“Antonio hates me for my ancient faith, yet his pope makes wars to take Jerusalem from the Saracens. He makes profit on these holy wars, yet calls my thrift a sin. He mocks me for my interest, yet the law forbids me from owning property on which to collect rents. He laughs at me that I must pay to be ferried to and from the Rialto, because the law allows my people to live only on this island. He berates me for this yellow hat I must wear, because the law of his city dictates it. His city, Venice, that makes nothing, grows nothing but salt, does no other thing than trade, and is said to be the glory of the world because her laws treat all fairly. His Venice that has no king, has no lords, but is a republic, a city of laws, a city of the people, says he. A city built on justice, says he! Well, I will have my justice by way of the law. I will see Antonio’s Venice condemn him, sentence him to pour his blood into the canals for his beloved laws. I would have my revenge by way of this so-just law.”

Shylock’s shoulders were heaving with breath, with his anger. I had been pummeled by the blundering angels of false justice as both slave and sovereign; I knew his fire.

“There is risk,” said I. “What if he repays you in good time?”

“If any one of his three ships runs afoul, his fate is mine, and I will weigh his flesh on those same scales that Venice says do stand for justice. God will see to it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t wager a jolly jar of Jew toss for the God nonsense, but I’m in for three-to-one odds of undoing Antonio.”

“Then you will not interfere with my plan?”

“Your revenge shall be my revenge,” said I. Unless it fails, then I will sculpt my own mayhem for Antonio, I thought.

“Then home, and we shall drink to it,” said Shylock. “But no word of this in front of Jessica. She is of a sweet and delicate disposition; I would not have her poisoned by her father’s hateful strategies.”

“Jessica pulled me from the sea—saved me,” said I. “A right love, is your Jessica. If up to me, she shall never hear so much as the whisper of an unkind word.”

But she would, she had, and I, undrowned for only days, was torn now by opposing loyalties.

“You scheming duplicitous harpy, why didn’t you tell me?” said I to the gentle Jessica. “Your father says Brabantio was eaten by rats?”

“You didn’t ask, oh troubadour who was shipwrecked on the way to England and therefore would have no interest in the politics of Venice.” She sang the last bit, just to be annoying.