Author's Note

I'll spare you the long and complicated story of why I've neglected this story so egregiously. Suffice to say, I'm back now, and hopefully updates will be more frequent from now on!

Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks.

Chapter 6: Family

Antonio

'Tis easier now. A little.

To an outsider, no doubt, my life appears much as it did nearly nine months ago, before all this happened. Eating is still a struggle, but I can manage it. Sea captains and investors once more trust my word on the Rialto. I no longer look at my own reflection and see a skeletal wreck.

But it would be a lie to say all is the same.

"Signor Donato is likely to agree to invest." Vicenzo taps his fingers on the side of his wine cup, looking thoughtful. "However, the others—"

"—are more wary," I complete, examining the papers he has spread across the table in my study. "I suppose we can hardly blame them. Marino...ended our partnership rather suddenly."

"'Tis hardly as if we need all of them," Vicenzo points out. "Still, you are sure you have no friends who might have interest in such a venture?"

I think of Bassanio and Gratiano and Lorenzo, and almost laugh. "No. My dear friends they are, but I would hardly trust them to add three sums of ducats together." As Bassanio had proved time and time again, not that I had minded his expenses.

Vicenzo chuckles. "I know of some like that."

"Besides, I am hardly close to them, now," honesty compels me to confess.

"What of your friend—oh, what was his name? Who came to you on the matter of Facio's debt?"

Having just taken a sip of wine, I promptly spit it back into my cup. "What? Are you talking about Shylock?"

"Yes, that's right. The one who—"

"That's insane! We hate each other!"

"Verily?" Vicenzo frowns. "Then why did you listen to him at all, that night? Why did you care that he seemed so afraid?"

"I..."

"Why did you believe him over the son of your business partner?"

All questions I have stubbornly denied asking myself, along with a good number of others. Questions that just as stubbornly refuse to go away. "I know not," I finally admit.

"Well, perhaps you might think on it," Vicenzo suggests. "Until then, shall we call upon Signor Donato tomorrow, as we planned?"

I agree, and show him out. My habit of putting a chair in front of my locked door has not ceased, causing no end of confusion in my servant. Sometimes I wonder if it ever will cease.

There are certain things that I know never will.

I can never again look at myself and see someone who cannot be hurt. Cruelty, true cruelty, is not some storm that comes and goes, violent while it lasts but with clear skies later. Rather, 'tis a wound that may fester and will never fully heal. I am, and always will be, a changed man. Somehow, I will simply have to learn to live with the memories.

And that is not the only way I am different, either. Now, when I think not on my business or on Bassanio, my thoughts circle back to Shylock with disturbing regularity. There are many days I am furious with him, almost to the point of screaming, but not for being a former Jew, or for trying to kill me once. No, the rage is prompted by a small voice in my own head, saying always the same thing:

You were wrong.

I have tried with all my soul to keep from knowing this. But like a guilty deed not confessed, it clings to me.

You were wrong to believe Jews were all sinners, all hard-hearted, all merciless dogs who live for revenge. You were wrong to think yourself so high above them. You were wrong about Shylock—you were sure he was nothing but a monster.

Even to myself, any denial sounds unconvincing. Had I not stood before the courtroom at my trial and said all this? Had I not told my friends to refrain from entreating mercy?

"I pray you, think you question with the Jew? You may as well go stand upon the beach and bid the main flood bate his usual height...You may as well forbid the mountain pines to wag their high tops and to make no noise when they are fretten with the gusts of heaven. You may as well do anything most hard as seek to soften that—than which what's harder?—His Jewish heart."

To threaten my life was a monstrous act, but Shylock's actions do not excuse my own. For if I am honest, I believed that Jews were a plague long before my bond fell forfeit, before I had any true evidence of that. And what shames me most of all is the knowledge that, had Shylock offered me mercy that day, I would have made a mockery of it. I would not even have thanked him.

I am stunned by the sheer ignorance of the man I once was.

