Read This First

This story is a sequel. This means that if you haven't read Usurer's Mercy, which you can find on my author's page, you'll have no idea why everyone's doing what they're doing. Read at your own risk. In terms of warnings, if you can handle Usurer's Mercy, you can handle this.

I have based the age of these characters off the actors in my favorite production of Merchant of Venice. In that one, Jessica was in her late teens, Bassanio and Lorenzo and their friends were in their twenties, and Shylock and Antonio were in their forties. Just to give you a visualization.

If anyone would like an explanation for how I'm using pronouns (thou vs. you, etc.) it is at the end of this chapter.

Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks!

Now, on with the story!

Friday Night Candles

Chapter 1: Psalms

I miss Jessica.

She thought I hated her trying to be merry in our dark house. Truthfully, I loved to hear her laugh. But I did not wish to raise a daughter who expected her life to be joyful. As a child, I believed I would be happy when I grew up, and I had been crushed so badly by reality that I became determined never to make that mistake with my own children.

Most of the time, I try to think of Jessica as little as possible. As a devout Christian, she cannot afford to reconcile with me, baptized though I have been. I dearly despise the people who made me a Christian, and myself for giving in to them. But I did want to live, though for what I did not know, then.

But now I am not sorry. Because there is a man in this house who would have died if not for me — a man I once hated, and to some extent still do.

I lean on the wall beside the staircase. There's a wedding in the air; perhaps that's why I cannot help but think of Jessica. My servant Ignazio will be married soon. He and I met with the notary today, and he should be glad I was there, for his mind is as addled as a bad egg — at least in my view. The fool was actually going to accept the first dowry amount proposed by his bride Rosalba's employer. Giacobbe is a miser and Ignazio deserves better, even if he grates on my nerves.

To be fair, I'm quite the miser myself. But I'm hardly interested in being fair, not late at night when I cannot sleep for thoughts of my daughter.

Well, there's no point in dwelling on what I cannot change. I push myself off the wall and turn towards my bedroom door — and stop at the sound of a thump, and then a sob, from the room I hate to enter.

It would be so easy to leave him alone, and that's probably what he would prefer. But I have been deaf to others' distress in the past and it profited me not. 'Tis that impulse — I am impulsive, no one has denied it — that makes me push open the door and walk in.

"I heard you."

Antonio glares at me. He has bruised and bloody knuckles, and there's more blood on my wall. "You would. Get out."

"No. 'Tis my house." I never get tired of that excuse. "Besides, you'll break your hand if you do not take care."

"And that would bother you because...?"

I roll my eyes. "I think we have established by this point that I'm somewhat concerned for your welfare." Those words are easier to say than I care about you. "Even if I still despise you."

"I hate you too." Antonio rubs his hand.

"Glad to hear it. Why are you doing this? Have you not been beaten enough?"

"Do you not know what it means to be angry?"

The man is such a fool. "You are truly asking that question? I would bring down this house if I hit the walls every time I went enraged."

Antonio shakes his head. "I have no true reason to...I understand why they did as they did."

I sit down on a nearby stool. "Enlighten me, for I do not. A man who cast you off and a mob who beat you and—"

"Stop it."

"Do tell me how you excuse them."

"How can I do anything else, when I led Bassanio to sin with me in the first place?" Antonio passes a hand over his eyes. "He was young, still is. He could hardly understand what it means to hide what you desire from everyone, knowing if you slip you'll be imprisoned or killed."

That's true, and I had not thought of it. But it still seems to me no justifiable reason.

He continues. "What could I offer him but years of secrecy and fear? Portia could give him everything — a kind wife, riches, no need to worry if what he does is a sin before God. I do not blame him for turning from me to keep her love."

"What of the mob?"

"Would you not pay back a man you believed had forced another? You planned to cut out my heart."

"Who am I, your new model of morality? What kind of God would demand that kind of recompense?"

Antonio half-laughs. "God. In the space of a minute I bless him for giving me life and blame him for the horror of it."

My mouth twists. "'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? I cry by day, but you do not answer, and by night, but find no rest.'"

"What do you mean?"

"'Tis a psalm, you fool. A psalm of David. Surely you have those in your Christian Bible?" I doubt he would recognize my rough translation from the Hebrew if he read it in his own holy text, though.

