LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Yes, in Russian. And believe me, it’s a beautiful language.”

      The strange notarius sets about writing down a sentence. There is something about him that I like. That may be because I don’t know him. His eyes shine with childish joy. His quill pen scratches across the page.

      I ponder what the Muscovites’ tsar intends to do in Denmark, and whether it’s true that he wants to help the king reclaim the territories of Scania. The Danes and the Muscovites are allies. They’re preparing a raid on Sweden to undermine Karl XII, the warrior king. And I’m supposed to jump out of a cake. How unfair history can be.

      “Dobro poshalovalot’. Vashe velichestvo, v prekrasnuyu datskuyu zemlyu…Can you say that?”

      I repeat the strange sentence: “Dobro poshalovalot’. Vashe velichestvo, v prekrasnuyu datskuyu zemlyu…”

      “Excellent. You have an ear for languages.”

      I nod. There’s a special music to this language—something explosive that is provocative and so unlike Danish. I feel an urge to say the sentence again, but I can’t remember the words.

      The notarius smiles.

       “Dobro poshalovalot’. Vashe velichestvo, v prekrasnuyu datskuyu zemlyu…”

      “What does vashe mean?”

      “It doesn’t matter.”

      I look at Rasmus Æreboe. A new strength has emerged on his face, as if he were deriving something from the language that he couldn’t get from his native tongue. His gaze is firmer, his voice deeper. The more Russian he speaks, the more the sweat pours from his brow. His jaw gets wider, the movements of his lips look unfamiliar and grotesque.

      With my dwarf vision I see the tsar’s city before me. Not Moscow but Petersburg. A city with canals and windblown palaces. A site surrounded by icy green islands and poisonous swamps, with beautiful bridges and yellow mansions.

      “…v prekrasnuyu datskuyu zemlyu…”

      I watch the lips of the notarius and wait tensely for the new sounds they will produce.

      In the meanwhile, time flies by. That’s good. Almost too good to be true.

8.

      THE TSAR HAS FINALLY ARRIVED IN DENMARK.

      Not to Copenhagen, but to a town on the island of Falster. He has refused to spend the night in the city’s castle. Instead, he has settled for fishcakes and a bed in a tavern.

      All this I hear as I lower myself into the cake.

      I have been drenched with perfume. My hair has been ludicrously curled by a French-speaking chatterbox. The shoes that they’ve put on my feet are made of tiger skin, the stockings are red like scarlet fever. I look like the world’s smallest whore.

      I’m even more nervous and irritable than usual. Dwarves have breasts; we are adults, not children. That’s why the dress is too tight. But now I’m inside the cake, down in the sugary darkness where I’m supposed to stay until they knock on the wall.

      They’ve built a staircase that I can climb. They’ve also bored a hole in the side so that I can breathe and look out of the cake. I’m sweating and trying not to crumple my speech. The Russian words are teasing me, vanishing from my head.

      It’s important that I arouse jubilation.

      The tsar is known to be lacking in humor, but if he likes me, I’ll be allowed to entertain him during his stay. Although no one knows what might please the tsar. No one knows what goes on inside a human being.

      THEY PUT ON the lid, and the world disappears. I sit down on the bottom of the cake. There is very little space, even for a dwarf. Soon my back is aching, and my legs start to fall asleep. I try to change position, but it’s difficult, very difficult.

      “You can breathe?”

      The master of ceremonies is speaking. It’s not really a question. It’s a command.

      The footmen lift up the monstrosity. Off in the distance I hear muted sounds: laughter, music, the baying of a dog. The plan is for me to jump up when I hear a knock, but I’m afraid that I won’t hear the signal.

      We start climbing upstairs. The cake shakes violently. I hit my head on the side. I wonder once again how a cake like this is made. Are the onion cupolas edible? Isn’t it blasphemy to devour a church? Perhaps the Muscovites will be offended to have God’s house end up in their bellies. You never know with foreigners; it’s not easy to understand them.

      I stick my hand under the dress fabric to scratch myself. I keep on scratching, back and forth, while I worry about how ridiculous I look in this rigged-up garment. I hate the stomacher and the patterns. The dress has been sewn according to the newest fashions, but that doesn’t make it any more comfortable to wear.

      Outside the footmen come to a halt. I try peeking through the hole, but I see only the silk jacket of a footman.

      “…delayed in there…”

      “…the eighth toast to the tsar…”

      It’s Callenberg’s voice, containing a fair amount of irritation—the sort of irritation that fills a human being when he can’t control the world. At the same instant a cannonade is heard from the castle courtyard, followed by another. Then the doors to the hall are opened. The footmen march in with the cake. The orchestra starts playing a festive piece of music. I heard brass, flutes, and fiddles, and I feel a rare sense of peace in my soul. I have made a decision.

      Finally the marzipan cake stops moving. The music ceases. The moment has arrived. Someone knocks three times on the wooden lid of the cake. The sounds fade away in the hall. Someone knocks again, this time using his fists. Then the lid is lifted off the cake. A flood of light streams over me. Slowly I stand up, trying to shake some life into my legs and the rest of my body. Then I cautiously peer over the edge.

      The hall is bathed in the light from thousands of candles. The tables are adorned with fresh branches and flowers from the orangerie. Everywhere are elaborate dishes and arrangements of fruit, along with sumptuous golden goblets. The fine folk are dressed in damask and magnificent robes. At the far end of the hall stands a pavilion where six musicians are seated, dressed in colorful garb.

      Everyone is staring at me. Everyone is waiting.

      I catch sight of the king. Frederik IV is sitting on a throne at the end of the table, wearing a dark green robe festooned with medals and orders and sashes. An enormous powdered wig makes his face look as if it’s drowning in curls. Against my will, tears fill my eyes. I have never seen His Majesty before. I am touched, but astonished. Frederik looks anything but divine. He’s small, almost dwarflike, with heavy eyelids, and his skin is pockmarked. He radiates both gentleness and rigidity at the same time.

      His Majesty’s eyes rest heavier on me than anyone else’s. I have an urge to fly up the stairs and throw myself at his feet. At that moment I catch sight of Callenberg and the master of ceremonies. They are angrily gesturing for me to jump out of the cake and stop staring at the guests. The guests are supposed to be staring at me.

      But I find the situation quite pleasant. I take pleasure in staring at the king of Denmark and Norway; at his gloved hand that is clenched on the table; at the impatient line of his lips dividing his face in two; at his eyelids that make him seem as melancholy as a dachshund.

      I am enjoying this moment, even though I hadn’t expected to enjoy it. And I hope that it will go on.

      MY GAZE MOVES onward to the Queen of Denmark—to the dour, morose Queen Louise, who looks as mournful as I had expected. She has small, squinting eyes and a bitter mouth. She’s looking down at the table as her hand plays nervously with a heavy string of pearls. But my eyes don’t stop there.

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