“Oh good,” announced Iago. “Now that we’re all friends, you three, do fuck off.”
“What?” said Lorenzo.
“You, too, Rodrigo. Go, make the merchants buy you lunch. Fuck off.”
“What?” said Rodrigo, rising from his chair.
“Fuck,” said Iago, then a deep pause and a breath—“OFF! All of you.”
“What?” said Gratiano, wondering what had happened to his new and gentle friend.
Iago looked to Antonio. “Am I being overly subtle? I’m seldom in the company of such distinguished young gentlemen.”
“You want them to piss off?” asked Antonio.
“Exactly!” said Iago, turning back to the rabble, his finger raised to make the point. “I’m accustomed to soldiers doing what they are told under threat of the sword, thus I thought I might be mumbling. Gracious gentlemen, Antonio and I have business to discuss with Bassanio, so I will need you all to fuck right off.”
“Oh,” said Rodrigo.
“Now!” Hand to sword.
They tumbled out the door.
“Rodrigo!” Iago called after them. “Return in an hour.”
From the stairwell: “Yes, Lieutenant.”
“You others?”
“Yes?” Gratiano answering.
“Stay fucked off.”
Iago closed the door, latched it, and turned back to Antonio. “That was entirely your fault.”
“You brought your friend along, too.”
“Rodrigo is not my friend. He is a useful accoutrement, an implement.”
“A tool, then?”
“Exactly. As is this handsome young rake.” Iago brushed Bassanio’s hat back on his head. “Aren’t you, lad?”
“I thought we were here to discuss Portia?” Bassanio said to Antonio, as if Iago were not in the room.
“Indeed,” said Antonio. “But there is a problem.”
“What problem? He’s of good family, he fancies the girl, and he’s fine and fit—too fit for my tastes. I’d see him locked down in marriage just to keep him out of my own wife’s bed.” Iago turned to Bassanio to explain. “She’s a bit of a slut, I suspect. Not your fault you’re pretty.”
“Bassanio is not the problem,” said Antonio. “It was obvious in her presence that Portia fancies him, but the late Brabantio has put conditions upon her marriage that bar our young lovers from finding bliss together.”
“Conditions?”
“To avoid another calamity of the Othello and Desdemona stripe, the old man composed a puzzle. Each of Portia’s suitors must choose one of three caskets: gold, silver, or lead. He is then given the key, and if the casket holds Portia’s portrait, they may be married, but if not, the suitor must go away and never return. The entire process is overseen by Brabantio’s lawyers, who hold his estate in balance—that part of the estate not willed to Desdemona, that is.”
Iago backed into his chair and sat down; his sword hand hunted down and trapped his half-filled goblet of wine. “How did Brabantio think such a test might save his daughter from marrying a rascal? Picking a metal casket?”
“He thought to oversee the process himself—use the caskets to give the girl the illusion that he had left it to chance.”
A vein had begun to pulsate on Iago’s sun-browned forehead. When he spoke, his voice came measured and he watched young Bassanio for signs that he might be frightening the youth. “Then even Portia herself does not know the contents of the caskets?”
“Nor any of the lawyers. Brabantio sealed the locks himself, with his own seal. Only he knew which casket holds the prize.”
“That miserable demented old tosser!” growled Iago. Then to Bassanio, gently: “May God bless him and have mercy on his soul.”
“Amen,” said Bassanio, bowing his head. “May God rest his soul, and my own when I join him in death’s dark country. Deprived of my Portia’s love for want of three thousand ducats, I shall drown myself.”
“Seems dear,” said Iago, scarred eyebrow raised. “I’ll drown you for half—nay—a third of that.”
“He quite fancies her,” explained Antonio. “The three thousand ducats is the price a suitor must pay to open one of the caskets.”
“Just for the opportunity,” wailed Bassanio.
“We’ll solve the puzzle before he attempts it,” said Iago. “Even if it means we have to persuade some lawyers with metal less precious than gold. Give him the money, Antonio.”
“I don’t have it. All
my fortunes are at sea. It will be months before I can collect my profits.”
Iago’s broken eyebrow rose and fell like the wings of a hunting bird flaring to land. “Remind me of what it was that you were to bring to our venture?”
Bassanio caught his head, weighted with woe, in his hands. “Some rich old man will have Portia and I shall drown myself at their wedding.”
Iago rose and moved behind Bassanio, took the youth by the shoulders, and lifted him from his chair with a hearty shake. “Thou silly gentleman!”
Bassanio, now firmly in the grasp of Iago, looked to his friend Antonio. “Is it silliness to live when living is torment?”
“What love is not torment when a man knows not how to love himself? Talk not of drowning, but attaining your heart’s desire by action: Put money in thy purse.”
“I know it’s folly to be so fond of her, knowing her as little as I do, but she is radiant, and I am helpless.”
“And so, like helpless kittens and blind puppies, you will drown yourself? Nay, I say! Put money in thy purse. Give in to your passions and they will lead you to the most preposterous conclusions—passions make a fool of reason. Rather let reason find a path to passion: Put money in thy purse.”
“But even the chance—”
“Make money, young gentleman. Sell your lands, your treasures, call in your debtors, take your lady, your fortune, your future, your fate—for fate favors the truest love, surely, when it is pursued with reason. Put money in thy purse.”
“But I have no treasure, no lands.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Really?” Iago, his sails suddenly gone slack, glared at Antonio, who nodded sadly.
Antonio put his arm around Bassanio’s shoulders and walked him out of Iago’s stiff embrace. “But you have friends, and so they shall come to your aid. My ventures at sea are worth more than twice the bride price. Go, Bassanio, into the Rialto, and see what my good name and credit will provide. I will see you well furnished to fling woo at the fair Portia.”