The lawyers made their statements and Aragon bowed grandly over Portia’s hand.
“Nerissa, please show the duke to the caskets.”
As she passed, Nerissa whispered, “Fear not, lady, he may choose the same casket as did Morocco. The odds do not favor him as much as you suppose.” If the duke did pick the casket with Portia’s portrait, Nerissa might gain security by remaining at her lady’s side and perhaps even relieve her of some of her wifely obligations. Aragon was no stingy republic or Islamic caliphate dripping with competitive wives; Aragon was a proper feudal kingdom, with an aristocracy, and an enterprising wench possessed of a royal bastard might find leisure there for life.
The lawyer unlocked the terrace door and bowed out of the way.
The duke walked slowly around the table, reading each of the inscriptions, squinting at the caskets’ exteriors as if some of the promise within might be leaking from the seams. Finally, after several revolutions, when the lawyers had begun to cough, politely, the duke paused in front of the silver casket.
“ ‘ Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves,’ ” read the duke. “I would have the key to this one.”
The lawyer came forth and handed Aragon the key.
The duke opened the box and stood aghast. “What is this? This is shit!”
“There will be a rhyme to explain it,” said Nerissa.
“No, it is real shit,” said the duke.
“But look, tis glitter sprinkled upon it,” said Portia.
“Perhaps this means you have won your prize,” said Nerissa, unable to help herself. “A symbol. The Montressor was ever so fond of symbols.”
Portia growled, slightly, even as she grinned at the duke’s misfortune.
The lawyers tittered and thought this might be just the sort of thing old Brabantio might do to a noble from whom he had just swindled three thousand ducats.
“It’s a turd. Three thousand ducats, for a turd?” The duke was waving wildly at the offending object, and in doing so bent one side of his splendid mustache. “Three thousand—”
“You gave your word,” said Portia. “Please do go, good sir, and make suit no more.”
Humbled by his oath, the duke turned on a heel, tossed back his cape, and strode out without another word.
“Aren’t you going to chase after him?” Portia said to Nerissa. “Flaunt your bosoms at him?”
“I would, but I’m curious about the rhyme your father left for this one.”
Portia peered into the casket with its odiferous brown passenger, but saw no parchment like Morocco had found in the gold casket. She looked to the lawyers, who shrugged.
“There’s no poem.”
“Nothing rhymes with silver, does it?” said Nerissa.
*Hamlet, Act III, Scene 4: “I must be cruel only to be kind.”
SIXTEEN
A Nasty Piece of Work
I am not so sure of this, Iago,” said Rodrigo. “Cassio seems lovely.”
“He is not lovely. When he drinks he is a devil, as you shall soon see. I despise him, I loathe him, I dislike him in the extreme. My hate for him is to hate as is hate to love. He is a pestilent and complete knave. You may not say he is lovely.”
“I didn’t mean lovely, but he seems a gentleman.”
“A gentleman who will shag your Desdemona cross-eyed. What chance will a gangling hedgehog like you have with her once she’s been with a handsome rascal like him? Now drink your wine to fortify you for the fight.”
“But it tastes of pitch.”
“Drink it. It will warm you against the night until I bring Cassio to you.”
“Which will be where?”
“At the foot of the Citadel’s walls, in the narrow alley there, you will see a lantern with a red lens in the window, the house of the courtesan Bianca. Wait in the dark, three doors from there. After he is well drunk, which will be a short time, I will put the notion in Cassio’s head that Bianca has sent for him, and the rogue will stumble that way in search of her charms. I will follow behind, out of sight. Have your sword at the ready, but make a fight of it. Once you have engaged him, I will cry havoc and bring down the watch to witness Cassio’s knavery and attest that he attacked you unprovoked.”
“So I am to slay him?”
“If it happens, it happens, all the happier for us, but you must make a fight of it. Suffer a light wound before you deliver the killing thrust.”
“A light wound?”
“Or if you fail, as your friend, I will wound you for appearances.”
Rodrigo started to speak, then paused as the old innkeeper tottered by them with an armload of wood for the fireplace.
