Shylock's Daughter: A Novel of Love in Venice by Erica Jong

more I submerged the present into Shakespeare’s past, the more I realized that all the last four hundred years had been a falling away from the feminism that Elizabeth herself embodied. Not for her the confusion between dressing like a man and thinking like a monarch. She was a monarch, but she was also a woman. And what was her strength, above all? Never marrying. Never tying her fortunes to one man. In this particular alone, she outshone (and outlasted) her cousin Mary who lost her head, and lost her head—the classic plight of woman.
    It is the custom of the film festival to introduce the director and the principal actors for each film before the film is shown, but the actors have long since arrived and still Björn is not here. They wait expectantly, empty seats in their midst. There is the lovely sweet young thing who plays Donna Anna (and Constanze Mozart), the young actor who plays Don Giovanni (and Mozart), the handsome middle-aged actor who plays the Commendatore (and Leopold Mozart), and last but not least the homely middle-aged actor who plays Leporello (and Salieri).
    Grigory and I have arrived late, at the very tail end of the introductions and speeches concerning the Red Cross Gala, the funds raised and by whom, the fulsome congratulatory speeches to rich matrons before whom Le Tout Venise grovels. This is the main difference between dogs and men (as Mark Twain might have said): dogs will not grovel before money. One lady, a certain Contessa Venier, is the chairperson of the gala. Immensely fat, with a jaundiced tinge to her freckled, oozing flesh, she is helped to the lectern by two toadies in tuxes. She herself is stuffed into an unbecoming pear-shaped sack of shocking pink chiffon, festooned with iridescent pink sequins; sinking pink satin boats support her swollen feet. She staggers to the lectern, lifts to her dim eyes a bejeweled hand bearing a bejeweled lorgnette, and reads a list of acknowledgments and thanks. This goes on for a while, delaying the commencement of the film, but still Björn and Lilli do not arrive. It’s clear that the actors are extremely anxious awaiting their director. Contessa Venier drones on.
    â€œShe was a cabaret singer in Tunis,” Grigory says in a stage whisper, “when Count Venier found her. At that time, he was married to the first Contessa Venier, whom some say she poisoned. A true story of capitalist decadence—eh, Jessichka?…”
    I shoot Grigory a look that says: You Soviets have decadence, too—but he is so self-satisfied that he doesn’t get it. All at once, the whole room seems to turn around: Björn and Lilli are entering from the rear of the mezzanine. The actors buzz among themselves. The jury turns to stare, and there is Björn, pale, blue-gray-eyed, balding Björn in an inky tux and white silk turtleneck, a long, white silk aviator scarf thrown about his neck. Sailing into the room at his side, in battleship gray moiré, is Lilli, her silver hair ballooning about her ears like a Gibson girl’s, her eyes blazing green to her husband’s misty blue ones—and dark with determination.
    Lilli helps a rather distrait Björn down the steps of the center aisle of the mezzanine and into the section where the actors sit. The Perssons take their places while the Contessa Venier drones on, unaware of their arrival. Soon another toady in a tux is dispatched onto the stage to inform her that Björn has arrived. She looks up, sees him in the mezzanine, and begins winding up her fulsome acknowledgments. When she finally shuffles offstage, using the flunkies as crutches, the lights dim and the president of the Biennale, his face blanched moon-white by a single spotlight, comes out to introduce Björn and the leading actors in the film.
    â€œ Si presenta in sala il maestro Björn Persson ,” says il direttore. And the applause is deafening. The whole orchestra section stands, almost in unison, and turns