Author's Note

Okay, folks, here's the plan. We're going to understand that all versions of the Bible are somewhat different. We're going to be aware that, yes, the original Hebrew and Greek and Aramaic texts are not the same as the Latin Vulgate, or modern Torah translations, or the New Revised Standard Version, and none of those versions are the same as each other, either.

We're going to understand all that, and we're going to ignore it. This is because I can't read Hebrew or Greek or Aramaic or Latin, so, for the sake of my sanity, we're going to say the (English) New Revised Standard version is close enough. Textually, religion is very important to these characters, and this was also a time in history where your faith defined a huge part of your life. So I've made the choice to let it be an important element in the story, and resign myself to the fact that I can't do it perfectly.

I appreciate your understanding.

Chapter 4: Heart of an Alien

I stare at Antonio. Hope flares in me at his words, and I instinctively try and crush it. Listening is easy. 'Tis action that is hard, and I cannot even think what action would solve this horrifying tangle.

"I'll go." The man with the contracts moves away. "Shall I send these to—?"

"Do what you think best, Vicenzo." Antonio does not take his eyes off me. "I trust your judgment. Please leave us." The door shuts, and the servant backs out of the room in his turn. "Not for your own sake? If you are not hurt, then who is?"

I fix my eyes on a point over his shoulder and do my best to tell the story rationally. But the more I speak of it, the more my numbness leaches away and fear replaces it. I know too much of human nature to have any trouble imagining what might be happening even in this moment.

"They called upon me, for I am a Christian. But there is nothing I can do alone. I thought..." My voice trails off, and to cover it, I hold out the bond. "The debt is overdue, any can see it here. You have dealt with the notary yourself, you know his character."

Antonio, lips pressed together, takes the paper and scans it. Then his eyes narrow and he pins me with a glare. "You dare to come here with such a tale? This man is the son of my business partner. He has even used his own money to assist in our venture. Signor Facio would no more kidnap anyone than I would!"

Just my luck. The son of his business partner? I feel utterly powerless, and with that comes anger. "'Tis no tale. Will you play at dice with a girl's safety to keep your happy little illusions?"

"I would be the greater fool for believing this illusion you and your friend have spun up!" Antonio waves the bond. "Such a slander over a mere debt?"

"Slander?" I jump up and kick the chair aside. "I'm telling you the truth!"

"If Tubal believes he's been wronged, tell him to go to a court and let an unbiased man judge between them."

"Are you a gibbering ape?" I demand. "Tubal knows better! Who can tell what your Signor Facio might do to his daughter, after your supposedly unbiased man dismisses the suit without a thought?"

"You are both cowards, to come to me with such a barefaced lie. Get out of my house or I'll throw you into the street."

"If you claim this is justice you are meting out, you believe more in Satan than God!"

For a moment, I think Antonio is going to hit me. "And you want this to fall on my head, rather than yours? You want me to shame myself so far as to accuse an innocent man?"

"You are a fine one to speak of shame! You humiliated me for years, and now I'm forced to come to you for help. I'm forced to present my case as if you are a high judge and not my tormentor. I'm forced to beg you to believe me. Is that not shame enough for any man?"

He stares at me, shock plain on his face. "You are begging me to believe you? You plead to no one."

"She reminds me of Jessica."

Antonio opens his mouth, then shuts it. Then he turns his back to me, muttering under his breath. I stand there, now bereft of words. I can do no more.

Minutes pass, and I'm almost afraid to breathe. Finally he turns back to me, and his voice is cold. "If I find this is a lie, you may bid farewell to the myth that you have converted, and for that you will lay in prison."

"'Tis no lie."

"Then come with me." Antonio opens the door. "I will have the truth of it."

I follow him towards what I assume is the debtor's house, frightened now not just for Rachele, but for her family and myself. If Antonio believes his partner's son over me, we could all pay dearly for it. Even if I was the kind to follow my new faith to the letter, even if I was the kind to love Christ with all my heart, few would take my word over that of a born Christian's, no matter the blackness of their sins.

Luckily, I have not much time to dwell it, for the man's house is not far away. Antonio pauses outside. "Do not lose your temper. It will do no one good."

'Tis true, though it grates at me to acknowledge he's right. I spent years wearing an implacable mask, hiding my fury at those who taunted me, and 'tis not impossible for me to don it again. Antonio looks surprised, as if he expected me to snap at him, but then turns and knocks.