“Speak your mind,” said Iago. “He’s deaf.”
“I think it best not to trust that he is as deaf as he appears.”
“Ah, good thought. His gait is feeble, but there’s a randy mischief in his gaze. I suspect him of doing the dark deed with my wife in my absence.”
“Really? The innkeeper, too? Friend Iago, pardon if I speak out of turn, but you should have words with her.”
“Later. Now you must find your place near Bianca’s house. I have seen Cassio drink before, and after but one cup he will be wobbly and mad for a night’s slippery adventure. Go, be there, and I will go to the officers’ post at the harbor with a fresh jug of wine.”
“I go,” said Rodrigo, making for the door, hand on the hilt of his sword. He turned and took two steps back, as if drifting with his momentum. “I am heady for the fight, Iago. I move as if in a dream.”
“Go!”
“I go!”
He went.
Iago was quickly up the stairs to hide the tiny, red-lacquered box taken from Brabantio’s body that held the last of the tarry potion. Only a small bit remained, less even than they had put in the fool’s amontillado, but he would save it. Use it on the Moor, perhaps, or better yet, Desdemona. It would be wasted on Cassio—for it was the one true thing he had ever told Rodrigo—Cassio would be nearly helpless after a cup or two of wine.
He polished the box on his sleeve, and the black serpent set in the red lacquer shone green-eyed under the lantern. A curious Oriental thing. He kept it tucked beneath a pair of gloves in his trunk. A most curious thing.
CHORUS: Under a waxing crescent moon did two dark creatures lurk by the harbor’s edge, one walked into the warm lamplight of the officers’ station under the guise of friendship and good cheer, the other lay like an inky shadow among rocks at the shore, watching.
Iago put the jug down upon the table where Cassio was seated, quill in hand, over a ledger.
“Come, Captain, fetch cups, I have a stout jug of wine and we have not celebrated our victory by storm over the Genoans and the health of gallant Othello and his new wife.”
“Oh, not tonight, good Iago,” said Cassio. “I have poor and unhappy brains for drinking. I wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment.”
“But they are our friends, for which we must celebrate life, and our enemies, whose deaths save our friends from peril. To life, one cup?”
“I have had one cup tonight already with supper and the figures dance on the page like scattering ants.”
“One cup! One cup and I will tell you good news, a message, just for you, that will smooth the lines from your brow and draw them as smiles at the edges of your eyes. One cup, for a surprise.”
“Fine, then, there are cups on the mantel. One cup.”
Iago retrieved the cups, tall, heavy cylinders of green Murano glass, then plunked them on the table and splashed in the wine, staining the corner of Cassio’s ledger as well. “Now drink with me. To Venice! To Othello! To Desdemona! Happiness to their sheets!”
“What?”
“Just fucking drink.”
They drank, emptying their cups, Iago watching the captain over the edge of his cup, while Cassio winced as he drank and shivered when his cup returned to the table with a thump.
“Now tell me the good news,” sai
d Cassio.
“One more!”
“No, one more and I shall lose my wits, Iago. I tell you, I have no head for it.”
“But when I tell you, you’ll be glad of it. I promise.”
Cassio squinted at Iago as if trying to spy the truth through the haze rising around him, and was suddenly taken with the purple color the wine made on his ledger when it mixed with the ink. “Balls,” he said. Then, slamming the cover on the great leather book he said, “Fine, one more. Pour, good Iago!”
Iago poured.
Cassio stood and with a great flourish and no little spillage raised his cup in a toast. “To Othello, to Desdemona, to Venice, to Iago, to tits!—you’ve got to drink to tits, if you’re drinking to happy things—to—”
“To Venice!” said Iago.
“Venice? What about tits?”
“Just fucking drink!”
“Right.”
They drank, and the glasses came down on the table like twin gavels.
“One more!” declared Cassio.
“But your surprise. I must give you your message.”
“God’s blood, Iago, are you going to talk or are you going to drink? Pour!” Cassio held his cup out like a demanding beggar.
