Читать книгу The Tsar's Dwarf - Peter H. Fogtdal - Страница 11

I MET MY SCOUNDREL WHEN HE WAS WORKING AT TORVET, the marketplace square, with the executioner. He had just started as the executioner’s assistant and was carrying out his work with great zeal. There was plenty of variety for a restless soul like his. Some of the poor wretches were beaten with the bat; others were flayed or broken alive on the wheel. It was hard work, but well-paid. A branding paid four rigsdaler, decapitation by sword brought ten daler, breaking on the wheel paid twelve, while drawing and quartering on the post and wheel paid no less than fourteen rigsdaler. A man could live well on wages like that.

I couldn’t stand Terje’s occupation. The performances at Torvet were sheer barbarism, but as any knave knows, people must have their entertainment. Even the respectable townswomen turn up when the body of some poor wretch is put on the post and wheel. And when the executioner holds up the severed head, they cheer along with the most bloodthirsty rogues.

I don’t know what’s wrong with goodfolk. Do their own lives have meaning only if other people suffer? Is that what it means to be a human being on this earth? I find all forms of bloodletting abominable. Nothing in my soul wishes to watch the dismemberment of poor folk.

I should say that Terje was not a bad scoundrel. He took no joy in the suffering of others. Beneath his hard surface was a sensitive scoundrel, but you had to know him well to realize that.

One day Terje had finally had enough of his work at Torvet. It started one November night when things began to haunt him. A pauper appeared before him and began zealously pursuing him—not just at night but also in the daytime. More of the executed appeared, all of them threatening the torments of Hell. The apparitions showed him their split-open skulls, they pointed to their broken wrists and crushed hips.

I tried to help the Scoundrel as best I could. I brewed elixirs and whispered incantations, but I was up against forces that I couldn’t control.

One fine day in January a shadow settled over Terje. It crept inside of him at night, and from that moment on he suffered from consumption. And something else took hold—something that grew even bigger with his visits to the taverns. The Scoundrel turned into a real scoundrel. The goodness was sucked out of him until only a hull remained—the hull of a person who was barely even alive.

I turn around one last time in Vintapperstræde. I suddenly know that I’m not coming back, and that I’ll never see this pit again. The realization fills me with incomparable elation—and fear.

I walk along my street, heading for the castle, wearing a hat, a homespun jacket, and short men’s trousers. The farther I get from home, the more people stare. I always make my face into a mask—a mask to show the goodfolk that I’m anything but adorable and that I don’t want to be picked up and shown around. That I would prefer to be keelhauled than to be chucked under the chin. That I refuse to hide under bureaus because children find it so charming. I can’t abide toddlers. The only thing we have in common is our small size. That’s the mask that I wear. It’s my salvation.

I turn another corner. Two calves peer at me from their stall. The street is littered with piss and paper. Mostly piss.

“A little turd,” shouts a shopkeeper. “Look at the little turd.”

I swing my cane and manage to avoid slipping. Who knows what the day will bring. Nothing good. That much I do know.