I, Iago

by Nicole Galland

  I crossed my arms.

  “Iago, my darling husband, listen to me,” she pressed on. “Brabantio likes him. The other senators like him. The upper echelons of our own class like him. He has made an excellent name for himself in Venice in a very short time.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” I demanded. “Why do I need to know this? When did I ever care about someone’s reputation?”

  “It is pleasant to see them embrace somebody who is unlike them,” Emilia said. “It causes me to realize that we need not be just like them, and yet we may still be respected by them. By all these patricians who currently only let you near them because you’re with Othello. If you would make the effort to be, occasionally, charming, you would find yourself admired by the entire patriciate of Venice—for your own merits, not because you are Othello’s man. I know you, Iago, I know that is important to you.”

  I stared at her, resenting her accuracy. “Emilia, it was our mutual dislike of such people that brought us together. How can you now be encouraging me to become their sycophant?”

  “Not a sycophant! Just civil!” she countered. “To be given as much as you deserve.” She gestured around our small apartment. “You are the right-hand man to the leader of the army, and they stable us in here.”

  “Cassio’s rooms are surely worse than these,” I said.

  She shook her head once. “Not anymore. He charmed the quartermaster of the Arsenal at a dinner party six weeks back, and now he has a suite of rooms in the Sagittarius.”

  Now I resented Cassio even further. But worse, now I questioned my wife’s judgment. “You want me to become a fawning would-be courtier in order to give you a nicer bed to lie in? Is that what you, Emilia, are telling me?”

  “I did not mean to anger you, Iago. I’m sorry. I find it peculiar that you take such offense to what I am saying when I know you have ambitions.”

  “You,” I repeated, “you, Emilia, my wife, you of all people I have ever known, you are admiring a guileful fop for his ability to gull people into giving him things he has done nothing to deserve. Do I have that right?” I could feel the tendons in my neck standing out. Emilia looked amazed at my wrath.

  “I am saying,” she said carefully, “that there is no virtue in refusing to be pleasant to people who can help you to your just deserts.”

  “I do not need their help,” I snapped. “I have my own merit. I do not have to charm to have merit. I already have merit. With my merit, I earn what I deserve. There is an integrity to that, which nobody I know—except, I thought, you and perhaps Othello—has any understanding of.”

  “I know and love that about you, Iago. I admire it about you enormously. I am only saying—”

  “I know well enough what you’re saying.” I stormed toward the door, grabbing my cloak from the peg. “I am going out now, I need to clear my head.”

  Chapter 28

  I HAD NO IDEA where I was headed. Native custom and the need for a long walk took me toward my old neighborhood, even toward my old house. Not wanting to arrive there, I diverted down a back alley with no particular intention except to avoid paying a visit to my brother. Rizardo was not somebody I could turn to for advice, encouragement, or soothing.

  I realized I was at the back gate of Pietro Galinarion’s home, the man whose egg Roderigo and I had stolen all those years ago. The richest patrician in our neighborhood—although not, from what I’d heard, as rich as Roderigo himself was these days.

  I wondered how Roderigo was doing. Was he still leery of his professional rival from Florence? (How ironic, we had something in common.) The last I had heard of him was Brabantio’s demeaning refusal of his proffered gift to Desdemona, before we’d left for Zara. Hopefully he was on to some new unconquerable lady by now. He must have had plenty of admirers—he was handsome and rich, and this was Venice.

  I heard men’s voices laughing within Galinarion’s courtyard. There was a sound, and a small leather ball landed on the other side of the iron gate, near my feet.

  “Well now you’ve done it, uncle!” I heard a man’s cheery voice cry out. Feet moved nearer to the gate, until I could see them, and the runner: he was wearing very fine clothing and presumably the latest style of collar—I’d never seen such a protruding ruff before. He was looking for, then reaching for, the ball. He noticed me. He looked familiar, but I could not place him. Until I could: It was Zanino, one of my fellow cadets from the Arsenal. He saw me through the grating of the gate, and his eyes widened.