"A psalm? I have read many, but not that one."

"I knew it by heart once." I lean my elbows on my knees. "No more — but what I do remember... 'For dogs are all around me, a company of evildoers encircles me. My hands and feet have shriveled, I can count all my bones. They stare and gloat over me, they divide my clothes among themselves, and for my clothing they cast lots.'"

There is a silence, then Antonio speaks. "That reminds me of — I do not like your version of the Bible."

"'Tis all the same Bible," I reply, irked. "Read it yourself."

"I should like to, but I doubt you keep a Christian Bible in this house of yours."

"As it happens, I do. It was a present." I roll my eyes at the absent giver.

"Who took a brain fever and bought you a Bible?"

"Brother Rafaele. That cursed priest who instructs me in the faith." I had made the mistake, the second time we met, of mentioning I knew a little Latin. "He predicted I would read it so that I could try to prove him wrong about every verse he brings up."

"I'll wager you threw it under a bed and never looked at it again."

I snort. "You'd lose your money. I make a mark on the first page every time he admits to having been mistaken. But you are welcome to the thing, for now."

For a moment, Antonio looks wistful, then he glares. "Do not taunt me with that."

"Much as I enjoy taunting you, I am not, verily." I stand up and march from the room and grab the book from where I dropped it on the floor, hardly caring that a few pages get torn in the process, and walk back to Antonio's room. It rather disturbs me that I have come to think of it as his.

Antonio looks at my Bible, almost greedily. I resist the urge to hold it out of his reach as long as I can. I toss it at him instead, perversely glad when he fumbles and misses and the book gets even more bent. "Here. Have it. Save your soul if you can."

He clutches it as if 'tis a rope thrown to him in a storm. "Ah. I suppose I should — thank you."

"There is no need. I care not for Bibles." I turn around and stride from the room, snapping the door shut behind me. Outside, I lean against the wall and wonder just what I'm doing. Trying to give Antonio comfort is outrageous. He deserves it not. And I do not deserve any credit that may be given to me for doing so. Most of what I have done, I have done in spite, merely to prove to Antonio, or to myself, that I am more merciful than he.

OoOoO

"I hate weddings."

"You hate everything."

I shoot Antonio a poisonous look over the spices I'm grinding in the mortar. "This would hurt if I threw it at your head."

"Well, I still think you should use the sugared almonds."

The worst part of this particular wedding is my nemesis trying to order me around. However little I know about marriage, he knows less. "I do not have sugared almonds."

"Yes, you do," Antonio says, undeterred. "You bought them yesterday." I thought he had not seen that. 'Tis the worst time for Antonio to start being observant. He's usually obnoxiously self-preoccupied. "And what's wrong with weddings in any case?"

"They make people happy. Without any bloodshed at all." An unbiased observer would no doubt point out that even bloodshed does not guarantee joy on my part these days. But I dislike impartial observers, and do not let them anywhere near me.

Antonio ignores this. "If you really did not want Ignazio to marry, you could have stopped it. He's your servant."

"If he wants to commit the idiotic act of marrying a poor girl with an illegitimate child, I'm not going to—"

"And you helped him negotiate with Rosalba's master."

"Someone had to drag that drunkard in front of a notary and make him pledge to pay what he had promised."

"The same someone who came up with money so Ignazio could buy the clothes and sheets he's supposed to provide for his wife?"

"I'll slaughter the next person who brings this up."

"Who was the first?"

"Brother Rafaele, damn him. His yammering makes my ears ring."

"Do not curse priests!"

"Go take poison!" We subside into glares and mutterings. There's always something to fight over.

Ignazio dashes into the kitchen, nearly knocking over two pans of rising bread. Nerves apparently make him clumsy. I spare a moment to pray for Rosalba's good health so we never have to go through another marriage.

"If thou break'st much more, there'll be not a dish left in the house," I inform him.

"Do you think it will be all right, Master Shylock?" Ignazio hovers around me nervously.

"Thou hast already signed that contract," I grumble, checking to see if the fish I'm cooking is done. "It had better be all right."

Ignazio waves away the small matter of legal documents. "I mean the wedding night. Could you tell me how—"

No. No. I refuse to be consulted about this. It has been years since I did anything of...that sort. I cut him off. "Why, by all the gold in Venice, art thou asking me?"