“Bianca, the courtesan, sent me to fetch you. She wants to see you tonight. Now.”
“Oh. Bianca.” Cassio pulled his cup to his chest. “She visits me here sometimes—flirty little tart. I think she fancies me. She’s right fit.”
“Aye. Beautiful.”
“All right, then. Let’s go! Onward! Come on, Iago. To the fair Bianca’s.” Cassio stormed out the open door. As he went, his sheathed sword caught the doorjamb, spinning him around three times before he recovered, more or less looking out to sea.
“You really are a most outrageously pitiful drunk,” said Iago, leaning in the doorway now.
Cassio paced his way back to Iago in great exaggerated steps, stopping just short of touching noses. “You are!”
“Bianca,” reminded Iago.
“Right. Bianca. Ahhhhh!” The captain charged off into the dark.
“Cassio!”
“What?” Cassio stopped, turned. “What do you want, villain!”
“Do you know where you are going?”
“No fucking idea.”
“Along the harbor, at the third lane, go right, then go to the end, all the way to the wall of the Citadel. You’ll see the red light in her window.”
“Right. Three lanes. Right.”
“If you take a left, you’ll fall into the harbor and drown.”
“I will not, I am an excellent swimmer. You scoundrel!”
“Just the same, go right. She’s expecting you.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“I have other duties to attend to.”
“Oh, right. Your wife. Emilia. There’s a tasty bit of talent, there, innit?”
“Go!” Iago turned away, willing himself to not murder the Florentine. “I’ll watch you from here to make sure you make the right turn.”
“You are the best comrade a soldier could have, good Iago. Adieu!”
Cassio stumbled down the edge of the harbor. Iago waited for him to turn up the third lane, then followed, quickly, staying close to the buildings, in the shadows. The narrow lane wound up the hill to lessen the steep climb, but nevertheless the three-story stone-and-stucco houses had been built so tightly together on either side that except for a stripe of blue moonlit sky, walking it was like traversing a cave. Several blocks toward the Citadel, it became so dark that he lost sight of Cassio, but could hear him bumping into walls and swearing before carrying on. Rounding one severe bend, the lane opened and Iago could see the high Citadel walls looming above, and at the end, the red light, marking the courtesan’s house. Silhouetted in the red light was a very tall, thin figure of a man having a wee in the street, turning as Cassio trudged toward him.
“I am surrounded by gormless gits,” Iago whispered to himself. “Were I their general, would I be one of them, too? Do I want to be what I want to be?”
He heard something move behind him, but could see nothing there in the dark. Perhaps a cat. Then he heard movement above him, but there was no balcony. Another cat, on the roof. The smell of the sea was stronger here than even at the harbor, and he wondered if one of the fishermen might not have hung his nets from the window above and a cat was climbing there. The sound of ringing steel brought his attention to the fore: Rodrigo drawing his sword.
“Defend yourself, thou scurvy patch,” said Rodrigo as he advanced on the stumbling Cassio.
“What?” said Cassio.
“En garde!” cried Rodrigo, raising his sword.
Cassio made as if to draw his sword, then stumbled back and fell out of the light with a crash. “I shall shout something French back at you presently. Hold there!”
Rodrigo advanced. No, it has to be a fight, thought Iago. The watch has to find Cassio shamefully drunk. Iago stepped out of the shadows, drew his sword, and was about to shout the alarm when the thought snapped in his head, SPARE THIS ONE. A foul and foreign thought, like the flash of a fever dream, NOT THIS ONE. A lightning white-blue image of Michael Cassio fired across his mind’s eye, giving him an immediate, nearly blinding headache.
“Awake! Awake!” Iago cried. “Thieves! Mayhem! Murder most foul.”
“Where?” said Cassio, trying to draw his sword but instead the blade stayed put and the soldier spun with the effort and fell again.
“Awake!” said Iago. “Murder! Alert the watch!”
Rodrigo advanced on the supine Cassio.
