Othello went to a chair at the table and sat down, a heavier weight than commanding a navy seeming to fall on his brow all at once. He said, “I do not understand women, Pocket. I have these many years in the field come to understand the nature of men, but women are yet a puzzle. Desdemona confounds me.”

“Ah, so she moors the Moor, so to speak. I had a tryst with a tart who confounded me, left me tied in a dungeon once for two days, starkers, without food nor water. Just ask her to loosen the ropes next time she confounds you.”

“Confound does not mean ‘tie up.’ I mean she confuses me.”

“Oh. Well, that’s different, isn’t it. But I have known many women—many women indeed, and it is in their nature to confound us, Othello. They are all by their natures lovely lunatics. But among them, Desdemona is more lovely and less loony.”

“Is she so lovely if she is untrue?”

“Desdemona?”

“Yes.”

“Untrue to you? Cheating with another?”

“Yes.”

“Bollocks!”

“Yet I have my suspicions.”

“You have no proof?”

“Others have made comment.”

“If this is about the nun suit, that was my idea entirely.”

“Not the nun suit. The nun suit was—”

“Smashing! I knew you’d like it. You should have her confound you while wearing the nun suit—say stern things to you in Latin while shagging your bloody brains out.”

“Confound does not mean that!”

“Fine. So you would accuse your lady of being untrue—your lady, who did throw all of Venice away for you, stood up to the most powerful men in the republic, for you, Moor; she you would accuse, without any evidence but the comment of another, yet Iago, who you know to be a villain, a cutthroat, and a traitor—for him you need proof beyond my word? Respect my judgment in this, Othello, if in nothing else, or thou art a fool.”

“I saw her on the balcony talking to Michael Cassio. She came to me, made a case for me to forgive him.”

“That is because she is kind, and just, and forgiving, and has been wrongly judged for mere appearances, because she loves you, she wishes you to be kind, and just, and forgiving as well. You will have to get your own moniker, Othello, the Black Fool is mine, but thou art surely a fool.”

The Moor let his head slip from his hands and his forehead thumped against the table. “I am a fool,” he said.

“You can’t switch sides now that I’m winning.”

“No, you are right, I am surely a fool. I have wronged my love with my suspicions. I don’t know what to do. I am a warrior, my speech is rough and not so polished as yours.”

“You always say that, but I think we both know you could talk the tits off a tavern tart.”