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Chapter 7: An Open Door

"Signor Antonio!" Brother Rafaele greets me with his customary cheer and closes his Bible as I step into the room. "You seem much recovered."

"I took your advice and am eating more, at least." I take the seat towards which he gestures me.

Brother Rafaele smiles. "Because Signor Shylock practically forces food down your throat?"

If I had been holding anything, I would have dropped it. "How by heaven did you know—"

"Perhaps you have forgotten that I instruct Signor Shylock in the faith? On at least two occasions, he has stormed in and begun insulting you for being—what were his words? Ah, yes—such a beetle-brained milksop when it comes to food."

I laugh at the amused-but-exasperated tone in which Brother Rafaele quotes Shylock. "I still do not understand how he knew I was not eating."

"That mystery, I can solve for you. I told him."

"You told him?" I stare at Brother Rafaele. "Why?"

"Because I was fairly sure he would do something. I despair of teaching the man to respect our faith, but I doubted he would let you starve to death if he could prevent it."

"He has done more for me than I know how to repay." I frown. "I only wish I knew why."

"I have been thinking on that." Brother Rafaele flips the pages of his Bible back and forth. "Have you considered that perhaps he is doing for you what he wish somebody had done for him when he was in need?"

"What?" I blink. "No. I had not considered that."

"Well, perhaps you might."

"But why help me, if he wishes to help anybody? He despises me."

Brother Rafaele shakes his head. "Why do you both insist on behaving as if you hate each other? 'Tis quite clear that you do not."

I'm ready to deny this, but shut my mouth. Brother Rafaele is, as usual, correct. "Perhaps our—pride—will not allow us to do otherwise."

"I might have guessed that."

For a moment, I hesitate. "I wish I could do something for him. But I doubt he would accept any gift at my hands unless he had no choice."

"Were I you, I would try anyway," Brother Rafaele tells me. "I must go—one of my brothers wishes to speak with me. But if you continue to be puzzled…perhaps you might read Ephesians 2:19."

"Ephesians 2:19?" My knowledge of the Bible is not so great that I know which verse he means. "Which is that?"

"Read it and find out."

OoOoO

The spice merchant stares at my note, then at me. "Signor, you truly wish to order—"

"Yes, I do truly wish to order that much saffron," I inform him. "I am aware of the expense. Can you provide it?"

"I—yes, of course. Pardon me, I merely wished to be sure. It will be quite costly, but if you are willing to pay—"

"I am. Will you see that it is delivered on time?"

The spice merchant nods fervently. I suspect I have much brightened his day with the coin I have promised him. "Yes, Signor! You shall have it as soon as may be."

"Good."

We exchange a few more pleasantries before I leave his place of business and set off for Lorenzo and Jessica's house. As of yet, I have not told Jessica that Shylock does wish to speak with her, and I hope the conversation will bring them—well, I dare not think it will bring them joy, but hopefully not further estrangement.

Lorenzo opens the door wide. "Antonio, do come in! Thou wilt be much surprised, I think, to see thy fellow guests."

"My fellow guests?" I follow him down the hall.

"Indeed! They are only just come, and have expressed a great desire to see thee." Lorenzo leads me into the room where we dine, beaming. "Though I fear one of them, at least, shall out-talk us both."

"Who—?" I begin, and then see Gratiano and Nerissa, seated at table with Jessica.

Gratiano rises to greet me, with every appearance of delight. "Antonio, thou art recovered, I see. Bassanio told us thou hadst been ill."

"Ah. Yes…but as thou say'st, I am well now." 'Tis like Gratiano to be friendly, but I am rather put off by how eager he seems to pretend that my 'illness' was merely that. Unlike Lorenzo and Jessica, Gratiano and his wife had been at Belmont when Portia discovered Bassanio and me—and they had believed the lie of my having forced him. Though I knew Bassanio had told them the truth, 'tis difficult to reconcile the warmth I am receiving now with the fury I received then.

"Perhaps 'tis too much to hope that thy illness has made thee less somber? Has taught thee to laugh at thyself? For since I have known thee, thou hast suffered greatly from a malady of melancholy."

