He looked at me. I looked back at him. The stare seemed to last forever. I watched the subtle workings of the skin around his brows and mouth, and wondered what was happening behind those bright-dark eyes. I kept my gaze as neutral as I could, a blank slate onto which he might draw whatever fears lurked within.
“I cannot believe you will not tell me,” he said quietly. “It must be something very, very dark indeed, if you will not share it with your closest friend.”
In a voice resonant with experience, I warned softly, “Beware of jealousy, my lord. It is the green-eyed monster that mocks the meat it feeds on.”
“What are you saying?” he demanded sharply.
“You know the parable of the rich man who worries so much about losing his fortune that he is too miserable to enjoy it?” I smiled sympathetically. “Do not be that man. You have a treasure of a wife. Enjoy her, and do not worry about losing her.”
He stared at me uncertainly. “What are you talking about, Iago? Why should I worry about losing her? Do you think . . . do you think I’m jealous over Desdemona?”
“I did not say that—” I began, straightening up.
“I assure you,” he said with a chuckle. “I am not jealous. Why should I be jealous? Because others admire her? There’s nothing suspicious about that—she is easy to admire! I love that about her, it does not make me jealous. How ridiculous. If all your anxiety is just about Cassio’s admiring her, never mind, I am sorry to have wasted both our time. Come, let’s to the yard.”
He started to stroll again, with something close to a swagger; I walked beside him. For a moment there was silence. I contemplated what I should do next.
“After all,” Othello said suddenly, in a boastful voice, “she had eyes, and she chose me.” He glanced at me sideways. “No, Iago, I’m not jealous,” he went on expansively. “I would never let myself hover in that awful unknowing place you speak of. I am too practical a man for that.”
He was protesting too much against being jealous. Only jealous men do that.
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said.
“But you know that of me already! I would need to see something, concrete, to even doubt her loyalty. If I doubted her, I’d demand proof immediately. If there was proof, I would stop loving her; if there was none, I would stop being jealous. Very simple.” He looked cocky, but it was the kind of cockiness that strains to cover insecurity. Or so I guessed.
Perhaps I was not baiting him as I’d thought. It would perhaps take more brazenness than I’d anticipated. I sighed, cheeks puffing, as I considered my next move.
He looked at me again and slowed. “Iago?”
“I’m glad you said that, General,” I said, turning my head away for a moment, and then looking back at him directly, blinking a few times. “The remembrance that you are not prey to jealousy . . . encourages me to speak more freely.”
“Freely about what?” Othello demanded and came to a halt, grabbing my arm to make me stop too.
I took another deep breath and rubbed my hands together awkwardly. I almost spoke, then let the breath out, then drew another breath, then looked at Othello, then looked away again—
“Freely about what?” he demanded impatiently.
He would not make the leap on his own: I would have to push him. And now indeed I truly must push him, for if I did not, I left myself exposed. I felt a chill.
I put my free hand over his, where he gripped my arm. “Look to your wife, when Cassio’s around,” I said, apologetically.
His eyes widened, and the grip around my arm tightened.
“I am not telling you to be suspicious,” I added quickly, “but do not be too cocky either. You are a trusting soul, and I would not have you abused for that. As I have often lamented, it is commonplace for Venetians to lie and keep secrets—and I am sure it may be so in Florence.”
His face went slack as he released my arm. “What exactly are you saying?”
I shrugged, and averted my gaze. “Nothing. Only . . . remember, she deceived her father when she married you.”
Othello blinked.
“So she did,” he said. He looked confused.
“Completely deceived him,” I emphasized. “With a skill that belies how young and innocent she seems. And she deceived him even though she loved him—” I cut myself off, seeing Othello’s expression. He looked queasy. “I should not have said anything—forgive me, I should have kept my mouth shut, but I value your friendship and I worried—”
He made a brushing-away gesture. Then he took one of my hands in both of his. “For the insight you’ve offered, I am forever in your debt,” he said, and attempted a wan smile.
