“Oh, Bassanio,” said she.
“Dear Portia,” said he.
“The day, the time, the moment is upon us, and I have wished nothing but that you be here, with me.”
“And I with you. Please rise, lady.”
She did not rise.
Nerissa, still standing on the bottom step, looked over the head of the lovers to Gratiano, who she had not remembered as being quite so handsome. He smiled and returned her eye roll.
“I would have you know,” said Portia, “if I were not bound by the legacy of my father, all that is mine would be yours, as would I, but these naughty times put bars between owners and their rights, for surely, without cruel lottery, my heart is yours already.”
“And mine yours, sweet Portia. Arise!”
Nerissa now giggled, and covered her mouth coyly as she exchanged glances with Gratiano, his eyes following the twin moons of her rising décolletage, her gaze tracing the grand arch of the feather in his hat and falling to the hilt of the bejeweled dagger he wore in his belt. The game was afoot.
“I would have you tarry, extend the time we have together, a week, a month, even two,” said Portia. “For once you have made your choice, should you not choose right, then bound by your agreement, we shall never speak again.”
“Then let me choose, lady, for I wait as if stretched upon the rack.”
“Very well, the gentlemen will show you to the caskets.” Portia gestured for the lawyers to lead Bassanio to the terrace.
“You are coming, lady?”
“I’ll be along. You go ahead.”
The lawyers unlocked the door and led the two young merchants to the terrace.
Nerissa stood over her mistress, trying not to laugh. “You’re stuck, aren’t you?”
“These Florentine shoes are shit,” said Portia.
“Are you not wearing any knickers?”
“Of course I’m wearing knickers. Do you think me wanton? I’m stuck because I haven’t the strength to lift myself out of this position—now help me.”
Nerissa looped her arms under her mistress’s arms and pulled her to her feet, so they stood there in a rather awkward embrace.
“Even through silk, the marble is cold on one’s lady-bits, though,” said Portia.
“Warmed soon by a handsome merchant husband,” said Nerissa with a note of hope that was not altogether false. If she could charm Bassanio’s tall friend, perhaps Portia wouldn’t dismiss her out of jealousy after all.
“Oh, Bassanio is so handsome.”
“As is his friend.”
“Do you fancy him?”
“Do you jest? I was lucky not to be sliding on the slippery floor next to you.”
“That is not why I slipped.”
“Let us go join him, lady. There’s rumor that he was given the secret to the casket that holds your portrait. You may be a bride by evening.”
They glided to the terrace, hand in hand, like dancers, and were met by the smiles of the men, except for the lawyers, who never smiled unless actively fucking someone, as was the credo of their trade. Bassanio already held a black key in the air and stood before the lead casket.
“You’ve chosen already?” said Portia, surprised, yet pleased, yet anxious.
“Oh, lady, the world is deceived by fair ornament, by gaudy gold, hard food for Midas, or silver’s pale shine, that common drudge that is passed ’tween man and man, when the weight of beauty is what must be measured. I choose base lead.”
“Did he just call you fat?” whispered Nerissa.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Portia.
Bassanio unlocked the casket and looked in, the lid obscuring the contents to all others except Gratiano, who stood beside him.
“What find I here?” Confusion.
“The picture is flawed,” said Portia. “The artist had been drinking, I’m sure of it. I told Father we should do another—”
“A fool’s head,” said Bassanio. “A puppet.” He lifted it from the chest with both hands, holding it as delicately as if he were cradling a baby bird.
“Look, there’s a scroll,” said Gratiano, who plucked it from the casket and read aloud.
“?‘The lesson of this cask of lead.
Taught by greed of a father dead.
Turns a lover into merchant’s tool.
Who plays for love, but is made a fool.’?”
“Oh, well played, fool,” whispered Nerissa. “Well played, indeed.” She left Portia to weep and followed them out to their gondola to make sure Gratiano knew that he, in particular, was not forbidden from returning to Belmont.
“Lady, I forgot to give you this,” said I, handing Desdemona the tiny portrait of her sister, which had been painted on a marble amulet. We stood at the dock, ready to board our ship to Genoa, a small merchantman fitted for only eight oars, and a crew of twelve. It was the fastest, lightest vessel that Othello would trust to the journey.
“Oh, how kind,” said Desdemona. “I shall treasure it. I do miss my sister. She must be terribly sad with Father’s passing.”
“Despite his being a wicked old scalawag, eh?” said Jessica. The Jewess had somewhere procured a pair of high leather boots, turned down on the thighs, and a wide belt with a brass buckle.
“Stop being piratey,” said I.
“Arrrrrr,” she arrrrrred.
“Fathers and daughters do often love with barbed embrace,” said Desdemona. “The love is true, if sometimes untender.”
Jessica swallowed hard. “That is well true, lady. Apologies.”
“It’s nothing,” said Desdemona, patting Jessica’s hand. “And we have a gift for you, Pocket.” Desdemona stepped aside and Emilia came forward with a cloth bundle, tied with string. I dropped it to the dock and released the bow. Inside lay a black silk jester’s hat with silver bells, and below it a doublet and tights of black satin and velvet argyle. It had been some time since I’d seen the all-black motley.
“It is as you were when you arrived in Venice,” said Othello. “The black fool you said they had called you before you came to us. We had it made. Wearing your motley again should be enough to remind everyone of your incurable silliness.”
“Well, I’ll need a cracking big codpiece to be true to form.”
“We’ve forgotten that, but a pair of soft boots with curled toes and bells are being made as well; they will be ready by your return. I am sorry, a puppet maker we were not able to find on the island.”
“The puppet Jones yet perseveres, kind Othello. And I suppose I could have one of your codpieces enlarged. At any rate, my thanks, to you and most delicious Desdemona.” I bowed over her hand. “I left another gift at the Citadel for you, lady. Emilia will fetch it for you from our quarters, I hope.”
“And I will have a pretty dress for you when you return, Jessica,” said Desdemona.
“Oh, lady, that is most generous. I would not have my Lorenzo see me thus transformed into a boy.”
“Take comfort, love is blind, and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that they themselves commit. Your Lorenzo would be proud to see you so coifed in courage, coming to the rescue of a friend.”
“Thank you.” Jessica embraced Desdemona in a manner most unlike a pirate.
“Safe journey, black fool,” said Othello. “My most skilled navigator will command your ship as pilot.” The Moor gestured to an officer I hadn’t met, tall, with a ginger beard, who clicked his heels. “Lieutenant Montano.”
“But where is Cassio?” I inquired.
“Sad tidings,” said Desdemona, looking at her shoes.
“Cassio is in the brig,” said Othello. “Still drunk from last evening, where alarm was raised for a drunken brawl and Cassio was found standing over the body of Iago’s second, Rodrigo, who had been beheaded and mutilated.”
“Cassio a murderer?” I asked.
“I think not. His sword was clean and this killing was not the doing of a blade, but he is still too drunk to tell the tale and ther
e is no doubt he was a part of the mayhem.”