The Serpent of Venice (8 page)

“You would have Othello lose a war so you can take his place? There is so little left of the navy that another loss will give you nothing to command.”

“No, I’ll not use weapons of war to take down the Moor, for even as I know I am Cassio’s better as a soldier, so does Othello’s skill exceed my own. No, the weapon to bring down Othello comes presently up your stairs.”

There were footfalls on the stairs, a single man ascending the floors.

“Rodrigo?” Antonio went to the door and held the bolt. “But he’s an idiot!”

“Hold your base slander, Antonio. Do I disparage
your
friends?”

“Well—” Antonio threw the bolt and swung the door wide for Rodrigo. “Yes.”

“Come, come, good Rodrigo,” said Iago. “I was just telling Antonio of your affections for the lady Desdemona.”

“You told him? I still wear the shame of it.” Rodrigo shielded his face from Antonio’s gaze with his hat.

Iago took the taller man’s hat and tossed it in the corner, then put his arm around Rodrigo’s shoulders. “Antonio is our friend. And there is no shame where there is no defeat, good Rodrigo. I tell you, you shall yet have your Desdemona.”

“But she is married to the Moor, and they are away in Corsica; by what means can I win her now? I am lost.”

“He says he’s lost,” Iago said over his shoulder to Antonio. “Yet even now Portia’s maid Nerissa dotes on him and grants him her charms, and she is more than lovely for a serving girl.”

“I met her when I was trying to court Desdemona,” Rodrigo explained.

“And Desdemona shall you have. I promise it.”

“But how?”

Iago grinned at Antonio, then pulled Rodrigo close. “By the means which you take command of your fate, good Rodrigo. By the means that reason satisfies passion, young stallion. If you seek Desdemona, first you must put money in thy purse.”

“Truly?” asked Rodrigo.

“Really?” said Antonio, who was asking a completely different question.

“Aye, lad, put money in thy purse. Sell your lands, your treasures, call in your debtors, and when your purse is full, we are for Corsica and beautiful Desdemona. I tell thee truly, put money in thy purse.”

“Is there any more wine?” asked Rodrigo.

“I told you,” said Antonio.

ACT II

The Watery City

This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.

—Prospero,
The Tempest,
Act V, Scene 1

SEVEN

La Giudecca

CHORUS:
Come now to a serpentine island south of the central districts of Venice called La Giudecca. Separated from the city not by a canal, easily bridged, but by a wide water avenue called Tronchetto–Lido di Venezia that must be traversed by gondola or ferry. Here, in sight of the Basilica of St. Mark, live all the Jews of Venice, and here, only, are they permitted to own property.

On this soft September morn, the beautiful Jessica, only daughter of the widower moneylender Shylock, has found upon the cobbled boat ramp before their house a small, pale, and naked man, who was coughed up by the lagoon with the night tide.

“
Oh my! He breathes!”

CHORUS:
Secretly, Jessica is overjoyed, not only because the flotsam fellow lives, but because she has been wishing for just such a delivery: a slave of her very own. While many well-to-do Venetians own slaves, the practice is forbidden to Jews and so Jessica is tasked by her father to keep house, cook, and perform other duties that a less tightfisted father might hire to have done.

But alas, here comes the old Jew now.

“
There you are, Jessica. I am off to the Rialto.”

“Farewell, Papa.”

“Girl, why do you squat on the boat landing?”

“Having a wee, Papa.”

“In front of the house? Just like that? When I have had built a perfectly good privy in the house?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you. See, my skirts are around me. No one can even see.”

“That your mother cannot see you thus—peeing on the boat landing like a dog—for that I am grateful. I will return at noon for lunch. Do the washing-up.”

“Yes, Papa.”

CHORUS:
So, Shylock thus disposed, Jessica turned her devices to preparing her new slave for presentation later to her father, which would require some scrubbing, removal of his chains, and perhaps restoring the jester to consciousness, but even though her slave was slight, she found she was not strong enough to drag him up the ramp and into the house by herself.

