I, Iago

by Nicole Galland

  “When you have done that, Iago, join me on the wall works,” Othello was saying as he pushed his chair back. “Come, gentlemen, show me these famous fortifications.” The perfumed gentlemen—among them, leathery-faced Montano and a famous engineer named Zuan Hieronomo—showed him out. I handed off the letters to a page boy.

  I had no interest in tagging along with the officials as they showed Othello a fortress he had already thoroughly examined on his own time, with his own engineers. We already knew the main problem with Famagusta: these towers were at angles, not rounded, and (unlike Nicosia) they did not sufficiently project far enough out to allow room to cover flanking fire. Othello and I together had devised a solution to this, before we had been sent here: wooden curtains that could swing out with artillery attached. Othello now simply had to persuade Signior Hieronomo that this was Signior Hieronomo’s own idea.

  To avoid becoming entangled in that conversation, I wandered slowly through the armoring rooms, a level below the general and his sycophants, trying to sort out what to do about Cassio.

  EMILIA WOULD HAVE greeted him and taken his message to Desdemona, because I’d told her to. Desdemona would surely have come outside to hear his plea. She would likely be sympathetic, because she knew and liked him, and of course felt beholden to him for helping carry out her elopement. If she agreed to petition Othello, she would win him over. Completely so: not only to reinstate him as an officer but as lieutenant.

  I could do nothing to prevent these events from happening. I could only manipulate their meaning. That meant I’d have to call upon the second, uglier part of my revenge fantasy, and make Othello question Desdemona’s motives. I felt my gut clench at the thought.

  I need not convince him they are actually lovers, I told myself, only that there is cause to be . . . a little wary. A man so rapturously in love is naturally jealous and insecure—I had been so with Emilia. If I’d had a close friend back then, what words from a confidant would have caused me alarm? Such words, if I could summon them, I’d use with Othello, of Cassio.

  Besides, I reassured that small part of me that quailed at my intentions, Cassio does seem taken with her; this may well be an honest warning bell I ’mringing.

  I TIMED THINGS WELL and found Othello on the parapets having just bid good day to the magistrates.

  “The artillery curtains?” I asked, catching my breath.

  “Why, yes, my friend,” Othello said with his winning grin. “Signior Hieronomo is a wondrously inspired engineer—he intended a notion of moveable artillery curtains. Wasn’t that clever? You and I, Iago, we should brush up on our engineering skills, then perhaps we would think of such clever things.”

  “Well done, General,” I said. “You are learning how to navigate Venetian waters.”

  “Fencing?” Othello said.

  With remarkable offhandedness I suggested, “Soon enough, but perhaps we might first repair to the ladies’ wing and say good morning to our wives?”

  He grinned. He always grinned in matters regarding Desdemona. I doubted we would catch Cassio still there, but it was worth the try.

  We strolled the wall walk around the keep tower and turned onto the wing that housed the bedrooms. Just as we turned the corner, I saw, bobbing in the air below, a bright blue ostrich feather.

  Chapter 42

  THE OSTRICH FEATHER bobbed nervously in the opposite direction from us, and disappeared out of the fortress gate.

  Oh, I liked the looks of that.

  “Huh,” I said, as if to myself. “I don’t like the looks of that.”

  “What did you say?” Othello asked, taking a longer stride and craning his neck to see farther around the corner.

  “It was nothing,” I said dismissively. “I just . . . no, it was nothing.”

  “Was that Michele Cassio down there? Talking to my wife?” Othello asked.

  “Cassio?” I said, in a surprised tone. “I think not, the fellow down there darted off as if he were guilty of some crime.”

  “I think it was Cassio,” Othello said thoughtfully.

  Emilia looked up and waved to me at that moment; Desdemona, following her gaze, held both of her hands up to her husband. We were two floors up, but near the external stairs that could take us down to the courtyard level. We began the descent.

  “Good morning, General!” Desdemona called out sweetly. “I’ve spent the morning being courted here by a suitor who is languishing in your displeasure.”

