The Serpent of Venice

“I will not! Go, look upon what you have done. Yonder lies my lady, strangled by her lord, Othello, who did stab himself in the heart while still kneeling over her. This blood is on them both, on you!” She leapt at him and wiped her bloody hands down the front of his shirt. Iago grabbed her wrists, threw her aside, and drew his dagger.

“You would draw your blade on a woman?” The senator and his attendants had backed away from the screaming woman into a bunch, forming a phalanx of dread from which they had been watching. “This is your wife?”

“Aye!” said Emilia. “But whatever evil I did to deserve a curse such as this, only heaven would know. Cursed!”

“Signors,” said Iago, awkwardly trying to pretend that he had not raised his dagger over his wife’s breast and instead had somehow accidentally found it in his hand: a foreign thing magically appeared. Forward with the plan. “Othello has been wronged, and although luck has favored him on the battlefield, he is not the master of his temper.”

“He’s bloody dead, you git!” said Emilia. “And he would have never harmed a hair on my lady’s head, even spoken an unkind word to her, had he not been driven by your lies.”

“What of this?” said the senator, emboldened now by Emilia’s complete lack of fear in the face of her husband’s dagger.

“Good sir, this woman, who I took as my wife out of pity, for she was a simpleton and so had shared her favors with many wanton boys in her neighborhood—even though she was such spoiled goods, out of charity, I took her in, but her mind has never been right.”

“Thou mendacious fuckweasel,” said Emilia, almost spitting it, disgusted now rather than hysterical.

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” said Iago.

“Methinks the lady protests just the right amount,” said Emilia. “Methinks the lady is just getting fucking started protesting.”

Iago blazed on, ignoring her. “Even last evening, when I was at his side, Othello went to Cassio’s house, and heard the young captain rutting with Desdemona.”

“That was me,” said Emilia.

“What?” Iago lost his train of thought and looked to the Venetians as if they might give him a hint of what to say next. “Then”— he paused, trying to find some way to stitch this calamity back into some advantageous order—“then the Moor went mad, hearing his beloved wife making the howling of the beast with two backs—”

“Also me,” said Emilia, a smile crossing her lips now, pure triumph between her teeth.

“She is mad. She does not make that sound in bed.”

“I do when I’m being done right. Ask any of the boys in my neighborhood, you berk.”

“I tried to calm the Moor, but Cassio’s betrayal, and his wife’s, was too much for—” He turned to Emilia. “What of Bianca? Wasn’t she supposed to—I mean . . .”

“She was there. I gave her the bloody handkerchief you promised her and sent her away.”

“She did,” came a man’s voice from the hall. Michael Cassio came through the doors, his sword drawn, and put the blade between Emilia and Iago. “Signors,” Cassio said, nodding to the Venetians. “Sheathe your dagger, Iago, or lose the hand that holds it.”

Iago thought for a second, just a second, that he might fight, but he knew the Florentine, alert and sober, would go through him like a hawk through a spiderweb.

“I confess, signors,” said Iago, dropping his dagger and raising his hands to yield before Cassio. “I am the instrument of a plot laid by a great and powerful Venetian—following his instructions. I am only doing the business of the council. No one could foresee the Moor would act in such a rash and tragic manner.” Live to fight another day, he thought. Throw it all on the backs of Antonio and Brabantio—let them condemn their own kind. “I shall say no more,” he said.

“You will have your opportunity to make your case before the council,” said Lovichio.

Cassio put the point of his blade under Iago’s chin as he relieved the traitor of his sword. “Chain him in the hold of the next ship bound for Venice.”

ACT V

A Pound of Flesh

Come not between the dragon and his wrath.

—King Lear, King Lear, Act I, Scene 1

TWENTY-ONE

Savage Puppets

Gratiano and Salarino were strolling through St. Mark’s Square on their way to the Rialto when they spied the Jew walking, head down, hunched into the wind, carrying his box of papers under one arm while he held his yellow hat in place with the other. Despite it only being noon, the young merchants were half drunk and fully fascinated with the sheer fabulousness of being them, and so did not notice the cold.

“Look, it is the Jew!” called Gratiano. “Shylock, we heard you were on the Rialto, crying of your bad fortune.”

“Oh, my daughter! My ducats!” mocked Salarino. “My ducats and my daughter are gone! I know not which is worse!”

Shylock stopped and squinted at them over his new spectacles. “She is not my daughter. She is dead to me.”

“She’s not dead to our friend Lorenzo,” said Gratiano. “He enjoys her and your ducats even now on Cyprus.”

“Unless he is done with her already and passed her over to my brother,” said Salarino.

“Then they’ll throw her in the sea and live off your ducats.” Gratiano laughed. “Oh, your ducats, your daughter!”

“Laugh at my misfortunes, young man, but I am not the only one who has suffered withering loss.”

“Ha!” said Salarino. “We know you sent a Jew to Belmont to rig the boxes for Bassanio’s try for Portia’s hand. We talked to your gondolier, he has no loyalty to you. He was the same one my brother hired, he had his dagger.”

“You know this, do you?” said Shylock, nodding. “He had your brother’s dagger, did he? I see. Well, it is strange that you know these things when I know nothing of them. I have no gondolier, and I have no interest in who Brabantio’s daughter marries. You know all these, which are not true, and not important, but you do not know what is word on the Rialto this morning, because you have been in an alehouse, drinking to your good fortune and my bad, no?”

“Say what you will, Jew.”

“Word on the Rialto is that a second of Antonio’s ships is lost. Taken by pirates off Gibraltar. The crew were stranded on the Moorish coast and the ship scuttled offshore while they watched. One of the sailors, who was picked up by a Spanish ship, returned this morning. Tell me, did I do this? Do I, because I am a Jew, control storms and pirates that cause Antonio’s misfortunes? There is one week left, young brigands. Tell your master to look to his bond.”

The two young men, suddenly sobered and drained of their hubris, looked to each other, not sure of what to do, what to say. As Antonio’s fortune went, so went theirs.

“Go, go,” said Shylock. “Off to the Rialto to confirm my story for yourselves. You know how we Jews lie.”

Like scolded puppies, the two hurried off to the Rialto, desperately hoping to find that the Jew was lying.

It was true. It was true. They had actually spoken to the sailor from the sunken ship. But now, how to tell Antonio? They found him in his chambers, sitting with Bassanio, the two drinking wine that had been warmed by the fire, on the table what was left of a simple luncheon of bread, cheese, and thin slices of Parma ham.

“Come, join us,” said Antonio. “There is enough left for a meal, and I’ll wager you two haven’t eaten yet today.”

Gratiano and Salarino hurried to the table, but neither sat down. They stood.

“Friend Antonio,” said Gratiano, the tallest.

“Good Antonio,” said Salarino, the roundest.

“Good friend Antonio,” said Gratiano.

“Are you two going to sing?” said Bassanio, the handsomest. “I’m in no mood for your singing.”

“Noble, most generous Antonio,” said Gratiano.

“What?!” said Antonio. “What? What? What is it?”

“Another of your ships has been lost,” blurt

ed out Salarino. “Sorry.”

Antonio set his goblet on the table and pushed back, his eyes closed, as if he was letting a wave of nausea pass through him before he spoke. Then he said, “Where did you hear of this?”