Shylock led me across a dock and into a gondola and gestured for me to sit across from him as the gondolier ferried us across the wide tronchetto toward the entrance of the Grand Canal. The water had a cloudy blue-green translucence that made it look as if it were lit from below. I saw something dark moving beneath the water, too deep to make out, perhaps it was just the shadow of the gondola, but before I could ask the gondolier about it, Shylock drew my attention.

“So,” said he. “You are English?”

“Aye, signor. Born and raised at Dog Snogging on Ouse.”

“I see. But old Gobbo, your father, he is Venetian?”

“Mum was English.” She was. Drowned herself when I was but a babe, but as English as St. George himself, although I thought it best not to mention that to the Jew, as the Hebrew pantheon has sod all in the way of saints.

“An English Jew, then. Well.” He stroked his beard. “You know about our people in York? The townspeople of York borrowed money from the Jews, then when the crops failed, blamed the misfortune on our people. They locked all the Jews in the castle keep and burned them.”*

“Oh, right, I was sick that day, if I remember correctly. Sad.” I looked into the well of the boat, sadly, I hoped.

“It was a hundred years ago,” said Shylock with a shrug. “They do not allow our people to own property, but they hate us for lending our moneys at interest to make our way.”

“Well, Yorkshire, county of gormless† gits, innit? Arsehole of all Blighty‡ for my money.” Dog Snogging was bang in the middle of Yorkshire of course, so if Yorkshire was the arsehole of Britain, then I, born and raised there, was—well—being less than sincere.

As the gondolier swung the boat into the mouth of the Grand Canal, which swarmed with small boats, something hit the gondola and our oarsman was knocked off his feet. He caught himself on the oar before he went in the drink, but once righted he looked around for the offending craft, but it had not been another boat that had jostled our vessel.

“Did you see?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “Rock?”

“There are no rocks in the canals.”

“Dolphin?” said Shylock.

“We see dolphins all the time,” said the gondolier. “I’ve never heard of one hitting a boat.”

“Well, they’re the most spiteful of the large fishes, aren’t they?” said I, with the great authority that comes only from countless years of knowing fuck-all about fucking fishes. I did not think it a dolphin.

“Jews,” said the gondolier, spitting into the canal, dismissing our silliness.

There you have it. Taken as one of the tribe without so much as a bug’s knuckle trimmed off the willy. I’d throw that in Jessica’s face when I saw her again—well, so to speak.