“I would know him in a second,” said Bassanio. “I thought him to be the messenger of my most happy future and so committed his face to my memory.”

“Find him, then. Find out his name, and where he lives. Bring him here. Offer him a bribe if you must.”

“Oh I will, good Antonio. I will.”

Would Iago accept a gondolier as sacrifice?

“A fool’s head, you say? Did you keep it?”

“No, I was so distraught and overcome with heartache that I threw it over the railing into the garden.”

“Do you remember anything else about it?”

“It was a fool’s head made of painted wood, like any other. Except instead of bright colors, it wore a black hat with silver bells at the tips.”

“Go, find the gondolier. Take Gratiano or Salarino with you.”

“I will, Antonio. Thank you. I will make this right, I promise.”

“Of course you will,” said the merchant.

He looked to the pavers below and imagined a sunburst of blood spread across the stones.

Despite being uncommonly pretty, like many working-class girls, Emilia had married the first fellow with a means of support who showed an interest in her. Also, like many poor girls, both plain and pretty, she found herself bound to a man who was, despite a handsome aspect and mercurial charm, a vicious scoundrel. She had hoped when the war with Genoa escalated that she might be mercifully widowed, but instead of doing the proper thing and perishing like most of Venice’s forces at Curzola, Iago had the annoying luck to have been serving under Othello, defending the city, and had not only survived, but in his more grandiose moments (which were many) claimed that credit for saving the city had been stolen from him by “that upstart crow,” Othello. Then she thought fate had smiled upon her side when Iago volunteered her to serve Othello’s wife, Desdemona, in Corsica, putting a sea between her and her husband, yet here he was, in her chambers, in need of a favor.

“I hope you are not here to ask me to do my bawdy business—the monkey has a nosebleed and the circus, sir, is closed.”

“As it has been for three years solid, wife,” said Iago.

“Fine, do your will, I’m sure you will be the one blessed man whose willy does not turn black and drop off after taunting the crimson curse. Don’t mind my praying as you perform your disgusting deed.”

“No, I am here to ask you to prevail upon Desdemona to speak with Michael Cassio, and to arrange that they might have a private place to speak—on Desdemona’s balcony, perhaps.”

“And why would you have me do that?”

“Because Cassio is a fine officer who has made a simple mistake, yet he is denied the audience to ask forgiveness of his general.”