The Serpent of Venice

“Corsica? He talked of Cyprus. Why Corsica?”

“Lorenzo was quite insistent,” said I. “And he insists I accompany you, to assist and protect you.”

“But the whole reason I wanted a slave was so Lorenzo and I could run away together and not feel guilty that there was no one to take care of Papa; if you come with me—”

“We will bring your guilt as well. You wouldn’t have escaped it anyway. It is a parent’s gift. I was orphaned as a babe, yet carry the curse of my parents’ guilt like a woodpecker around my neck.”

“You mean an albatross. The curse is supposed to be an albatross around your neck.”

“You’re positive?”

She nodded. “Albatross.”

“I was a very poor child. The nuns that took me in couldn’t afford an albatross, so they just put a bit of string on a woodpecker the cat brought in.”

“Well, that’s not the same, is it?”

“An albatross is a crashing huge bird, innit? You can’t just go garroting a small child with it, that would be heinous, even for nuns.”

“But as a metaphor for guilt—”

“Well, quite right, as a metaphor, the size of the bird really doesn’t matter, I suppose.”

“Since you were lying outrageously anyway,” she provided.

“Well, you may choose whichever guilt fowl you would like strung around your neck, but mine is a crashing-huge swan—with an eye patch.”

“Fine, you’ll have to book passage. I’ll give you money.”

“And Lorenzo said you are to disguise yourself as a boy,” said I. “Cover your hair and, you know, your bits.” I gestured to her more obvious bits.

“Well, as long as my Lorenzo will be in Corsica, so will I.” She rolled her eyes and hugged herself in that dreamy, girlish way that lifted and accentuated her more obvious bits, and I felt the sudden weight of a one-eyed guilt swan for having to deceive her.

“Come here, sit,” said she. “That knife wound won’t heal if left open like that. It needs cleaning and some stitches.”

“You can do that?”

“I can.”

And so she had.

When she was readying to tie off the last stitch, she said, “Not much I can do for the puncture wounds on your sides. Clean and bandage them.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, then,” said I. “They’ll probably just poison my blood with madness and I’ll die.”

“Those are like the wounds on your bottom when I found you, aren’t they?”

“Pish-posh, not at all, are you daft?” said I, as I tried to formulate some credible explanation for the claw marks. But alas, I was spared . . .

“Jessica!” came Shylock’s voice from outside the door, the latch rattling.

“You may not be long for this world anyway,” Jessica whispered to me as she went to unlatch the door, leaving needle and thread hanging from my ribs.

Shylock came through the door with great vigor and enthusiasm for a man of his years. Great vigor and enthusiasm.

“What? What? What? What? What?” said he, with what I really suppose, honestly, was more anger than enthusiasm.

“I sense a question coming—” said I.

“You! You! You! You! You!” said the Jew, waving a finger under my nose.

“And there is the answer,” I replied.

“What are you? What kind of creature? What foul villain? You would eat of my food, live under my roof, and then you would steal from me? You—you—you— you—”

“And there he goes—”

“Philistine!” Shylock paused, trembled, his index finger doing a palsied anger twitch under my nose.

“Is that a good thing?” I asked Jessica, who had returned to my side on the bench where she’d been knotting the last stitch. She shook her head and looked back to her task.

“So, no, then,” said I.

“You-you-you—Philistines are the ancient enemies of the Hebrew people. Goliath was a Philistine!”

“Oh, so they’re tall?” said I. “Smashing!”

“No! Not smashing. Goliath was an enemy, a scourge on the Hebrew people, an evil giant!”

“Well, you don’t know that, do you?”

“I know. Everyone knows. It says so in the books of the Kings.”

“But what if he was just a normal-size bloke, and David was a more diminutive hero, like myself? A smaller fellow—with a huge schlong, of course.” I nodded at the bloody obviousness of the last point.

“Goes without saying,” added Jessica, nodding along with me.

Shylock repointed his twitching, accusatory digit at his daughter. “You do not say such things in my house. You—you—you—you—”

“Run along, love, it appears that Papa’s been stricken with an apoplexy of the second person.”

“I’m finished,” said the lovely Jewess. She stood and breezed by her father and out the front door.

Shylock turned back to me. “What—”

I stood, and held my hand to Shylock’s face to have him hold his tongue. “I sensed treachery afoot in Antonio’s ranks, so knowing that their only loyalty would be to profit, I took the ducat to bribe one of Antonio’s men. He arranged to meet me in a private place and told me that Antonio intends to assassinate you tomorrow night when you join him for dinner, so he will be released from his bond. After informing me thus, two of Antonio’s men set upon me with knives, no doubt thinking I had more gold on my person, but certain with the intent that I would never return to you with this warning. So, I have bled for you and your gold, Shylock.” I held my arms out so he could look upon the knife wound, the claw marks on my sides, the bruises on my back and shoulders where Viv had thrown me against the wall.

Shylock’s rage ran from his face with what was left of the color. “But his bond will not be broken upon my death.”

“But he does not know the law. Which is why you must go to his house with the two huge Jews, Ham and Japheth, attending you. Eat with him, and before you send your attendants away, share with him the circumstances of the bond—confabulate some outrageous legacy that goes beyond Jessica, so he will know that he may never be released by murder. Your bond over Antonio is the only reason he would risk venturing murder. He would only risk running astray of the law to avoid confronting it later, should you call your bond due.”

“But surely his men have told him now of your escape. He will not expect me to come into his trap.”

“His men will tell no tales. They are not the only ones who defy the law by carrying weapons. I took a wickedly sharp fish knife from your kitchen; you’ll find it gone. Let us say the surprise of my having it was the last surprise for them. They will not be found.” It was a serviceable lie. The fish knife was at the bottom of the canal with Jessica’s boots, where I had sheathed it, but it was a serviceable lie.

“You killed them?”

“I acquired some skill with a blade before I washed up on your doorstep. Did I not say that your revenge would be my revenge?”

He took my hand and patted it as he shook it. “I apologize, Lancelot, for your pain and for doubting you. You shall be in my prayers—and my heart when I confront Antonio.”

“Don’t confront him, my friend, disarm him. Antonio plans his treachery with a cohort of scoundrels, as you shall see. You will disarm them with your own breath, by appearing fearless in their midst. Antonio knows you to be shrewd and will see that you would not expose yourself or your family to danger if your bond could be broken with the swipe of a blade. Hint that you considered his intent and dismissed it, knowing that he, too, would be too shrewd to think you’d leave your hold on him so flimsy.”