A man opens the door wide. "Signor Antonio, you are most welcome." He throws me a curious look, but then goes on. "I fear Signor Marino is out, but he should return soon."

"Verily, I have come to see Signor Facio," Antonio replies easily. "Wilt thou tell him I have come? 'Tis private business."

"Of course." The servant stands aside to let us in, and then vanishes into another room.

Antonio turns to me. "Let me speak with him alone. He will not give frank answers in front of you."

What choice do I have but to comply? "I charge you to question him in earnest. If ever I did you any good—" A strange young man, grinning as if he had been given sainthood, appears in the doorway. My stomach drops. A lad never looked less likely to do harm.

"I am glad to see you, indeed! You have business with me?"

"That I do." Antonio smiles at him. "Is there a place we might speak alone?"

"Yes, through here." The lad beckons Antonio into the room from whence he came, and the door closes behind them.

The servant returns a minute or so later. "Perhaps you might wait—" Another knock sounds. "Excuse me, that must be my master."

Facio's father. This situation just keeps getting better and better. I resist the urge to swear loudly as a middle-aged merchant steps through the and removes his cloak. He gestures the servant away and then spies me. "Good day. Pardon me, but have we met?"

"No. No, we have not." And thank heaven for that. If he had recognized me, it would have been a mercy if the roof fell in. "I came with Antonio." Lying would most likely tangle the situation further.

"I see." The merchant looks pleased. "Well, where is the man?"

"He has private business with your son," I say, a little too quickly. "It will be completed shortly, no doubt."

"No doubt indeed." He looks puzzled, but then shrugs. "I am always glad to meet any friend of Antonio's. I am Signor Marino, and you?"

This is surreal. Now I must pretend to be Antonio's friend. "Signor Shylock. He said you were his partner in business, what is it you deal in?"

Marino laughs. "I do little of the dealing. I hand over the money, and he and Vicenzo spend it — quite wisely, I should add. 'Tis the glass trade we work in. Are you a merchant yourself?"

"Yes." Well, lying was unavoidable at some point. I can hardly say my true profession, even if I practice it no longer.

"What do you trade in, then?"

"Spices." Please, do not let him be an expert in the spice market.

"Ah, yes!" Marino's face lights up. "I often do business there. Might even go so far as to call myself an expert. You must know Signor Rizardo. He and I are good friends."

God hates me, verily. Can I pretend to go into spasms? Fall unconscious? Have a heart attack? "Yes. Of course. Signor Rizardo. Naturally."

"What do you think of the prospects for this argosy he wishes to send to the Indies? I should like to hear an opinion from a neutral party."

I'm trying to remember just what the symptoms of a spasm are, when the door opens and Facio shoots out, pale as a sheet, only to stop dead in his tracks when he sees us. "Father. You — you are home."

"Indeed. Did Antonio speak with thee?"

"I did." Antonio is standing in the doorway now, looking unnaturally calm and composed. "Your son had the loan of an item from Shylock here. We came to collect it." My eyes widen. "And perhaps you and I might take a cup of wine while they speak?"

"Oh." Marino blinks in surprise. "I was not aware my son and Signor Shylock knew each other. Well, Facio, return this item. And I should be glad to drink with you, as always."

Facio glances frantically between his father and me, then turns to Antonio. "I — I have changed my mind. I must keep — it. If any knew—"

"Thou must keep it?" Marino frowns. "That is discourteous, my son, and no way to pay for a man's kindness."

"'Tis true." Antonio's voice is almost pleasant. "I should not like to ask your father to fetch it for us, but I shall."

"No!" Facio is shaking his head. "My honor depends on it!"

I promptly forget about not losing my temper. "Damn thy pox-ridden honorto drown in the sea! I hope thou live'st a thousand years in hell for every minute thou hast frightened that girl!"

"How dare you speak so—" Marino begins, but Antonio jumps in.

"Shylock, stop it. Facio, go get her."

"What is happening here?" Marino demands. "Who is this girl you speak of?"

"His moneylender's daughter!" I explode. "He's keeping her here to avoid paying his debt!"

"'Tis not true." Facio looks ready to panic. I determine not to let him near Rachele if I must pin him to the wall. Frightened people tend to lash out unpredictably. "I would never consort with usurers."