"Husband mine," Nerissa warns, laughing. "'Tis hardly charitable to suggest sickness might improve a man's character."

I smile at them. "Gratiano is right, however. I suffer often from such maladies, but am much improved upon seeing thee and thy husband."

"I am glad of that," Gratiano replies. "For I fear Lorenzo has already tired of me. He has advised me several times that if I continue talking so, my tongue may drop off altogether."

"No, no." Lorenzo holds up his hands. "Do not put blame on me. I merely fear thy constant chattering will make me grow deaf. And what wouldst thou do then, with no one to listen to thee?"

"I shall always have someone to listen to me." Gratiano smirks at Nerissa. "Why dost thou think I married?"

Nerissa turns to Jessica and mock-whispers in her ear. "The fool thinks I pay mind to him. But we shall not disabuse him, shall we?"

"Indeed, we shall not," Jessica replies, then sends Lorenzo a mischievous look. "Why, I have tried the same trick on my own husband many a time. I assure thee, men never notice."

The food is as good as usual, but I am by no means at ease. Gratiano talks a great deal, even for him, but I can sense the discomfort—what might be guilt for his own doubt in me—underneath the jesting. Nerissa does her best to be kind and spirited, but I suspect the former maid's loyalties lie with Portia, and the fact that I might have once been considered some sort of rival for Bassanio's love does not endear me to her. I catch Jessica looking at the three of us with barely-veiled curiosity—'tis clear she senses all things are not right, but has no way of knowing why. Only Lorenzo seems quite oblivious, refilling wine cups left and right and meeting even the most forced of Gratiano's jests with appreciative laughter. This does not help and I rapidly find myself wishing I were elsewhere.

Eventually Nerissa declares herself tired, and that she wishes to withdraw. Jessica departs with her, to be sure all is right with the room in which she and Gratiano are to stay, leaving the three of us alone.

Waving his cup, Lorenzo interrupts Gratiano, who is about to go into a story about three fishwives outside the Duke's palace. "That was a pretty tale, Gratiano, but thou hast spoken of it already. Now that thy wife is gone, thou must tell us how thou dost enjoy her, and whether thou dost enjoy any others on the sly." He winks. "Surely she cannot drown thee in the canal for it, if she does not hear."

I suppress a sigh. 'Tis customary for my friends to speak of wives and mistresses so, when they are out of hearing, and once I hardly took note of it. However, the past months, reckoned up, have had me more in Ignazio and Shylock's company, and neither speak of women in such a way. Not until now have I found that odd.

"Thou dost wound me, Lorenzo, to suggest such a thing!" Gratiano's dramatics make it clear Lorenzo has done nothing of the sort. "But I cannot blame thee. For thou hast never lain with my wife, or thou wouldst know that she is enough woman for any man."

"I know thee well, Gratiano." Lorenzo snorts. "There is no such thing as enough women for thee."

"I shall be forced to starve, then. But thou art more famished than me, I should think, for unless thou hast been feasting on the sly, thy only banquet is a Jew's daughter."

Lorenzo merely laughs—no doubt he is used to hearing such things—but I do not. Though I can hardly tell why, words that might once have brought me a smile now leave a sour taste in my mouth. Something of this must show on my face, for both my friends look at me with raised eyebrows. "Is there aught the matter, Antonio?" Lorenzo inquires.

I wave him off, as confused as they by my reaction. "Nothing at all."

"He feels pity for thy starved state," Gratiano declares. "Now, Lorenzo, wilt thou be content to sate thyself on a Jew's carrion flesh?"

"Art thou mad with wine?" I demand before I can stop myself. 'Tis entirely possible, with how often his cup has been filled tonight.

"My wife is no Jew," Lorenzo informs Gratiano. "How she was born is of no matter, and I will thank thee not to speak of her so. Come, do not spoil our evening with poor jests."

"Do not take offense so. I meant no insult to thy lady wife, who, as thou say'st, is a good Christian." Gratiano grins at me. "Why, even her father, a pox on him, is a Christian these days, thanks to our Antonio."

