He nodded, as if doing the figures and approving them in his head. “Well, then, Signor Lancelot Gobbo, I shall retain your services for a week, as a trial. You shall accompany me to the Rialto this afternoon—carry my box of papers, inks, and quills. I wish to purchase a cask of wine as well. You can carry it home for me. For this and like services, you shall receive room and board plus one farthing for the week. Are we agreed?”

“Oh yes, signor,” said I. I bowed.

“Meet me here after lunch.” Shylock pushed past Jessica and went into his house. “I would have my lunch, daughter,” he called over his shoulder.

Jessica whirled on me and whispered furiously, “Lancelot? Where did you get bloody Lancelot?”

“I thought it would explain away my English accent.”

“We all have English accents, you knob.”

“I know,” said I. “And in an Italian city. Don’t you find that strange?”

She shuddered with frustration. “Well, you’re in, at least. You’ll have to sleep downstairs in the kitchen now, though.” She reached into her bodice and retrieved a parchment, folded tightly and sealed with wax, the sign of the menorah pressed into it. “When you are on the Rialto, slip away and give this to Lorenzo. He will be with Antonio and his other partners. Ask about, everyone knows him. Give him this note. You must not fail.”

“I’ll need a year’s pay in advance,” said I. “I’m going to buy me ol’ da some lunch.”

“Ah, what a good boy he is,” said Gobbo. “Bread and fish will have to do, though. Can’t find a banger in this city to save my life. It’s like all the pork’s floated off, innit?”

“He doesn’t know where he is, does he?” I whispered to the girl.

She shook her head. “Walked off a ferry two years ago and has been wandering around the island since, thinking he’s in Venice proper. No one’s had the heart to tell him. We keep him fed.”

“Did it occur to you that his real son might be in Venice, actually missing him?”

“Oh bugger,” said she. “I never thought of that. Well, he’s your bloody father, you help him.”