The Serpent of Venice by Christopher Moore Page A

the contest for Portia’s hand and estate?”
    “Contest?”
    She explained the bizarre lottery Brabantio had left his younger daughter to be prize for: three caskets, sealed with wax and watched over by lawyers, three thousand ducats for the mere chance at the lady’s hand. Oh, Othello, what a bitter mess you made of Brabantio when you married Desdemona. I thought that my murder was the limit of Brabantio’s hatred for Othello, but apparently he was reaching out from the grave to torment his younger daughter as punishment to the elder.
    Shylock had not known the circumstances preceding Brabantio having been eaten by rats. Perhaps his heart gave out while he was carrying away his bucket of mortar. The scream that night—I had some hope that his last thoughts might have been of me. Now, with my terror tamed, seems ’twas a sweet scream indeed, although not nearly long enough. But now, to have Brabantio’s hatred spill out onto Antonio, well, perhaps the Fates were turning to favor a fool . . .
    The Greeks believe the Fates are three sisters: one is Order, who spins out the linear thread of a life from the beginning; another is Irony, who gently cocks up the thread, marking it with some peculiar sense of balance, like justice, only blind drunk with a scale that’s been bunged into the street so it never quite settles; and the third, Inevitability, simply sits in the corner taking notes and criticizing the other two for being shameless slags until she cuts life’s thread, leaving everyone miffed at the timing. It seems to me that a nimble fool, possessed of a quick wit and passionate provocation, might have two sisters at once, and thus bring the third in to serve her purpose on his enemies as well. I would find my way to be fate’s tool.
    “What are you on about?” said Jessica.
    “What?” I didn’t know she was still there.
    “About you shagging some sisters and being a massive tool?”
    “I said that aloud?”
    She nodded.
    “Well, why are you lurking like a burglar in the dark, anyway?”
    “I’m sitting at my own kitchen table. It’s daylight. The window is open. Look, there’s the sea.”
    “Fine, I was just having a loud ponder. If you did any thinking yourself you would have recognized it and excused yourself.”
    “I’ll get you into Antonio’s quarters, Pocket, so you can be the tool you yearn to be.” She giggled.
    CHORUS: And so the bitter and shallow fool learns that it’s not quite so funny when the soliloquy that is walked in upon is his.
    “ For the love of God, shut the fuck up!”
    “I didn’t walk in. I was sitting here the whole time.”
    “Close the shutters. Maybe he’ll go away.”
    CHORUS: And thus, the shutters of Shylock’s kitchen are closed, and many things in the house may transpire, unobserved by anyone of importance.

    Upon Jessica’s urging, Shylock sent me to Tubal’s house an hour before sundown, and I was met by two great hulking Hebrews dressed in the same dark gabardine and yellow hat as myself. Called Ham and Japheth, they were certainly the largest Jews I had ever seen.
    “Ham, you say? Can’t say our people lack a sense of irony, can you? Surprised your brother wasn’t called Bacon or Bangers . Ha!” I amuse myself sometimes.
    “We are named for the sons of Noah,” said Should-Have-Been-Bacon.
    “Of course,” said I. “That’s what I meant—great meaty blokes like you two in a city surrounded by water. Like Noah’s sons.”
    They were young, just coming into their beards, it appeared, so they did not further question my balderdash. This is why we send youth to war: spotty lads possessed of passion but void of purpose will cleave to the most slippery species of bullshit. Ham and Japheth would make fine filler for the sausage grinder of war. But for now, they would do as guards for gold.
    Tubal directed us from the dock in front of his house, where a broad-beamed boat waited with oarsmen standing at each end. He was still in his dark