Then it came down from the rafters as if the shadows themselves had gone liquid—a black blur passed behind Rodrigo, flipping his legs out from under him. He fell, screaming, curled and clutching at the ragged wound where his calf muscle used to be.
Iago stopped, dropped the tip of his sword, the call for alarm caught in his throat. Rodrigo’s scream rattled, broke, but went on piteously.
That darkness thrust again and the screaming stopped. Rodrigo’s headless body sat up on the cobbles for a second, twin fountains of blood arcing from his neck, glistening black in the dim red light. The shadow moved again, puddled around the twitching lump of meat that had been Rodrigo, and Iago saw the eyes, green, like emeralds catching moonlight, swaying, then fixing on him.
A latch clicked to his right, a door opened, and an old man holding a candle appeared. “What’s this?”
Iago dove through the open door, knocking the old man back as he did. He slammed the heavy door and threw the bolt, bracing his back against it just as something hit the other side with such force that he was knocked forward onto the old man, his sword rattling off into the dark. The bolt held, but something worried at the door with frenzied rasping blades on the oak, like a thousand rats trying to claw their way out of a burning barrel, the sound so terrifying Iago that he lay there for seconds atop the old man, paralyzed, until he realized that he was looking at the door by the light of his burning sleeve, set aflame by the old man’s candle.
“No, defend yourself,” came Cassio’s voice from beyond the fury. “I will teach you a lesson in manners, you knave! As soon as I have cleared my sword of this sodding scabbard, I will. Don’t just lie there, you rascal, stand up and fight! Pretending you don’t have a head won’t help you. Fight, I say!”
“I was not a very good child,” said Bassanio to his friend Gratiano, who sat opposite him in the gondola on the way to Belmont. “When I say I was not a good child, I do not mean that I was not well-behaved, nor of good nature, but that I was not good at being a child. I did not care for childish things, and I was never the right size. In my clothes, I was often too large, in games too small—I was often the wrong speed, as well.”
“Slow?” inquired Gratiano, turning his head so the garish feather in his hat would not be bent by the breeze.
“And sometimes too fast. And just when I began to master childhood, suddenly I was a youth, at which I was also undisti
nguished except for the growing of hair. As a man, I have been a disappointing son, a miserable merchant, a delinquent debtor, and a general disappointment to my friends and family.”
“That is not true,” said Gratiano. “We have very low expectations.”
“Still, on this day, in this boat, with this chest of borrowed gold, I am certain of one thing, as if I have only just broken the seal on certainty itself: I shall be an excellent husband to Portia! And in so being, an excellent friend, in that I will cancel Antonio’s debt before even one of his ships returns and repay all my back debts to the rest of you. I shall henceforth be an excellent trader, shrewd with experience forged from my myriad losses, and in my demeanor and wisdom, an excellent man overall, redeemed by the love of fair Portia.”
“If you choose the right casket.”
“It is all but assured, good Gratiano. For the message from Salanio brought me by the gondolier assures it.”
“If, indeed, the gondolier was sent by Salanio, unsteady as he has been, buggering off to Cyprus with Lorenzo without notice.”
“Oh, the message came from him most assuredly, for the gondolier had Salanio’s jeweled dagger, given him to assure delivery of the message and affirm its authenticity.”
“That dagger has no brothers, there is only one like it.”
“You see,” said Bassanio. “Here is the dock.” To the men who guarded the dock at Belmont, he called, “You there, send servants to help us. We bear a chest of gold too heavy to carry without ungentlemanly grunting and sweating.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Gratiano under his breath.
When the lawyers had confirmed the amount of the gold, it was taken away and Bassanio and Gratiano were led to the foyer.
Portia made her traditionally grand entrance down the stairs, followed by Nerissa, but this time, rather than standing off and waiting for praise, when Bassanio bowed, Portia rushed forward and curtsied before him with great enthusiasm, lifting her skirts to show her newest and most fabulous shoes, the soles of which were as smooth and unscarred as Portia herself, and which slid on the marble floor as if on ice, depositing the lady in a position of the “full splits,” from which she was not immediately able to rise.