"Of course thou would'st not. I have taught thee better." Marino scowls at me. "Who do you think you are, to curse and slander my son?"

"Do you want to see the bond?" I'm so furious I almost cannot speak. "We can show it to you, we can take you to the notary and the—"

"Be quiet! You are lying!" Facio grabs the bench we were sitting on and swings it at me. I was so worried for Rachele that I had not considered he might try to hit anyone else, and as a consequence, I do not duck fast enough. Blinding pain erupts all down the side of my face.

"Facio!" his father exclaims. "That is not — Antonio, what are you doing?"

Facio jumps back about a foot, drops the bench on his own toes, and actually tries to hide behind his father. I blame him not, Antonio looks like a snake ready to bite. "Keep away from him. Thou confessed to me thou had'st that girl, not ten minutes ago. I would not have told Marino, as thou asked, but thou leave'st me no choice. Go bring her out, now." The lad flees.

"He will hear from me for losing his temper so," Marino pronounces. "Are you alright?"

I'm about to spit a disparaging answer back, but that dies in my throat when Antonio grabs my face and angles it towards the light. "That has to hurt."

"I have had worse," I mutter, shaking him off in an effort to hide my shock. Examining injuries to gauge the pain they cause is the action of a friend. Antonio doing it to me makes no sense.

Marino is pale. "Let me see this bond." Antonio hands it to him without a word. He examines it, and then tears it in half, then quarters. I'm tempted to claw his eyes out, but my face hurts rather too much to try. "I will deal with my son, but no one must know of this...indiscretion of his. I trust you will keep silent on it." He stops at the sound of wailing. "What by all the saints is that?"

Facio emerges, pushing Rachele in front of him. She jerks away and runs to me. "Take me home, Signor Shylock, please—"

"I will." I grip her shoulder, dizzy with relief that she seems uninjured. "We shall go now."

Marino looks appalled. "What possessed thee?"

"I am sorry," Facio whispers. "What was I to do? None could know of the debt..."

"Many a man has defaulted on a loan, but an honest man faces the fair consequences." Antonio glares at him. "He does not terrify a child who knows naught of business. Expect the return of the money thou invested in our venture, and do not think of asking us for profit. I will have no dealings with thee."

"No dealings with..." Facio half-chokes. "The wench was hardly gone a day!"

"Fine." Law or no law, I should strangle the man. "I'll send a stranger to grab thee off the street on thy way to see a friend. I'm sure thou wilt find it merely a pleasing adventure!"

"This is your fault! You told him!" Facio takes three steps towards me and then five steps back when Antonio gets between us. "I mean..."

"Do not even think of hurting him again," Antonio says quietly. "Not now, not ever, or I will see to it that every ship captain, every craftsman, and every merchant on the Rialto knows how little thou art to be trusted. Do not anger me further than thou already hast." Facio's jaw drops. So does mine.

"Leave us," his father orders him. "You will hear of this from me later." Facio slinks from the room like a kicked dog. "I would prefer it, Antonio, if you did not threaten my son. But I must thank you for settling the matter so discreetly. It could have made much trouble."

"I did not do it for your sake," Antonio replies. "If you thank anyone for discretion, it should be the girl's family. And with your thanks might come an apology for defacing their bond."

"You speak as if they were Christians."

"You speak as if your son was not a dog-hearted coxcomb," I mutter.

Clearly not hearing this, Marino goes on. "And I must insist that you not continue with this insane talk of returning Facio's money. If 'tis thought that even his father's partners will have naught to do with him—"

Antonio shakes his head. "If 'tis thought so, it will be no less than truth. I do not hold this against you, for you are my friend and clearly knew nothing of it, but—"

"You threatened not a minute ago to ruin his livelihood; now you will ruin his good repute?"

"His actions leave me little choice."

"Then you may expect nothing more from me." Marino points to the door. "If Vicenzo cannot bring you to see reason, your venture may thrive or fail on its own. Leave my house."

I steer Rachele out, and Antonio follows me. "I will go with you to her parents, to see her safe."

For some reason, it does not occur to me to protest, and I merely direct us towards the ghetto. Rachele is choking back tears, Antonio says not a word, and my head is spinning so that 'tis all I can do to check we are going the right way.

Marino's actions do not shock me; he is trying to protect his son. Tubal and Naomi called on me because they were trying to protect Rachele. I called on Antonio because I was trying to protect my friends.

