“A strumpet is not a musical instrument, my lord. Cassio uses your lady like a common whore.”
“And who could blame him?” said Othello, tilting his head as if listening to a sweet melody. “She is the soul of beauty, the very heart of kindness, the soft bosom of most soothing touch—and has a bottom to launch a fleet for—go to war over.”
One hopes, thought Iago. Thinking now that he might have better served his plan to just cut Othello’s throat in the dark and blame it on Cassio, rather than use this unpredictable potion.
A rhythmic feminine yipping beat into the night from the window, counterpoint to low masculine moans.
The Moor’s eyes rolled back in his head and from his crouch beneath the window he rolled back onto his back on the cobbles until he was staring wide-eyed at the sky. “A bottom so fine as to make the lovers’ moon hide its silver face in shame and never shine again.”
The Moor closed his eyes and went limp.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Iago. “My medicine has worked too well.”
“He dead?” said a fisherman who had been out casting his nets by lantern light and had come up the street with annoying stealth.
A shutter creaked open two floors above, spilling lamplight into the night. Out popped a boy’s head. “Oy, zat the Moorish general you kilt? Oy! This bloke kilt the Moor, and I only just seen him for the first time.”
Suddenly shutters clattered back on their hinges, lamps were lighted, and Iago found himself crouching over his commander under an audience of dozens.
“He kilt the Moor!” said a woman from her window.
“I did not kill him.”
The door of Cassio’s house opened and the onetime captain stepped out wearing a robe.
“Iago? What is this? You’ve killed Othello?”
“No, he’s fine. He’s having an epilepsy. A fit. It is his second in two days.”
“He’s not having a fit. He’s grinning like a lunatic.”
“Eyes that sparkle so that all the constellations would tumble from the skies to be within her sight,” whispered the Moor to the sky.
“What is he on about?” said Cassio.
“I don’t know. Help me get him to a physician,” said Iago.
When Othello awoke he found himself on a small bed in a small room, with Iago sitting by his bedside. “Where am I?” said the Moor. “How did I come to be here?”
“You are in my quarters at the inn, my lord. I brought you here myself, with the doctor, when you fell into your apoplexy at your lady’s betrayal.”
Having completely failed to get Michael Cassio to kill Othello, Iago had amended his plan to goad the Moor into doing something so outrageous that Venice couldn’t help but reject him, despite what the Chorus said.
“Apoplexy? Betrayal? I remember only that we were going to Cassio’s house to find my handkerchief, but after that all is in fog.”
“Oh, you went to Cassio’s house, and found your handkerchief under the lovers, Cassio doing dreadful animal things to your lady, who yowled like a cat in heat, and screamed for him . . . Oh, I cannot say.”
“No, say. It would be an excellent idea for you to say.”
“She did call for him to shag away the memory of that black monster’s touch.”
“Monster, was it?”
“Yes. And then Cassio called you a twat.”
“Cassio did? While he was atop Desdemona?”
“Didn’t even break rhythm. Just, ‘eek, eek, eek, you twat, eek, eek eek.’?”
“He said that? ‘eek, eek, eek’?”
“No, my lord, but his bed is squeaky, and thus I spoke how it squoke as he pounded your wife like the slut that she is.”
“Well, that must have angered me indeed?”
“Indeed it did. You were so overcome with anger, and heartbreak, of course, that you fell into a fit of apoplexy and twitched upon the ground like a beheaded chicken.”
“Like a chicken? I don’t remember ever having been so angry. So you have dealt my wrath upon Cassio.”
“As soon as the physician arrived, yes. He is deeply dead, but for the actual killing bit.”
“Good man, Iago.”
“I am thy sword, my lord. But it was not on me to kill the wanton bitch that is your wife. That is your right as a husband wronged.”
“And so I shall.”
The Moor still seemed more than a little dazed, and although the words he was saying fit Iago’s plan, there was a listlessness about him and again Iago thought it might have been better for everyone if he had just dirked Othello in the dark and cried bloody murder at Cassio’s door.
“Go now, my lord. Before she is able to gather her things from the Citadel and flee.”
“I am for her, and surely she is as doomed as she is damned. Where is my sword?”
“Here it is, my lord. Go, and do not let her say a word in explanation. Hear not a word of her pleas for mercy, for she has wormed her way into your heart and you will lose your resolve. Choke off her lying words as you choke the life from her lying body.”
“I will!” And the Moor sat up, wheeled on the bed until his feet were on the floor, then stood, snatched his sword and scabbard from Iago, and with a bit of a wobble strode out the door.
Iago, now quite amazed by how well that had gone, thought it might be better if he were far away from the Citadel when the Moor killed Desdemona. He could enter the castle a short time later, pretend to be shocked at the carnage, then amid the panic and despair, be the calm presence of command, summon the entire watch and arrest the Moor, with a great show of compassion and justice, and fit his feet most naturally into the general’s shoes. The confirmation from Venice and the council would be only a formality. And if the Moor resisted, if he raged beyond his lady’s bedchamber, well, a half dozen guards with spears would take down even the finest Moorish swordsman.
For now, he would go to the harbor and pretend to inspect some ships, ask about rigging and weaponry, make himself enough of a nuisance that everyone would remember where he was when the Moor made his murder.
He headed out of the inn and had not passed four doors down the lane when he came face-t
o-face with a cohort of Venetians, the one most formally dressed in purple silks and a hat with a long ostrich feather trailing it leading them in determined stride.
“You, soldier,” he called. “I saw you come out of the inn. We were told we would find General Othello there. Have you seen him?”
He was from the senate, no doubt, just the way he dressed and spoke, and so, so far away from Venice, his stylish pomposity made him look quite the clown, Iago thought.
“I am Othello’s lieutenant, signor. Iago DiFuretto, at your service. Othello was here earlier, but he left some time ago. I would look for him at the harbor. I’m going there myself. I can lead you if you’d like.”
“We’ve just left the harbor,” said the Venetian. “I am Lovichio, senator of the fifth district, cousin to the general’s wife. Othello is ordered back to Venice and I am to appoint Michael Cassio provisional governor of Corsica.”
“Cassio? Governor?”
“Yes, governor. Do you know where we can find him?”
“I think, signors, you need to follow me to the Citadel.”
As he led the Venetians to the Citadel, Iago thought that this might be the best way of all to find his place at the head of an army: stand with a senator and his attendants to look on the Moor, his dead wife’s perfume still fading on his hands, crazed jealousy still in his mad-dog eyes. Iago would take command, make the arrest, in witness of a senator, and take his prize without even having to plead before the council. Had not the Moor found his own position by turning the Genoan fleet? So he, Iago, would turn the man who had turned the fleet.
But as they entered the castle wing where Othello kept his private quarters, Iago’s own wife, Emilia, rushed out of the great double doors, screeching, her hands and the front of her gown painted in blood.
“Thou pernicious evil devil! This is your doing, you cur, you knave! Your lies have done this!” She held her bloodstained hands like palsied claws, trembling them under his face. “You have spilled this noble blood with your lies!”
“Go home, wife,” said Iago.