I’ve got something very special to show you, Aladdin. Come with me and you’ll see a garden full of wonders, something no-one else has ever seen.”
The Moor could do nothing wrong now as far as Aladdin was concerned. If he wanted to look at gardens full of wonders Aladdin was only too happy to go along.
“Where is the garden, Uncle?”
“Up in the mountains, my boy. No-one knows of it but me. Step out, now. We’ve got a long walk ahead of us.”
The Moor’s long legs set off like scissors, and Aladdin had to trot fast to keep up with him.
After many hours they were so high up in the mountains that they could no longer see the city. Finally the moor stopped, and looked around carefully, and measured the distance from a certain rock to a bush close by, and stepped out four paces beyond that.
Aladdin watched, mystified.
This was no garden; it was a hideous, barren place with nothing but sand and dry bushes and lizards.
“Uncle, where is the garden?” he said. “I can see nothing but—”
Thwack!
&n
“Ow! What was that for? Not even my father hit me that hard! Ow!”
“That was to teach you a lesson,” said the Moor, smiling sharply. “The magic I’m going to perform is extremely dangerous. Watch, say nothing, and learn.”
The Moor gathered some sticks, struck a light with his tinderbox, and blew it into a flame. When it was burning brightly he took a handful of powder from a pouch at his belt and sprinkled it on the fire.
At once there was a puff of green smoke and a modest clap of thunder, and when the smoke had cleared there was a large flat stone set in the ground where the fire had been.
“There,” said the Moor proudly. “Lift the stone, Aladdin.”
“What? By myself?”
“Aha! Just read what it says.”
Aladdin bent down, and saw, carved into the ancient stone, the words:
THIS STONE CAN BE LIFTED ONLY BY ALADDIN, THE SON OF MUSTAFA.
“Well!” said Aladdin. “Well, that’s amazing!”
He took hold of the ring in the stone, and up it came as if it were made of paper.
“Now listen carefully,” said the Moor. “Go down these narrow steps and you’ll find yourself in a passage with a door at the end. Open it and go through, and you’ll be in a beautiful garden with trees bearing all kinds of fruit. Whatever you do, don’t touch them, or you’ll certainly be turned at once into a black stone, d’you understand? Go through this garden to a terrace at the end, where you’ll see a lamp hanging from a chain. Take down the lamp and empty the oil out of it, and bring it back to me. On the way back you can pick the fruit, if you like. Now, in you go. Once I have… Once we have that lamp, the world is ours!”
Aladdin couldn’t wait. He dived into the hole like a terrier. It was narrow and dark, and stuffy and dusty, and he banged his head and scraped his elbows, but he was too excited to mind that. When he got to the bottom, he felt his way along the passage, and it was just as the Moor had said: there was a door at the end. Aladdin felt for the handle and turned it.
The Moor had told him what to expect, but when he opened the door he could hardly breathe for astonishment. He took a little shaky step and held on to the door-frame, looking all around with eyes as wide open as his mouth.
There under the ground was a beautiful garden spreading out on all sides, lit by red, white and pink blossoms on the oleander trees, on each petal of which sat a family of fireflies, sipping nectar and glowing like lanterns. There were tall cypresses and wide-spreading cedar trees, there were vines and roses and pergolas trailing with sweet-scented jasmine, there were fountains and streams and gazebos, and a nightingale sang in the dark night air.
Mindful of what the Moor had said, Aladdin didn’t touch a thing, but walked wonderingly along the path to the marble terrace at the end where, sure enough, there hung a lamp.
Aladdin blew it out, emptied the oil from it, and was about to leave when he thought, “It’s a shame to go straight back without looking around. I might never have another chance, after all.”
So he looked along the terrace and saw all manner of strange things. Here there was a cage containing a salamander wreathed in flames, with a notice underneath it in a language Aladdin couldn’t read. Next there was a glass bottle in which an imp was prisoned, who beat the glass with his tiny fists and snarled with rage as Aladdin laughed; there was a notice in a different language under this one. Then there was a snake swallowing its tail, and as its mouth moved along the tail its neck grew behind it, so it stayed the same size; and there was a butterfly with a human face tethered by a golden chain no thicker than a hair, and dozens of other wonders, and by each of them was a notice in a different language: in Persian, in Turkish, in Greek, even in outlandish tongues like English.