But no one ever protects me.It simply does not happen. There might as well be letters written in the sky against it. I can hardly wrap my mind around the mere idea. Except that this time, I did not end up as I generally do when tempers spiral out of control — down on the ground being kicked and cursed and just avoiding being crippled for life. I walked out relatively unhurt, because Antonio—

Protected me. And that goes against every idea I have about myself. No one gives me anything. At best they regard me with casual, generic goodwill. At worst they would laugh if I died. I'm used to that. I expect it, so completely that though I think all the way to Tubal's house, I still cannot figure out what I'm feeling.

Rachele bolts into the house and her mother's arms the moment the door is opened. Tubal tries to usher me inside, but I hardly note what he says, especially when I turn around and realize that Antonio has vanished. I have to look with care in three directions before I spy him five houses down, walking towards the gate to the ghetto.

"Shylock? Have you heard a word I'm saying?"

I jerk around. "Pardon me. I'm just..." I reflex, then decide on frankness. "...horribly confused."

"I wanted to thank you. Nothing we can do for you is too much."

"No need to thank me for mere humanity," I inform him. "I regret to say I cannot bring you the man's corpse, for I fear that would cause more problems than it would...solve..." I trail off as I realize.

Humanity. What I'm feeling is — human. Worthwhile. Important. As if I'm not a cobblestone in the street, to be stepped on at every turn. As if I'm a person.

And I am in no way equipped to deal with the concept of my former nemesis seeing me as worthy of protection. So I let Tubal pull me inside, and insist to him and Naomi that I need no reward, and ignore David's pleas to tell me what happened. And when all that does not distract me, I calculate in my head how many ducats I spend in the market in a year, and imagine five new Bible verses I can quote to annoy Brother Rafaele, and recall every tear in my clothes I need Rosalba to mend.

None of it works.

Antonio

"This is a jest. Was not the man lying?"

I pour Vicenzo more wine. Having hardly touched food — again — I declined to take any myself, though I feel strained enough to drink half a barrel. "That's what I thought. Unfortunately, he was not."

Vicenzo breathes out sharply. "Though I wish I could deny it, a reckless action like that does fit with what I know of Facio's character. But Marino could not have known of it."

"I am sure that is true. Marino is honorable enough; I only wish he could understand why we cannot deal with his son."

"No, I must agree with you about that. If he cannot be trusted in such a matter...but when Marino came to my house, to try and bring me around to his view, he said something rather peculiar."

"Peculiar?" I ask warily.

"He informed me that you had threatened his son. That can hardly be true."

"No, I did. In a manner of speaking."

"You did?" Vicenzo stared at me. "Why?"

"He lost his temper and hit Shylock in the face with a bench."

"He hit...is your friend alright?"

The actual question flies right over my head. "Shylock is not my friend. We hate each other. He takes every opportunity to insult me, and I him."

Vicenzo's eyebrows shoot up. "You threatened your business partner's son because he wronged a man you hate?"

"'Tis...odd, I know."

"Well, I will not argue with that." Vicenzo sighs. "But never mind. Now I suppose we must find another investor, or perhaps more than one. The profits we have been earning are well enough, but to expand, we will need help."

We talk for some time, though 'tis mostly speculation as to who might be willing to provide money. Vicenzo bids me farewell, and after he leaves, I try my best to distract myself by reckoning up our gains of the past month. But as with most of my attempted distractions, 'tis not effective.

Why did I do it? The return of Facio's money was mere common sense. If a man will steal away the children of those with which he does business, I refuse to trust him. But why threaten him? There was hardly a need. Marino would have reproached him far enough.

Unfortunately, I do know the answer to that. I wanted to shield Shylock, who shielded me for so long. Not out of any sense of obligation, though I do owe him much, but because I care what happens to him. That's infuriating. It makes no sense. It would make sense if I did it for Bassanio, for Gratiano, for Lorenzo, for any of my friends.

But I should not care what happens to Shylock. Should I? He tried to kill me. Because I spat on and kicked him. He was a Jew, and practically still is. And I take comfort from the rituals he celebrates. He insults me constantly. And I enjoy having the opportunity to insult him back. He cast off his daughter for coin. And then he saved my life. He was a usurer, and repents it not. And I was willing to take out a loan from him when it suited me.