"My friends always talk about what the best thing a woman can do to you is. But I already know all about that, because there was a time—"

I cover my ears. "Do not tell me!" I catch Antonio trying to restrain laughter, and mime slashing a throat with a knife.

Ignazio continues. "But I do not know what the best thing a man can do to a woman is. I just want Rosalba...I mean...I want it to be well for her."

Irritated, I cast my eyes upwards. He cannot very well ask Antonio; the man is as fond of women in his bed as I am of the inside of a church door. "Do not go too fast. Thou art not bedding her to the clock. And if she seems afraid, speak with her first. Thou talk'st too much as it is; thou canst put that to good use." There's a knock at the door and I move to answer it.

My servant trails after me, chattering. "That sounds like good advice. My friends never know what they are talking about. They told me I would be quiet if they pushed me in the canal. They were wrong." He goes back towards the kitchen.

"Of course they were." I go to open the door and yell one last piece of advice after him. "Thou canst ask her what she likes. She has a child; she's no virgin." I turn, and see Brother Rafaele on my steps.

"Signor Shylock! It pleases me greatly to be sought out for this!" Brother Rafaele steps over my threshold, smiling.

Antonio appears in the doorway, pale as a ghost, and shoots upstairs at the sight of the priest. I'm not terribly surprised. The last time they saw each other, Brother Rafaele tried to take Antonio's confession. Said thorn in my side gave him an earful about suicide and then collapsed unconscious. Besides, I have noticed Antonio hates strange footsteps.

Brother Rafaele blinks at me. "What did I do?"

"You did nothing. He's an idiot."

"That's not terribly charitable," Brother Rafaele points out. "The Bible instructs us to treat others as we would be treated ourselves."

"If I'm being a fool, I would rather someone told me so."

"Very well, I shall remember that for the future. Where's the bridegroom?"

"Here!" Ignazio hops up and down. I swear he's truly six years old. A six-year-old who will enthusiastically bed a woman tonight. I shudder.

"We must speak," Brother Rafaele tells Ignazio. "'Tis best to instruct a man of what marital duties are required by our faith."

"Oh, maybe you can help me. Master Shylock says that on my wedding night—"

"No." I cut him off. "Absolutely not. I'll crack open thy rib cage and feast on thy entrails."

Brother Rafaele shakes his head. "Signor Shylock?"

"What?"

"You are being a fool."

I'm undoubtedly going to hell for all the horrible things I am imagining doing to everyone in my house right now. But I resigned myself to that some time ago.

OoOoO

How, by every ducat I possess, did I end up holding Rosalba's baby? Antonio must have dropped a drug in my wine. Except that he was hiding upstairs the whole time, being the accused criminal that he is. This puts me in even more of a foul mood. I enjoy being able to blame Antonio for everything.

Of course, I myself am at fault for this, offering to take Teresa — that's her name, I recall — for a few hours while Ignazio and Rosalba consummate their marriage. Ignazio was so terribly excited about that, I finally advised him to sew his own mouth shut.

Now Teresa is sobbing. She's not wet and was fed only recently. Remembering what I can of when Jessica was little, I put her over my shoulder and try to bring up any air in her stomach. That works, thank any God that may be looking after us. I have little experience with infants.

I rock and hum to Teresa, wondering what will become of her. I doubt the world will be kinder to a half-Moorish girl than to a Jew. And she cannot convert, cannot change who she is. I only hope that Ignazio and Rosalba will let her know that they, at least, are not ashamed to have her.

At least there are two of them. I try not to think (though at times I cannot help it) of how my life would have been different if Leah had lived past Jessica's second birthday. I recalled my friend Tubal and I teasing our prospective brides, they mocking us in their turn. Four years we had, four scant years of more happiness than I had ever known or have known since. If it had lasted, would I have still become so hateful?

At times I looked for love elsewhere, but I had no energy for true courting and no interest in being married for my money. Perhaps I ought to regret that. At least Jessica would have had a mother. But I cannot shake the idea that foisting myself off on any woman would have been a mistake, being as bitter as I am. And as for prostitutes — well, I found they disgust me.

