For two days Gratiano and Salarino watched Shylock from a distance and memorized his ambling clockwork movements. Two days in which they hoped that news of Antonio’s third argosy, now the ship of his rescue, would arrive in port, and indeed, after two days, the word fell like angry hands slapped against their ears (with pain, an unsteady step, and a residual ringing): The wreckage of the ship had been found floating in the Black Sea with no sign of the crew. They would have to go to the Jew and ask for mercy, and if denied, deny it in kind and kill him.

“I’m not so sure,” said Gratiano, as they made their way to the Rialto toward the end of the day, “that we shouldn’t be exceptionally friendly. Perhaps we should approach the Jew in an expansive and laughing manner—slap his back like the good fellows that we are—assure him that all is well. Say, ‘What is a few weeks among friends?’ and he may relent. Perhaps we should take him a pie. Do Jews eat pie, I wonder?”

“Unless it has pork,” said Salarino. “Or prawns. And they have some rule about milk and beef in the same pie. Oh bugger all, I don’t know what goes in a Jewish pie, let’s just fucking kill him. He’s not going to believe we’re his friends, we’ve been horrid to him.”

“Well, we were being horrid on Antonio’s behalf, not our own,” said Gratiano defensively. “We were obligated by friendship to be horrid.”

“Quite right,” said Salarino. “Loyalty is virtue, and we were being virtuous indeed.”

“Indeed. And he is a Jewish devil.”

“Well, yes. Who slew our Lord and Savior.”

“So, really,” said Gratiano, “we are obligated by friendship and faith to be horrid bullies, provoke Shylock to deny any grace to Antonio, and then take just revenge for him and our Lord and Savior by dirking the Jew and throwing him in the canal.”

“Well, I feel better,” said Salarino. “Our time tracking him won’t have been wasted. And I did sharpen my dagger.”

“I’ll hold him and you can stab him, then. I’m taller and can catch him around the neck so he can’t scream.”