License to Laugh (295 words)

License to Laugh (295 words)

The drinking was an indispensable part of the program. Everyone in their cups, three sheets to the wind. Once the feast was over, it was child’s play to get the assembly rolling on the floor with laughter, and no-one appreciated us more in the Russian court than Ivan the Terrible.

We jesters did not call him “the Terrible.” We addressed him as Ivashka, without fear of execution. Jesters were allowed liberties.

He sat solidly on his throne in the great stone room, and we entertained with ribaldry and song. I was Yakov, a dwarf dressed in green silks and with bells on my cap. My calling was to amuse. I jumped, grimaced and wiggled, all the while shedding commentary on current events.

We were twenty years into the Livonian war. Waged to gain access to Baltic ports, the campaign was unsuccessful. Our economy was gravely damaged. As a holy fool, it was my calling to make it into a joke, without fear of punishment.

I pranced in my space. “Ivashka!” I called. “Your pockets are bottomless!”

His laughter was deep. “I feel the pinch,” he bellowed.

“Ah, war is costly. Better to hire a battalion of jesters!”

“Will they deliver to me the Ottoman Empire?”

“I fear not, but laughter is known to be good for the bowels. They will deliver to you a good shit!”

Laughter filled the room. I took a bow all around. Then I said, “The great powers squeeze you, like bosoms for sale.”

The room fell deeply silent. Ivan’s face became an expressionless mask. Had I crossed a line? Then I asked, “Is there a problem here?”

His face cracked. A smile appeared. And then he guffawed with his whole body.

I blew out my breath.

Humour is my salvation.