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The creature in the dark had left the fish for me, scored it for me, saved me from hunger if not delirium. What rough beast knows charity? What shark’s cold eye shines with kindness? None! These are human things, but even as a man can act a beast, can a monster show the character of a man? A woman?
She came to me on the next high tide and I yipped when roused from my reverie, but I did not kick at her as she brushed by me, again and again, rubbing against me as she passed, the way a cat will. Then, again, the creature wrapped around my legs, and I waited, again, for the bite that might take my leg, as the great slick coils of muscle constricted me. The claws came again, piercing my haunches. I shrieked, but these were not the tearing slashes that had scored the fish, but only just broke the skin, then the pleasant drift and I felt her soft parts begin to assail my manhood.
It was that second time that I realized what was in the water, was able to put a picture in my mind’s eye to the sensation, began to think of the creature as female. The calm drifting feeling that overcame me was not exhaustion, or terror, or the residual effect of the Montressor’s poison, but the venom of the mermaid. Had I not seen a hundred such sirens portrayed in signs of alehouses and on the prows of ships? The mermaid was as common as the lion of St. Mark in the statues around Venice, and here, in my dark chamber, open to the sea, I had been seduced by one.
I let the venom and the passionate attentions of the mermaid take me until I was spent, then I collapsed into a floaty daze of a briny after-bonk, the mermaid curled around my legs, taking my weight off the chains.
And so, once again, as when I was a boy locked in the cupboard, I made friends with the dark. The tide would come in, and with it the mermaid, her dreamy venom then a sea-frothing shag and a slippery cuddle to wake to a breakfast of raw fish, sometimes two. Drink water and drowse in the dark until the tide comes in again.
What magical creature, what wonder had found me there, in my most desperate time? Why had no one written of this, why was this tale of the mermaid not told? Did she—did they—only come to the doomed? Perhaps I am already dead? Perhaps I am a ghost, bound to these chains to haunt this dark chamber evermore, and be tortured by the bawdy ministries of a fish-girl.
You know there’s always a bloody ghost. Perhaps I am he?
When you think of ghosts wailing and suffering, you don’t think of it as constant and eternal, do you? Bit of wailing around midnight, chain rattling and a cold breeze, grab an ankle on the stairs now and again to really get them shitting themselves, then you’re on about your day, aren’t you? Floating about, lots of naps, perhaps some tennis—stop by the abbey to have a laugh at the vicar’s expense, wouldn’t you? You don’t really think about bloody eternity chained to a damp wall, revenge grinding at your conscience like a rotten tooth, regrets and grief and shivering filling in the meantimes. There is the shrieking, which, as I said, I do a fair amount of. Composing the occasional song lyric of a thousand couplets or so, to make sure you’ve not gone bloody barking. The future gets rather abstract for a ghost—revenge fantasies really more of a mental game you play to keep yourself busy. But I don’t think so. There’s an end. I can feel it. Maybe not far on.
She’s more fierce each time she comes to me. Her claws, or spines, whatever they are seem to go deeper—she veritably ravages me, and I’ve been nipped on other parts of my body, although not, thankfully, on my manly bits. I’ve awakened from the venom’s stupor to feel blood running down my legs from the wounds she makes on my flanks. If she does not kill me outright, I fear I may succumb to weakness from blood loss or infection of my wounds. Sometimes crabs find their way into the chamber and I can hear them scuttling around in the dark. I kick them away when they get close, but what will happen when I can’t? I actually prefer the future when it’s more abstract, I think. Dark. Yes, I’ve made friends with the dark. More than friends. I’ve learned to fuck the dark. We are one.
And now, she comes. Past my legs, around the chamber, a splash from a fin or tail, the water swirls with her gravity. Behind my legs—she seems bigger, wider, the picture in my head changes, and it’s harder to hold the winsome, flaxen-haired maiden perched on a rock in my mind’s eye. She is power, she is the dark.
She slides up the front of me, smooth, slick, and I brace myself for the claws. This is the worst of it, before the venom takes me away, when I’m still sore and raw from the last high tide. I try not to scream but scream I do and she works her claws in, like a fisherman setting a hook.
“Fuck’s sake! Easy, Viv!”
I’ve named her Vivian, after some poxy English legend of the Lady of the Sodding Lake. It didn’t seem polite, her having me off every turn of the moon, me not knowing her name.
But she doesn’t ease into the sex like usual. She’s pulling at me, yanking at me. Her mouth or whatever soft part of her that does me, locks on, hard, the suction hurting. I’m pulled straight out from the wall, the chains taut. My wrists are ripped against the shackles, then my shoulders feel as if they will come out of the sockets. There’s crackling noise from the wall. The chains slip, and slip again, each time my wrists are scored, her claws sink deeper. Her tail is thrashing the water in the chamber so violently I can barely hear myself scream, and I scream and I scream, and the chains let go—
CHORUS: And so, his chains ripped from the ancient wall, the mad fool was dragged by his hellish lover down—down into the dark depths of the Venetian lagoon.
SIX
The Players
Antonio hurried from the Rialto as the bells of St. Mark’s tolled for the noon prayers. He was followed by an entourage of four young protégés dressed in business finery, a certain uniformity to their dark togs that identified them to others as members of the merchant class, but each wearing a swath of brightly colored silk, a broach, or a bold feather in his cap that advertised his specialness. “I am one of you, maybe one better” was the message. They tumbled along behind Antonio like puppies after a mother hound with her teats on the move.