"What are you doing?" 'Tis Antonio, damn him.

"Trying to get this blasted child to fall asleep so I do not strangle her. Why are you down here now?"

"I'm sick of studying the wall. And I wondered what you were humming. Your tongue is more accustomed to insults."

"You mean you can hear through the rot stuck in your ears?" Teresa stirs, complaining, and I resume rocking her. "'Tis a children's song. Surely you had a childhood. Or did you spring into this world a fully formed sinner?"

Antonio shrugs. "No, but I made up for lost time later. Being with men by the time I was—" he cuts himself off. "What of you, then? Fully formed sinner, or only three quarters?"

I snort. "Coveting what was my neighbors' since the age of ten. It was bad enough they were richer, they had to be true citizens too."

"What?"

"True citizens. Not aliens." I spit the word. "Surely you recall that court day. If an alien seeks the life of a citizen..." I trail off, and, more for something to do than anything else, I begin humming to Teresa again.

"You are good with children," Antonio finally says.

"Hardly. I learned what I had to after Leah died. She was sick well before that, so I did what I could to relieve her."

"How was she sick? I mean...I apologize. You do not have to answer that."

I shrug. "'Tis by far one of the least offensive questions you have asked me. The doctors say she had a tumor."

"Do you miss her?"

"Would you miss Bassanio if he died? Since you are so determined to love him?"

Antonio shudders. "Death for Bassanio? Do not talk of such things."

"My point exactly." I pause. "Perhaps if Leah had lived, Jessica would not have run off so. Run off to be married in a Christian ceremony..."

"You just witnessed a Christian ceremony and it did not kill you," Antonio says testily. "What's so special about a Jewish one?"

"That's different," I snap. "Yes, mayhap that ceremony was decent. But it was decent because there were people to celebrate and there was money with which to start their lives. What friend of Jessica's was at her wedding, and what coin did Lorenzo have then?"

"Would you not be reconciled with them now?" Antonio says cautiously. "Jessica misses you."

I jerk, nearly waking Teresa up. "How in heaven or hell would you know a thing like that?"

"We lived at Belmont for a few weeks together before they took a house. I heard her asking Lorenzo one day if he remembered which creditor she traded your turquoise ring to, to see if she could get it back. And she has not lost the habit of not working on Saturdays. I think she might be glad to see you. Would you be glad to see her?"

"No. Yes. I know not." I change Teresa's position in my arms. "I should like to see that she is all right. As it happens, I should like to rip Lorenzo's arms off at the same time, but I suppose I might restrain myself."

"You had better."

"Do not tell me what to do."

"'Tis only fair. You have been telling me what to do all this time."

"It profits you," I retort.

"It hardly profits you," Antonio points out. "Unless you call a Shabbat with a smashed set of dishes profit."

"Oh, I do. We need to do that again."

"What, Shabbat?"

"No, smashing dishes." I raise an eyebrow. "Why did you think of Shabbat first?" Antonio mutters something. "I cannot hear you."

"All right! I enjoyed it!" Antonio glares at me. "No wonder, it reduces you from murderous carrion to slightly less murderous carrion."

"Ah, a miracle," I drawl. "I understand your awe. I'm rather puzzled by it myself."

OoOoO

"Bargaining for flour?" The voice has a smile in it. I turn to see Tubal, my old colleague, standing there with his wife Naomi. 'Tis she who spoke, I know. "You can use all the food you can get. You are thin as a rail, Shylock."

I have not seen Naomi since I converted, and I'm sure I did not deserve her kindness even before that. "'Tis my customary state. No doubt I'll starve to death someday."

Tubal rolls his eyes. "Good morning to you too."

The shopkeeper takes my coin and gestures Naomi forward. Soon they are arguing cheerfully over the price, and Tubal turns to me cautiously. "The...man in your house. Did you find help for him, or did he sojourn elsewhere on his own?"

"He has sojourned nowhere." Much to my aggravation. "And he insists upon starving himself to annoy me."

"You mean...he's still there?" Tubal looks startled. "And you are actually trying to make him eat?"

"I do not want a corpse on my hands." Actually, I do, but Antonio appears far too happy at the prospect of dying. I therefore oppose it with vehemence on principle.

