“Ta,” said I, sallying forth, through a bacchanalian crush of traders and tarts in the throes of debauchery over cushions and couches, across the main rooms and even up the great marble staircase. I found Lorenzo in a parlor on the second floor, standing by a window, while Antonio and two of his friends sat side by side on a wide couch, being serviced by a trio of whores, whose heads bobbed in their laps like net floats in a choppy sea. The two younger men—Gratiano on one end and Bassanio in the middle—were completely lost in their pleasure, heads thrown back, eyes closed, arms over the back of the divan, wine goblets sloshing as the girls worked on them, Gratiano thrusted in the air in rhythm with the girl’s movements, but Antonio, ah, Antonio was not floating away on his pleasure, but had his gaze trained on Bassanio, as if looking away might shatter a connection. His left hand was pressed against the younger man’s chest, in his right he gripped a wine goblet as if it were a hammer at the forge. The young ginger tart might be the one doing the work, but Antonio’s passion was focused on Bassanio.

The bloody obviousness of it all was embarrassing. How had I missed it? Of course. A rich, unmarried man keeps constant company with young male protégés who little assist him in his business—of course he was a pooft! Why he didn’t just drag one of them into his apartments and bugger the daylights out of him was beyond me, but strange are the ways of the heart. Tragic, really, that he had to buy the boy a bride, rather than take her himself and reveal his tastes to all of Venice. Well, when he was revealed to be a most heinous scoundrel, he could rest easy about the revelation of his sexual tastes. I’ll wager having an angry Jew carve out your sweetmeats before the court will take a bloke’s mind off all manner of romance.

Lorenzo had noticed me watching his mentor and stepped away from his window, presumably to come to the gallant rescue of his friends’ blow jobs, when I pulled the note from my coat and held it so he could see the wax menorah on the seal. “From Jessica,” said I.

He stepped up to me, showing his back to his friends, and snatched the note from my hand.