“I have upset you,” I said, frowning.
“Not a jot,” he insisted. “Not one jot.” He pulled away and walked past me into the shadow of the passageway.
“Yes I have, dammit,” I said, moving toward him.
He kept walking, to avoid looking at me.
“I hope you know that I was only speaking from my love for you, but still—you’re moved, to a degree I did not intend.”
“I’m not,” he said as he walked on.
“Remember, these are just my thoughts, nothing more. You demanded that I share my thoughts, and I warned you that they were degraded. You know I am not accusing her of anything—”
“I know,” Othello said brusquely. He cleared his throat and kept walking.
“I hope you mean that,” I said, following. “Because if you think I’m actually accusing them of something, then I am the guilty one here, for creating a false impression that neither of them deserves. I would not lightly slander—”
He shuddered, and turned his face farther away from me as we walked.
“Oh, General, you are moved,” I said regretfully, reaching forward to put a solicitous hand on his shoulder. He shrugged away from my touch.
“Of course I am not moved,” he said gruffly. “Desdemona’s honest, I’m sure of that.”
“May she remain so,” I said heartily. “And may you always think so.” Oh, God’s balls, I thought. I am not going to accomplish anything with this, and now I ’ve only further damaged my own standing with him.
Othello paused but did not turn back to me. He kept staring toward the sunlit yard a few paces ahead. “And yet . . . anyone can revolt against their own nature. She and I are both honest as honesty itself, and yet, we deceived her father. Both of us. Both of us were deceitful. I know how deceitful she can be.”
Again I rested my hand on his shoulder. “But she has already turned her back on so many men, I’m sure she will continue to do so, if any tried to tempt her. Even Cassio.”
Othello glanced over his shoulder at me. He suddenly looked very tired. “Leave me, Iago. If you . . . happen to see anything odd, or if Emilia does—you might want to mention to Emilia to keep her eye out—yes, let me know. But for now, leave me, I want to work on some . . . I have some fencing moves I want to work on alone.”
“Of course, General,” I said, my hand to my heart. I bowed my head, then turned and began retreating back through the passageway toward the courtyard.
But a dozen paces down, I stopped and turned back to examine him.
Othello had sat down just where I’d left him. He sat cross-legged, his sword resting behind him in its sheath. His hands were at his temples, and he was leaning his head heavily into them. He looked miserable. I felt miserable. Playing with Cassio’s career had been much easier, and far more satisfying.
This was different. I did not want him to care for her so much; I wanted to lead him by the nose to anger, or righteous paranoia, not heartbreak. And only for the lieutenancy. I had to keep that in mind; there was a distracting fascination in watching Othello mold himself at my direction, but that was not my goal. My goal was that lieutenant’s sash. Had I troubled the waters enough? Could I stop now?
I cleared my throat and ran a few steps back toward him. He looked up from his miserable seated position. “General, I beg you,” I
said. “Do not think about this anymore. Let it go.” He released an exasperated huff of breath. “The truth will out,” I said, now in a fatherly tone. “Please dismiss our entire conversation as my worrying too much.” My better nature urged me to add: “And especially, hold your wife free from any suspicion.”
Othello grimaced and nodded, without looking at me. “Do not worry yourself over it,” he said, staring at the ground. “Leave me now, Iago.”
I had never seen him this dejected. He was nearly as dejected as I had been when I’d realized he was deceiving me. It had taken such little effort to achieve this parity.
Chapter 43
AGITATED BY MY own accomplishment, I took myself through the courtyard and back up to the wall walk. From there I gazed down upon the city, the sea, and the interior courtyard where officers were exercising. I considered joining them—I would have been welcome, I always was; it was one of the few settings in which my lack of elevation made not a jot of difference to anyone. After Othello, I was still the best swordsman among them, and they respected me for that, no matter what my rank.
But I did not join them. I felt a tremor throughout my body, and I worried it would reflect in my skill. Besides, the only path to get there would take me past Othello brooding in the shadowed passageway. So instead I paced, and marveled.
