The Serpent of Venice (32 page)

“What is he on about?” said Cassio.

“I don’t know. Help me get him to a physician,” said Iago.

When Othello awoke he found himself on a small bed in a small room, with Iago sitting by his bedside. “Where am I?” said the Moor. “How did I come to be here?”

“You are in my quarters at the inn, my lord. I brought you here myself, with the doctor, when you fell into your apoplexy at your lady’s betrayal.”

Having completely failed to get Michael Cassio to kill Othello, Iago had amended his plan to goad the Moor into doing something so outrageous that Venice couldn’t help but reject him, despite what the Chorus said.

“Apoplexy? Betrayal? I remember only that we were going to Cassio’s house to find my handkerchief, but after that all is in fog.”

“Oh, you went to Cassio’s house, and found your handkerchief under the lovers, Cassio doing dreadful animal things to your lady, who yowled like a cat in heat, and screamed for him . . . Oh, I cannot say.”

“No, say. It would be an excellent idea for you to say.”

“She did call for him to shag away the memory of that black monster’s touch.”

“Monster, was it?”

“Yes. And then Cassio called you a twat.”

“Cassio did? While he was atop Desdemona?”

“Didn’t even break rhythm. Just, ‘
eek, eek, eek,
you twat,
eek, eek eek.
’ ”

“He said that? ‘eek, eek, eek’?”

“No, my lord, but his bed is squeaky, and thus I spoke how it squoke as he pounded your wife like the slut that she is.”

“Well, that must have angered me indeed?”

“Indeed it did. You were so overcome with anger, and heartbreak, of course, that you fell into a fit of apoplexy and twitched upon the ground like a beheaded chicken.”

“Like a chicken? I don’t remember ever having been so angry. So you have dealt my wrath upon Cassio.”

“As soon as the physician arrived, yes. He is deeply dead, but for the actual killing bit.”

“Good man, Iago.”

“I am thy sword, my lord. But it was not on me to kill the wanton bitch that is your wife. That is your right as a husband wronged.”

“And so I shall.”

The Moor still seemed more than a little dazed, and although the words he was saying fit Iago’s plan, there was a listlessness about him and again Iago thought it might have been better for everyone if he had just dirked Othello in the dark and cried bloody murder at Cassio’s door.

“Go now, my lord. Before she is able to gather her things from the Citadel and flee.”

“I am for her, and surely she is as doomed as she is damned. Where is my sword?”

“Here it is, my lord. Go, and do not let her say a word in explanation. Hear not a word of her pleas for mercy, for she has wormed her way into your heart and you will lose your resolve. Choke off her lying words as you choke the life from her lying body.”

“I will!” And the Moor sat up, wheeled on the bed until his feet were on the floor, then stood, snatched his sword and scabbard from Iago, and with a bit of a wobble strode out the door.

Iago, now quite amazed by how well that had gone, thought it might be better if he were far away from the Citadel when the Moor killed Desdemona. He could enter the castle a short time later, pretend to be shocked at the carnage, then amid the panic and despair, be the calm presence of command, summon the entire watch and arrest the Moor, with a great show of compassion and justice, and fit his feet most naturally into the general’s shoes. The confirmation from Venice and the council would be only a formality. And if the Moor resisted, if he raged beyond his lady’s bedchamber, well, a half dozen guards with spears would take down even the finest Moorish swordsman.

For now, he would go to the harbor and pretend to inspect some ships, ask about rigging and weaponry, make himself enough of a nuisance that everyone would remember where he was when the Moor made his murder.

He headed out of the inn and had not passed four doors down the lane when he came face-to-face with a cohort of Venetians, the one most formally dressed in purple silks and a hat with a long ostrich feather trailing it leading them in determined stride.

“You, soldier,” he called. “I saw you come out of the inn. We were told we would find General Othello there. Have you seen him?”

He was from the senate, no doubt, just the way he dressed and spoke, and so, so far away from Venice, his stylish pomposity made him look quite the clown, Iago thought.

“I am Othello’s lieutenant, signor. Iago DiFuretto, at your service. Othello was here earlier, but he left some time ago. I would look for him at the harbor. I’m going there myself. I can lead you if you’d like.”

“We’ve just left the harbor,” said the Venetian. “I am Lovichio, senator of the fifth district, cousin to the general’s wife. Othello is ordered back to Venice and I am to appoint Michael Cassio provisional governor of Corsica.”

“Cassio? Governor?”

“Yes, governor. Do you know where we can find
him
?”

“I think, signors, you need to follow me to the Citadel.”

As he led the Venetians to the Citadel, Iago thought that this might be the best way of all to find his place at the head of an army: stand with a senator and his attendants to look on the Moor, his dead wife’s perfume still fading on his hands, crazed jealousy still in his mad-dog eyes. Iago would take command, make the arrest, in witness of a senator, and take his prize without even having to plead before the council. Had not the Moor found his own position by turning the Genoan fleet? So he, Iago, would turn the man who had turned the fleet.

But as they entered the castle wing where Othello kept his private quarters, Iago’s own wife, Emilia, rushed out of the great double doors, screeching, her hands and the front of her gown painted in blood.

“Thou pernicious evil devil! This is your doing, you cur, you knave! Your lies have done this!” She held her bloodstained hands like palsied claws, trembling them under his face. “You have spilled this noble blood with your lies!”

“Go home, wife,” said Iago.

“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

G
ratiano 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.”