Читать книгу The Tsar's Dwarf - Peter H. Fogtdal - Страница 22

THE SCOUNDREL IS RESTING AMONG THE STARS. HE IS not in Paradise or in Hell. Sometimes he’s in the sunset; other times he’s a blackbird. But there is nothing frightening about him. Terje wants only the best for me. Terje has decided that now that he’s dead, he’s going to live.

Every time I close my eyes, he’s standing right in front of me. There is something officious about him. The blood has left his face, and he is utterly sober. Terje says that he’s not my guardian spirit. He hasn’t been given any assignment. He’s merely a nomad in the starry skies, a phantom passing through. If I wish, I can talk to him. Terje is with me, and he says that he wants to make everything good again. He regrets the boozing and his lack of interest in my life. Terje in his heaven wants to be forgiven, but I’m in no mood to forgive. Forgiveness requires an obtuse temperament; I’m not sufficiently obtuse.

I write every day, sitting at my dwarf desk.

It was specially made for me, and I have an excellent view of the street. At that desk I am ridding myself of my old life and making preparations for the new. But even in the words the Scoundrel tries to reach me. He’s in every letter that I shape, every word that I write. He pushes ideas through the ink, he forces his way into my thoughts, telling me what I should write. Sometimes the pen moves all on its own, as if a demonic power were at work between my fingers.

I’ve told the Scoundrel that I don’t want anything to do with the dead. Nothing will be allowed to live inside of me without my permission. I am not a mail-coach inn where he can deliver his letters. All thoughts must come from myself, otherwise they’re of no interest to me.

Yet there are times when I grow curious to hear about the Creation, when I hope that the Scoundrel may have answers to life’s big questions, when I have an urge to question him about the fifth commandment, which pleases me less than the others. There is so much that I would like to know about life on the other side. But the Scoundrel shakes his head and says that he knows nothing. No one has spoken to him, not even the Devil.

“What about Our Lord?” I ask. “Have you met your Creator?”

The Scoundrel looks at me, as if he doesn’t understand the question. The Creator is not a term that is used in Heaven. The Creator is Heaven! The Creator is the light that burns in our bodies. The Devil is the wind that blows.

But what is it that the Scoundrel wants to make good again? And why even try? My life with him is past. We were drawn to each other for lack of anyone better. I thought I could rely on a man, but it can’t be done. I was stupid and simple-minded. I’m wiser now.