LITMIR.BIZ

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caught by a detail on the left side of the copperplate engraving. Two chamberlains are bending over a female dwarf. At first I can’t tell what they’re doing, but then I discover that one of them is holding a hunting knife, the other a bludgeon.

      I reach for Æreboe’s spectacles on the table. Then I study the details. One of the chamberlains is laughing; the other is gawking. But there is absolutely no doubt: they are beating the woman. Below the picture it reads “Dwarf Wedding.” And underneath that: “In the Year of Our Lord 1710.”

      I slam the book shut and stand up. The floor is alive, the furniture as big as altars. I close my eyes. I have never felt such a rush of fury before.

      At that moment the door opens, and the notarius’s steward is staring at me without blinking. I walk past him over to the front door and try to reach the handle.

      The steward looks at me.

      Then he laughs.

15.

      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.

16.

      I HAVEN’T SEEN THE TSAR SINCE I WAS GIVEN TO HIM by the king.

      Peter Alexeyevich is restlessness personified. When the negotiations lost steam, he set off on an expedition to find some Swedes. He headed out on a frigate with a handful of men, as if he were an impetuous youth. But the Swedes didn’t take the bait; their ships stayed anchored in the harbor. And now the tsar is back. Angry, restless, and irritable. Annoyed at the slow progress dogging the negotiations between the allies.

      The fine rogues can’t agree who should command the navy. Frederik wants Gyldenløve, the English insist on Admiral Norris, and the tsar wants only the tsar. They fight like street urchins, interrupted only by equestrian displays and swan hunts in the king’s gondolas. That’s what I heard from a man named Ismailov.

      Ismailov’s father used to be an envoy in Copenhagen. Now he works under Vasily Dolgoruky, the unpleasant Russian who insulted the notarius on that drunken evening at Edinger’s house. Ismailov is a tall, lanky man with morose eyes and eyebrows that meet in the middle. He has an oval face the shape of an egg. His hair is sparse. A big abscess protrudes from his right cheek. He’s not what might be called a handsome man.

      “The tsar often takes dwarves to his meetings,” Ismailov tells me. “Maybe you’ll be brought along to the political negotiations.”

      “In what capacity?”

      “As an advisor on Danish affairs.”

      “I don’t know a thing about Danish affairs.”

      “Maybe not, but it’s important that you find a role for yourself so that the tsar feels he can make use of you.”

      I give my new friend a weary look.

      “All right then. Tell me more about the war.”

      Ismailov lowers his voice and moves closer.

      “The latest rumors say that His Majesty the Tsar is considering entering into a alliance with Sweden.”

      “But I thought that Sweden was our mutual enemy.”

      “It is today, but maybe not tomorrow.”

      “And what does Frederik say to that?”

      “Your king is afraid that Russia will become the new great power in the North. But as Dolgoruky says, ‘That’s what we Russians are already. You Danes just haven’t discovered it yet.’”

      I nod and think over the situation.

      “Do you think the king will get Scania back?”

      “If that’s what he desires.”

      “Why wouldn’t he desire it?”

      “It’s what he says he wants, but maybe he’s afraid that it will present too many problems in the long run.”

      “With whom?”

      “With us Russians. With the other great powers.”

      “But you’re all allies. You’re the ones who are helping us to get Scania back.”

      “We’re helping you only so that we can crush Sweden.”

      I look at Ismailov in despair.

      “I don’t understand a word of this.”

      “It’s a game. It’s always a game.”

      “And you find it amusing?”

      “That’s my job.”

      Ismailov pours himself a dram. I look at him with annoyance. In a moment I go back to reading the Russian grammar that Æreboe has loaned me. I want to learn the language. Only in that way can I prepare myself for my future in Russia. Maybe as the court jester, as an advisor, or maybe as something else.

      OVER THE NEXT few days Ismailov explains the Russian situation to me: how the tsar has undermined the rule of the clergy, how he has taken away the power of the former elite. But also how much opposition there is to his reforms and his countless trips to the ungodly West.

      We talk again about the war. I give Ismailov a nervous look.

      “Do you think I’ll be taken along

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