“I’m not strong enough to get him up the ramp.”

CHORUS:
She said with great superfluity, as the narrator had only just pointed out that selfsame thing.

“I was talking to Gobbo, you knob. No one likes you, you know? Skulking about in the margins acting as if you know everything.”

CHORUS:
And, indeed, with uncommon stealth and no little sneakiness, the blind old beggar Gobbo had tapped his way down the walkway to pause at the top of the boat ramp, thus surprising the narrator, who is seldom underinformed about such goings-on.

“Signor Gobbo, help me get this fellow into the house. I’m not strong enough to move him.”

“What fellow?”

“This poor fellow who is nearly drowned, and has washed up on the boat ramp.”

“Do you think it could be my son? My boy, long lost?”

“Fine. Your son. Help me get
your son
into the house, Gobbo.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

CHORUS:
So, with the help of old Gobbo, Jessica was able to move the battered and sodden fool to the house, but as they pulled him up from the ramp, she heard what sounded like a small fish jumping, and spied, out by the end of the gondola docks, a sleek shadow moving beneath the jade green water of the lagoon.

CHORUS:
And so, while the fool slept the sleep of the dead, the beautiful Jewess snipped off the tip of his willy.

“What!” said I, somewhat emphatically, when I awoke from my premature burial and submarine mermaid bonking. “Unhand my willy, young woman!”

“Settle down, slave, I just need to snip a bit of the tip off so Papa will let me keep you.”

She was a lovely thing, wild dark hair and blue eyes; strong high cheekbones; and a long, straight nose like the desert princesses adorning the pillaged Egyptian obelisks that stood in the piazzas of Rome. Truly told, I didn’t notice her features at the time, as she was holding the tip of my willy with two fingers of one hand, while in the other brandishing, with great concentration, a butcher knife the size of a rowboat. “He’ll never let me keep a Gentile slave. I’ve seen the
mohel
do this simply dozens of times. Easy peasy. Now, hold still.”

Lest you think me a cad, let me say I have never struck a woman—except for the playful taps delivered in passion, and relished by ladies of more decadent tastes—but I have never struck a woman with the intent of doing harm (unless you count poisoning as striking, which I don’t really think it is)—but in that moment, a strange tart with a blade trained on my manhood, my years of training and natural instincts as a warrior became my spirit, and drove me to action. In a wink I snatched the nipple of her right breast between my thumb and forefinger and gave it an urgent twist.

“Ouch!” said she, jumping back and cradling the offended orb with her willy-wagging hand. “That hurt. Bad slave! Bad!”

I had retreated to the corner of the cot I’d been lying on and assumed a defensive crouch. “Where am I? How did I get here? Who are you? Why were you about to lop off my knob?”

“I wasn’t. I was just confirming your covenant with God with your foreskin.”

“Look, you mad tart, I have a covenant with God, which is: I don’t mention that he has stocked the world full of villains, walleys, and madwomen, and in return he keeps his bloody hands off my willy. It’s a strained relationship, but it works, with the exception of—” And then I was on my feet, confronting the girl despite her knife. “Say, you’re not the mermaid made human again, are you? I’ve heard the bloody stories.” I grabbed the hem of her skirt and threw it up to reveal her tail.

“Oh,” said I. Having found no tail in evidence, I dropped her skirt and backed away. “Well, even if you’re not a mermaid you should wear knickers about the house. People will think you wanton.”

I was suddenly light-headed and fell back upon the cot, swooning.

“You’re going to make a shit slave, aren’t you?” she said.

“I’m knackered, love. Put away the knife and let a bloke rest. Some toast would be lovely. I’ve had nothing but raw fish for—” I felt my chin. I had more than a bit of a beard. I must have been chained in the dungeon for a fortnight at least.

