I, Iago

by Nicole Galland

  BRABANTIO’S PALACE WAS the one to which Othello was most often summoned. Othello stopped complaining about these invitations; to that house alone he seemed content to go, even eager. It became common for the summons to reach him in his office at the Saggitary, while I was with him. The custom had developed that he would hand me the embossed card and say, “Meet me at the Arsenal gate at seven bells. With Emilia, if she is so inclined.”

  “He likes the girl,” Emilia said conspiratorially at about half-six one evening as we were dressing. “And she likes him.”

  “That,” I announced, “is ridiculous in both directions.”

  “Do you think he is so fond of the senator’s pomposity that he looks forward to a new dose of it several times a week?” Emilia demanded, brushing some lint off the back of my jerkin.

  “Certainly, the girl is food for the eyes,” I said. “Prettier than any of the other unavailable female flesh he might have occasion to ogle.”

  “She likes him too.” Emilia grinned, moving around to my front to make sure my laces were neat. “I was with her at that first large dinner party. She never took her eyes off him.”

  There was a single sharp rap on the door. I crossed, and opened it. An officious young man who clerked at the Saggitary saluted and then informed me that Othello did not require our presence that evening.

  “Why did he not come to tell us himself?” I asked in surprise.

  The youth looked at me as if I were an idiot. “The general does not run such errands,” he said.

  I dismissed him.

  “Do not even say it,” Emilia said at once, reading my expression. “This has nothing to do with you, Iago. The lad’s quite right, it would be odd for Othello to come in person.”

  “He came in person to summon us, the first three times!” I protested. “He came as a friend, asking our assistance! Why can he not, as a friend, now come and at least thank us for our service to him, or explain the rudeness of dis-inviting us?”

  “It is hardly our service to him,” Emilia countered. “We have been the ones dining far above our place for weeks now. It was if anything an indulgence on his part, to take us along.”

  “That may be how it looked to outsiders, but that is not the real matter, and you know it,” I argued. “He ordered me to go with him, his need of my company was so great.”

  “Go meet him at the gate and ask him why he didn’t come in person himself, then,” Emilia suggested with a comfortable shrug. She turned her back on me. “Here, loosen my corset for me if we’re not going out tonight.”

  “There will be people at the gate; I would look like a fool,” I snapped, not offering to help her.

  “Since when do you, Iago, care what other people think of you?” she asked, amused.

  That brought me up short. “I do not care what others think of me, just what he thinks of me,” I said brusquely, and grabbed her laces to untie them. “He would think it foolish of me to upbraid him at the gate.”

  “That’s because it would be,” she said in a tone of exasperation, amplified by a sigh as the laces loosed. “I think it is wonderful that he has gained his equilibrium enough to navigate the artificial sea of Venetian manners. Good for you for teaching him to steer it; good for him for being an apt pupil.”

  “I never thought of it as student and pupil. I thought of it as two friends appreciating each other’s company,” I growled through closed teeth, tugging at the lower laces. “I do not see why I should suddenly be deprived of his company because I have been a good enough friend to help him feel comfortable on his own.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at me with a look of confusion, and then laughed. “Iago, my dear, are you jealous? Are you jealous of the whole of Venice, just because Othello, heaven forbid, might make another friend from among its many inhabitants?” When I did not answer, she added in a knowing tone, “Or are you jealous there is one in particular who might borrow your friend’s heart and not return it?”

  A spasm of anxiety gripped me. “What do you mean?” I demanded.

  Emilia turned to face me, stretching, sinuously arching her torso beneath the loosened corset. If I were not distracted, I would have found this irresistibly seductive. “No man ever likes to see his friends give up their bachelorhood, even if they themselves are married,” she said comfortably. “My father had three widowed friends, and each of them, remarrying, distressed him more than he had words to say it. He never liked their new wives.”

  “Are you mad? The man’s not getting married. He’s never even spoken a word in private with that girl. And good Lord, she must have the most desirable dowry in the city—do you think her father would dispose of her to a man who is not a patrician? Who is not even a Venetian? Who would forever change the family’s race?”

  Emilia blinked in shock. “Do you really think that way?”

  “Of course not, but Brabantio does. I know these men, Emilia, I grew up in their shadows. That girl will be married off to—”

  “Her name is Desdemona, you know,” Emilia interrupted sharply. “You’ve never once to my ear called her that. You call her ‘that girl,’ as if she were an object, not a person.”

  “That’s because she essentially is an object,” I said heatedly. “No fault of hers, and certainly I pity her for it, but she will be married off according to her father’s will. It has not even entered my mind that Othello would cease to be a bachelor. So stop preaching at me for being afraid that it could happen. It cannot, and it will not. She will be married, yes, and probably soon, but by her father’s choosing.” A new thought came to me, and I felt strangely comforted by it: “I am sure Othello does not realize that. Perhaps you’re right that he fancies her. But just as he did not know he should pull her chair out, perhaps he doesn’t know the rules here. I am probably the only man in Venice qualified to tell him so, without his losing face.”

  Emilia grinned and pushed the corset off elegantly. “Excellent, a way to make yourself more important than the girl,” she said. “I am so glad you’re not the jealous type.”

