The Serpent of Venice

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Shylock dropped his knife, the clang of which echoed in the marble hall. “Then the devil give him the ducats. I’ll no longer stay in question.”

“Tarry more, Jew,” said Portia, holding her hand before Shylock to stay his exit. “The law hath another hold on thee. If it be proved against an alien that, by direct or indirect attempts, he seek the life of any citizen, the party he contrived against shall receive one half of his goods, and the other half comes to the state. The offender’s life lies at the mercy of the doge only.”

Shylock fell to one knee, breathless, stunned by the pronouncement. Jessica grabbed my biceps, digging her nails in.

“What,” I shouted, “if the one conspired against was himself a traitor to the state, murdered the queen of one of Venice’s allies, caused the death of the high commander of the navy and his lady, and planned to kill and replace the doge? What then?”

Portia—no, everybody—looked to the back of the room where I stood. Of course they couldn’t see me, because I’m dogfuckingly small, aren’t I, but they looked at Drool and gasped.

“Well, that would be different then,” said Portia.

“Who spoke there?” said the doge. “I would hear him.”

“Wait!” cried Iago.

TWENTY-FOUR

The Verdict

I minced, I tiptoed, I blushed, I tittered and tee-heed behind a fan as I made my way to the front of the court, ever the shy girl, dressed in one of Portia’s fancier gowns. Behind me, Drool, dressed in a gown fashioned from three of Nerissa’s dresses, minced, tiptoed, blushed, tittered, and tee-heed as well, his voice note for note, tone for tone, the exact copy of Nerissa’s.

“Who is this?” asked the doge.

“It is I,” said I. “Portia of Belmont, daughter of Brabantio.”

The color and expression ran from Portia’s face as if someone had turned a spigot under her false beard.

“With my maid, Nerissa.”

Drool curtsied, ever the enormous, delicate, donkey-donged flower of femininity.

There were various expressions among the crowd of awe and dismay at the sheer crashing magnitude of Drool in drag.

“Why, that’s the biggest woman I’ve ever seen,” said one onlooker.

“And the ugliest, too,” said his companion.

“I’d have a go at her,” said another.

“How much for the big girl?” came a woman’s voice from the back.

It was Signora Veronica, who ran the brothel, and knew by experience that there was no creature on earth so vile that some punter wouldn’t pay to shag it.

While we had tarted Drool up more than somewhat for his disguise, he still made for a child-frighteningly unattractive woman. Myself, however, in the guise of a fair and ambling nymph, could have tented tights and broken blokes’ hearts across the land, as long as I kept a close shave on.

“This is highly irregular,” said the doge. “Women are not permitted to speak before the court.”

“Yes, Your Grace, but as I am the only voice of my family still among the quick, allowances are due, don’t you think?”

“We are sorry to hear about your sister, lady, and I suppose—”

“It shall not be so!” barked Portia. “A woman shall not speak before the court unless a case is made against her.”

“Thank you for your condolences, Your Grace. I was very close to my sister. It seems like only yesterday that we were but girls blossoming into womanhood, sharing a bath, touching each other in the most delicious—”

“This woman is an imposter!” shouted Iago.

“Yes,” said I, turning to the soldier, pulling my fan aside, fluttering my eyelashes at him, and Portia, in turn. “Do go on, you handsome ruffian.”

Portia turned to Iago and tried, with a shake of her head, to subtly signal for him to shut the fuck up, but all eyes in the court that were not still captured by the horrific grandeur of Drool in skirts saw her move.

Iago stepped back in rank with Bassanio. “Excuse me, Your Grace, I am mistaken.”

“Fooled by the bloody frog of war, innit?” said the puppet Jones from under my skirts.

“The fog of war, you Cockney knob,” said I.

“Your Grace, if I may. Before you unbind Antonio, I think the solution to the dilemma stated by the young judge is simple. Shylock need only lay his knife in one of these braziers until it is red hot, then make his cut with the glowing knife, thus cauterizing the wound as he cuts. Not a drop of blood shall be spilled. Once the blade is quenched, he may heat it again, then make his next cut. He’ll have his pound of flesh and Antonio will not have lost a drop of blood. There may be some discomfort, as the surgeons say, but it will satisfy the law. Such a method is often used on the field of battle to cauterize wounds, is it not, Iago?”

Iago, now retreated to join Bassanio, seemed as if he’d rather not venture an opinion.

Antonio was dazed now, having lived his terror, his rescue, and now his return to jeopardy, all while still tied to a chair.

