Читать книгу The Tsar's Dwarf - Peter H. Fogtdal - Страница 20

A DWARF HAS NO TOLERANCE FOR ALCOHOL. WE ARE more delicate, more sensitive, and we quickly become intoxicated. Our bodies wither from wine; we can’t compete with a human being who wants to drink us under the table. Even holding onto the large goblets is an impossible task with our dwarf hands. But no one takes such things into consideration—because drunken dwarves are considered priceless. Dwarves that walk right into chairs are enchanting; dwarves that trip over thresholds are charming. We will always be a curiosity at the feasts of Bacchus, and many of us die from the drinking that takes place at court.

The history of our race is even more dismal.

As a child I heard about the dwarves in the mountains. According to old legends, the dwarves were created from maggots that lived in the remains of Ymer’s body. Ymer was a primordial giant, and the dwarves were present at the creation of the world. Back then we lived in underground caves. We were experts at forging weapons, especially spears and chains. If the sun shone on us, we exploded into bits that turned to stone. It was also the dwarves who carried the heavenly vault on our shoulders. And we were known to be evil. As we still are today. Evil.

I have actually thought a great deal about evil; about what evil is and where it comes from. Is evil the desire to do harm, or is it merely emptiness? Is someone evil because he doesn’t believe in Jesus? Or if he refuses to surrender to the outward piety that characterizes this country? Maybe goodness is a luxury reserved for the rich. Maybe leisure time is required in order to be good. Maybe goodness demands a full stomach. And time.

The one who has time is good.

ANOTHER DETAIL FROM our history: the ones called trolls are also dwarves. The same is true of black fairies, pixies, and gnomes, who hide outdoors in nature. We are all known to be evil. We have been labeled and condemned as creatures that can’t stand the sun.

Deep down it makes no difference what they call us. Because we do exist, and that fact alone is bad enough.

RASMUS ÆREBOE CALLS for Dolgoruky’s servant.

One of the Muscovites gets up from the floor and looks around in alarm. Then he catches sight of the dead-drunk envoy and carefully gathers him up. The heels of Dolgoruky’s boots scrape along the terracotta floor, and I glimpse a pile of sable furs in the corner.

The grandfather clock strikes without mercy. It’s almost dawn, and I try to focus on what’s in the room all around me. As usual, it has been turned upside down. Several of the beautifully carved door frames have been torn off and used for firewood. Two elegant chairs with broken backs have been tossed into a corner. The whole place reeks of malt and vomit.

A servant helps Æreboe on with his coat. He nearly loses his balance but manages to stay on his feet. Then he fixes his blue eyes on me.

“Come with me!”

The notarius stretches out his hand.

“Come where?”

“You’re going home with me so you can sleep in civilized surroundings.”

I ignore his outstretched hand but waddle after him, moving slowly. We step outside the house and find ourselves in the chill of a summer night. A couple of roosters are crowing somewhere nearby.

Æreboe’s coach appears, and the notarius tosses me onto the seat inside. There is something savage about him that I haven’t noticed before. The coach starts up with a lurch. I study Æreboe—those gentle features and the prudish mouth that looks more sneering the drunker he gets. It’s impossible to tell what goes on inside of a human being.

I lean back and let the swaying of the coach rock me to sleep. I feel dizzy and confused. The world is made of splintered glass.

IT’S DANGEROUS TO drive through Copenhagen before dawn.

The city’s gates are closed; the goodfolk are sleeping the slumber of the righteous. Only churls are awake, and the sound of a coach makes the assailants sharpen their knives. But maybe the notarius is blessed. Maybe God protects him against all dangers. Or maybe it’s the Devil who looks after his own. Without interruption. Day and night.

Not long ago Æreboe entertained me by telling me about all the perils he has survived in his eventful life. He has compiled a list of the dangers, assigning each a number on his meticulous list. A list that starts off with a drowning accident when he was just a little tyke; then a fall through the ice outside Svendborg when he was a youth; and a bloody battle in Novgorod, when he was confronted by twenty Russians but fought his way free with his hunting knife. It was one miracle after another. Twenty-three times when Rasmus Æreboe should have been dead, if it hadn’t been for a merciful God up above.

But is God merciful?

I find Him utterly cold-blooded, a humorless lord who punishes His children, as if He were the most specious of castigators. The longer I live, the harder it is for me to see the difference between the Lord and the Devil. They use the same means; they fight for the same souls. They’re both little more than peddlers of fancy goods, making overblown promises of sex or salvation. Which would it be better to cling to? And does it really make any difference? God and the Devil are cut from the same cloth, twins who have been joined at the hip. That’s why I have a hard time with all these lunatic prayers of thanksgiving.

But Æreboe loves them. Every day he thanks the Trinity for the mercy he so little deserves. He even gives thanks for an accident he has suffered—for every stillborn child that his wife “blesses” him with. How can anyone be so eternally emptyheaded? It’s one thing to be grateful for the good things. But is it also necessary to be grateful for the bad?

I wish that I had such faith. Gratitude is a wondrous gift—at least for a simpleton.

“A dreadful book, Sørine. Utterly dreadful.”

I glance up.

Rasmus Æreboe is talking to me, but his words don’t reach me. I have no wish to listen. I want only to sleep.

“…there’s no doubt that Robert Molesworth’s book has damaged Denmark’s prestige in the most appalling manner.”

I nod.

“Have you heard of the book?”

I shake my head.

“All of Europe has heard of it. In the German district of Moscow, all the foreigners have read that loathsome text.”

Æreboe suddenly begins to hiccup.

“But you’ll hear all about it when you get there.”

I nod despondently. The coach shudders and then slows down. I look out and discover that a cow is blocking the way. Several of the street’s copper lamps have gone out, but the silhouettes of teeming rats are clearly visible.

Æreboe’s servant jumps out to chase away the cow, but it doesn’t want to cooperate. At that moment the stink of rotting kale fills my nostrils. The smell makes my stomach turn over.

Light is starting to appear on the horizon. A narrow fissure is pushing back the night. The first stars are fading in the pale sky.

The coach turns down Størstræde, heading for Holmen’s Canal. Under the arch of the High Bridge the outline of a barge can be seen. Soon the farmers from the island of Amager will stream into the city with grains and peas.

We stop in front of a house facing the canal. There is a sense of peace over the area; only the barking of a dog breaks the silence. Æreboe’s servant holds open the coach door, and the notarius attempts to lift me out. I lash out at him and end up landing in some horse droppings. The notarius laughs loudly at my stubbornness.

By the time we finally go inside, little streaks of dawn have cast an amber glow over the canal, Størstræde, and the city.