On top of all this, when I am not incensed at Shylock for turning my life upside down and inside out, I find myself infuriatingly curious about him. Our unceasing train of insults is broken only by his instructions on how to turn flour, yeast, and egg into challah—a task at which I have so far been mostly unsuccessful. The few hints of his past I have gathered do little to help me understand him, and I dare not ask. I dare not risk losing one of the few people I can truly trust, and the only man who knows the whole of my story, just for curiosity.

But I do wish to know more, and even my caution cannot fully overcome that.

Lorenzo, who seems to have been greatly disturbed by my "illness," has taken care to invite me to dine often at his house. 'Tis welcome, for my servant's cooking is little better than mine, and Shylock has an eerie ability to tell when I am lying about having eaten. The food Jessica serves at table is excellent, and in evenings with them, I feel almost normal.

Save when certain topics are raised, of course.

"Why dost thou not go to Belmont, Antonio?" Lorenzo inquires one night, refilling my cup, from which I have barely drunk. "I doubt not thou would'st be welcome. Were I as fortunate as thee, to be so dear a friend to Bassanio, I fear the lady Portia would find me permanently installed in her home."

I truly must find some worthy excuse for why I do not do just that. Lorenzo has so far taken my vague explanations with nods and knowing looks, as if to say he knows I will soon lose my scruples about lying with Bassanio, married or no. Once I was grateful that we did not need to hide our love before our friends; now I fervently wish they had never known anything of it. "My business ventures will not permit it, I fear."

"What is the point of earning coin if one does not enjoy it?" Lorenzo counters. "I told Jessica so the other day. Did I not, sweet?"

"Signor Antonio, if you could see the baubles he brings home for me!" Jessica shakes her head. "They are absurd and I need them not."

"But such beauty as thine must be ornamented!" Lorenzo makes a dramatic gesture like a player in a pantomime.

Jessica laughs, a fond look in her eyes. "Thou would'st try the patience of thy own grandmother, my husband."

"Oh, I have done so, often," Lorenzo assures her. "Then she would chase me with her broom, seeming like the very devil himself. 'Tis how I learned to run so fast."

I smile. "I have seen thee run fast indeed, when thou didst steal the feather from Gratiano's new cap. I doubt he has forgiven thee yet."

"He ran as fast as I, to retrieve it." Lorenzo leans back in his chair. "But Nerissa can run even faster, or so he tells me. He declares he dare not take a mistress, for were she to learn of it, she could certainly catch him and drown him in the canal."

"When we were girls, my friend Deborah and I would sneak outside to race the boys," Jessica says. "Our parents would have been furious, but they never knew."

"Did you ever win?" I ask.

"Not often myself, but Deborah did. She beat every boy she ran against. Some of them said no man would have a girl so headstrong, but most of us knew she was too pretty to stay unmarried." Sadness twists Jessica's face for a moment. "I know not if she has wed yet. She was the daughter of Father's friend Tubal, but they drifted apart, so we girls rarely saw each other once we became women."

"If she is Tubal's eldest daughter, she is married now." Promptly, I curse my wayward tongue. There is no reason Antonio the Christian merchant should know anything about a Jewish moneylender's daughter.

My hosts both stare at me as if onions are growing out of my ears. "How would'st thou know such a thing?" Lorenzo demands.

I resist the urge to swear, consider my options, and decide on the truth. "Shylock told me." Over a burned loaf of challah, but I have no plans to mention that part of it.

Lorenzo's eyes nearly pop out of his head. "Thou hast spoken with Shylock? Without blood being shed? Jessica said her father gave'st thee aid in thy illness, but I was sure she had misunderstood thee."

"No. No, she did not. He and I—well, I owe him a great debt for that and—I do not wish him any evil," I finish lamely.

"Has he forgiven you, then, for converting him?" Jessica asks shyly.

"I know not," I admit. "On some days I think so, on others I am sure there is no chance of it." If I have learned anything these past months, 'tis that humans are far more contradictory than most of us would like to believe. "Why do you ask?"