  Again, the heavens were surely working for me. Were I playing God myself, it would not have occurred to me to make Desdemona use the word suitor.

  Othello stopped so abruptly I bumped into his shoulder. “Whom do you mean?” he asked.

  She gave him an exaggerated look implying he should know better. “Your lieutenant Cassio, of course.” She gestured to the scraggly lawn around her. “Join us, and bring your witty ensign there.”

  I avoided Emilia’s eyes at the use of both these ranks, and followed Othello down the stairway to stand near the ladies. Desdemona, smiling like a mischievous kitten, moved toward Othello and held out her hands toward him, in a coquettish invitation to embrace her.

  “My good lord,” she purred as his hands came to rest on her shoulders. “If I have any power to move you, give Cassio his position back.”

  Othello’s smile faded. He removed his hands from her shoulders and turned away. Desdemona, undeterred, immediately sidestepped to remain in front of him, and now she placed her hands on his broad shoulders.

  “He worships you, Othello. He made a terrible mistake, and he’s very sorry for it. Do not reprehend. I have absolute faith that he will never make that mistake again, and since he has no other weaknesses at all, I beg you to call him back.”

  Othello glanced at me. I shrugged, as if this matter had not the slightest thing to do with me. The general looked back at his wife. “Was that him, just now?”

  “Yes,” she said. Othello looked at me again, more abruptly, and this time I met his gaze, as if I were suspicious. “He was so upset about his situation that he’s left part of his grief with me. Please, love, I beg you: call him back.”

  Othello frowned and brushed her hands from his shoulder; he turned away from her, toward me, looking stern. “Not now, sweeting, some other time.”

  Smiling angelically, she sashayed sideways once more to stay directly in front of her husband. “Will it be soon?” she asked adorably.

  Othello sighed and smiled at her despite himself. “Only because it means so much to you, love.”

  “Perhaps tonight, over supper?” she suggested. “Shall we invite him to dine with us?”

  “No,” Othello said, a stern parent. “Not tonight.”

  “Tomorrow at dinner?”

  “I’m taking mess with the captains at the citadel.”

  “Well, then,” Desdemona said comfortably, unshakably confident of her power to soften him. She raised her arms to his neck, clasped her hands behind his head, and began to coo to him: “Tomorrow night, or Tuesday morning, or Tuesday noon, or Tuesday night, or Wednesday morning—”

  “Desdemona!” Othello said, trying halfheartedly to disentangle himself. It was hard to tell if he was laughing or scolding. I moved a step closer to Emilia, and she held out her hand; I moved closer yet so that our shoulders brushed against each other. We clenched hands.

  “That’s it, then,” she whispered. “Even if he does not like it, he’ll say yes to her, because it’s her.”

  Desdemona was continuing to list all the possible times that Cassio might be received over the course of the next decade, and Othello continued to make a noise that was half laughter, half chastisement. Desdemona pushed him further: “I would never deny you anything, love, so how can you deny me something so easy to grant? This is Michele Cassio, after all—the man that helped you woo me! I would not now be standing with my arms around you being so annoying, were it not for his kindnesses! If my words will not convince you, believe me, I have other ways—” And she bega
n, in front of us, to reach toward his groin. Othello pulled her arms off him and stepped back.

  “Enough! Enough” he said sharply, and then, with impatient resignation: “Let him come when he will.”

  Emilia turned her head into my shoulder, muting a sigh.

  “Stop that,” I said fiercely into her ear. “That’s your mistress and my master—do not embarrass me with personal pettiness in front of them.” She glanced up at me, stung.

  Othello had wrapped his arms around Desdemona and was squeezing her in a hug. “For God’s sake, I cannot deny you anything.”

  Emilia and I exchanged brief, unhappy glances. “Contain yourself,” I warned in a whisper. Chastened, she lowered her gaze.