Yes, thanks to my spite and desire for revenge, Shylock now wears a mask of faith, forced on him by one who has sinned as much as he. I once might have felt pride and satisfaction at Gratiano's words—now I feel thoroughly sick.

Gratiano, despite my fervent and silent wishes that he shut his mouth on this subject, talks on. "Yet the fair Jessica is a good Christian, and I would wager a purse of ducats her father's heart is still a dog's. 'Tis merely a pity we cannot mock him as he deserves, for some never leave the gutter—"

"Antonio?" Lorenzo cuts in, sounding concerned. "Art thou well?"

Well is hardly the word I should use—I'm clenching my teeth in an effort to stay quiet. "I am fine, I thank thee," I finally grit out, attempting to hide the anger that would only puzzle my host and fellow guest.

"I do apologize." Gratiano looks contrite. "I did not mean to upset thee by speaking of Shylock. Thou wert merciful at the trial, but I think thou wouldst have done better, had thou merely given him leave to hang himself. A rope's end is the only thing fit for—"

I stand up so abruptly my chair clatters to the floor. His words, which I would happily have spoken myself months ago, now make me long to spit venom. "Thou know'st nothing of Shylock, nor of me, if thou art willing to speak so." Both Lorenzo and Gratiano look shocked, and I am nearly as surprised as they, but I go on. "Had I given him leave to hang himself, I would be dead. He saved my life, took me from that very gutter thou speak'st of, whilst thou believed the lies and left me to the mercy of a mob."

Lorenzo frowns. "What lies? And what is this mob thou speak'st of?"

Gratiano is staring. "Art thou mad with wine thyself?"

"No," I snap. "I have drunk no wine tonight at all. And I wish thou wouldst not speak of Shylock and Jessica as if they were mud in the streets, for neither deserves that."

"I understand thee not. I expected thou wouldst join our jests—"

"They are calumny, not jests. And verily, I might have joined thee once, but I have learned better. And if thou hadst not kept away for months, thou might have realized that already." I turn to Lorenzo, who is clearly shocked. "My apologies for leaving so early, but I find I am not well. Thou wilt excuse me." Without another word, I turn and walk from the room, shutting the door behind me—

And nearly run into Jessica, who hastily steps back. "I am sorry, Signor Antonio." She is blushing in embarrassment. "I merely—I did not mean to eavesdrop. I simply—I simply wished to know what my husband says of me when he thinks I cannot hear."

'Tis a sentiment I can understand. "There is no need to worry. As you must have heard, he spoke no ill of you."

"But Signor Gratiano spoke ill of my father, and you defended him." Jessica frowns. "Why?"

"I hardly know," I confess. "Save, perhaps, that it would have seemed the basest sort of ingratitude not to defend him." I pause. "There was no chance to tell you earlier—but he does wish to see you. He does not wish to see Lorenzo, but he will see you, if you so desire."

The surprise—and hope—on Jessica's face is clear. "I—I do. Will you go with me, then, since Lorenzo must not?"

"I should be glad to. When I next dine with you and your husband, we shall find a time."

"Thank you." Jessica hesitates. "Are you truly leaving?"

"Yes. I fear I have found naught but discomfort tonight. Though that is none of your doing," I hasten to add.

"I am sorry, nonetheless. Farewell for now, Signor Antonio." Jessica goes back into the room where we dined. A servant lets me out the door, and I begin to make my way home, my head still whirling in confusion.

What I told Jessica is true, certainly. It would have been ungrateful to allow Shylock to be so insulted after all he has done for me. Yet I am not sure that is truly why I did it. For if it were merely a matter of honor, of fulfilling a debt, why would I grow so angry as to knock over a chair and storm out of the room?

Shylock's words outside the church come back to me. I have a family, you dolt. I have you.

I have refused to acknowledge the truth for so long, but now I have little choice but to see it. Shylock is family. And that is a stronger tie than what holds me to my friends, even what held me to my lovers, because true family does not shut the door when a man is in need. Family are the people who, when you must go to them, they must take you in.

