earth, so that human beings can appreciate Paradise when all hope is gone.
A chamberlain opens the French doors and motions us inside to see the king.
Rasmus Æreboe tries to take my hand, but I swat his away. My heart is pounding hard as we step inside a large room where eight courtiers are sitting at a long table. I catch sight of the king, the tsar, and several gentlemen I don’t recognize. They are bending over a map. When they see me, they stop talking.
Frederik summons me over.
“So here we have little Sørine,” he says in German.
Against my will I blush.
The king pats me on the head.
“Her Majesty the Queen still hasn’t recovered from your dance number, Sørine Bentsdatter.”
The tsar laughs heartily as he fixes his eyes on me. I’m struck once again by what a giant he is. Peter is three heads taller than anyone else in the room. Today he’s dressed like a lieutenant in a soiled uniform with a truncheon in his belt. His pants are bound just below the knees with gaiters made of leather. His stockings are shabby, his gloves filthy. In his right hand he is holding a Dutch clay pipe, and he radiates a strange blend of joviality and restlessness.
And then there are his eyes—those black eyes that absorb the whole room.
For the first time the tsar turns to face Rasmus Æreboe.
“Isn’t this my old friend Eerenbom?”
Rasmus Æreboe blushes.
“At your service, Your Tsarist Majesty.”
“I remember you quite well. We met in Petersburg and in Moscow.”
“Thank you, Your Tsarist Majesty.”
Frederik IV smiles.
“Our notarius publicus is at your disposal during your stay in Copenhagen, dear brother. He will be your interpreter and show you around in our beautiful capitol.”
“I am certain that Eerenbom will be of great use to me.”
The tsar smiles. His eyes are searching and mocking. Æreboe lowers his eyes.
I look at the tsar and decide once again that he’s an inoffensive man. His round head is good-natured, his enormous hands restless. The brown skin of his forearms is covered with cuts and scratches, as if he has been in a fight. And he probably has.
The king turns to his guest.
“By the way, are you content with the living quarters that we have found for you, dear brother?”
“Not in the least.”
The king’s smile vanishes.
“The rooms are too big and too bright. Since I haven’t come to Denmark to dance, I have no wish to live in a ballroom.”
“We will have our men find you another place at once.”
The king snaps his fingers. A footman steps forward.
“Bring Callenberg, our Lord Steward.”
The footman bows and leaves the room like a well-dressed bird of prey.
The tsar looks at me again. Once more it occurs to me how strange the Muscovites are. All of them, except for the tsar, are well-dressed, but the clothing looks wrong on them—as if they had been forced into the attire. Their manners are rough. They cough and spit on the expensive carpets. Many of them fart without inhibition and without apology—something that is seldom encountered among the fine folk in Denmark.
“The reason that we have granted Sørine an audience is that we wish to give you a modest gift, dear brother…” The king looks at the tsar. “A gift for your collection.”
Frederik places his hand on my shoulder.
“We wish to give you Sørine Bentsdatter, the most splendid dwarf in the Kingdom of Denmark and Norway.”
I stare at His Majesty in astonishment.
“We are certain that it will give you pleasure. Aside from the talents that it displayed at the banquet table, we understand that it can sing and perform. Isn’t that right?”
The king casts an inquisitive glance at Æreboe, who hastens to nod. The tsar regards me with sudden coolness. Then he bows.
“I accept your gift.”
I start to object. “But your Royal Majesty—”
Rasmus Æreboe stops me with a sharp look. The king turns his attention back to the map. The audience is over. I cast another glance at Æreboe, but he now evades my eyes. A chamberlain is ready to escort us out of the room, but as we turn to leave I hear the tsar’s voice say, “Let the dwarf stay!”
I turn around.
Peter adds, “With your permission, that is, my dear brother.”
The king nods graciously. Æreboe continues toward the door. I remain standing in the middle of the room, not knowing what I’m supposed to do. I’m sweating heavily, wishing I were back home in my cellar.
“May I ask you, dear brother, how many dwarves you have in your kingdom?” says the tsar.
The king gives his guest a look of surprise. “We…have no idea.”
“In my country,” says the tsar, “we often succumb to the most peculiar sentimentality. That’s why we treat our dwarves as if they were human beings. We dress them in colorful garb; we arrange lavish feasts at which they are allowed to participate. We frequently even allow them to live in elegant homes built in the European manner. And when they are ready, we allow them to breed with other dwarves so that we’ll have an even larger crop.”
The color leaves my cheeks.
“Many of these dwarves are hideous. But the more hideous the better. The good Lord has created us all, and a dwarf puts a person in marvelous spirits with regard to his own figure and appearance. I want you to know that your dwarf will be appreciated in my realm.”
The tsar turns to me with a smile. “What is your name, my dear?”
“Sørine, Your Grace.”
“Sørine? No one will be able to pronounce such a name. You shall be called Surinka.”
The tsar studies me. Again I have the feeling that he is peering into every nook and cranny—and even deeper.
“Your voice isn’t shrill like the voices of other dwarves. Why is that?”
“Because I’m not like other dwarves, Your Grace.”
The tsar gives me a cold look and turns back to the map. A moment later I am escorted out, and as I walk