“Why the urgency?” asked Gratiano, the tallest of the four and as broad shouldered as a dock slave, as they were about to mount the Rialto Bridge. “If it were important business, we should be headed to the Rialto, not to lunch, should we not?”
Antonio turned, and was about to point out, once again, the youth’s talent for ignoring context and often the blindingly obvious, when he collided with a short, gray-bearded man in a long coat who had been thumbing through a folio of documents as he descended the steps of the bridge.
“Jew,” said Gratiano, stepping around Antonio, and grabbing the old man by the arm, hoisting him up on his toes.
“Usurer!” said Salarino, the oldest of the youths—beginning to go to fat, forever at the flank of his friend Gratiano. He took the Jew under his other arm and at the same time smacked the yellow hat off his head.
“Antonio,” said the Jew, coming out of his flinch, eye to eye with the merchant now.
“Shylock,” said Antonio. What now? The two young dolts in coming to his defense were forcing action. Senseless. Profitless.
“Pardon,” said Shylock, bowing his head but raising his eyes in entreaty. He knew Antonio.
Antonio kept himself from sighing, but instead feigned anger. “Jewish dog!” He barked, and spit on the Jew’s long beard, then brushed Salarino aside and strode up the bridge stairs with purpose.
“Shall we throw him in the canal?” asked Gratiano.
“No, leave the cutthroat dog to his damnation,” said Antonio. “We have no time. Come.”
They dropped the Jew to his feet. Gratiano slapped the sheaf of papers out of the old man’s hand. “Watch where you’re going, cur,” he said, as he turned and hurried after Antonio, catching Salarino’s sleeve to pull him along as he went.
Bassanio, who was the most handsome of Antonio’s retinue, sidled past Shylock as if afraid he might get something on his shirt if he passed too close, and tossed his head furiously to Lorenzo for him to come along. Lorenzo, the youngest of the crew,
scooped up Shylock’s papers from the cobbles and patted them awkwardly into the old man’s hands, then snatched the yellow hat worn by all Jews (by decree) from the stairs, placed it on Shylock’s head, and patted it several times while Shylock looked up at him, then stepped back, adjusted the hat, and patted it again. Only then did he meet Shylock’s gaze.
“Jew,” he said, nodding for approval.
“Boy,” said Shylock, nothing more.
“All right then,” said Lorenzo. He adjusted Shylock’s hat one last time.
“Lorenzo!” said Bassanio between his teeth, an urgent and stressed whisper.
“Coming.” Lorenzo ran up the stairs and joined his friend as they passed over the apex of the bridge.
“Why?” asked Bassanio. “A Jew?”
“Have you seen his daughter?” said Lorenzo.
Antonio kept a whole floor of rooms in the top of a large, four-story house on the Riva Ca di Dia, not far from Arsenal. His quarters were not in the most fashionable part of the city, and they were much farther from the Rialto than he would have preferred, but he had taken them when his fortunes were at an ebb and from his parlor he could see the ships sailing in and out of the Venetian lagoon and so he stayed there, even when his fortunes turned, telling his friends that he liked to keep an eye on his business ventures.
Iago was sitting with a younger man at Antonio’s table.
“Your maid let me in,” said Iago.
“And showed you to the wine, I see,” said Antonio.
“This is Rodrigo,” said Iago. “The one who brought me news of Brabantio’s unfortunate passing.”
Rodrigo stood and bowed slightly. He was as tall as Gratiano, but much thinner, and both his hair and his nose were longer than fashionable, the latter quite straight and thin, a fleshy blade protruding from his face. “Honored, sir.”
“And these are Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and Bassanio.” Each bowed his head as his name was mentioned.
Iago rose and went to Bassanio, offered his hand. “Then you’re the one we need to speak with.” He led Bassanio to the table as if leading a lady to the dance floor. Over his shoulder, he said, “The rest of you can fuck off now.”
“Iago!” said Antonio. “These gentlemen are my friends and associates, some of the most promising young merchants in Venice. You can’t keep telling them to fuck off.”
“Ah,” said Iago, his hand raised delicately to his leather doublet. “I see,” he said, taking dainty dance steps back to the three youths, his eyes averted: the embarrassed maiden aunt. “A thousand pardons, gentlemen. I hope you can forgive me.” He tiptoed around behind them, ever more the tiny dancer, his long sword in its scabbard brushing Lorenzo’s shin as he passed by. He put his arms across their shoulders, and his face between Lorenzo’s and Salarino’s ears, and whispered, “I am a soldier, the son of a stevedore, sent to war when I was much younger than any of you, so my manners may seem coarse to you of the merchant class. I hope you’ll forgive me.” He rolled his eyes up at Gratiano, who craned his neck to see around his friend.
“Apologies,” Iago said. Another roll of the eyes.
“Accepted, of course,” said Gratiano.
“Of course,” said the shorter Lorenzo and rounder Salarino in turn.
Iago broke his embrace of the younger men and pirouetted to Antonio. “Apologies, good Antonio. Noble Antonio. Honored Antonio. I would not offend thy friends.”
“It’s nothing,” said Antonio, feeling suddenly very warm and itchy around the collar.
