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“Tart,” I answered. “Although a tasty bit of talent, to be sure.”
“She is not!” protested Brabantio. “She’s bewitched by this heathen.”
“Tartish,” I relented.
“Fortunato, what have you to do with this?” asked the doge.
“I speak for the Moor,” said I.
“He does not,” said the Moor.
“What have you to say of this, Othello?” asked the doge.
Othello addressed the group of them now. “Most potent and reverend signors, that I have taken away this man’s daughter is true. I have married her.”
“It’s true,” said I. “I witnessed the ceremony.”
“Never!” shouted Brabantio. “Never would a maiden be so bold, to fall in love and marry something she feared to look upon. She would not have gone against her nature as such, without the Moor hid in her drink cunning mixtures to enchant her blood that wrought this imprudent judgment upon her. She’s enchanted by magic, I tell you.”
“Or his crashing huge cock!” offered the puppet Jones, who I had retrieved on my way out the door.
The doge said, “There is no proof of this.”
“No, I’ve seen it,” said I. “It swung out of his robe last week and nearly concussed the landlady’s dog.”
Another senator stood and spoke then. “Othello, speak, did you by indirect and conjured courses subdue and poison this young maid’s affections?”
“I beseech you, signors, send for the lady at my quarters, and let her speak of me before her father. If, after hearing her, you find me in foul report, then take not only my office, but my life, for I would give both gladly if I had sinned so.”
“Fetch Desdemona,” said the doge.
Othello nodded to Cassio, who sent a brace of soldiers to fetch Desdemona.
“Until she comes,” said Othello, “I do confess the vices of my blood, and that the lady doth dwell in my love, as I in hers, but not by enchantment. You know her father found favor in me, and oft did invite me to their home and question me for the story of my life. I spun it, even from my days as a boy, out to the room, and while Desdemona pretended to serve, she devoured my story with a greedy ear. Of moving accidents and hairbreadth escapes, of being sold into slavery, and my redemption from it, of my travels, from vast deserts to the mountains whose heads touch the sky, of cannibals and cutthroats, of battles I had fought, and pains that had been inflicted on me. My story done, she gave me for my troubles a world of sighs. She swore it was strange, ’twas passing strange, ’twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful, and she wished that she had not heard it, for with my story I had wooed her heart. She loved me for the dangers I had passed, and I loved her that she did pity them. This is the only witchcraft I have used.”
“I think this would win my daughter, too,” said the doge. “Good Brabantio, perhaps you should make the best of this situation—”
“Really, it was the storytelling and not the enormous willy?” I looked to my codpiece, which, under the circumstances, seemed a bit overstated. “Here she is,” said I, seeing Desdemona glide into the hall. “Let’s ask her.”
Brabantio waved Desdemona forward. “Let her speak. Destruction on my head if she confesses her part in this wooing. Tell them, daughter, to whom do you owe obedience?”
“My duty is divided,” answered Desdemona. “To you I am bound for life and education, and for those I give you honor and gratitude. I am, and shall always be your daughter, but Othello is my husband, and like my mother preferred you to her own father, so I must give honor to my husband.”
I had heard nearly the same speech from my own Cordelia to her father, thus setting in motion the shifting of a half dozen kingdoms. Desdemona’s spark and passion brought a lump to my throat.
“Then it is true. You have married him?”
“Under the church and the republic, as well as in my heart.”
“It cannot be legal!” said Brabantio to the senate. “He is not Venetian, and under the law he would inherit my seat on the council. He must be Venetian born or the marriage is not legal.”
The senators looked around at one another and finally the doge spoke. “We will have to consider your suit, Brabantio. The city’s charter says nothing about a senator having to be a Venetian, only that he be elected by citizens of his district. It was you, yourself, that proposed the law that a seat could be passed down to heirs. It does not specify that a senator must be Venetian born.”
“But when the law was passed, all senators were Venetian born, so it is implied in the law. When I go to the butcher to buy a duck, must I also tell him I want a bird? We know because it is a duck, it is a bird implied.”
“He has a point,” said the senator sitting closest to the doge.
“Oh bollocks,” said I. I stumbled to the middle of the floor. “Complete bloody bollocks. If ducks are birds, then Othello is a Venetian by the same rule, because he is known as such.”
“Fortunato—” The doge stood as if he thought he might direct me from the floor.
“Just listen, Your Grace. You all know how I came to Venice. Not as the wee broken fool you see before you, but as a diplomat, an emissary from the ruler of six countries. Spokesman for an empire.”