  Desdemona, enjoying her power, continued to ply her husband. I realized with mixed emotions that this suited me. “It’s not as if you’re doing me a favor,” she insisted. “Any more than you’d be doing me a favor if you listened to me when I told you to wear your gloves or eat your dinner. It’s a favor to yourself.”

  “Is it really?” he asked, releasing her, wearied from being henpecked in front of friends.

  “Oh, yes,” she assured him, smiling. “When I ask you a favor, for myself, you’ll know it, because it will be impossibly difficult for you to grant it.”

  “I cannot wait. In the meantime, for now, leave me alone,” he said, with a firm smile that made it clear he would brook no more flirting this morning.

  “I shall disappear at once,” she declared, victorious, and held her hand out to Emilia. “Come, we’re leaving.” Emilia gave my hand a final squeeze, then released it and followed her.

  Othello, looking immediately regretful, called out as they headed toward the door, “I’ll be in to see you in just a moment.”

  “Surely, surely, surely,” Desdemona said gaily, knowing she took his heart with her in her palm. “Whatever pleases you.”

  I watched Othello watching her as she disappeared into the building. He held his hand over his chest and murmured something to himself, his face radiant with love. He would give her whatever she asked for, even if she asked for something wrong or dreadful. I would never get that sash if I did not act immediately.

  “General?” I said carefully. “Shall we to the fencing yard?”

  He started from his reverie and turned to face me. “Did you say something, Iago?”

  I gestured him toward the passageway in the far wall, and together we began to cross the courtyard.

  This was the moment. Into the comfortable silence between us, I asked, “Othello, pardon, but your lady said that Michele helped you to woo her?”

  “Yes, of course. Why?”

  I shook my head. “I was just wondering.”

  “And why were you wondering?”

  “I did not realize he knew her so well.”

  “Of course he did—he was our go-between.”

  I shot my eyebrows up. “Really?”

  Othello frowned at me. “Iago, surely you knew that.”

  “I did not realize—” I looked away and brushed it off. “Never mind. I knew you were sending her letters. I did not realize they went through him, that he was so directly intimate with her.”

  Othello gave me an inquisitive look. “What does it matter? He’s an honest man, is he not?”

  I blinked twice, rapidly. “Honest?”

  Othello stopped; I took one step more, then squinting into the glare of morning sunlight, pivoted to face him as he retorted, impatiently, “Yes, honest. It was a rhetorical question, Iago, it does not require a response.”

  I avoided his gaze for not quite one heartbeat, then met his glance and smiled comfortingly. “You’re right, of course. I’m sure he is perfectly honest, as honest as any man who has any honesty in him. Come, there is a rapier with my name on it—” and I turned again in the direction we’d been traveling.

  “Iago,” Othello said from behind me, in a tone that stopped me again. “Why did you say it like that?”

  Again a hesitation, then I looked over my shoulder at him. “Like what, sir?”

  Othello shifted his weight back onto his heels. “Is there something you are not telling me, Iago?”

  I glanced away quickly, then again looked at him, with an uncertain smile.

  Othello frowned. “Tell me your thoughts, Iago.”

  “My thoughts?” I said with a nervous laugh, and my gaze darted away again from his face.

  “Yes, your thoughts!” Othello huffed. “Why are you echoing me? Come, Iago, I know you too well. There is something going on behind those eyes that you are not telling me. That is unlike you. I want you to tell me.”

  I lowered my gaze and shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Othello sighed with impatience. His left hand resting on his sword hilt, he glanced back in the direction we’d just come. “Just a few moments ago you said you did not like the way Cassio was sneaking away from my wife when we approached. And then you said you did not realize how well they knew each other when I was wooing her. And now you are obviously avoiding telling me something you think about his character.”

  As he glanced toward me, I again glanced away. All of this felt genuine to me: I did loathe Cassio’s character; there was no wrongness at all in letting Othello know it.

  “Iago, if you love me, tell me what you’re thinking.”

  I glanced at him and regarded the warm, commanding eyes. This man had been my best friend for years now. “You know I love you,” I said simply.