WORDS. WORDS. WORDS. All it took were words. Othello claimed he needed to see something concrete to be moved to doubt—but I had shown him nothing, and still he doubted. I had moved him more than the most ferocious battle ever had. I possessed a power over him, far greater than any he possessed, or ever would possess, over me.
The confused and troubling elation of that insight propelled me along the ramparts into the bright, sunny morning. The sky was brilliant blue, and a crisp sea breeze pulled at my clothes; as I walked, I could hear the grit under my boots with greater clarity than ever I had heard it. I felt intensely alive, and in control—not only of my own destiny but of another person’s. It was a heady, thrilling sensation. I win, I thought.
I had never sought competition, and still did not believe I should have been subjected to it: not with Cassio for a lieutenancy, not with Desdemona for Othello’s regard, not with Othello himself to grant or banish happiness . . . but being forced into those competitions, I was winning every one of them, and righteously so. It reminded me of my early satisfaction in besting more seasoned fencing students; in besting even fencing masters. My own skill delighted me, all the more so because I had not known I had it.
I remembered the proverb: It is excellent to have a giant’s power, but it is tyrannous to use it like a giant. I would be a benevolent tyrant, I promised myself. I trusted myself to exert my sudden puppeteering power over Othello only insofar as I required him to be a puppet—there would be nothing gratuitous in my exercise of power, for I was not a villain. I had a task to accomplish, as a soldier in war has a task. A soldier does not continue to fire his musket once defeat or victory or truce is sounded. Neither would I.
HAVING SOOTHED MYSELF with this assertion, I descended to my bedroom. Emilia had a mirror, and I had a childlike desire to observe my face, to see if any of the excitement of the day was readable, or if I were as opaque as a Venetian mask. I strode into the room—and pulled up short to find my wife standing in the middle of it, her hands behind her back.
“What are you doing in here?” I demanded, more roughly than I meant to.
“Don’t chide me,” Emilia said with a superior smile. The attitude was unlike her. I mentally played over our last interaction: I had scolded her for revealing displeasure in front of Desdemona and Othello. “I have a thing for you,” she continued, in a conspiratorial tone.
I took a step closer to her. “A thing for me?”
She nodded, meaningfully, but said no more. I took another step closer and reached around behind her; she backed away so that I could not reach whatever she was holding. Again I took a step in; again she backed away. Now a little smile teased her face.
“A thing for me,” I repeatedly impatiently. “Well, it is a common enough thing to have a foolish wife.”
She raised her head until her chin was pointing right at me. “Ha! Is that the best you can do? Your wit’s a little slow this morning, husband. Luckily, mine is not. What is that handkerchief worth to you?”
I blinked in surprise. Had she really . . . “What handkerchief?” I asked.
“What handkerchief?” she echoed mockingly. “You know what handkerchief.” A final backward step took her nearly to the far wall of the room, and she gave me a half-mocking, half-inviting smile. In the immediate thrill of the moment, I could not sort out in my mind if this was collusion or coincidence.
“Did you steal it from her?” I asked, stupidly.
She gave me a strange look. “No, of course not. She dropped it without noticing, so I scooped it up.” The tone of her expression shifted to affectionate teasing. “Look . . . here it is.” She released her hands from behind her back and, with a flourish, waved it at me: the little lacy kerchief with strawberries sewn into it, the one I’d seen a thousand times around Othello’s neck, before it began to appear on Desdemona.
I was almost certain I would not need it now, but in case I did: here it was.
I took a steadying breath and reminded myself how this moment must look to Emilia. She thought I wanted the handkerchief so that I could get a copy made as a gift for her. I could not let her suspect otherwise.
“Excellent, you little wench,” I said, smiling, moving toward her. “Hand it over.”
She held it out in front of her, high up, and waved it slightly, as if tantalizing me with it. “Why should I?” she asked, slyly. “Do you have something special planned for it?”