"Well, I'm glad to see you have something to live for," Tubal says dryly. "A corpse-free household certainly is a desirable goal. But forgive me for doubting that's your only intention."

Resisting the urge to tell Tubal just where he can put his doubts, I glance over the marketplace instead. And then I see him.

His clothes are still fine — finer, in fact, than they were before. But it does him no good. Thin, hollow-eyed, a face far too lined. He's barely recognizable, but I do know him. 'Tis Bassanio.

What, by my oath, is he doing here, looking so? The last I heard, he had all a young man could want. I had assumed that Antonio's absence would be no real trouble to him. After all, if he'd truly cared for the man, he would not have betrayed him in the first place.

Now I look at his tormented appearance and wonder if I was wrong. Perhaps he regrets his actions. Perhaps he still loves Antonio. Not that it would do either of them any good. Would it?

"Shylock, what are you staring at?"

I jerk my eyes away. "I have to go. Tell your wife I do not plan to die before you come and dine with me again." And with this harebrained invitation, I plunge into the crowd.

OoOoO

I glare at the crucifix on Brother Rafaele's wall. "Do you priests get some kind of pleasure out of seeing a man being tortured, or is that there solely to sicken me?"

"'Tis there so we never forget the sacrifice God made for us," Brother Rafaele says patiently. "He sent his only Son to redeem mankind, beyond all costs."

"So Christ had to die to save men from their sins? What happened to God's eternal mercy? Was that suffering truly necessary for forgiveness?"

"Very well, Signor Shylock. If you would show me your theology, choose the first verse we read yourself. I'm not unwilling to listen to you." Brother Rafaele points at the crumpled Bible I have in my hands.

Despite myself, I open it. I recall quoting the story of Jacob's sheep to Antonio and Bassanio that day on the Rialto, when they entered into the bond. But that was merely to get under their skin. I do not recall the last time I read the Torah for purposes of faith, and now all I have is this Gospel. Worse than nothing, I often think.

The psalms are not full of woe, many are songs of praise, but I cannot help being drawn to those of the afflicted. Though it takes a bit of hunting, I eventually find the one I seek. Brother Rafaele is watching me, and his attentiveness is surprising. I tip the Bible properly towards the light, and read.

"Hear my prayer, O Lord, let my cry come to you. Do not hide your face from me in the day of my distress. For my days pass away like smoke, and my bones burn like a furnace. All day long my enemies taunt me, those who deride me use my name for a curse. For I eat ashes like bread, and mingle tears with my drink, for you have lifted me up and thrown me aside." I stop.

"Does it not go on to describe God's compassion?" Brother Rafaele asks quietly.

"It does." I shut the Bible with a snap. "But I know naught of compassion. I receive it not, I have it not."

"That seems untrue to me."

"All that's given to me, all that I give, is done in spite or out of necessity." I close my eyes briefly. "No God will forgive me when I carry all this anger and hate. I am beyond redemption, and you would hardly waste your time on me if the Duke had not declared that I must be instructed."

Brother Rafaele smiles. "Oh, I expect I could have come up with a convenient excuse to have one of my brothers in faith take over your instruction. Though I would not, for the sake of their sanity if nothing else."

I find his assurance that I could drive a priest out of his mind to be rather comforting. "You might as well accept I'll never be a good Christian."

"I'll be more than contented if you are a good man. Unfortunately, I have little control over that." Brother Rafaele takes his own Bible off the table and flips through it, stopping in what I can see upside down is the so-called Gospel of Matthew, and begins to read. "Enter through the narrow gate, for the gate is wide and the road is easy that leads to destruction, and there are many who take it. For the gate is narrow and the road is hard that leads to life, and there are few who find it."

He sets the book aside and looks at me intently. "When my fathers speak about this, they think it is we who have chosen, we who walk the narrow path, because we have dedicated our lives to faith. But I myself — I have assurance of God, and sleep untroubled by nightmares, and none taunt or revile me. So perhaps my road is truly wide and easy. I know not."

"They say, then, that the path to heaven is not easy?" I recall the words of the lawyer who defended Antonio in the court, that mercy dropped as the gentle rain in heaven upon the place beneath. Does this Bible say the opposite, then? "Do they bless us for choosing a more difficult path?"