When I finally arrive home, I take out the records of Vicenzo's and my business venture, and begin attempting to reckon up our gains and losses. But my mind is so distracted that I find I cannot concentrate on the numbers. Suddenly I remember the verse Brother Rafaele advised me to read, Ephesians 2:19. I open my Bible and find it.

So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints, and also members of the household of God.

Shylock

As I walk back from dining with Tubal and Naomi under the darkening sky, I find myself wondering—if I could go back, if I could choose never to enter into the bond with Antonio and Bassanio, knowing what I know now—what would I do?

'Tis a question, I realize, I could never truly answer. For knowing what I know now, the idea of demanding a pound of flesh as collateral for a bond repulses me. And I fervently wish I were still a Jew, for mocked as they are, I am one at heart and to practice my faith only behind closed doors is painful. But had I never entered into that bond, the chain of events that ended with Antonio landing injured on my doorstep would not have been set in motion—and I would still be furious and hateful, longing for revenge I could never have.

I would still be alone.

"Master Shylock!" I turn and see, to my surprise, Rosalba hurrying down the street behind me. "You must not go home now."

"What dost thou mean?" I demand, irritated. The day has been a long one and I am wishing for rest.

Rosalba slides to a halt, breathing hard as if she has run a great distance. "There are men outside your house, men with much drink in them. They demanded of Ignazio when you would return, and when he said he did not know, they tried to hit him. He has bolted the door upon them, but they wait outside still. You must not go home until they are gone!"

Terror swamps me. Ever since the trial, I have feared something of this sort. "How didst thou leave the house to warn me?"

"I climbed out a window in the back. I have been searching for you ever since. Can you not return to Signor Tubal's house for the night?"

"Tubal's house? I could—" I stop as I realize that I cannot do any such thing. "No. 'Tis in the ghetto, and the ghetto is locked." I try to gather my wits together, but I seem incapable of thought. It may shame me to be so frightened, but I know what such men are capable of, especially when they have wine and hatred in them.

"I know! Signor Antonio. You may go to him, I am sure."

What? Go to Antonio for help? What if he refuses? Last time he gave me aid, it ended in the loss of his financer. What if—

"Master Shylock!" Rosalba shakes my arm. "I do not think we should delay."

'Tis Rosalba's insistence, when she is usually so hesitant to demand anything, that shakes sense into me. "Thou art correct, we should not." 'Tis at least a place to start.

Antonio's house is not far, and that is fortunate, for my mind is swift to remind me of my ventures with mobs—the jeers, the hurled rocks, the bruises and cuts and broken bones. I do not know what I shall do, where I shall go, if Antonio turns me away, unless it is to walk the streets all night—a prospect almost as dangerous as it would seem returning to my house now is.

The servant Pietro answers the door when we arrive. "Signor Shylock. I did not know you were to come tonight."

"We had not planned it so," I reply, struggling to keep my voice steady. "Still, I must speak to Antonio. Wilt thou tell him I am here?"

Pietro hesitates. "He is…in rather a temper now. If you will—"

"I am not seeing anyone tonight!" Antonio's voice comes from his study. "I have had enough of visiting and visitors."

To my shock, Rosalba pushes past Pietro and runs into the house. "Signor Antonio, you must let Master Shylock in! He has nowhere else to go."

There are rapid footsteps on the other side of the door, and Antonio appears. "Shylock? Why are you out so late?"

"'Tis hardly my choice," I snap, trying to keep my increasing panic hidden.

Antonio clearly sees it anyway. "What is wrong?"

"Rosalba came to tell me—" I choke on the words, then clear my throat and go on. "Rosalba came to tell me there is a drunken mob outside my house. That they are looking for me. I dare not return there."

"Come in, now." Before I can actually move on my own, Antonio has pulled me inside, slammed the door shut, and turned to his servant. "If any come to the door tonight, do not answer it." Pietro bows and leaves the room, and Antonio looks back at me. "Will you not call up the law on them?"

"What law?" I ask bitterly. "What law of Venice takes the word of a converted Jew over the words of born Christians, no matter their malice? Were they to speak against me to the wrong people, I could end in an even worse state than I am now."

Antonio opens his mouth and shuts it. Rosalba glances between us, twisting her hands in her skirt.