I seize on the last point. Shylock committed usury. He resented it when I relieved his debtors. The Bible forbids it. And I will read the Bible now, to remind me of it, and then these disturbing thoughts will go away.

It takes several minutes of pondering before I vaguely remember the location of the verse, somewhere in Exodus. I skim through the first several sections before I locate it.

But reading the verse does not bring me peace. It brings me the opposite of peace, because of what is written but a few verses before it.

This is absurd. Even the Bible is not acting as it should. I snap the book shut and stand up. I need help. I need advice.

OoOoO

I stand around awkwardly after confession, craning my neck so I can see over the crowd. This is not my usual church, and I do not know quite how to go about finding the man I seek. After inquiring of a few people, I discovered that Brother Rafaele is indeed a priest here, but he is not in sight. But then I hear another recognizable voice, and duck behind the tallest person I can see to avoid the owner of it.

Shylock practically stomps towards the door, muttering to himself. A few people are staring, but I cannot tell if 'tis over his decidedly impious behavior or the fact that the right side of his face is nearly twice its normal size. I wince, scold myself for doing so, and then decide 'tis only the sympathy I would feel for anyone with such a bruise.

"Signor Antonio, well met!" I turn and see Brother Rafaele. "I fear you have just missed Signor Shylock, but if you hurry, you may be able to catch up with him."

"We would only trade insults." And why does Brother Rafaele insist on behaving as if Shylock and I actually like each other? "I came to see you. I am in need of advice."

"That I am glad to give. Shall we remain here, or would you prefer to sit somewhere?"

"A place to sit would be welcome, thank you."

Brother Rafaele leads the way. "When Signor Shylock told me you had left, I was glad to hear that you were recovering."

I think of staring at a plate of food for hours and only managing to eat half of it. Of being unable to sleep in a bed, or sleep at all without shoving a chair in front of the door. Of my longing to celebrate Shabbat and my constant search of the Bible for answers that do not come. "I have left, indeed. But in truth, I am not sure I'm recovering."

"You do look tired, and rather thin, if you will pardon my saying so. I did not like to mention it before, but perhaps you might see a physician."

"'Tis not my body that troubles me, I think, but my mind." I walk into the room Brother Rafaele has indicated, and watch as he shuts the door. 'Tis strange to realize that Shylock might have sat here, listening to the priest read, though I doubt he ever asked him for help.

"Well, I know little of that, but if 'tis a matter of faith, I shall be happy to do what I can."

I sit and then stand, sit and then stand, and finally force myself to remain sitting. Brother Rafaele looks at me with concern, so I attempt to explain myself. "I have a question. There is a verse—" I stop.

"Yes?" Brother Rafaele prompts.

"Shylock is the most aggravating person I have ever met!" I blurt out. "He makes me question everything!"

Brother Rafaele looks surprised for a minute, then starts to laugh. "I know it well. The man is exasperating and demands answers I am not sure how to give. But what does that have to do with a Bible verse?"

I throw up my hands. "He's irritating, skeptical, blasphemous, sarcastic — and yet for some cursed reason I seem to care what happens to him." I take a breath. "And I know I should not, so I decided to read the verse on usury."

"If I recall, 'tis in Exodus? 'Tis been some time since I heard it myself. Most take it so much for granted that they do not bother reading it."

"I read it. I read it ten times, trying to stop, trying to see him as the sinner that he is!" I jump up again and being pacing. "I can practically say it by heart: 'If you lend money to my people, to the poor among you, you shall not deal with them as a creditor; you shall not exact interest from them. If you take your neighbor's cloak in pawn, you shall restore it before the sun goes down; for it may be your neighbor's only clothing to use as cover, in what else shall that person sleep?'"

Brother Rafaele looks rather alarmed. "Are you alright? You seem—"

I talk over him. "'Tis exactly as the Church says, that verse. 'Tis a sin to take interest, to drain on what feeble resources the poor have. 'Tis a—"

"Signor Antonio, calm yourself! I know the verse and the laws of the Church. There is no need for such distress."

"Yes, but..." I take a breath and slowly sit down. Between this and the rant about killing myself during the confession he took, I seem rather on my way to convincing the priest I have lost my mind. "'Tis not that verse that is bothering me, though. 'Tis the other."

"Which?"

"Just above it. Just one verse up."

"Will you read it to me? I do not recall the one you mean."