"I should say so, yes."

I wonder why these Christians do not pay more attention to their own Bible.

OoOoO

"Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu, melech ha'olam, asher kid'shanu be'mitz'votav v'tzivanu l'had'lik neir shel Shabbat."

I might have expected some snide comment on the Shabbat prayer, but instead Antonio is staring silently into the candles, having already lowered his hands from his face. I was secretly shocked when he did that — shocked that he remembered I had done it last time, and that he had not neglected it solely to offend me.

Even if I do not truly believe in God anymore, it seems wrong to quarrel over a holy ritual, and so I have resigned myself to not talking at all. I retrieve our wine cups and say the prayer over them. Once that is done, I have to resist downing the whole cup in one mouthful, just to drink away this bizarre situation. It would likely only make matters worse.

'Tis Antonio who breaks the silence. "What's that called again?" He gestured at the covered challah on the table. "And why do you cover it?"

"Challah. There are many reasons 'tis covered. I was taught that challah is to remind us of the manna we received when we wandered in the wilderness. That manna was delivered to us covered in dew, so we cover the challah to imitate it." There. I can speak without insults. Even if I dislike it.

After I remove the cloth and say the blessing, we fall to eating. Antonio will not look at me, and I roll a piece of challah between my fingers. Part of me despises Antonio for somewhat ruining my feeling of rebelliousness over celebrating the holiday. Another part is smug that he, a supposedly devout Christian, seems to enjoy this.

And a third part — though I hate to admit it — wants Antonio here. To fight with, insult, and care for him in equal measure has given me reasons to live. It reminds me of caring for Jessica, in the years before I grew bitter enough for her to draw away from me.

The thought of Jessica makes me blurt out a question I have wondered about for eight months. "Your friends offered to trade their wives for you in that courtroom. Do you think they truly would have?"

Antonio finally looks at me. "I'm not sure. I know it bothers Portia, though."

"What? How would she have heard it?"

"Obviously, she — oh, of course you do not know. Portia was the lawyer who defended me, disguised as a man. Nerissa, Gratiano's wife, was her clerk."

My jaw drops. "What — I — that's—"

Antonio's face twitches a bit. "Yes, that was my reaction too."

I shake my head. "Then she did hear. Well, if she married Bassanio after that, she's a fool."

"Do not insult her!"

"Oh, shut your mouth. Can you really expect me to like the woman?"

"Can you expect me not to? She saved my life."

I choose to ignore this. "If those Christians truly would have handed over their wives for your life, how can you fault me for wishing my daughter had not married one?"

"They were being impulsive, I'm sure."

"You just said you were not sure." I stare. "Are you trying to reassure me?"

Now 'tis Antonio's turn to ignore what I say. "Lorenzo is a good man."

"Hmm. You and I obviously have different ideas of what makes a good man."

"What is your idea, then?" Antonio asks sardonically.

I am about to snap out some provoking answer when I realize I am not truly positive. "I do not know. What's yours?"

Antonio looks surprised. No doubt he also expected the provoking answer. "I once thought it was those who followed God's laws. I still do, actually. I just am not sure what those laws are anymore."

'Tis odd for me to count confusion, ignorance, as a blessing on either of our parts. But I do. While we are both unsure it leaves room to — leaves room to what? Know each other better? That's the last thing I want. I want Antonio gone, out of my house, and I want these disturbing thoughts to go with him.

I have always been good at lying to myself.

Author's Note:

Since I don't know any Latin — and very little Hebrew, for that matter — I can't translate what these folks would have actually read in their holy texts. So these quotes are based on my own copy of the Bible, the New Revised Standard Version, and various online sources. Shylock quotes Psalm 22 to Antonio. He reads an abridged version of Psalm 102 to Brother Rafaele. Said priest reads a part of Matthew 7.

My use of pronouns: I follow the standard rules. A person uses "thou," or a variant of it, to address a social inferior like a servant or a child, an intimate like a close friend or spouse, or if they want to insult somebody by being overly familiar. A person uses "you," or a variant of it, to address an equal in a more formal situation. Most of the relationships in this story are pretty clear-cut, except that between Shylock and Antonio, seeing as they're in the I-sort-of-respect-you-even-though-I-don't-like-you stage.