52.
VII - In the Inside Pocket of Our Lord
It’s immensely liberating to read this grotesque novel far out on the fringes of fiction. It has been many years since Danish literature has produced such a phantasmagoric novel that brushes so closely to plausible historical reality.
Niels Houkjær
Berlingske Tidende, Denmark
A very good novel … sad, hilarious, profound. Like life itself.
Jon Helt Haarder
Jyllands-Posten, Denmark
Like The Elephant Man by David Lynch, Peter H. Fogtdal’s novel celebrates the life and the dignity of those who were considered sub-humans. It’s a wonderful novel where the pursuit of human dignity is narrated with a masterly mixture of drama and humour.
Sergio Luis de Carvalho
Lisbon, Portugal
To Marie Huda Fogtdal and Choul Wou—with special thanks to Marianne Miravet Sorribes, Janne Breinholt Bak, and Sandra Freels.
DANISH TITLES
BY PETER H. FOGTDAL INCLUDE:
Skorpionens hale
Jupiters time
Lystrejsen
Flødeskumsfronten
Drømmeren fra Palæstina
I
The Russian Guest
1.
MY NAME IS SØRINE BENTSDATTER. I WAS BORN IN 1684 in the village of Brønshøj. My father was a pastor, my mother died in childbirth.
When I turned six my body decided not to grow anymore.
I don’t care for the term “dwarf.”
As a rule, I don’t care for dwarves at all.
2.
THE FINE GENTLEMEN HAVE BROUGHT ME HERE TO Copenhagen Castle. They’ve set me on a carpet that feels as if I’m treading on seaweed. Now they’re looking at me in that jovial manner they favor—their heads tilted, their lips twitching—but I stare right back at them. I always stare back, because they’re uglier than I am. The only difference is that they don’t know it.
“Do it again,” says the finest of those gentlemen.
His name is Callenberg. He’s a smug cavalier with red cheeks. His legs are bound with silk. I put my hands on my hips and stare at his multiple chins, which are quivering with mirth.
Callenberg spreads his legs and smiles. I move across the soft floor, duck my head, and walk between his legs. I do it four or five times, back and forth, like some sort of obsequious cur. And now they’re all applauding; now they’re cackling contentedly in their perfumed chicken yard. Of course I could have bumped my head into Callenberg’s nobler parts, but that would have been foolish. And you can say any number of things about a wench like me, but I’m no fool.
“Splendid.” Callenberg draws his legs together with a satisfied grunt.
The courtiers once again stare at me with a condescending expression—the same way that everyone looks at me, with a despicable mixture of contempt
