And then they saw him, doggedly making his way toward the narrow alley he used as a shortcut that he took every day on his way home, where he would come out on a canal that had a walkway on only one side, and make his way past several bridges until he came out to a wider street that led to the dock at St. Mark’s. The shortcut didn’t seem any shorter to Gratiano and Salarino, but it was out of the wind, which perhaps is why Shylock took it, but perfect for their purposes, as it was very sparsely traveled. Only two doorways opened onto it, and those were back doors, so unless someone had their window open—and who would do such a thing on a cold winter evening—they would have a few moments of complete privacy, and a few moments was all they needed. They had discussed it.

“How now, Shylock,” said Salarino, stepping onto the walkway from the recess of one of the doorways. “What news today among the merchants?”

Shylock pulled up, startled. “If you want the news, go to work on the Rialto as an honest merchant would. Maybe you would know as much about your master as you do about my daughter.”

“It is about Antonio that we are here,” said Salarino. “To make a proposal.”

“We?” said Shylock, backing away from the portly man.

“Aye, we,” said Gratiano, coming around the corner a few yards behind Shylock.

“What is it you want?”

“Time, Jew. Only a little time. Antonio, who is the most kind man in Venice, the most generous, the most gentle, asks only for a little more time on his note.”

“Antonio sends you? Like a beggar who will not show his face on the Rialto. Tell him he has four days to look to his bond.”

“What if he forfeits?” said Salarino. “I’m sure you would not take his flesh. What is it good for?”

“To bait fish with . . . ? I care not. If nothing else, it will feed my revenge. Antonio has hindered me in my business half a million ducats over time. He has laughed at my losses, mocked my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated my enemies—and what is his reason? That I am a Jew.”

“Well what do you expect, you are a Jew,” said Salarino.

“I think we’re all in agreement there,” said Gratiano, moving closer.

“Hath not a Jew eyes?” said Shylock, pointing to his eye in the manner of the Turks. “Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Are we not fed with the same food?”

“Do you eat pie?” asked Gratiano. “We were thinking of bringing you a pie.”

“Are we not hurt with the same weapons?” continued Shylock. “Subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is?”