Finally he came to one he could read. It said, Whoever wears me will be safe from any harm, and the object it referred to was a plain ring of dull, black iron.
“It must be for me!” he thought. “They wrote it so I could read it, after all.”
It was too tempting to leave. Aladdin slipped the ring on his finger, and just at that moment he heard the Moor shouting:
“Aladdin! Aladdin!”
His voice was magnified by the tunnel, and he sounded like an evil spirit calling. Aladdin tucked the lamp into his clothes and ran back through the garden, snatching at the glittering fruits on the trees as he passed and thrusting them into his pockets.
When he reached the tunnel, the Moor was screaming with anger, gnashing his teeth and clenching his fists, but as soon as he saw Aladdin his expression changed and he smiled sweetly.
“There you are, dear boy! I was so worried, I thought you’d turned into a black stone! Have you got the lamp?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Hand it up, then, hand it up!”
“Help me out first, Uncle, then I’ll give you the lamp.”
“Curse you! Do as I say! The lamp, boy, the lamp!”
Well, Aladdin was no fool. He’d begun to suspect the Moor as soon as he got that clout on the head, and the way he was carrying on now gave him away completely.
“You’re no uncle!” Aladdin cried. “You’re a sorcerer!”
With a scream louder than any before, the Moor stamped his foot and threw some powder in the air, and at once the earth groaned and shook and the entrance to the tunnel closed up. So did the door to the garden of wonders, and there was poor Aladdin, trapped beneath the earth.
He beat and beat at the stone above him, shouting and shouting to be let out. The darkness got right into his eyes, and the earth absorbed his shouts like water: they sank in at once and vanished. Sobbing with fear, he felt his way down the steps to the door of the garden, but it was gone; the passage was blind, and the darkness was terrible. Not the faintest flicker of light shone there, not even the ghost of a glow-worm glimmered. He was buried alive.
Of course, Aladdin had been right about the Moor. He was no relation at all, but a dervish, a learned man, and cunning with it: he knew all there was to know about astrology and palmistry and sand-magic and water-magic and fire-magic. His mystic powers had shown him that there was a fabulous treasure under the Chinese city of Al-Kolo-Ats, which could only be retrieved by a youth called Aladdin, so he had sought first the city and then the youth, with the results we’ve seen. If only he’d been a little more patient, he would have had the lamp in his hands. As it was, he had nothing, so he stamped and roared with fury and disappointment, and went back home to nurse his vengeance. But so much for him.
Aladdin spent three days beneath the earth. He tried to dig himself out, but wherever he put his hands they met hard rough rock, and no matter how desperately he scraped or how painfully he tore his fingernails, he couldn’t dislodge a fragment.
He fell asleep with tears in his eyes, and when he awoke the tears were still there, and nothing had changed. He prayed, he cried for his mother, he cursed the Moor with all the curses he knew and several he invented, and it made no difference. Then he felt hungry, and remembered the fruit he’d snatched from the trees in the magic garden, but it was a mockery: his pockets were full of stones. He was too full of despair even to throw them away. After three days of this hideous torment he was ready to die, and he fell to the ground and wrung his hands in anguish; and as he did so, he happened to rub the iron ring he’d picked up from the terrace. He’d completely forgotten about it.
At once there was a clap of thunder, and a space cleared in the darkness. He could see it, though it was still dark, and there was a figure there: black skin, black beard, black robes, but eyes like windows into a fire. Aladdin saw it by the light from those eyes, reflected dimly from the rock all around; and the figure was bowing to him.
“I am here, Master!” said the apparition.
“Who are you?”
“I am the Jinnee of the Ring, your bounden slave. You have summoned me. I have come. How can I help you?”
Aladdin was so astonished he could hardly breathe, but he gathered his wits and said, “In that case, I order you to take me back to the surface of the earth.”