  “Iago Soranzo!” he cried out with gusto. Immediately he reached up to unlatch the tall gate. It was really not so tall, now that I was no longer ten years old. “Iago, my old friend, what a tremendous surprise! I knew your brother lived in this campo but I did not expect to see you here! What a pleasure! Come in and meet my uncle Pietro!” He already had the gate open, had grabbed my arm, and was nearly hauling me into the yard. “He’s heard about your exploits at the Academy for years! And of course everybody knows you are an aide-de-camp to General Othello.”

  I had last seen Galinarion when I’d stormed out of a masquerade ball during Carnival, the night after I’d met Emilia. Now I thought of Emilia’s words from an hour earlier. Galinarion was precisely the sort of man she wanted me to be able to charm. I was nauseated by the thought of it.

  On the other hand, I wanted to please her if I could. That is the plague and weakness of a devoted husband. Here was a safely private opportunity to experiment.

  So when I was introduced to the senator this time, as his bulk lolled in a couch whose wooden legs were brushed with late-morning dew, I bowed deeply and expressed my heartfelt pleasure at being in the presence of so grand a gentleman. Likewise I showed pleased surprise that my beloved colleague Zanino was his blood-kin. “I did not realize patricians trained for the artillery,” I said.

  “Oh, we had no intention of sending him into the service.” Galinarion coughed from his velvet couch. “His parents simply wanted to get him out of the house for the worst of his pubescence.” Zanino laughed agreeably. “But come, young Iago, would you care for a drink?”

  The enormous man and his gangly nephew were both tipsy, hours before noon. I tried to imagine a life in which I could possibly allow myself to get drunk before noon. What did such lives consist of? The memory of Emilia’s angling for larger rooms by ingratiating myself to such as these made me briefly clench my teeth. “I follow a soldier’s schedule, Senator, and never drink before sundown, but thank you for the kind offer.”

  “I hear Lieutenant da Porto is retiring,” Zanino said, playing with the ball. He tried to interest a very old, tired-looking black dog into chasing the ball, but the dog was not interested. Zanino threw the ball anyhow, and then went after it himself.

  We had returned but the day before; how quickly word spread! “Yes,” I said, pleased. “Da Porto is retiring.”

  “You’ll be taking over his position, I suppose?” Zanino said, eyes blazing with admiration.

  “I suppose,” I said, with what I hoped seemed a casual smile. “There is no guarantee, of course; it is up to the general.”

  “But the general adores you, everyone knows that!” Zanino said, throwing the ball again; this time it hit a piece of statuary, a nymph trying to flee a satyr.

  It delighted me to hear that this was part of the general gossip of the city, at least among those who, like Zanino, fancied themselves military insiders. “I have my hopes,” I confessed. “I am married to a beautiful woman, and I would certainly like to give her more than just an ensign’s quarters.”

  “Why only hopes? Are you at all concerned he will not pick you?” Galinarion said, making a feeble attempt to sit up a little higher.

  I bowed my head with more humility than I really felt on this matter. “There is no way to know what the general will choose to do. I believe I am the best man for the post, but should Othello find another more skilled or more experienced, I shall accept his decision.”

  “I will talk to him about it,” Gal
inarion declared, oozing lordliness.

  Few things would appeal to Othello less than a drunken senator telling him what to do. “Thank you, Senator,” I said, forcing myself to smile.

  “I will ask some of my friends to speak to him as well.”

  “I am even deeper in your debt, Senator,” I said, forcing the smile to broaden.

  “Aha! I have it!” Galinarion said, extremely pleased. “My friend Facio is not only a senator but also deeply involved with the military, and I believe he knows the general well. I will instruct him to speak to Othello on your behalf. Perhaps you know him? Senator Brabantio?”

  Despite myself, I laughed at the poetic irony of this, managing to pass the laughter off as gleeful gratitude. “That, I do believe,” I said, “would clinch it for me.”

