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“I was going to suggest that,” I called after her. “She’s lovely,” I whispered to the Moor.
I opened the door.
“I told you,” said the puppet Jones.
“Jeff! Get off him. Bad monkey! Bad monkey!”
“Jeff were havin’ a laugh wif the vicar,” said Drool.
And soon after, in the witness of a noble fool, a nitwit, a monkey, and a puppet on a stick, were Othello and the fair Desdemona made man and wife.
CHORUS: Two days did pass while the Moor and Desdemona enjoyed their wedded delights before word of their wedding spread from priest to soldier, to servant, to the ear of Rodrigo, and he, with heavy heart from having lost Desdemona, sought comfort in his friend Iago.
“Then the Moor has ruined Brabantio’s daughter?” said Iago, pacing about the officers’ quarters with the heady vim of inspiration. “Ha! The council will surely have him hanged, now. These are glad tidings indeed! You have witnesses, of course? If not, we shall have to shape some from the most upstanding scoundrels we can afford. You have money?”
“No, that won’t help,” whined Rodrigo. “He has not taken the lady against her will, he has married her. Yes, she is ruined, but by her own will and consent, ruined only for me; in the eyes of God and the state, she belongs to the Moor.”
“Oh balls.” Iago ceased his pacing. “Married?”
“By a priest.”
“The Moor and Desdemona married?”
“In front of witnesses. Signed into the city’s record.”
“Married? In front of witnesses?”
“Witnessed by a fool, a giant, and a monkey.”
“Balls!”
“You said that already.”
Iago now resumed his pacing, drew his dagger, and began drawing his plans in the air with the knife while Rodrigo flattened himself against the wall.
“It is not too late to make this marriage the Moor’s undoing. When did this wedding take place?”
“But two days ago. Even now Desdemona hides in the Moor’s house.”
“And the Montressor does not know of it?”
“No, he is in his apartments near the doge’s palace.”
“Not at Belmont?”
“It was at Belmont I heard the news, from Portia’s maid, Nerissa.”
“The maid knows, but the master does not? I tell you, Rodrigo, women are a devious lot. Bed them if you must, but take their oaths but as cobwebs spun across a stable door, breaking with scant resistance to the next stallion to pass by.”
“But, good Iago, do you not have a wife yourself ? The fair Emilia?”
“Thus I know of what I speak. A bundle of deceit in a pleasant package is she, are they all. Woe to the man who thinks different and enables them with trust.” Iago thrust his dagger in its sheath as if dirking Caesar. “Come, Rodrigo, we will rouse Senator Brabantio and see if we can loose deadly anger on the Moor before the full tale is told. Have men with weapons ready. Brabantio is old and will have his killing done by others.”
Roused from my gentle slumber on the foyer floor of Othello’s house, where I had landed after taking a tumble down the stairs, to settle in what appeared to be a puddle of my own sick, I went to the door to address whatever gang of reprobates was shouting and pounding and generally adding a rather grating edge to my newborn hangover.
“What?” I opened the door, expecting sunlight to drive spikes of regret into my forehead, but instead, in the night, stood Brabantio, and behind him perhaps two dozen men with torches, a few carrying swords.
“Montressor?” said I.
“Fortunato?” said the Montressor. “What are you doing here?”
“Confronting a bloody mob, evidently. What are you doing here?”
“We’ve come to seize the Moor, who has taken my daughter Desdemona and holds her under his heathen enchantment!”
A shout came from the rear of the crowd. “Even now the black ram is tupping his white ewe!”
“The Moor and Desdemona even now make the beast with two backs!” came another shout.
“Even now he doth do bold and saucy wrongs upon her!” shouted another.
“There’s no spell,” said I. “The Moor and your daughter are married. And your mob has no pitchforks. I’ve seen a crashing fuck-bushel of blokes dragged into the street by mobs, and you need pitchforks.”
“But we have no horses,” said a less enthusiastic voice.
“Nor cows, neither,” said another.
“No need to shovel hay nor manure,” whined a third.
“I could fetch a boat hook,” suggested yet another knave.
“Send out the Moor!” demanded Brabantio.
“Montressor, your mob is shit,” said I. “Come back when you’ve proper pitchforks and some coherent slogans. ‘Beast with two backs’? What did you do, just go from house to house asking for illiterate nitwits to come help drag the high commander of the most powerful military force in the land from his house without so much as a sharp stick? Shoddy fucking planning, Montressor.” I slammed the door in his face and threw the bolt.
“What was that?” asked Othello, coming down the stairs in his dressing gown, his sword and scabbard in hand.
“Mob of knobs,” said I. I held a finger up to hold a place in the exchange while I turned and chundered into the kindling bucket by the fireplace. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and said, “Here to hang you, methinks. Oh, and Brabantio is leading them.”
“Father?” said Desdemona, coming down the stairs behind Othello.
The pounding on the door and the shouting resumed, although it was mostly just “Hang him!” and “Black devil!” No one appeared to be crafting more hangnail metaphors after my scolding.
“I’ll not have this.” The Moor cinched his robe, then made for the door.
“Only let a few through the doorway at once,” said I. “Keep their attack narrow. I’ll dispatch any who get around the swath of your sword with my daggers.” I drew one from the small of my back and flipped it so I held it by the blade. “Fate willing, we’ll be knee-deep in corpses in two ticks, and you can call for sailors to mop up the blood and carry away the baskets of severed limbs.”
Othello paused by the heavy door. I held my dagger ready to throw and drew a second knife from the small of my back with my off hand. Desdemona stood on the stairs, her hands clasped over her mouth as if capturing a scream.
“Perhaps I should address them from the balcony,” said Othello.
“Excellent,” said I. “Get the tactical advantage, innit? Desdemona, put some oil on the fire to boil, love. We’ll scald the scurvy vermin before raining death and heavy furniture down upon them.”
I turned and made to run past Desdemona up the stairs, then swooned with nausea, dropped my daggers, and caught myself on the banister. “Fuckstockings, I’m useless—”
“Or perhaps we could find out their grievances and in the understanding, calm them,” said Desdemona, catching me by the shoulders and steadying me against another tumble down the stairs.
“Perhaps,” said Othello.
He was past me on the stairs and out on the balcony before I could retrieve my knives.
“Put up your shiny swords, the dew will rust them,” said Othello. “Good Senator, you shall command more respect with years than with your weapons.”
“Oh thou foul thief,” said Brabantio. “Where hast thou stowed my daughter?”
“Your daughter is safe.”
“Damned thou art,” said Brabantio. “No girl so tender and fair, yet so opposed to marriage that she turned away the most wealthy darlings of our nation, would find her way to your sooty bosom without you did bind her with spells. You, with your enchantments, hold her against her will.”
“That I do not,” said the Moor, rather more calmly than I thought appropriate.
“Back, you pack of dogs!” I called, pushing my way onto the balcony. “Before the Moor has all your heads bobbing on pikes.” I reached down my back collar for the puppet Jones, who is a vivid exa
mple of the fate of the piked head, except miniature and more handsome than most, but Desdemona had asked me to put the puppet up during dinner, as she found his unbroken stare and resemblance to my own striking countenance “right creepy.” Fine. “He’ll have your guts for garters, will the Moor!”
“No he won’t,” said Desdemona from behind.
“No I won’t,” said Othello.
“He’ll rain down death on you and all your families, ravage your women, and fit your children on spikes with frightful efficiency!”