Jessica looks at her hands. "Because I would be—would be reconciled with him. If he no longer hates you, perhaps he may not always hate me."

"Now, wait a moment," Lorenzo breaks in. "Surely thou hast no need of thy father. Dost thou not remember what those of Venice told us, that when thou and I were married, his anger was for the ducats and jewels he lost, and not for thee?"

"It would be easy for me to hate my father, and not for that alone," Jessica replies. "But he also begot me, raised me, and, I think, loved me as well as he was able. To hate him would be to hate much of myself."

Lorenzo opens his mouth and then shuts it again. I search for the right words. "Would you speak with him, if you could?"

"Yes. But I know not how I would come by such a chance."

"I mean not to raise your hopes. But—perhaps—I might help you."

The words are impulsive, and for a moment I wonder why I said them at all. And then I know, and realize just how thoroughly I have changed.

Shylock

"Are you swamp-brained?"

"I conscientiously hope not." Brother Rafaele leans back in his chair. "It was merely a suggestion, and one I thought might have some benefit to you."

"Next you'll be suggesting that I swim from here to India!" It takes some effort for me not to throw my Bible at the priest's head. "You want me to give out Christmas gifts?"

"'Tis an honor to Christ and the Magi who brought gifts to him—"

"I care nothing for your Magi!"

"—and it shows goodwill towards our family and friends," Brother Rafaele finishes. "What of them?"

Glaring, I fold my arms. "I have no family and no friends. Would you mock me for that?"

"I do not believe it." Brother Rafaele looks at me steadily. "What I believe is that you do not wish to make yourself vulnerable by admitting you care about anyone. Especially those you think you should hate."

"Should I not hate them?" I demand before I can hold back the words. "What if they deserve it?"

"Signor Shylock, when I listen to all your anger it seems to me as if, to kill your enemies, you are drinking poison yourself. Whether or not they deserve to be hated, do you deserve to suffer by carrying such loathing?"

There is too much truth in what the priest says for me to be at all comfortable with it. "If you do not wish me to suffer, why do you wish me to care? That will only lead to pain."

"Why?"

"Because the people I care for most in the world despise me."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to run headfirst into a wall as punishment. 'Tis a mistake even to admit I care for anyone. And now that I have blurted it out, I cannot deny how deeply I fear this—anyone knowing I care for them and using that knowledge to hurt me.

Brother Rafaele frowns. "Is this about your daughter?"

My jaw drops. In all our months of instruction, I could not have said for sure if the priest even knew I had a daughter. The idea that he might have heard of Jessica's betrayal makes me feel strangely exposed. I am reminded, again, how any Christian would view the matter—a pure-hearted girl escaping from the clutches of her miserly father the Jew, to marry a good and pious man. It makes my stomach curdle, and I clench my fists. "Curse it, she was all I had left and Christians came and took her! They call me greedy, but who were the thieves then? They already have everything, what need had they of Jessica?"

"Signor Shylock—"

Before I know it, I'm on my feet, pacing, nearly shouting. "And of course she went with them. What was her faith, her heritage, her God, in comparison with pretty words of love?" I laugh now, wildly, bitterly. "But it was more, was it not? It was a chance to walk the streets without fear, to never be called a sinner, to have a life outside the ghetto. What could I offer, in comparison with that? Do you know why I hate them, truly? 'Tis because they showed me that Jessica, who was the only person I loved, viewed anything I could give her as utterly worthless in comparison."

"I see." Brother Rafaele looks down at the Bible in his hands. "I am sorry."

"To have another convert, another Jew turned Christian?" I scoff. "You are not sorry. What do you know of it?"

"Little enough, I admit. But I do know a child's ties to a parent are not shed as easily as you seem to think. Have you ever considered that your daughter may not have meant to hurt you? She may merely have fallen in love. People do much in such times, actions both wise and foolish."

"Thoughtlessness causes pain too. And why should she bother thinking of me in any event?"