  OTHELLO’S CIVIC SUPERINTENDENT, Marco Salamon, possessed a rare shrewdness regarding the use of civic celebrations. No city or nation on earth loves a festival as well as Venice does. The Serene Republic creates festivals, spectacles, masquerades, and feasts for any occasion her denizens can think of. To observe the confluence of San Marco and Othello’s return from Zara, the city planned a celebration with spectacles, fireworks, and lots of feasting.

  Salamon proposed that the supper feast in the Doge’s Palace be transformed into a “Ceremony of Merit,” at which Othello would announce promotions and medals before an array of patricians, citizens, and carefully chosen commoners, thereby demonstrating to the Venetian population that the army was an exciting and rewarding enterprise. Othello agreed, mildly amused by Venetian culture once again.

  “This will not seduce anyone into joining the ranks,” he said to me in a conspiratorial tone after Salamon had left us.

  “I doubt Salamon cares about that,” I replied, equally conspiratorial. “He wants to make an impression on the patricians of the city. He wants to coax them to take an interest in the civil posts they are supposed to be volunteering for.”

  Having Othello’s leave, that same day Salamon approached the admiral of the navy, the captain of the cavalry, and the captain of the artillery, who all agreed to invent some promotions or awards of merit within their own branches. And so the feast plans rapidly expanded into a sprawling fete, so enormous its planned location was moved from the doge’s public dining room to the cavernous Great Council chamber.

  EVERY NIGHT OF the week that spanned from our return to the Ceremony of Merit, Othello dined with Brabantio, and Desdemona sat at table with them. Usually Emilia and I were invited along; sometimes we were not. I preferred the nights we were not. When we were present, it was unnerving to watch Othello and Desdemona, knowing—as Brabantio could not know—all that was unsaid. Every moment between them was in code; I did not know the code but I knew that it existed, and I knew that Brabantio did not know even that much.

  Emilia beamed, watching the two of them pretend to be casual with each other. Her joy disturbed me. The thoughtlessness of the two people I most admired and loved, one rendered foolish by his infatuation, the other rendered foolish by her delight of that infatuation—these were the silly dramas and romances of the Venetian patriciates, and we, the ones upon whose backs and shoulders the Serene Republic leaned, should not stoop to such absurdity. I was never the praying sort, but I prayed daily that the two chaste lovers would cease their obsession with each other, so that Othello would return to his soldier’s life. But their mutual regard grew every day until I was amazed Brabantio could not see it in the glowing of their faces.

  THE AFTERNOON OF the feast day, Othello and I were in his office, reviewing the latest plans for refortifying Famagusta. As always, these were fairly risible.

  “I suspect we shall have to go ourselves to see it,” Othello said.

  “I wonder if anything about the fortress will actually resemble what we have been told,” I mused.

  “I have seen—” Othello began, but stopped abruptly as his office door jerked open.

  Michele Cassio nearly entered—then, seeing me, he pulled up short.

  “Michele,” said Othello in a low and suddenly urgent tone as he rose from his chair. As if I were not present, he crossed to Cassio in the doorway, leaned in to him, and muttered something softly in his ear. Cassio whispered back. Othello whispered once more. Cassio nodded with Florentine precision, bowed, and then strode away with purpose and a bit of smugness.

  “I have seen the fortress of Famagusta myself,” Othello said to me, returning to his seat—as if there had been no interruption, as if he had risen merely to open a shutter for ventilation. “The depictions we have seen are not so very far off. It is only the engineers’ intentions that are too fanciful. Look, here is another example of their proposals,” he continued, pulling a large piece of vellum from the collection on his desk.

  I opened my mouth to ask “What was that about?” but found I could not speak.

  OUR MEETING ADJOURNED, Othello excused himself with strange abruptness. Out of habit, I considered seeking Emilia’s company, but then realized, feeling sad, that I did not really want to. She was grown so enamoured of the secret love affair that she had begun to crave a patina of romance in me that wasn’t there, and never had been. In her company, I would feel ashamed for not having done more to please her.

  As I stood outside the Saggitary door, deliberating where to spend the next few hours, I was approached by tall, gangly Zanino. “My uncle has summoned you with news of his advocating your lieutenancy,” Zanino announced. His eyes were bright, and his cheeks flushed, so excited was he to be inside the Arsenal gates again.