  Chapter 22

  LATE THAT EVENING, when I was sure Othello would be home but not yet abed, I crossed the campo and was admitted to the Arsenal, and then the Saggitary. A servant let me in, and I found the general staring intensely out his bedroom window at the moon.

  “Good evening, Ensign,” he said without looking at me. “I hope you did not take it amiss that I did not ask you to come with me tonight.”

  “Truly, General, I was put out by it, but Emilia lectured me and I realized that I was being childish.”

  Othello turned back into the room and slowly smiled at me. “No other officer would answer me so honestly. I do love that about you, Iago.”

  “Others do not find it lovable, General,” I replied. “Others find it churlish.”

  “Fie on others, then,” Othello said. “Anyway, I dearly wish I’d brought you along, if that helps your wounded pride. It was a horrible affair this evening.”

  I was ashamed that I felt mollified at hearing this. “Why, General?” I asked.

  Othello took a deep breath and then began a monologue delivered in the most peevish voice I’d ever heard him utter. “There was a gallant present, the spoiled son of some patrician. He was in the full-on silly Venetian paraphernalia, with tresses and pale complexion. He was the only other guest but me, and he was there to court Desdemona through her father, right in front of me. It took me nearly an hour to realize that is what was going on. He flattered her, but only to her father.” He paused a moment, his fingers fidgeting with the kerchief tied around his neck. “At the end of the evening, he took her father aside to speak to him in low tones, and a servant woman came out and stood by the table so that Desdemona and I would not be left alone. If you or Emilia had been there, there’d have been no need of the servant woman, and I could have conversed with Desdemona freely, but the damned hag looked as if she’d pinch me if I so much as glanced directly at the lady. Desdemona kept trying to send her away
with excuses, but the woman would not move. Then the senator returned to the table alone and announced the young man had left the house. To which Desdemona said, Thank you, Father, and Brabantio replied, He really would have been fine, you know. Do you know what they were talking about, Iago?” His tone was rhetorical, but I decided to answer anyhow.

  “The man was Desdemona’s suitor,” I said. “He asked her father for her hand and her father said no, at Desdemona’s request.”

  “Yes! And they did this directly in front of me! Is that not shocking? What if the answer had been yes, and there I was, sitting right at the table, clearly courting Desdemona for myself?”

  I could not speak for what felt like one quarter hour, but the silence must have lasted no longer than a heartbeat. “You . . . you are courting Desdemona?”

  He looked equally startled. “It is not obvious?”

  I smiled almost sheepishly, with a passing sense of relief. “No, General,” I said. “Except to Emilia, of course, who seems to notice everything.”

  “You have a marvelous wife there, Ensign,” Othello said, offhandedly, before pressing on. “I consider it extremely obvious. My constant dining at their table—surely far more often than any other suitor has ever spent there—I thought this made me nearly family. Tonight was my attempt to play the role without you there to lean on, for honestly, Iago, I cannot imagine myself in any of these houses without knowing you are in it somewhere too.”

  “Thank you, General,” I said quietly, but he hardly heard and kept going.

  “And then I was treated as if I were a piece of furniture! Or a pet! They allowed—no, invited, somebody else to come in and press his suit in front of me! Desdemona said no, of course, but Brabantio chided her for it—in front of me. I have never been insulted so—and, Iago, you know I am not the sort to take offense. I was going to chastise him for it, but then I thought perhaps there is some strange Venetian custom I am not aware of, and since you were not there to warn me of it, I decided to hold my tongue until I could speak to you about it in the morning. I am very glad you’ve come tonight—forgive me, in my annoyance I have not even asked you why you’ve come.”

  “Our minds are much alike, General,” I said. I felt protective indignation on his behalf. But also, I felt almost as if I stood outside myself, watching some other Iago experience a flood of childishly pleasurable emotions that were not manly but still very real. “Emilia was quite adamant that you had a growing fondness for the girl, and—although, as I admit, I was too blind to see it myself—I wanted to alert you to the . . . as you said, the strange Venetian customs. If you care to hear about them. Perhaps I should come back in the morning, when you are calmer.”

  “No! Speak to me now or I shall never sleep tonight,” Othello declared. “Wine!” he called to a servant waiting by the door. He pointed to a stuffed chair by the unlit hearth. “Sit,” he said. “Explain what I need to know so that I may court Desdemona in the Venetian manner.”

  “Are you sure you want to court her, General?” I asked despite myself. “She is extremely beautiful, I grant you, but she has barely exchanged words with you. You do not know the lady.”

  Othello grinned. It was one of his hearty, playful grins, which had seldom lit his face since . . . well, come to think of it, since we first dined at Brabantio’s. “Your wife is craftier than you know, Iago,” he said. “Sometimes at parties and fetes she has been the chaperone for Desdemona and I to speak together. We have had more of a chance to come to know each other than—”

  “Emilia?”

  “Yes, Emilia.” Othello smiled. “It is not a regular courtship, there is certainly nothing untoward. But, for instance, there was a dance at the senator’s dinner party, do you recall? And we three stood together away from the dancers. She stood between us, but then deliberately turned her attention to some painting on the wall. She gave us a chance to have more conversation than we could at Brabantio’s table. And she has done similarly at other gatherings.”

