The Serpent of Venice

“It was your idea to take his manhood, Lancelot Gobbo. No man would agree to such a bargain. An arm, a leg, a random pound of flesh, yes. I merely made salvage of your folly. I am surprised that Antonio would put his bond to it. His need exceeds appearances.”

“Why does he need to borrow funds from you? He said it is for his friend?”

“For the young man Bassanio, who proposed such a loan to me on the Rialto this morning. He says he would use it as a bride price for the lady Portia of Belmont, and Antonio staked him to it. I do not care about Antonio’s reasons, only that they have put me at advantage over him.”

“Portia? Brabantio’s daughter Portia? Brabantio is one of the richest senators in Venice, and Antonio is his partner in most heinous ventures. He would give him three thousand ducats for the asking?”

“You have not heard, then? The Montressor is dead.”

I meant to inquire when? How? But Shylock held his finger to his lips to signal silence. We had reached the ferry, which was fitted out to carry narrow handcarts across the channel. It was clear that Shylock did not know the ferryman as he had the gondolier from earlier, whom we were spurning by walking in the heat and taking this shit flat boat.

As we crossed the wide green channel, I looked for the dark shadow I had seen beneath the water before, but there were only little silver fishes, wetly doing fish things near the surface.

Shylock did not speak again until we were across the channel and in the narrow alley that would take us to the seaside of La Giudecca.

“So, what is your grudge with Antonio, little one?”

“Little one? I’m taller than you are.”

“I saw you were wearing Jessica’s boots and platforms when we were crossing in the gondola.”

“Well, this is a rubbish disguise.” I balanced the cask on my shoulder with one hand and ripped off my stupid yellow hat with my other and cast it to the ground.

Shylock put down his box of papers and quills, picked up my hat and fitted it back on my head, then picked up his box and stood there, blocking the alley, which was only a bit wider than a man’s shoulders. He raised a grizzled eyebrow at me. “What is your grudge with Antonio?”

“No,” said I. “What is your grudge with Antonio, and how do you think it will be settled by giving him three thousand ducats?”

“I am your employer, and I did not reveal you to Antonio and his friends,” said Shylock.

“Well, I have your wine and your daughter’s shoes.”

“I am a man of means and can buy more wine and shoes, but if you do not tell me, you will have no place to sleep tonight and no food to eat.”

“Well, I’ll have a bloody hogshead of wine to myself,” said I.

“Fine, as the tailor said to the broke and naked knight, suit yourself.” He turned and strode off down the alley.

Is that where that saying comes from? Seems I should have known that. Shylock receded down the alley. As he was about to go around the corner I blurted, “He killed my wife and he tried to kill me—left me chained in a dungeon to die. He does not know I survived.”

Shylock looked over his shoulder. “Antonio did this?”

“He and two others.”

Shylock nodded. “Come. Bring my wine.”

“Now you.”

“We don’t call it a hogshead,” said Shylock.

“What does it matter?”

“A Jew would not call it a hogshead. Mind your disguise.”

“Why do you risk your ducats?”

“They are not my ducats. My friend Tubal will supply the loan.”

“But to the point, your grudge with Antonio?”

“If I tell you that Antonio has earned my hatred, would you be satisfied?”

“It strains not my imagination that Antonio earns your hate, but for three thousand ducats you could hire a choir of cutthroats to remove him.”

“Antonio hates me for my ancient faith, yet his pope makes wars to take Jerusalem from the Saracens. He makes profit on these holy wars, yet calls my thrift a sin. He mocks me for my interest, yet the law forbids me from owning property on which to collect rents. He laughs at me that I must pay to be ferried to and from the Rialto, because the law allows my people to live only on this island. He berates me for this yellow hat I must wear, because the law of his city dictates it. His city, Venice, that makes nothing, grows nothing but salt, does no other thing than trade, and is said to be the glory of the world because her laws treat all fairly. His Venice that has no king, has no lords, but is a republic, a city of laws, a city of the people, says he. A city built on justice, says he! Well, I will have my justice by way of the law. I will see Antonio’s Venice condemn him, sentence him to pour his blood into the canals for his beloved laws. I would have my revenge by way of this so-just law.”

Shylock’s shoulders were heaving with breath, with his anger. I had been pummeled by the blundering angels of false justice as both slave and sovereign; I knew his fire.