  The ceremony was that evening and I was confident of my position; still, my pulse quickened when I heard this.

  By gondola and then on foot we traveled, and despite Zanino’s attempts to chatter with me, I could not but focus on my private, unspoken, ruminative monologue. I did not know if Brabantio had actually been solicited on my behalf; he had never referenced it at table all week, and I had been on tenterhooks each visit there, wondering if he would. I could think of no other officer worthy of the post—although I suddenly worried that Othello might give the position to Cassio to reward him for playing pimp. I quickly dismissed this as mad. Even besotted Othello would never let his romantic needs supplant his military duty. Cassio would no doubt receive a bonus or promotion he did not deserve, but nothing that might have direct bearing upon the governance of the army.

  When we arrived at Galinarion’s, we were ushered into his salon, where he was enjoying an afternoon engorgement. “I want you to know, my dearest Iago, that I went to Brabantio’s the other night, and we together, with our friend Dominic Zen, met with your general. We raised a glass with him in celebration of the ever improving standards of the army, and we observed that you would make an excellent and obvious first lieutenant.” He paused, and shifted his large frame within the chair as he reached for a sausage on a heated serving dish.

  “And . . . what did the general reply?” I asked. I was surprised that I felt nervous. It was some twisted fear in me, the residue of childhood insults from my father, that could make me doubt Othello even for a moment.

  “He was not very gracious to us,” Galinarion said and closed his enormous mouth around the sausage. I then had to wait for what felt like a fortnight as he chewed and swallowed to his satisfaction. “He made a face of incredulity and told us he did not need the advice of aging gallants to be told who should be his lieutenant. He told us that we were being presumptuous! We! The men who raise his salary!”

  I relaxed at that, and even repressed a laugh. Of course Othello would say that to a triad of stuffy patricians. On principle, he would refuse to listen to them. I understood that stance; indeed, I applauded that stance.

  All the same—why could he not have upbraided them and then added that of course he was naming me as his lieutenant?

  For the love of the saints, I chastised myself. The man is your dearest friend. Go and talk to him directly. I should have done that days ago.

  I excused myself from Galina
rion’s great house and took a gondola all the way along the lower Grand Canal, past the Doge’s Palace, and eastward back to the Arsenal.

  A GUARD I did not know was standing at the door to the Sagittary.

  “Please wait outside, sir,” he said as I was reaching for the latch.

  I was thrown by this—it was the first time I had not had immediate access to Othello.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I am only following orders, sir.” No vocal inflection, and he would not look me in the eye. I stood on the pavement by the entry and watched cadets practice marching in formation. They were awful.

  AFTER WHAT SEEMED like half an hour, the Sagittary door opened, and Michele Cassio came out. He wore a face of such smug satisfaction I wanted to slap him, without even knowing the cause of his expression. He gave me a greeting that was less Florentine than usual, and more military. He headed toward the gate.

  “You may go in now, sir,” said the guard.

  I ENTERED THE OFFICE and saw Othello, alone, in a state of mild agitation. What had Cassio said that would unnerve the general? And why would Cassio look so pleased about it? Perhaps it was the beginning of some wonderful intrigue that would unravel their clandestine fraternity.

  I saluted Othello. His face brightened with relief, and he grabbed me by the arm to pull me into an embrace. “Iago!” he cried. “Iago, thank heaven it is you, there is nobody else in the world whose company I could bear right now.”

  I returned the embrace weakly, both reassured and startled. “You look distressed,” I said.

  He rubbed his broad dark hands together briskly. “Anxious,” he corrected. His hands curled into fists and he beat the air with them, then laughed, relaxed the fists, massaged his temple for a moment, began to rub his hands together, paced around the office quickly. “Just a little anxious, my friend.” He glanced at me and chuckled nervously. I must have looked concerned, because he stopped chuckling, stopped pacing, and now adopted an attitude of forced nonchalance, arms folded over his chest.