“Iago,” said the doge. “Why are you here? Are you not to come before us in two days?”

“Yes, Iago,” I said. “Please explain why you are here—why after all but murdering your commander and my queen, and conspiring with the enemies of Venice—why are you early?”

Shylock picked up his knife from the floor, took a few steps, and stabbed the blade into the coals of the brazier closest him, at which point Antonio appeared to faint.

Iago stormed over to me, loomed over my helpless and womanly figure. “This, this, is not Brabantio’s daughter, Your Grace.”

“He’s right, Your Grace,” said Portia, having gathered her wits, I suppose. “This woman is an imposter.” She strode to me and snatched the fan from my hand. “Behold!” she said.

I snatched off her mustache. “Behold,” said I.

She grabbed the front of my gown with both hands and tore it down the front, revealing my black motley beneath. “Behold!” she said.

I took her poet’s shirt, and tore it down the front, revealing that she was wearing nothing whatsoever underneath. “Behold!” said I.

“Them are smashing,” said Drool, reaching under his skirt.

Portia, suddenly aware of the draft upon her bosoms, clutched herself and ran screaming from the room in a manner quite unmanly, but to her credit, inspiring great cheers from the gallery.

I pulled off the veil and stepped out of what was left of Portia’s dress, to many gasps and exclamations of surprise. I pulled my puppet stick from the pile of skirts.

“Drool, run along and see that Portia is out of distress.”

“Portia?” said Bassanio.

“Yes, she’s your wife, you bloody nitwit. You go, too.”

“Fortunato,” growled Iago, now trapped on the floor before the court.

“Fortunato?” said the doge, surprised, but pleased, I think. The other senators seemed less so.

“No one calls me that,” said I.

“We thought you had returned to France,” said the doge.

“Aye, which is what these two scoundrels wanted you to think, along with their partner, Brabantio.”

“He is mad,” said Iago. “You know how the fool drinks!”

“I was mad for a bit, Your Grace. When these two, with Brabantio, walled me up in his cellar, leaving me there to die, all because I was sent here by my queen to oppose the prosecution of a new Crusade, yes, madness was with me for a spell.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Iago. “I am a soldier. I have no say in the politics of war.”

“But you would, if you took command, wouldn’t you? Appointed by Brabantio.”

The doge stood now. “What are you saying, Fortunato? Brabantio was a beloved colleague and member of this council.”

“But he was not doge, was he?” said I.

Antonio had come out of his haze to see me standing before the doge. “I knew he was still alive. I told you!”

Iago winced, and turned a lens

of hatred toward the merchant. “Of course he’s alive,” said the soldier through gritted teeth. “Why would he be other than alive?”

“Your Grace! My bond?” called Shylock. He was drawing his knife, which was now as red as the coals, from the fire.

“Wait, Jew.” The doge conferred with the other five on the council, Brabantio’s seat still unfilled, and after a bit of nodding, said, “The bond on Antonio by the laws of Venice is dismissed, and he is free to go. As the young doctor of law stated, you, Shylock, an alien, have broken the laws of Venice in pursuit of your bond, so it is invalid.”

“You know,” said I, “I presume, Your Grace, that the young doctor was not a doctor of law but a young lady. And by the way, that gigantic slapper with the erection that followed her out was not, in case you were further confused.”

“I would have justice,” said Shylock. “If not my bond, the gold.”

“You forfeit the gold as well,” said the doge. “The council has determined it.”

“One moment,” said I. “Where were you born, Shylock?”

“I was born here, on La Giudecca, where I have lived all my life.”

“And where do you make your living?”

“On the Rialto, as any merchant. I make my living where business is done in Venice.”

“How, Your Grace, is Shylock, who was born and raised in Venice, an alien? Does Venice determine the alien at its convenience, so that traders from other lands may not be protected upon the whim of the city?”

There was a lot of whispering going on in the gallery, I presume among the traders from many nations who were in attendance.

The doge looked at his brethren on the council, then cleared his throat. “Shylock is an alien in that he is a Jew, and does not pay homage to the church and our Lord. Such was shown in his refusal to grant mercy to Antonio, as mercy and forgiveness are the instruction of our Lord.”

“Well, yes,” said I. “The Hebrew God is a great, vengeful twat, isn’t he? Wiping out whole races of people on a whim, storming around in jealous rage, while your Christian God ponces around with, ‘Oh, by your leave, good sir, allow me to turn the other cheek and wash your bloody disgusting feet. Have some loaves with them fishes?’