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.
“Oh good,” announced Iago. “Now that we’re all friends, you three, do fuck off.”
“What?” said Lorenzo.
“You, too, Rodrigo. Go, make the merchants buy you lunch. Fuck off.”
“What?” said Rodrigo, rising from his chair.
“Fuck,” said Iago, then a deep pause and a breath—“OFF! All of you.”
“What?” said Gratiano, wondering what had happened to his new and gentle friend.
Iago looked to Antonio. “Am I being overly subtle? I’m seldom in the company of such distinguished young gentlemen.”
“You want them to piss off?” asked Antonio.
“Exactly!” said Iago, turning back to the rabble, his finger raised to make the point. “I’m accustomed to soldiers doing what they are told under threat of the sword, thus I thought I might be mumbling. Gracious gentlemen, Antonio and I have business to discuss with Bassanio, so I will need you all to fuck right off.”
“Oh,” said Rodrigo.
“Now!” Hand to sword.
They tumbled out the door.
“Rodrigo!” Iago called after them. “Return in an hour.”
From the stairwell: “Yes, Lieutenant.”
“You others?”
“Yes?” Gratiano answering.
“Stay fucked off.”
Iago closed the door, latched it, and turned back to Antonio. “That was entirely your fault.”
“You brought your friend along, too.”
“Rodrigo is not my friend. He is a useful accoutrement, an implement.”
“A tool, then?”
“Exactly. As is this handsome young rake.” Iago brushed Bassanio’s hat back on his head. “Aren’t you, lad?”
“I thought we were here to discuss Portia?” Bassanio said to Antonio, as if Iago were not in the room.
“Indeed,” said Antonio. “But there is a problem.”
“What problem? He’s of good family, he fancies the girl, and he’s fine and fit—too fit for my tastes. I’d see him locked down in marriage just to keep him out of my own wife’s bed.” Iago turned to Bassanio to explain. “She’s a bit of a slut, I suspect. Not your fault you’re pretty.”
“Bassanio is not the problem,” said Antonio. “It was obvious in her presence that Portia fancies him, but the late Brabantio has put conditions upon her marriage that bar our young lovers from finding bliss together.”
“Conditions?”
“To avoid another calamity of the Othello and Desdemona stripe, the old man composed a puzzle. Each of Portia’s suitors must choose one of three caskets: gold, silver, or lead. He is then given the key, and if the casket holds Portia’s portrait, they may be married, but if not, the suitor must go away and never return. The entire process is overseen by Brabantio’s lawyers, who hold his estate in balance—that part of the estate not willed to Desdemona, that is.”
Iago backed into his chair and sat down; his sword hand hunted down and trapped his half-filled goblet of wine. “How did Brabantio think such a test might save his daughter from marrying a rascal? Picking a metal casket?”
“He thought to oversee the process himself—use the caskets to give the girl the illusion that he had left it to chance.”
A vein had begun to pulsate on Iago’s sun-browned forehead. When he spoke, his voice came measured and he watched young Bassanio for signs that he might be frightening the youth. “Then even Portia herself does not know the contents of the caskets?”
“Nor any of the lawyers. Brabantio sealed the locks himself, with his own seal. Only he knew which casket holds the prize.”
“That miserable
“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.
“Oh good,” announced Iago. “Now that we’re all friends, you three, do fuck off.”
“What?” said Lorenzo.
“You, too, Rodrigo. Go, make the merchants buy you lunch. Fuck off.”
“What?” said Rodrigo, rising from his chair.
“Fuck,” said Iago, then a deep pause and a breath—“OFF! All of you.”
“What?” said Gratiano, wondering what had happened to his new and gentle friend.
Iago looked to Antonio. “Am I being overly subtle? I’m seldom in the company of such distinguished young gentlemen.”
“You want them to piss off?” asked Antonio.
“Exactly!” said Iago, turning back to the rabble, his finger raised to make the point. “I’m accustomed to soldiers doing what they are told under threat of the sword, thus I thought I might be mumbling. Gracious gentlemen, Antonio and I have business to discuss with Bassanio, so I will need you all to fuck right off.”
“Oh,” said Rodrigo.
“Now!” Hand to sword.
They tumbled out the door.
“Rodrigo!” Iago called after them. “Return in an hour.”
From the stairwell: “Yes, Lieutenant.”
“You others?”
“Yes?” Gratiano answering.
“Stay fucked off.”
Iago closed the door, latched it, and turned back to Antonio. “That was entirely your fault.”
“You brought your friend along, too.”
“Rodrigo is not my friend. He is a useful accoutrement, an implement.”
“A tool, then?”
“Exactly. As is this handsome young rake.” Iago brushed Bassanio’s hat back on his head. “Aren’t you, lad?”
“I thought we were here to discuss Portia?” Bassanio said to Antonio, as if Iago were not in the room.
“Indeed,” said Antonio. “But there is a problem.”
“What problem? He’s of good family, he fancies the girl, and he’s fine and fit—too fit for my tastes. I’d see him locked down in marriage just to keep him out of my own wife’s bed.” Iago turned to Bassanio to explain. “She’s a bit of a slut, I suspect. Not your fault you’re pretty.”
“Bassanio is not the problem,” said Antonio. “It was obvious in her presence that Portia fancies him, but the late Brabantio has put conditions upon her marriage that bar our young lovers from finding bliss together.”
“Conditions?”
“To avoid another calamity of the Othello and Desdemona stripe, the old man composed a puzzle. Each of Portia’s suitors must choose one of three caskets: gold, silver, or lead. He is then given the key, and if the casket holds Portia’s portrait, they may be married, but if not, the suitor must go away and never return. The entire process is overseen by Brabantio’s lawyers, who hold his estate in balance—that part of the estate not willed to Desdemona, that is.”
Iago backed into his chair and sat down; his sword hand hunted down and trapped his half-filled goblet of wine. “How did Brabantio think such a test might save his daughter from marrying a rascal? Picking a metal casket?”
“He thought to oversee the process himself—use the caskets to give the girl the illusion that he had left it to chance.”
A vein had begun to pulsate on Iago’s sun-browned forehead. When he spoke, his voice came measured and he watched young Bassanio for signs that he might be frightening the youth. “Then even Portia herself does not know the contents of the caskets?”
“Nor any of the lawyers. Brabantio sealed the locks himself, with his own seal. Only he knew which casket holds the prize.”
“That miserable
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