Suddenly I find myself dizzy, swaying on my feet—'tis an aftereffect of my panic, I know. For a moment, I am sure I will fall, but then Antonio is on my right and Rosalba is on my left, and they are helping me to sit on a nearby bench. Furious with myself for showing such weakness, I stare at the floor, refusing to meet their eyes.

"You must stay here until it is safe for you to return," Antonio says firmly. "None will think to look for you at my house, and even if they did, I would not allow them to harm you. The only way anyone shall take you out that door against your will is if they put me in a coffin and take me first."

I jerk my head up and stare at him, shocked and confused by the words. They simply cannot be true. "Do not be an addled wretch. You would not go to such lengths to protect me. Nobody would."

Antonio looks stung, then angry. "You think I would hand you over to be beaten, or worse? I trust you—do you not trust me at all?"

"I know not," I admit. "I expected to be turned away, for when you helped me last time, it gave you no profit."

"I need earn no profit for helping you!"

"How was I to know?"

"Do you earn a profit for helping me?"

"No, but—"

"Then I should not require any of you," Antonio retorts. "'Tis but justice."

Justice? I have to stop myself from gaping like an idiot. Less than nine months ago, I would have sworn by every ship in Venice that people can never truly change. Perhaps the evidence otherwise has been staring me in the face—but until now, I have avoided acknowledging it. Now I cannot. The Antonio who triumphed in converting me and depriving me of wealth at the trial, is not the same Antonio who is watching me now with anger and worry in his eyes. Whether he realizes it or not, what he means by justice has been turned on its head.

Or perhaps not. For justice means returning in kind what one is given. Perhaps it is not the meaning of justice that has changed, but what I have given him—mercy, where I could have given cruelty. Which he is now returning in kind.

"Shylock? Are you alright?"

"I hardly know," I confess. "I had not thought of it that way. And I—I am afraid. I fear now I will never truly be safe." A part of me is shocked that I am admitting this aloud, while another part of me wonders why I have not done so sooner.

Antonio hesitates a moment. "I cannot promise you will be safe. I do not think anyone could. But you should never pause in coming to me for help."

I look from him to Rosalba. Perhaps I am the greater fool for not realizing it sooner—but there are people, few as they may be, who care what happens to me. Ignazio and Rosalba care enough to risk the fury of a mob to warn me, Antonio cares enough to stand between me and a world that would offer little but harshness.

And despite my fear, that knowledge softens a place in me that has been hard as stone for more than a decade.

'Tis no surprise that none of the three of us sleep at all that night. In order that I not go completely insane, I insist that Antonio show me the gains and losses his trade has had over the past month or so. I manage to point out three tax loopholes that he and his business partner are not taking advantage of, inform him how much coin they are losing due to that, and insult them both repeatedly for not noticing it, which makes me feel somewhat better. Somewhere between being called a wasteful lout and a tedious foot-licker, Antonio wrangles a promise out of me to partner in business with them. The irony in the air is so thick I'm surprised I can still breathe normally.

Ignazio comes just before dawn to inform us that the mob left a number of hours ago, their drunkenness evidently winning out over their patience, but that he is only now sure none of them are still loitering about. The fact that Ignazio seemed to know without being told where I would be does not escape me, but I choose to ignore this.

I may have changed, but I am still fully capable of refusing to admit how much.

OoOoO

"If you pace any more, Master Shylock, you shall wear a hole in the floor," Ignazio declares. "You have nothing to fear from your own daughter."

"Thou art as clay-brained as usual," I snap at him. "My daughter abandoned her faith and me. It was folly to agree to see her. No doubt she will come to jeer, like all the rest."

"Come, you always think the worst of people," Ignazio chides me.

"Yes, and I prefer it that way." Though it would no doubt befit me better to wait for Jessica's arrival seated calmly in a chair, I find myself unable to stay still. "I am less often disappointed."

"Verily?" Ignazio says innocently. "It seems to me you are disappointed as often as the rest of us."