I open my Bible, swallow my worry, and read. "'You shall not wrong or oppress a resident alien, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt.' And there's another, just on the next page. Almost the same. 'You shall not oppress a resident alien; you know the heart of an alien, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt.'"

Brother Rafaele frowns and opens his own Bible. "I fear I have not read that exact verse, for my fathers put no emphasis on it." He flips through the pages until he finds the one he seeks. "Ah, yes. You are right. But I know not why it discomfits you."

"Because it speaks of aliens. The Jews in Venice, they are aliens, are they not?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"It says to welcome aliens! Have we done that? Do we do that?" I get up and begin to pace again. "I stood in that courtroom and watched that lawyer condemn Shylock with naught but a few words, all because he was an alien. He did conspire to murder me, and all knew it. But we condemned him for it before he had a trial of his own, while he had no lawyer to speak for him. No citizen would have been humiliated so, would have been threatened with the gallows before he had a chance at defense."

"Wait a moment!" Brother Rafaele holds up his hands. "That was you? I knew the circumstances of his conversion. I knew he entered into the bond with a man named Antonio, and that he did not think well of you. But I thought it impossible that you could be the same man."

"Well, I was." I drop back down into my chair. "I borrowed money from him, I nearly suffered under his knife, I converted him against his will. All that is true."

Brother Rafaele furrows his brow and taps his fingers on the cover of his Bible. "If you seek an explanation for Signor Shylock's behavior — either harsh or merciful — I must confess I know no more than you. I doubt even he is aware of the reasons for all his actions."

"So he says." I feel the urge to jump up again, but force myself to remain seated. "The verse about usury — we quote that to the moneylenders constantly. We throw it in their faces. Usury is a sin. But we are compelled to obey all the Word of God, not only the parts we like. We cannot pick one verse out of the Bible and ignore those that surround it, can we?"

"Of course not..." Brother Rafaele's frown deepens. "But..."

"Then the Jews have the right to quote the verse about aliens to us." The thought makes me feel ill. "'Tis written right there in our Bible. They could throw that in our faces, but for the fact that they fear us."

"I see," Brother Rafaele says slowly. "I do not like to think of us as oppressing the Jews. But you are correct. They fear us, and I know, from the confessions I take, that much of it is justified."

"I know not what to do," I mutter. "Shylock was wrong to try to kill me, but...I feel as if I have sinned, and yet how would I confess?"

"You have not sinned, Signor Antonio. 'Tis no sin to be confused." Brother Rafaele pauses. "But I do have a question for you."

Curious, I look up. "What is it?"

"You said you read the verse because you should not care about Signor Shylock. Why not?"

"Because he is no believer, he's angry at the world, he cares more for coin than justice! He's a sinner who should burn in—" Guilt hits me, and I shut my mouth. Am I truly this hateful, that I would hurl such accusations?

"Signor Antonio, are not we all sinners?"

"I speak so because I'm afraid," I confess, realizing only as I say it that 'tis true. "I saw Shylock the Jew, naught else. Now I see Shylock the man. I'm afraid, because if he is so, that means I have treated another man as rubbish in the streets."

Brother Rafaele shakes his head. "I am out of my depth. I would suggest you consult one of my fathers, but I fear that, despite their wisdom, they would still be unable to help you. Perhaps God will help you find the answers you seek." He tilts his head to one side, considering me. "But I do have other advice for you, though it has little to do with the Bible or the Church."

"What advice?"

"Eat something. You look half-starved."

I laugh. "I will find that harder than you think."

"How often do you eat, if I may ask?"

"Usually every other day. Sometimes more." I shrug.

Brother Rafaele raises his eyebrows. "Hmm. We may have to take extreme measures."

"What measures?"

"Never mind. I hope my listening, at least, has been some help to you." Brother Rafaele opens the door for me.

"I thank you for it."

Outside, I wander through the crowd, doing my best to push away my runaway thoughts. I'm eager to put off returning to my house, which feels more than ever like a dark trap — a problem I seem unable to fix. 'Tis such a torment there at night that once or twice I have considered finding some man or even woman to lie with me, that I might not be alone.

But in the end, I'm not such a fool as to use coin or my body to get such fleeting comfort. Because as I spend my night hours kept awake by dreams and hunger, and try to imagine what safety and joy might look like, I see no one's face, not even Bassanio's. I see lit candles and that strange bread, challah, and I hear those odd, musical prayers.

Shabbat...

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