I moved closer to her; at the same moment, I snatched the handkerchief from her with one hand, and with the other arm, pulled her body close to mine at the hip. I gave her a knowing wink and kissed her hard. “None of your business,” I whispered into her ear, as if it were a lover’s promise.
And then, overcome with nervousness that I was once again being disingenuous with my own wife, I let go of her and turned away. I rushed to the far side of the room and stared in distracted fixation on the kerchief. Should I use it? Would that be excessive? Could it be traced to me? Should I leave things as they were and trust that Othello was already distraught enough? No need to overdo anything . . .
“Iago,” I heard Emilia’s voice as from a great distance, behind me. I turned to look at her, feeling my cheeks turning pink. She was frowning. “That is the third time I said your name—what is wrong with you? Why are you staring at it that way?” She gave me a warning look. “I only leant it to you, you understand that? To find somebody to copy the pattern? If you’re planning to hold on to it, then give it back to me, I won’t have it. She’ll notice it’s gone soon, and I don’t want to upset her. The poor thing already has too much troubling her today.”
“Do not worry, I have my plans.” I gestured toward the door. “The sooner you leave me alone, the sooner I may act on them.” I winked and blew her a kiss.
She looked cautiously pleased. “Very well,” she said, heading toward the door. “In case you’re wondering, I prefer a slightly pinker tone than is in the original.”
I nodded with a knowing smile, and waited until she’d left the room.
I STARED AT the handkerchief. What should I do with it? I had no way to plant it on Cassio’s person without his noticing. I could show it to Othello myself and claim I’d found it in Cassio’s room, but that was a more blatant, artless lie than I wanted to risk.
I should put it in Cassio’s room, now that he had returned to the fortress, and let him find it. So far the gods seemed to be guiding everybody’s actions to my ends; perhaps I should trust that Cassio would wield the kerchief in some manner that assisted me. Or perhaps, again—perhaps the kerchief was not really called for. Othello had changed so rapidly in one brief, subtle conversation; perhaps no more was required. Perhaps I really wo
uld take the handkerchief into Famagusta and find a seamstress who could make a copy of it for me to give Emilia. It could be a gift to celebrate my lieutenancy.
Shoving the kerchief deep into my jerkin, out of sight, I left the room, heading back through the courtyard for the stairwell to the wall walk. The parapet was a good place to clear my mind and calm my heart.
I was not alone up there. Immediately I saw Othello, pacing in terrible agitation back and forth along a stretch no more than twenty feet long: back, and forth, and back, and forth, talking to himself and waving his hands wildly before him. His agitation was fifty times what it had been an hour earlier. Such a transformation I honestly had not expected.
I approached him quietly; he did not notice.
“False to me? Is that it? Is she really false to me?” he was muttering.
“What are you doing?” I demanded sternly. “We agreed: no more of that!”
He literally jumped, then spun around to see me. For a moment, he just stared.
Then fury rose on his face, and he lunged toward me, arms outstretched toward my neck. “Get out of here, you whoreson! Look what you have done to me! I can’t stop thinking about it!”
“General!” I said, jumping back and deflecting his arms with a wrestling move. “Calm yourself!”
His hands were clenched and his arms rigid. “Maybe she is cheating on me, maybe she is not—before I suspected her, it did not matter! It never crossed my mind, and so it never troubled me!” He shouted this at me as if I were to blame for it. Which, technically, I was.
I shook my head and said in a sorrowful voice, “I am sorry to hear this. You should not be so—”
He raged on as if I hadn’t spoken. “She could have been sleeping with the entire army and it wouldn’t have bothered me, as long as I did not hear about it! But now, whenever I look at my men, I’m going to have to wonder what other officer she’s giving herself to—or maybe not an officer! Maybe a common soldier! Maybe all the common soldiers!” He shook his fists, first at the sky, and then at me. “I cannot think about anything else, I cannot calm my mind! I cannot think. I cannot think. I cannot think like a general. So I cannot be a general. I won’t be able to function, I’ll have to turn the army over to Montano until they can send a replacement from Venice—”
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