I am about to snarl at him again when there is a knock at the door, and the harsh words die before they reach my mouth. That must be Jessica—Antonio said they would come at this time. I suddenly find myself unable to move, and it is Ignazio who answers the door. Antonio steps through first, and then—

There she is. A woman familiar and yet a stranger, Jessica looks as discomfited as I feel. "Father. I—I am glad to see you well."

"Art thou, truly?" I demand before I can think. "Or art thou ashamed of me?"

Jessica flinches. This truly was a mistake. Whatever love I have for my daughter, my pride will not allow me to show it.

Antonio glares at me. "Do not act the fool, Shylock. If Jessica were ashamed of you, why would she be here?"

"He is not wrong to ask," Jessica said quietly. "I would have come to see you long before now, but you are right, in a way. I was afraid my husband and friends would shame me for doing so."

"Then why didst thou come?"

"Because I changed my mind. Signor Antonio has spoken of how you helped him. If you are willing to give charity to a man you have hated so, then I care not what others think or say of you."

I look at Antonio, shocked. "You spoke of me to Jessica?"

Antonio nods briefly. "I stayed with them for a time, after I left your house."

That explains nothing as far as I am concerned, but now is not the time to question him. I look back at Jessica. She seems well, but—"Art thou happy? In thy marriage? Does Lorenzo treat thee well?"

Jessica stands straight. "Very well. I could not ask for a better husband."

I hear her words, but it is her expression and posture I watch. Anyone who has been a moneylender for years, as I have, can tell easily if somebody is lying. And I can see that Jessica is telling the truth. Lorenzo, however much I might dislike him, has at least done right by her. "Good."

"What?" Jessica stares at me. "I did not—I hardly thought you would term any part of my marriage good."

"As it happens, that is the only part I term good," I say dryly. "I am not pleased, nor will I ever be, that thou fled my house, or that thou converted, or that thou married a Christian. But if Lorenzo treats thee well, I shall at least refrain from killing him and making thee a widow."

"How courteous of you." Antonio rolls his eyes. "Ignazio, kindly show me elsewhere so Shylock and Jessica may speak alone. I do not wish to intrude."

"Gladly, Signor Antonio. Why, if you are fortunate, you may even glimpse the new kind of songbird I have recently discovered…" Ignazio leads Antonio from the room.

I look at Jessica, whose eyes are fixed on the floor. "Did Antonio truly speak to thee of me?"

Jessica nods. "He is—I can hardly believe he may be your friend, but the way he acts…when Signor Gratiano began insulting you, he practically stormed out of our house."

"Truly?"

"Yes."

God only knows what Jessica made of that, when I barely know what to make of it myself.

An awkward silence falls between us. Words fail me too often—'tis actions that serve better, and though this particular action will be hard, I promised myself I would do it. "I have something for thee. Thou may not care for it, but…"

Jessica looks up, clearly puzzled. "Something for me? What?"

"Here." I hold out Leah's turquoise ring. "Tubal bought it back. I thought perhaps thou might treasure it more now than before."

"You are willing…" Jessica's eyes are wide. "You know how I gave it up carelessly, yet you are willing to return it to me?"

"I have precious memories of thy mother. Thou, I would guess, hardly remember her." I pause. "But if thou dost not want—"

"But I do." Jessica's eyes drop again. "I was angry with you, when I traded it away. Perhaps—perhaps I was also angry with my mother, for dying before I could know her."

"She loved thee dearly, and—" I stop, then force myself to go on. "And I love thee."

"What?" Jessica's head shoots up. "You…"

"I will never be able to show it as Leah could have. As perhaps thy husband does." I take a breath. "But 'tis true, nevertheless. As well as I am able to love anyone, I love thee."

"I thank you for that," Jessica says softly.

So with clumsy words and acts of trust, I begin, slowly, to piece my life back together.

Author's Note

This chapter ends the first part of Friday Night Candles. The story has been so divided for this reason: in part two, there shall be slash—not sexually explicit, but there. I am aware that kind of thing is not to everybody's taste, and therefore have tried to give a little closure in this chapter, in case you wish to stop reading after it. As always I welcome feedback, but flames on the immorality of homosexuality shall be ignored.