  “Yes, I think you do,” Othello said with quiet satisfaction. He crossed his arms and settled back even farther on his heels. “And I know you well, Iago—you have a deserved reputation for extreme bluntness, but I also know how careful and weighty you are with your words. So your little hesitations, your glances away—like that!” he interjected as I looked down at my boots. With guilty speed, I raised my eyes to meet his again. “Just like that, Iago—when you, of all men, behave like that, I take it very seriously.”

  “My lor—”

  “No, listen to me,” Othello ordered, pointing a finger like a chastising father. I closed my mouth and put one finger to my lips. Othello crossed his arms again. “Usually when men cannot meet my gaze it is because they are up to something unsavory and they are afraid I’ll be able to tell. But that is not you. There is something strange going on here with you, and I want you to tell me what it is.”

  I looked at him, and wished Michele Cassio did not exist. “I’m . . . I will swear that . . . I think Michele Cassio seems honest.” How ironic: that was a lie, for I knew Michele Cassio was not honest.

  “I think so too,” Othello said quickly—but studying me. He also knew Cassio was not honest; he had relied on that to woo his bride.

  “Good,” I said, and clasped my hands together with finality. “Men should be what they seem.”

  “Mmm,” Othello said, staring at me intensely, not moving. “Yes, men should be what they seem.”

  “Well, then,” I said, glancing away from him. “I think Cassio’s an honest man. Time for some swordplay.” I took a step into the shadowed passageway that would lead out to the exercise yard.

  Othello did not move. He kept staring at me, and I continued to avoid the gaze. “No, there is more to this. Iago, there is something you’re not saying here. Do not deny it—” he ordered, seeing me open my mouth. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Out with it. Give the worst of your thoughts the worst of words.”

  I pressed my lips together nervously. It was real nervousness. He was taking the bait, and I could not now dismiss the moment even if I wanted to. I was committed. “General, pardon me, but I won’t do that.”

  Othello looked like he’d been slapped. “What?” he said. “Why not?”

  “It is my duty to perform whatever action you command, but my thoughts are my own, and I prefer to keep them that way.”

  “Why?” he demanded. “It is me, Iago, not a stranger. I am not ordering you as your commander, but asking as your friend. What on earth would you
not want me to hear?”

  “They’re just my thoughts,” I said. “They are not reality. They could be wrong. They could be, they could be . . . evil.”

  Othello laughed stiffly. “Iago, that is ridiculous, you are not an evil man.”

  “But I can be a nasty one,” I warned.

  “Nasty is not evil,” he retorted. “Yes, you can be nasty with your frankness, but that does not make you evil.”

  “Is there any man so saintly that he never has an evil thought?” I shot back. “Can you think of any soul alive—yourself included—who has never harbored thoughts they wished they did not have?”

  Othello’s stare intensified. “If you’re having such thoughts now, Iago, and you do not tell me what they are, then you’re doing me a great disservice. Both as your general and as your friend.”

  I leaned in closer to him. “Please,” I said. “As you said, you know me well. You know I can be vicious. And jealous. And suspicious. Even when I am behaving well, it does not mean the vicious, jealous, suspicious thoughts are not plaguing me inside.” How absolutely honest I was being. “As long as I have my thoughts under control, why should I have to tell you about them? It serves no purpose. It just humiliates me, to admit I have such unseemly thoughts. So, no, I am not going to tell you what my thoughts are.” I meant it. Sincerely. Every word of it.

  “Iago, what in hell are you talking about?”

  I had no choice now; I had to go beyond the genuine. I turned away from him and leaned against the stone wall of the passageway. Again with a nervous pursing of the lips, and a small anxious shake of the head, I glanced at him and then away. “No man’s good name should be trifled with. And no woman’s, either.”

  Alarm flashed across his face. He had taken the meaning. “Whose good names? For the love of heaven, Iago, tell me your thoughts.”

  I leaned back against the wall, my arms crossed over my chest. “Sorry, but no.”