at his fat body and double chins that quiver with every consonant he speaks. And suddenly I know that something has gone wrong. I’m important to the Lord Steward. I’m his last hope.
The royal house has use for a dwarf.
The royal house has use for me.
I cast another glance at the high-born people. Utter silence. But the silence of the fine folk is always too good to be true.
“ We’ll have to make a staircase,” sighs the pastry chef.
A moment later a footman lifts me up and carries me down to the cellar. On the way he makes sure that I hit my head against the doorframe. When he tosses me into a cell, I’m no longer conscious.
6.
WHEN A DWARF IS BORN, IT WOULDN’T DREAM OF REVEALING its secret. The dwarf infant wails like a human being. It breathes with the same tenacity. It suckles milk and sleeps the slumber of the innocent, its cheeks flushed pink. There is nothing demonic about a dwarf baby. It doesn’t have the number nine imprinted on its scalp, it doesn’t howl at the full moon. And many years pass before the human being discovers that she has suckled a snake at her breast.
I’m quite certain that my father had a serious conversation with Our Lord when he realized that I was deformed. It happened when I was six years old—when my body stopped growing. My father felt that I was God’s punishment for the sins of his youth. Before I was born he had written a wish list for Our Lord—a list of demands, everything that he wished from his firstborn. The first item was the most important: The child had to be a boy. Next came a list of talents, none of which I possessed. But the list had no significance as soon as my father discovered that I was deformed. From that moment on, he dropped all his demands and lapsed into a divine despondency.
I can see him before my eyes, the way he looked back then: young and blustering, a ruddy barrel of a man, filled with anger at the Creator, talking to himself and the marsh. There’s no doubt that he felt himself persecuted and that he was keeping accounts which would be presented to God on Judgment Day.
I don’t know when my father found himself again. Whether months or years passed, or how long it was that he suffered under his defeat, but at some point he decided that I should be hidden away and protected from the world, since I was too little to manage on my own. I was wrinkled and hideous—a little but old person, the size of a skilling coin. Not a child that could be presented after a church service, unless the purpose was to terrify the congregation.
Of course I was the only dwarf for miles around. I found my playmates not in the parish but in nature, at the marsh—and in the darkness, which became my best friend. Because it was there that I found protection. It was in the dark that I could feel safe and loved, while the light deceived the eye.
The light exposed every abnormality of my physiognomy. The light was merciless and unrelenting.
AFTER A WHILE the door opens. At first I’m unsure what door it could be, but then I remember where I am. A big rectangle of light floods the cell, and a man is standing in the doorway holding a tallow candle in his hand. I don’t recall having seen him before. He is dressed as a cavalier, wearing the obligatory powdered wig, an elegant silk coat, and elegant shoes that gleam in the dim light.
“Sørine?” he calls.
I glare at the rogue without answering. As far as I know, there’s no one else in the cell but me. It’s clear that his eyes have not yet adjusted to the dark, but that doesn’t matter, because I haven’t yet adjusted to the light.
“Are you there, Sørine Bentsdatter?” The man clears his throat. “My name is Rasmus Æreboe. I am His Majesty’s notarius publicus.”
The cavalier’s voice is soft and pleasant. He has a bit of a lilt. He must be from the islands of Fyn or Falster. Yet there is something finicky about him that I find irritating, something that invites a good slap.
A cautious little smile appears on his face.
“Oh, there you are, my dear. I have to talk to you about something important.” He smiles again. “But you haven’t put on the dress.”
I notice a dress lying on the floor of the cell. The footman must have tossed it in when he locked me up. I pick it up. It’s a gown with rose-colored embroidery and a stomacher, an insert covering the stays on the bodice. Elegant but tasteless. The gown has obviously belonged to a child, and it’s too big for me.
“We don’t have much time. Do you understand?”
“Time for what?” I retort.
“Time before the big banquet.”
Æreboe turns around and speaks a few words to a man I can’t see. Then he gestures for me to follow. I don’t move from where I’m sitting. A moment later a footman appears. He comes toward me with an unyielding expression on his face. I hiss at him angrily. The footman sweeps me off the floor, grabbing me under the armpits, as if he were picking up an infant. Then he holds me away from his body, as if hanging me out to dry. As we move along, I dangle helplessly between Heaven and Hell. The footman turns left, going past a workshop where sedan chairs are made. Finally we end up in a small room with a window and a table. The notarius is already sitting there. He looks friendly and at ease. We’re talking about an idiot.
The footman sets me down so hard that pain shoots up from the balls of my feet, through my ankles and knees, and into my lower back. I always feel pain whenever a human being wants to display his propensity for power, but I never show it. I wouldn’t give a varlet like that the satisfaction.
“Now, now, show a little restraint,” Æreboe says.
The notarius is a man of average height with big, guileless eyes, a sensitive mouth, and a straight nose, belying a generous but fussy nature. His complexion is transparent, but an ugly scar on his forehead lends him a certain gravity.
“We want you to sing a song,” he says.
At first I have no idea what the notarius is talking about, but then I happen to think about the cake, and about my role in that ridiculous episode.
“…for His Majesty the Tsar. You will be an important part of the banquet.”
“What banquet?”
“For Peter Alexeyevich. The tsar is coming here tomorrow to dine at the castle. The plan is for you to jump out of the cake and sing a song in Russian! I have no doubt that it will be greeted with cheers.”
Again I glare at this ridiculous notarius who has taken over Callenberg’s role. What sort of an eye-servant is he? To my chagrin, I have no idea what a notarius does. I know only that it sounds miserably dreary—a position that allows admittance to the castle and the opportunity to practice the art of arse-kissing.
“…because you see, the Tsar loves midgets!”
I can feel my face wincing.
“Or dwarves, if you prefer that term.”
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to jump out of any cake. Do you think that I’m some kind of performer at the flea market?”
The
