be gazing up and down the length of the Blue Tower, because they don’t see me, those people. How could they see me when they’re as blind as bats?
ALL AT ONCE I catch sight of my figure in the mirror. I’m small and withered, with deep furrows on my brow. My eyes are tiny and green, my lips thin and sardonic. My nose and my ears are a bit too big, my hair is long and graying. The veins dance up and down my bowed legs, but there is nothing ridiculous about me. That’s something they’re all going to learn.
Callenberg sits down on a scissors chair and snaps his fingers. A moment later a glass of clove wine is brought to him along with a plate of Flemish chocolates. His hands are fat and pink, his nails look like shiny seashells. That’s how a human being is. Loathsome and vain, with habits that increase in cruelty the more the person eats.
“Ask the dwarf what sort of tricks it can do.”
The First Secretary turns to me. When he speaks, he does so slowly, as if he were talking to an idiot. I choose to ignore him. I’m familiar with the fine gentlemen. I have more experience with them than I would care to admit. I know how they think and how they behave. They can’t fool me with their vulgarities.
“Can the dwarf perform tricks or read fortunes in salt?” Callenberg asks.
“I can both read and write,” I tell him.
Callenberg tilts his head back and laughs. He would howl with laughter no matter what I said, because dwarves are so droll, dwarves are entertaining in the same way that parrots are entertaining. We are creatures who serve only one purpose: we exist so that human beings can feel superior.
Callenberg rubs his hand over his chins.
He is the Lord Steward at the castle. Not just the Lord Chamberlain but the Lord Steward. That’s the sort of thing that the nobility care about. Their whole raison d’être lies in titles. The higher the title, the greater the reason they have for existing.
“I can both read and write,” I repeat with annoyance. “I also know German, Latin, and a little French.”
“And where has the dwarf learned these things?”
I let my eyes survey the chamber. Exquisite portraits of Frederik IV hang on the walls. The drapes, which are a golden peach color, flutter in the breeze. There are chromium-plated mirrors with sullen looking angels. The strong scent of Hungarian cologne permeates the wallpaper. All very elegant, for those who have a taste for elegance.
“I suppose the dwarf is also knowledgeable in Russian?”
The Lord Steward looks at me with a condescending expression. Then he snaps his fingers and a chamberlain opens the lavishly embellished doors.
“Tell the dwarf to come back tomorrow.”
The First Secretary nods. He has a weak chin and a timid face—the sort of face that confirms the amount of time he has spent in submission to his master’s fury.
Callenberg disappears down a long passageway lined with Venetian mirrors.
The last I see of him are his hands behind his back and his thin legs beneath his stout body. After that he is swallowed up by the castle—and by the specters of all the kings who refuse to let go of the past.
A FEW MINUTES later I’m escorted down several narrow staircases intended for the servants. The stairwell feels damp and clammy, and I very nearly slip on the high steps. Two dead bats are lying on the stairs. The archways are draped with cobwebs.
The footman opens the door to the kitchen. In front of me is a vast room that goes on and on, as far as the eye can see. There are people everywhere: master cooks, footmen, errand boys, and pastry chefs. They’re rushing back and forth, armed with marzipan and mackerels and mulberries.
I stare at the wooden spoons that are almost as long as I am tall. And at the pots containing saffron, the tubs holding Iceland cod and whiting in brine.
We start walking.
The kitchen makes me uneasy. There’s a strange mood in there, as if the kitchen were waiting for something. I pass two assistants who are making a pigeon pâté. A royal taster is sampling a sour burgundy. They are all in their own meaningless world; they are all waiting.
The footman leads me over to a back door and opens it impatiently. When I turn around to ask him a question, he gives me a swift kick. Involuntarily I gasp with pain. Then the footman points to the moat and the high castle bridge. He points to the slum quarters, the flatbed wagons, and the flea market. When he slams the door, I angrily wipe my mouth and start walking.
It’s still a hot summer day. The towers of Copenhagen are sweltering in the sun, and the barges gleam like silver in the canal.
I head across the High Bridge to Færgestræde. A horse-drawn cart loaded with wine barrels almost forces me into the water. A moment later I vanish into the crowd among the coaches, soldiers, and loudly shouting fortune-tellers.
3.
I LIVE ON VINTAPPERSTRÆDE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE KING’S city. It’s a narrow lane where violence hangs in the air. Not even our watchman dares make his rounds in that section of town. There are six distilleries, four taverns, and a couple of miserable whorehouses. But I take pleasure in the atmosphere; it keeps me on my toes. The human being is an animal that fights to survive. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the part of town where I live.
I share a wretched cellar room with my poor scoundrel Terje. His path through life has taken him from pub to prison, with involuntary stays at Bremerholmen. We’ve been together for four years. Before that I lived with another scoundrel who was also fond of misshapen females. In a way I’m in charge of my own curiosity cabinet. Each morning I haul myself out of the cabinet, brush myself off with a damp cloth, which is enough to turn the stomachs of many goodfolk—and then I listen to their comments.
They say that I have an ancient face, that I’m descended from a demonic race. They think my head is deformed, that my fingers are stunted, that all the parts of my body are out of proportion. But who decides what is out of proportion?
According to other wise folk, I belong to a noble race that has lived on earth longer than human beings—a race that has mysterious powers and can see into the future. That may be true, but I don’t really care. I have the same problems as everyone else. I eat, I shit, and one day I will die.
WHEN I STEP inside my cellar room, I find Terje curled up on the straw pallet. He is unwell, as usual, his body burrowed in day-old vomit. He is shaking with fever and a cold sweat. His face looks like mauve porridge speckled with yellow beard stubble. The Scoundrel looks up at me, his expression reproachful.
“Where the devil have you been?”
I ignore him and go over to one of my stools. I have three of them. The Scoundrel made them for me so that I could reach things in the larder. I don’t live in dwarf lodgings like other dwarves. I have no use for a dollhouse with sweet little dwarf doors. With a few objects to help me, I can manage to get by in the world—without extra assistance. There’s no reason to feel sorry for me.
Right now I open the larder, which once again is half-empty. A rat leaps out with a scrap of cheese in its mouth. A moment later it darts through the wood
