“Does a Jew not pay you?” said Shylock, evidently not enjoying my induction into the tribe as much as I.

The gondolier was suddenly very intent upon navigating to the dock by the Rialto Bridge.

“Does my Jewish money not spend in the market?” Shylock stood up in the boat and faced the gondolier, trying to get him to meet his gaze. “Would you have me give your fee, my Jewish coin, to a beggar at the dock rather than have it befoul your Christian hand? What say you?”

“No offense was meant, Shylock,” mumbled the gondolier as he churned the long boat in between two tall mooring poles. “You are my most steady fare, signor.”

“Good day, then,” said Shylock, tossing a copper coin to the boatman as he stepped off. “We will find another way home this evening.”

“Just going to wander till then,” said I, stepping onto the dock with my wooden box. “Just two Jews. Wandering.” I felt a song coming on. “Wandering Jews.” I suppressed the urge to rhyme. “Two Jews amused.” Somewhat suppressed.

“Stay close, boy,” said Shylock.

I hurried up the dock to join him in the bustling square of the Rialto, keeping my head down, my face hidden by my floppy yellow hat. As someone used to attracting attention to himself, wearing bells, and carrying a smugly profane puppet, the anonymity was more difficult than I anticipated. There was irony and mirth lurking everywhere, and it was my holy duty as a fool to point it out, nay, chase it out of the corners and poke it until it giggled.

I caught up with Shylock. “That bit with the boatman was rather Old Testament,” said I.

He wheeled on me, stopped, and assumed the posture of one about to lecture. I had seen it before. Everywhere. “Since the time we were first chosen, Lancelot, suffering has been the lot of our people, but still, we must take our lessons from the prophets. And what do we learn from the story of Moses confronting the pharaoh? When Moses did call down the ten plagues upon the Egyptians? What do we learn from this, young Lancelot?”

“As plagues go, frogs are not so bad?” I was raised in a nunnery. I know Testaments Old and New.

“No, what we learn is, do not fuck with Moses!” He patted my arm. “Come.”

I found that suddenly I quite liked the old Jew. I felt bad at the suffering that was about to befall him, even, perhaps, by my hand. By keeping it to myself, was I turning on my tribe?

A handsome young merchant wearing a purple cravat hailed Shylock, waved him to come into an archway where a group of men were gathered.

“Bassanio,” said Shylock. “He came to me as an agent for Antonio, who would borrow money. You know this Antonio, Lancelot?”

“I know of him.”