“There is risk,” said I. “What if he repays you in good time?”

“If any one of his three ships runs afoul, his fate is mine, and I will weigh his flesh on those same scales that Venice says do stand for justice. God will see to it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t wager a jolly jar of Jew toss for the God nonsense, but I’m in for three-to-one odds of undoing Antonio.”

“Then you will not interfere with my plan?”

“Your revenge shall be my revenge,” said I. Unless it fails, then I will sculpt my own mayhem for Antonio, I thought.

“Then home, and we shall drink to it,” said Shylock. “But no word of this in front of Jessica. She is of a sweet and delicate disposition; I would not have her poisoned by her father’s hateful strategies.”

“Jessica pulled me from the sea—saved me,” said I. “A right love, is your Jessica. If up to me, she shall never hear so much as the whisper of an unkind word.”

But she would, she had, and I, undrowned for only days, was torn now by opposing loyalties.

“You scheming duplicitous harpy, why didn’t you tell me?” said I to the gentle Jessica. “Your father says Brabantio was eaten by rats?”

“You didn’t ask, oh troubadour who was shipwrecked on the way to England and therefore would have no interest in the politics of Venice.” She sang the last bit, just to be annoying.

Shylock had gone to Tubal’s house to assure that he could secure the ducats for Antonio’s loan, leaving Jessica and me alone in the house.

“Making a point will not return you to my good graces.” I could have crushed her paltry argument if I revealed that I knew the contents of her note to Lorenzo, although that would have somewhat undermined my own trustworthiness.

“You are the one who didn’t do his job, slave.”

“Lorenzo was not with Antonio. Would you have had me give your note to another of Antonio’s scoundrels and hope he delivered it to your beloved? Gratiano wanted it, that egregious weasel—may as well give it to old blind Gobbo and have him

orbit the island with it for eternity.”

“Well, you must go back, then. Tonight. Papa and Tubal are sending a chest with the ducats to Antonio this evening. You will go with them and deliver my note to Lorenzo then. And wait for a reply.”

“I will,” said I, head bowed. And I would. And from there go to my old apartments to inquire after my monkey, Jeff, and my apprentice, Drool. I can’t imagine the great ninny making do on his own for a month. True, he had nothing of value except for his great size and a preternatural gift for mimicry, but fate does not favor the dim, and I worried about him wandering around unprotected in a city whose streets were filled with water. He swims like a stone.

“Tell me, now,” said I. “What do you know of this favor Antonio does for his friend Bassanio that would require he risk his very life for a loan? Do you know of it?”

“Oh, yes, Lorenzo told me of it. Bragged to his friends that he was so clever as to capture his lady love without risking his fortune like Bassanio. You know of the contest for Portia’s hand and estate?”

“Contest?”

She explained the bizarre lottery Brabantio had left his younger daughter to be prize for: three caskets, sealed with wax and watched over by lawyers, three thousand ducats for the mere chance at the lady’s hand. Oh, Othello, what a bitter mess you made of Brabantio when you married Desdemona. I thought that my murder was the limit of Brabantio’s hatred for Othello, but apparently he was reaching out from the grave to torment his younger daughter as punishment to the elder.

Shylock had not known the circumstances preceding Brabantio having been eaten by rats. Perhaps his heart gave out while he was carrying away his bucket of mortar. The scream that night—I had some hope that his last thoughts might have been of me. Now, with my terror tamed, seems ’twas a sweet scream indeed, although not nearly long enough. But now, to have Brabantio’s hatred spill out onto Antonio, well, perhaps the Fates were turning to favor a fool . . .

The Greeks believe the Fates are three sisters: one is Order, who spins out the linear thread of a life from the beginning; another is Irony, who gently cocks up the thread, marking it with some peculiar sense of balance, like justice, only blind drunk with a scale that’s been bunged into the street so it never quite settles; and the third, Inevitability, simply sits in the corner taking notes and criticizing the other two for being shameless slags until she cuts life’s thread, leaving everyone miffed at the timing. It seems to me that a nimble fool, possessed of a quick wit and passionate provocation, might have two sisters at once, and thus bring the third in to serve her purpose on his enemies as well. I would find my way to be fate’s tool.