Brother Rafaele tilts his head to one side. "Do you realize that you are nearly as cruel to yourself as those who hate you?"

"What?"

"In the times we have met, you have called yourself worthless, hateful, angry, spiteful, and beyond redemption. You refuse to believe you are capable of goodness despite evidence to the contrary. Why?"

"Me, capable of goodness? Who will attest to that?"

"Signor Antonio would."

I throw up my hands. "Why do you insist on behaving as if Antonio and I actually like each other?"

To my supreme aggravation, Brother Rafaele's eyes crinkle in amusement. "Perhaps because 'tis true." Before I can formulate a response to this outrageous statement, he continues. "But verily, that has little to do with it. Whether he likes you or not, he does trust you."

"Trust me? That's—" Ridiculous, I'm about to say. Then I realize that 'tis not ridiculous at all. Antonio does not run from my footsteps. He allows me to touch him. He believed me enough to inquire when I went to him for help over Tubal's debtor. He told me about his illicit almost-encounter and makes challah with me every week.

God must be laughing so hard.

Since I know not how to respond, I say the first thing that comes into my head. "I am not giving out Christmas gifts."

"'Tis your choice, of course."

Brother Rafaele's mild reply irks me, as I am in the mood for a lengthy argument and an opportunity to prove him wrong about something. "Does it honor Christ, then, when the rich lords here compete to see who can get and give the most costly gifts?"

"In all honesty, I doubt it."

Surprised by the response, I blink. "You do? Why?"

"Because when Our Lord was born, he was greeted by the poorest and humblest of people. We have not studied those verses, and I suppose I should know better than to think you would look at them on your own." Brother Rafaele flips the pages of his Bible back and forth. "The gospel of St. Luke tells us that the first people to hear of the birth of Christ were shepherds. A host of angels appeared to them and shared the good news."

"And why would your Christ's birth be announced to lowly men first?"

"'Tis for the lowly that Christ was born," Brother Rafaele informs me. "All his life, he preached to the poor and defied the wealthy and powerful."

"Then why do the wealthy and powerful Christians here in Venice ignore the poor?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Because they are but men, and men are often foolish."

"Then what gives them the right to judge me? To scorn me, take my wealth, spit in my face? To force me to become a Christian, when they are hardly Christian themselves?"

Brother Rafaele rubs his temples. "Are you truly asking, or merely trying to drive me mad?"

I consider that. "I am truly asking."

"Well, if one takes the Bible at its word, no man has the right to judge another. The gospel of St. Matthew tells us to judge not, lest we be judged in turn. Only Our Lord is good, and only Our Lord may decree if we are worthy to enter heaven."

I recall Antonio's words, the first night I cooked at his house. Even God seems to have vanished. "And what do we do if God is silent?"

After a moment's pause, Brother Rafaele sighs. "I know not."

'Tis a perfect opportunity to gloat over having proved he is not infallible, but for some reason I am not tempted to do so. I am no Christian and never will be, but one priest who admits to not knowing everything inspires more respect in me than a hundred who insist they have all the answers. Not that I would ever say so.

Our time of instruction ends, and I leave the church. The street outside is busy, and I am so preoccupied by the conversation I just had that I nearly walk straight into Antonio, who is standing directly in my path and looking more than a little tense.

"Have you any time to spare now? I would speak with you, at your leisure."

I stop dead and stare at him as if he had grown devil's horns. "When did you come to be so courteous?"

Antonio glares at me, clearly irked. "I do possess good manners, though I may not always use them. Unlike you, who would not know politeness if it stood before you blowing a trumpet in your constantly-scowling face."

"Your good manners are used so rarely with me that I nearly suspected you had gone mad based on your greeting," I point out. "I was tempted to inquire who you were and what you had done with Signor Antonio."

"I can always insult you and reassure you of my identity."

"No need, your insults are predictable enough that I can imagine them. Just tell me what you came for."

"Your imagination is one cruel force," Antonio mutters, then speaks aloud. "My business partner and I need an investor."