  “Why would she not tell me this?” I demanded.

  He laughed. “Iago, it is hardly a conspiracy. She performed a little kindness below the notice of others, that is all. I have not tried to make love to Desdemona. I have been a gentleman. I have never even expressed my interest in her, but the interest, by its very nature, is obvious.”

  “Meanwhile, Emilia has been deceitful,” I muttered, appalled. “To me.”

  “She was being discreet,” Othello corrected. “I am indebted to her for it—and by extension to you, Iago, so there is nothing amiss here.”

  My panicked feeling made no sense, but still the panic was there. “Why did you not take me into your confidence?” I demanded. “Why was I not a part of this great secret romancing? Why is Emilia deeper in your confidence than I am?”

  “You silly man,” Othello said, sounding slightly impatient now. “There was no secret about which to take you in. I did not solicit your wife’s assistance, nor did she ever overtly offer it; she simply made sure to find herself in conversation with Desdemona on occasion—a natural thing—and then with Desdemona beside her, she would find her way toward me—also a natural thing, as I know Emilia well and her husband, as you may have heard, is my ensign and close friend. She would stand there for a bit while Desdemona and I exchanged pleasantries and stories. Then Emilia would move on, and Desdemona with her. For all I know she took Desdemona to converse with every would-be suitor in Venice, but I do not think so. I prefer to think I was the only one whom she assisted.”

  “Neither of you ever told me!” I said hotly.

  Othello began to answer, then stopped, looked at me a moment, and began again. “Iago. What have I just described to you? If you heard an account of that, would you not dismiss it impatiently as women’s talk, as party chatter? You would think it trifling and berate Emilia or complain to me that we were wasting precious moments of your life with such trivial nonsense.”

  “There was a secret among those close to me, and I was kept from the secret,” I said stonily, feeling my pulse all the way into my stomach. “Even tonight when Emilia spoke to me, she did not tell me this.”

  “What should she have said?” Othello said, increasingly impatient. “I know they are taken with each other because sometimes I stand about at a party with the two of them, and they talk to each other? Is she deceiving you because she did not share such a specific little comment with you? Do not be childish, Iago, childishness becomes you no better than does jealousy. Anyhow, this is not about Emilia. You came here to explain to me Venetian courting customs, and I am eager to hear them—precisely so that Emilia no longer has to be our self-appointed chaperone. So.” He settled into the chair across from me and accepted the wine the servant offered. He gestured for me to take the other cup from the tray and said, “Begin.”

  I made myself tuck away the seething anxiety I felt about Emilia. I had come here with a real purpose, and not an easy one.

  I accepted the wine. “You see, General, Senator Brabantio is a patrician.”

  “Of course he is. That is tautological, Iago, that is like saying, ‘the father is a man.’ He would not be a senator were he not a patrician.”

  “Correct. And the patrician class only marries within itself.”

  “I have heard this,” Othello said, unruffled. “And who made them patricians? Their forefathers, or they themselves, by achievement, Iago. It is well known throughout the world that Venice, alone of all civilized states that ever were, has a ruling class into which one may ascend by merit.”

  Ah, the myth of Venice. Now even more, I did not want to have this conversation. It would crush him and enrage him, and I did not want to be the man to hurt him so.

  “That was true at one point in time,” I said carefully. “And it was true for centuries. But a long time ago, those who were patricians decided there were enough patricians and literally closed the ranks. Today the only way to be a member of the patriciate is to be born into it.” As his eyes opened in their startlingly wh
ite orbs, I added apologetically, “Once, yes, a man might have won his way into those upper ranks, but that—like so many other things that made Venice splendid—that is in the past. It does not happen now.”

  “The Duke of Urbino was granted hereditary patrician status,” Othello recited promptly. Oh, heaven, he was in deep then: he had been investigating.

  “By the pope,” I corrected him. “Not by Venice. In fact, the pope gave it to him while he was fighting against Venice.”

  “An exception could be made today,” Othello argued.

  “Perhaps if the exception were Venetian by birth,” I said, hating that I had to be so unpleasantly precise.

  Othello sat upright and put a hand to his own cheek, gently, as if in ginger discovery. “Here, in this great republic, where my race has not prevented me from ascending to the heights of—”

  “You may ascend,” I said, “but not your offspring. You may become a citizen, in time, if you settle here and pay your taxes. But never a patrician. Forgive me, General, for speaking bluntly, but you wanted to know. It has never once crossed Brabantio’s mind to think of you as a suitor to his daughter. You could give her roses and jewels and serenade her in front of him, and he would not consider you a suitor. He was not being rude tonight, when he allowed a suitor to make one last plea right in front of you. If you had chastised him as you felt the urge to, he would have had no idea what caused your upset.”

  Othello put down his wine cup and sprang to his feet, smacking one hand into the other fist with terrible agitation. “If this is true, then why does Desdemona give me her courtesy? Am I just some . . . curiosity to her, as to all the others? I cannot believe that. I have seen an expression on her face that I have never seen from another human being in my life. She loves me, sure.”