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 to the front?”
Ismailov shakes his head. “We’re most likely going to Holland when the war is over, but the tsar changes plans all the time, and it’s wise not to ask him about things.”
“Why does the tsar want to go to Holland?”
“To make purchases.”
“What does he want to purchase?”
“No one knows.”
I put my grammar book away.
I’m looking forward to seeing Peter Alexeyevich again. The tsar builds ships with his own hands, he drinks the Russian soldiers under the table, downing anise-flavored vodka. He’s a man you can talk to. He’s not snobbish like King Frederik, who flounces around in his silk robes. Yet I love Frederik all the same. Everyone in Denmark loves the angelic-minded sovereign.
On the other hand, no one loves Frederik’s mistress.
No. No one loves Anna Sophie Reventlow, who is young, enchanting, and impossibly obtuse.
17.
SEVERAL MONTHS AGO I WAS SENT ON LOAN TO FREDERIK’S “queen of the left hand”—as the king calls her. Anna Sophie lives in Storm Manor next to the castle, where she spends her days and nights in constant boredom. I was driven over there in a magnificent coach. They set me on top of some silk cushions and put a bow around my neck. When Anna Sophie saw me, she gave a loud shriek. She picked me up and kissed me on the forehead with fierce little smacks.
“The two of us are going to be the best of friends,” she said, carrying me into the parlor, past Chinese vases, polished bureaus, and gilded console tables. Everything in her mansion was extraordinarily hideous. Everything was green, and the pictures on the walls were mawkish. On the sofas sat three ladies-in-waiting drinking tea from the East Indies.
“What’s your name, poppet?”
“Sørine Bentsdatter, my lady.”
“You may call me Anna Sophie.”
The king’s mistress was around twenty. She was tall and stately, with lovely fair hair that had been bleached according to the latest fashion. Her eyes were dark and gave the impression that she was in an eternal state of infatuation. Her neck was long, her lips red and shapely. Anna Sophie was perfect, as long as she didn’t open her mouth—she had abominable teeth. Why the king didn’t demand that they all be removed, I have no idea. The royal barber could have done it in no time.
After that I was required to visit the mistress every day. I was introduced to Anna Sophie’s empty world. I was placed under the wine-red canopy of her bed, and she lay next to me, telling me about all the sorrows of her heart.
Anna Sophie was wild about her king. But she was also wild about a corporal from the Guards. She was oh so delighted, as she told me in Swedish, by a Swedish envoy who visited her on Tuesdays. She was fascinated by a Frisian duke who visited her on Wednesdays. But, most important of all, she was unhappy that Frederik visited the queen’s ladies-in-waiting.
“I’m afraid he’s growing tired