"And?" I raise an eyebrow. "What has that to do with me? No doubt you will acquire one and mention it at random and I will not much care."

"You are the most exasperating..." Antonio throws up his hands. "I did not come here because I relish your insults. I came because I thought you would be a reliable investor."

Am I insane, or is Antonio drunk? "What? Do you have leeches in your brain? Do you not remember what happened last time I lent you money?"

"Do not be toad-witted. You have put too much work into keeping me alive to cut out my heart."

He has a point there, but that only exasperates me more. I shoot him a venomous look. "This is not a jesting matter, Antonio."

"And I do not jest. You are the one being ridiculous. I am not asking you for a loan, I am asking you for an investment. It would be of benefit to both of us."

"Last time I did official business with you, I lost half my wealth, so you must forgive me if I do not—"

"You think nothing has changed since then?" Antonio interrupts hotly. "You think I carry no regret at all? Why must you believe the worst of me?"

We have changed. Antonio is not the man he once was and nor am I. The knowledge of that utterly confounds me, and I try to cover it up with my usual mask of anger. "I do not enjoy being mocked!"

"Why do you think I am mocking you?"

"Why else would you seek me out, when others could easily perform the same office?"

"Because I trust you!"

The words hit me like a millstone to the chest. Yes, Brother Rafaele had said the same thing, and I could acknowledge that. But never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined Antonio admitting it was true.

It takes some effort, but I recover my voice. "I have done little to deserve that. Why do you trust me?"

Antonio stares at me, clearly incredulous. "You are not even jesting. You truly do not know."

"If I knew, would I have asked?"

"You have no idea why I trust you. Verily."

"Can you do nothing but repeat yourself today?" I demand, irritated. "I nearly killed you over a debt and I have mocked and insulted you at our every meeting. I hardly—"

"By all the saints…" Antonio sounds as if he's ready to throttle me. "For a man who always insists on a tidy kitchen, you would do well to clean out your mind!"

"What?"

"Do you get some kind of sick pleasure from lingering constantly on the terrible things you have done and disregarding all the good?"

"Of course not. Who would take pleasure in—"

"Well, you certainly act as if you do. Why else would you carry around this vision of yourself as a devil with a bloody knife who cares for nothing but coin?"

The man is a raving idiot. Will I have to lock him up for his own safety? "Most of Venice sees me that way, in case you had not noticed."

Antonio raises his eyes to the heavens as if asking for patience. "I had noticed that, in fact. I have also noticed something you seem to have missed, which is that most of Venice is wrong."

I refuse to allow myself to think about that. "Stop mocking me. I have no daughter, no friends, and no conscience."

"That's four mistakes in twelve words. A record, even for you."

"Excuse me?"

"I am not mocking you. I am absolutely serious. You have a conscience, or you would not subject yourself to my insults and utter incompetence at making challah simply to keep my sanity intact—"

"Keep your voice down!" I hiss. "Do you want the city knowing you celebrate Shabbat?"

Antonio ignores me and goes on. "You have friends—Ignazio and Tubal, at the very least. And you have a daughter, or you will, if you are not too proud to forgive her."

"Jessica does not need or want my forgiveness."

"And what if I told you she did?"

Hope leaps up within me, and the habits of years order me to crush it. "Leave me alone." I turn to go.

But Antonio grabs my shoulder before I get more than a step from him. "Oh, no. You are not walking away from me now, not when I can help. I owe you that much."

"Antonio, you clearly have rust in your ears, or you would have heard me the first dozen times I said you owe me nothing."

"That is a kindness, but 'tis untrue. Besides, Jessica does not deserve your hatred, though she might have once deserved your anger. And you deserve a family."

And, going against every cautionary instinct I ought to possess, the truth tumbles out of my mouth. "I have a family, you dolt. I have you."

