The Serpent of Venice

“Calm yourself, good Bassanio,” said I. “He will not choose correctly, because the correct choice shall not be there for him. I will see to it.”

“How?”

I held forth the note that Lorenzo had dropped. “This was given to me sealed, to bring to Lorenzo; I’m sure he gave testimony to my discretion.”

“He said you could be trusted.”

“I can be trusted if the price is right,” I corrected. “And the price shall be one thousand ducats, after you marry Portia and take possession of her fortune.”

“Agreed. How will you do it?”

Now the tightrope to walk, to reveal the special set of skills that I had acquired without giving up so much that should it get back to Antonio, who might suspect the royal fool was still among the quick. Had I boasted to Antonio of my training as a cutpurse and a burglar? And as a forger, trained by monks at the abbey at Dog Snogging to copy manuscripts? I couldn’t remember. Perhaps if I had done less drinking during my tenure in the sinking city . . .

I might have said, “I will scale the walls, climb onto the veranda, razor off the seals, discern the content, and report back to you which casket to choose.” Which was, in fact, what I would do, but which also would require that I divulge details of a very unlikely past for a Venetian Jew, so I went with a more direct explanation.

“Monkeys,” said I.

“Monkeys?” he repeated.

“Surely you’ve seen the thieving monkeys of Giudecca, at least heard of them? We Jews have been training them since the time of King David. How do you think we gain our wealth?”

“Monkeys?” repeated Bassanio, like some simpleton with a single word in his repertoire.

“Signor, I tell you, I have worked all my life in the training of the thieving monkeys, and I know they are equal to the task. They will ascend to the veranda, razor open the caskets with their clever monkey hands, reseal them, leaving them undetected, and report to me their contents, which I will report to you.”

“How?”

“I just bloody told you, you nitwit, they’ll scale the bloody walls—”

“No, how will they report?”

Bollocks. I hadn’t thought out that bit. “Hebrew,” I explained.

“Your thieving monkeys speak Hebrew?”

“No, of course not. You see, the Hebrew language, in its written form, was originally developed from a series of stamps made from monkeys’ paws. The entire alphabet can be printed with a monkey hand dipped in ink. That’s how they report. It has always been so. You should see the inner walls of La Giudecca, covered with their monkey profanities in Hebrew.” I paused, breathless from my bullshit, and held forth Jessica’s note again, pointing to the seal, which was stamped with a menorah. “See the four fingers on each side and the monkey thumbs on the side?”

“I do see,” said the handsome, yet deeply stupid young merchant. “Make it so—what is your name?”

“Lancelot,” said I, extending my hand. “Lancelot Gobbo.”

“A thousand ducats, Lancelot Gobbo,” said Bassanio.

“You shall receive a message before you depart for Belmont, revealing which casket holds the lady’s picture.”

“I will be at Antonio’s.”

“One more thing, Bassanio, now that we are partners. I require information.”

“I’ve told you what I know of the caskets. I know Portia fancies me, what more—”

I raised my hand to silence him. “A month ago three of your friends went to the apartments of the English fool and took away the great simpleton and his monkey, do you know of this?”

“Aye, I sent Gratiano and the two Sals to fetch the giant and his monkey. They put them on a ship to Marseilles. Bought passage for them in the cargo hold.”

“And your friends actually did that? The natural left Venice unharmed?”

“Well, yes, he left unharmed, but that was the ship.”

“That was the what ship?”

“That was the ship taken last month by the Genoans at Curzola. All the passengers are in a Genoan prison being held for ransom. Word is all over the Rialto. There was a prominent Venetian merchant onboard with the other passengers.”

“So the giant is in a Genoan prison?”

“He was listed as a hostage on the ransom demand that arrived with the news only a few days ago.”

“Fuckstockings!” said I.

Bassanio left me on the landing, cursing in the night, still holding Lorenzo’s note from Jessica.

* It’s AD 1299. “Around the World” hasn’t been invented yet.

ELEVEN

Siren Ascending

CHORUS:

Gondola knifes through vasty night

Past dying stars of lantern light

And distant cries of tart’s delight

Ride drunken songs to bawdy heights.

Beneath a bridge doth stand the fool,

Crafting plans to free young Drool.

By stealth or guile or cutting throats,

No plots commence without a boat.

“Fuckstockings, I have no boat,” I said to the night. And no money even to pay the ferryman to take me back to La Giudecca. I’d hoped to use the ducat I’d taken from Tubal’s chest for fare and other expenses, but in a fit of bloody bollock-brained stupidity, I’d given it to the landlady to shore up the reputation of a poor, unjus

tly maligned fool.

Poor fool. Poor heartbroken fool. The fall from king to beggar was but a tender tumble compared to losing my love. Now, for lack of a penny, my reason to live, my revenge, would wither?

I think not! Bassanio could advance me coin for dirty deeds yet to be delivered. I made my way up the stairs from the landing, across the courtyard and through the entrance, where Charity had yet to return. I nodded to the ruffian at the door, now that we were mates, and spotted Bassanio holding court amongst a gang of his friends, Lorenzo and the two Sals among them.

“Need to have a word with Bassanio,” said I to the doorman.

But before I could cross the room, Salarino, or perhaps it was Salanio—one of the two fat fucks—boomed, “So, Lorenzo, the Carnival of Michaelmas is the last we shall see of you? Off to Cyprus to father half-Jew babies?”

“Nay, I’ll have the pleasure of her Jewish trim and her father’s treasure, and be back in your company before a fortnight has passed.”

“Have you seen her?” said Bassanio to the group. “But for her birth, Lorenzo’s Jessica would be a treasure in herself. As fit in form and figure as any in Venice.”

“She is like a swordfish flashing brilliant at the end of the fisherman’s line,” said Lorenzo, sloshing his wine as he pointed to a direction where he guessed the sea might be. “She is to be treasured only until she has been enjoyed, then cast back, just beak and bones, to the sea. And the fortune with which I am left will suit me to a wife of proper Christian birth, and a hundred whores to boot.” Lorenzo had raised his goblet again to toast his own good fortune when he spotted me by the door.

“Bassanio seems otherwise engaged,” said I to the doorman. Perhaps I would find my fee for the ferryman another way. I spun on one foot, a maneuver made easier by Jessica’s chopines, and headed back out the door. I trotted across the courtyard pavers as fast as the stilts would allow, the wooden feet beating a clop-clop rhythm that echoed off the buildings.

I was halfway to the bridge when I heard the heavy footfalls coming behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see Lorenzo and one of the portly Sals breaking into a run after me. By habit, I reached for the daggers at the small of my back, but alas, they were not there. I cursed Brabantio’s rat-eaten soul yet again.