She seemed to look at me, really, for the first time, and I could see her eyes widen in alarm. She put her knife on a side table, pulled back the covers at the other end of the cot, and nodded. “In you go.”

Even though it was warm in the house, I was shivering, so I did as I was told, and she propped me up on some pillows. “You do look like you could use a meal. I’ll fetch you some bread and cheese—maybe some sweet wine if we have any left. I’m going to have to keep you hidden here in my room until you’re well enough to present to Papa, so you’re going to have to be quiet.”

“Quiet,” I repeated.

“You look like you’ve been in the water for a long time. Were you shipwrecked? Escaped galley slave what went over the side in despair? They wash up now and then, but usually not still breathing.”

I thought it best, at this point, to not reveal that I was ambassador from a kingdom that no longer existed, a former slave to the king of Britain and royal consort to his daughter, late queen of nearly a third of Europe. “I’m a troubadour. Traveling to England. Our ship hit a reef and sank.”

“I didn’t hear of a ship sinking.”

“Well, it was far, wasn’t it. Thus explaining why I was in the water for so bloody long before I washed up—where am I?”

“You’re on the island of La Giudecca, at the home of Shylock the moneylender. I’m Jessica, his daughter.”

“And I’m your father,” said a tower of lint in the corner of the room.

“Holy Flaming Fuck-Moses! What’s that?” You think that you have run out of fear, that you are beyond surprise. As it turns out, no.

It moved.

“Oh, that’s the blind beggar Gobbo,” said Jessica. “He helped me get you up here. Borrowed a chisel and hammer from the smith to break the chains off you.”

I began to make out the shape of a bent old man who was uniform in color from head to toe, where covered by rags and where not, a shade I can only describe as, well, filth.

“I knew I’d find you,” said Gobbo.

“I’d never have rescued you if it hadn’t been for old Gobbo recognizing you as his son and lending a hand.” Jessica raised her eyebrows and nodded for me to go along with it.

“Charmed,” said I. “Didn’t think to intervene during the circumcision, then, Da?”

“What circumcision?”

“Can’t imagine why your son abandoned you,” I said under my breath. Then to Jessica: “Bread and cheese, you said? Wine?”

“I’ll fetch some. You’ll need some salve for those scrapes on your wrists and gouges on your bum, too, or the wounds will fester.”

“Fine, but no touching the willy. I’m grieving and I’ve been used roughly, so I’m in no mood for sport.”

“Fine, we’ll simply have to pass you off as Hebrew, but you’ll have to put on some trousers or something before I show you to Papa. Besides, I want nothing to do with your scrawny willy. I am in love with the most wondrous man called Lorenzo.”

“And a lucky young Jew, indeed, is this Lorenzo.”

“Oh, he’s not a Jew, he’s a Christian. He is a merchant, learning his trade under Signor Antonio, one of Venice’s most prominent traders.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and hugged herself at the thought of her beloved Lorenzo.

“Antonio? Antonio Donnola?”

“Yes, you know him?”

“No. But I know of him.” Had I gone so far, through so much, to end up in the nest of one of my murderers? For surely as far as any of them knew, I was dead.

I feigned a yawn and sat back on the pillows. “Dear Jessica, if I am going to be a proper Jew and slave before your father, I will need to eat and then sleep. But let’s not tell anyone how you came to find me, or that I am here at all. In thanks for my rescue, I will serve you, but as a new Jew, freshly hatched. Agreed?”

“Smashing! Yes, yes, agreed,” she said. “With you to do my chores I’ll be able to sneak away to see Lorenzo more.”

“Lorenzo, especially, must not know how you found me.”

“But it’s so exciting, I simply must—”

“I’ll tell him I woke to find you fondling my naughty bits.”

“Well, fine, then.” She pouted. “What about him?” She tossed her head toward Gobbo.

“Gobbo,” I called.

“What? What?” said the column of rags. “Who’s there? Have you seen my son?”

“He’ll be fine,” said I.