“His queen is dead—,” said Brabantio.
“Shut the fuck up, thou glistening dog knob!” said I, perhaps more sternly than was called for. “I have the floor.”
The doge gave Brabantio a savage glare and the senator went silent.
“I traveled across Europe to come here, to speak my queen’s will to Venice, because of one man: Othello. O’er all the world, the legend of the Moor saving your city is prologue to the power of your empire. Who will ship their goods with Venice, send their soldiers to war with Venice, if Venice cannot protect her ships? The world knows that the spine of the mighty Venetian Navy is that brilliant general, the Moor, Othello, who saved them from the Genoans when he was five times outnumbered. In all the known lands, princes speak the name of Othello in the same breath with Venice, and see the city’s esteem in his sword. Brabantio tells you Othello is not a Venetian, but I tell you that there would be no Venice without Othello. The Moor is a Venetian because he is the father of Venice—he gave it life. Even tonight, with wind of trouble on another sea, you call for the Moor to defend your city. Would you be so base as to boast of your city of laws, your republic that is fair to all, so all may be equal to trade here, and not accept this brave general into its bosom? I tell you, Senators, to the world, to those with whom you would trade, with those who you would call to war, Othello is Venice.”
There was quiet around the room as the senators fidgeted. Brabantio’s eyes burned with hatred for me. I had played his own card against him, the war. The bloody Crusade he had lobbied for, but had not been able to get passed by the council. I had thrown it on him: Your daughter or your war, Montressor.
“The fool makes good sense,” said the doge to Brabantio.
The Montressor seemed to shrivel, from glaring rage to a beaten man—worn and exhausted. He shuffled to Othello and Desdemona, placed their hands in each other’s and held them there. “God be with you. I have another daughter, this one is yours, and to me, is daughter no more.”
Tears leapt from Desdemona’s eyes and she turned her face into the Moor’s shoulder.
The doge came down from the dais, took the newlyweds in his arms. “Venice blesses your marriage and declares Othello a Venetian, subject to and protected by all the laws of the republic.” He released them and stepped back. “But we must save the celebration of your wedding, for now, brave Othello, you must quickly take forces to Corsica. We have word the Genoans intend to move on Bastia, our port there, and you must turn them back.”
“I will go, Your Grace, but before I do, I would see that Desdemona is cared for in the manner to which she is accustomed.”
“She is no longer welcome under my roof,” growled Brabantio.
“Then perhaps Your Grace has room in t
he palace,” said Othello.
Desdemona stepped away from the Moor, glared at her father, then addressed the whole chamber. “I would have a say in my future, if you please. I, too, am a Venetian, and I would be at my husband’s side. It is true that he won me by tales of his battles, so I would be with him while he does these deeds that drew my affection. I would go to Corsica with him.”
“But, beloved,” said Othello, “I must leave on a fast galley tonight, a warship, which has no accommodation for a wife, and the need for haste allows no time for you to gather your things.”
“I will see her to Corsica,” came a voice from the back of the mob. Iago stepped forward.
“There will be new battles, Iago,” said Othello. “You will be needed at Arsenal to fit men to ships.”
“I will send my own wife to be Desdemona’s handmaid, and see her returned to your arms in Corsica. You know her, Desdemona.”
Desdemona squeezed Othello’s arms. “I’ve met Emilia. She is of good character and will be good company.”
“So be it, then,” said the Moor. “Cassio, ready five fast ships. We are for Corsica on the tide.” Then the Moor turned to the council. “Signors, I thank you for your faith, and for this lady; I will keep both on my life.”
He offered his arm to Desdemona. As she turned to leave she mouthed “Thank you” to me and smiled.
I was left standing in the middle of the hall, hung a bit out to dry, I thought, so by way of exit, I pumped the puppet Jones in the air and marched out. “You ungrateful fucks!” I shouted. “If it weren’t for Othello the Genoans would have sacked the city and you’d all be speaking bloody Italian.”
“We are speaking Italian,” said Brabantio.
I reeled to face him. “Can you imagine the pounding farewell shag Othello is giving your daughter even now, Montressor? I’ll wager you can hear the moaning all the way to the Rialto Bridge.”
In retrospect, given the walling up and whatnot, I might have been imprudently harsh with the Montressor.
So of course, Desdemona was overjoyed at seeing me when Jessica and I arrived at the Citadel. Well, not precisely when I arrived. We came in behind Iago and his friend.