Were I not busy wishing I could spontaneously evaporate, I would take a great deal of glee in the utter and complete shock on Antonio's face. As it is, though, I am too horrified by my own impulsive words to even try and contradict them. Terror wells up in me—but 'tis not the terror I might once have felt in this man's presence, fear of being mocked or kicked. 'Tis the terror of more loss. Of losing someone I care about—not to death or a Christian marriage this time, but to derision and disgust.

Once, I could easily have hidden this terror in numbness, as I did when Leah died, or in anger, as I did when Jessica left. But that time is gone. I have become, I realize, too disillusioned with my own shields to use them now.

Antonio takes a breath. "That you are willing to say such a thing is—perhaps the greatest praise I have ever received." Before I can recover my reeling thoughts enough to respond to that, he continues. "I know you are capable of getting by on your own, Shylock. But you do not have to be alone. And as somebody who has often been alone, let me tell you, 'tis not a thing to aim for. Jessica would be reconciled with you, and—I think even if you do not forgive her fully, she would take comfort from knowing you love her."

I have been so used to thinking of Jessica as my betrayer and nothing else. But it occurs to me now that the father Jessica betrayed no longer exists. I think of the Shylock of a year ago, railing on the Rialto about his lost jewels, and though I understand that man and his rage, I no longer desire to be him.

And I am not.

Even more than that, though I would never admit this, Antonio is mistaken about my being fully capable of getting by on my own. My tolerance (as far as it goes) of Ignazio's babbling and Rosalba's constant jumpiness, my dining with Tubal and Naomi, my arguments with Brother Rafaele, and more than anything else, my celebrating Shabbat every week with Antonio—it is as much for me as for them. I am not the devil with the knife, I am human, and humans need other humans.

"You asked me why I trust you." Antonio is no longer looking directly at me, but eyeing the cobblestones by my feet as if they hold some great secret. "'Tis not only because you saved my life and did me good. 'Tis because I see myself in you."

That shocks me out of my silence. "How so?"

"We have both lost people we love through betrayal. We have both betrayed others, and sinned. But mostly, we have both been hurt because of who we are." Antonio finally raises his eyes to mine. "Once I despised you for that. Now, I trust you for it."

I have no idea what to say to this, so I say nothing. Antonio sighs. "Shall I tell Jessica, then, that you do not wish to see her?"

"Tell her…" I am being given a choice, I realize. A chance I never thought I would get. And I know, abruptly, that if I waste it, I will feel regret for the rest of my life. "Tell her I will see her. I do not want to see Lorenzo. But I will see her…if she so wishes."

"Do you mind?" someone snaps from behind me. "You are blocking this walk!"

We hastily step out of the way to let the impatient stranger through. I am immediately aware of how intimate a conversation we have been having in a public street, and it seems Antonio is as well, for he mutters something in my general direction about considering an investment, and then hurries off.

As for myself, I nearly knock several people over on my way home—for once not on purpose, but because I am so preoccupied with the conversations I have just had. Even when I enter my own house, I barely can keep my mind on putting one foot in front of the other.

You do not wish to make yourself vulnerable by admitting you care about anyone…Do you realize that you are nearly as cruel to yourself as those who hate you?...You have a daughter, or you will, if you are not too proud to forgive her...That you are willing to say such a thing is perhaps the greatest praise I have ever received…We have both been hurt because of who we are. Once I despised you for that. Now, I trust you for it.

"Master Shylock!"

I blink and turn to see Ignazio. "What is it?"

"You were about to walk into the table."

This is so, I realize. I take a good three steps away, not trusting my mind to keep me from knocking it right over. "Where is thy wife? Has she finished the sewing?"

"Yes, and now she is tending to Teresa." Ignazio beams. "She took her first steps today! Teresa, that is, not Rosalba."

"Thou art absurd," I inform him, then pause a moment. "How dost thou do it?"

"Be absurd? 'Tis harder than one might think, but I always begin by—"

"No, thou clodpole." I wave this off. "How dost thou love people so? I cannot."

"Nonsense," Ignazio informs me. "You are merely out of practice." He skips off, whistling.

I only wish it were so simple.