Kingdom of Denmark and Norway!” Dolgoruky squints his eyes. “Who cares about the Kingdom of Denmark and Norway? You Danes are so arrogant that it turns my stomach! The only thing you think about is getting Scania back. Negotiating with you is like negotiating with mules.”
I glance at Rasmus Æreboe and scuttle away.
“…Prussia and Saxony-Poland are proper allies. The tsar has respect for them. It’s even possible to respect the Swedes, because at least they can fight, but the Kingdom of Denmark and Norway…” Dolgoruky leers. “The tsar has no faith in the Danish army. You lose every war you get into. When was the last time you won on the battlefield—the time of the Vikings?”
Æreboe snarls something in Russian. Dolgoruky replies. For several minutes the discussion surges back and forth between the two men. I sit a short distance away and watch those hotheads; how they vie with each other, how they argue in a way that women would never argue. Why are men so proud? Is it something that’s part of their cocks? Or has God merely blessed them with a smaller-sized brain?
“You should have seen His Majesty the Tsar when he read that book your kings hate. What’s it called?”
Æreboe flinches. “I have no idea what you are referring to.”
“An Account of Denmark As It Was in the Year of Our Lord 1692…a splendid piece of writing.” Dolgoruky nods spitefully. “The tsar doesn’t usually read books, but he found the German translation profusely entertaining.”
Æreboe’s cheeks grow hot. “With all due respect, Count Dolgoruky, I have no desire to listen to your foolishness. You know quite well that Molesworth’s book is a scandalous text, insulting to Denmark and the Danish monarchy—”
“But Molesworth is right!” Dolgoruky laughs. “Copenhagen Castle is a rats’ nest. Danish cheese is the lousiest in the world, but your mutton is even worse! There are epileptics on every street corner, your capital is a provincial backwater overflowing with shit, and your taxes are the highest in Europe.”
“I’m warning you…”
“You have no proper artists, no proper artisans. You can’t even produce any proper idiots! Everyone is equally mediocre in spirit. No one takes the initiative for anything. Is there anything at all that you Danes have mastered?”
Æreboe stands up, looking furious. His face has swollen, and he fumbles for his sword.
“You Danes simply have to learn that you’re nothing but pimples on the face of Europe!”
The notarius is still trying to pull out his sword, but he’s too sloshed to find it. I scuttle down to the floor. At that moment everything starts to move: the carved door frames and the painting of Cupid with the apple cheeks.
Rasmus Æreboe has finally gotten hold of his sword, but at the same instant Dolgoruky’s head falls backwards. He dangles from his chair and then slides down to the floor, where he sprawls in an awkward position. A stream of vomit seeps out over his double chins, just like some sort of Italian fountain.
I look at Dolgoruky and Æreboe. Then I wipe the sweat from my brow.
It has been yet another interesting evening with the Muscovites.
13.
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
