A WEEK WENT by. One little week. One entire, endless week, without rain, without an opportunity to speak alone with the general, as the grass in the courtyard grew daily browner. Magistrates held meetings with the general. Soldiers practiced their arms. The ladies did embroidery all day, shopped in the town, dressed well for dinner. Roderigo sent me, by boys well paid to remain discreet, a pocketful of jewelry every other day—strands of pearls, large rubies, emeralds, opalescent stones I did not recognize. These I stored in my wardrobe. If ever I envied Roderigo, it was that week. How could a man have so much moveable wealth that he could so heedlessly hand it over to another? My work in the world was as significant as his, my mind sharper, my determination steelier . . . but I could not yet afford to provide my wife a home, let alone rubies.
I chose not to dwell on this confounding outrage. More urgent matters required my full attention.
CASSIO, DESPITE HIS desperation to restore his reputation, did little but send meek notes to Othello asking for an audience. I intercepted several of these messages and made sure the general did not receive them—but even those he did receive, he did not answer.
This reassured me, but not enough, because the lieutentant’s sash lay folded neatly on the corner of his desk. Othello had not yet offered it to me. There was no pressing military business to distract him.
“Why won’t he just present it?” I fumed to Emilia one evening as we lay together in our small room. We were being housed in this suite not because of my standing with Othello, but because of Emilia’s with Desdemona. The larger, nicer room that would have been Cassio’s, had he lasted longer than a day—the room that should now have been mine—remained unoccupied.
“He is not thinking like a general, for a change,” Emilia said, her head nesting on my shoulder and her hand stroking my chest. “He is completely preoccupied with love, and the world is not requiring him to do otherwise. When circumstances shift a bit, and he once again puts his mind to work, trust me, he will give you the sash. And deservedly so. It is a pity about Michele, though.”
“I told you he had that weakness back in Venice, and you didn’t believe me.”
I felt her head move as she nodded. “Yes. Funny how an attractive face can warp a girl’s judgment.” She tipped her chin up just as I turned my head, and we were eye to eye. She grinned. “Your attractive face warped me right into a marriage.”
“Flattery will get you . . . somewhere,” I said, satisfied. I reached over to stroke her collarbone. And other things.
DESPITE MY NEARLY effortless success at decommissioning Cassio, I could not rest easily. Cassio was still around. I heard a rumor he had spent several days and nights in a whore’s house in Famagusta, but then he returned to the Citadel, hoping to reenter Othello’s graces. Until that lieutenant’s sash hung over my left shoulder, Cassio was still a threat.
Having too much time on my hands during that brief, unending week, I ruminated on ways to prevent the Florentine’s re-ascent. My scheme had worked so swiftly, I had not fully exploited it: the implied infidelity with Desdemona, for example, had not even been broached.
That, then, would be my emergency plan: if Cassio showed any signs of regaining favor, then I would worry Othello into suspicions about his wife’s interests in the Florentine.
How to do this? Or more specifically: how to prepare to do this, if required, without drawing undo attention to my plans if they were not enacted? I needed a prop. I needed something small enough to plant on Cassio, if necessary; something that could have only come from Desdemona.
“You know the handkerchief of Othello’s that he gave to Desdemona?” I asked Emilia the next night, in a falsely casual tone.
“The one with the strawberries?” she replied absently, combing her hair.
“Yes, that one. Do you fancy it? Would you like one like it?”
She smiled. “How very un-Iago-like, to want to ply me with gifts. It makes me wonder what you’ve been up to that you think you’ll need to buy my favor.” But then she grinned.
“Do you like it?” I repeated. “Do you think she’d let you borrow it, to get the pattern copied?”
She stopped combing, settled the comb in her lap, and looked at me appraisingly. “You mean that?” she said. “You want to give me such a gift? Why?”
Despite my recent forays into deception, I still was not an able liar, and I most certainly could not lie to this woman. “I cannot give you a reason,” I said. “But I think you should, ahem, borrow it from Desdemona.”
She smiled, in the mysterious way that women do when men are being dense about Things Female. “She never lets it out of her sight,” she said and raised the comb to continue working on her hair. “I doubt she would part company with it for an hour, even. She sleeps with it tied around her wrist.”
“That seems a bit extreme.”
“Love does that to people.” She laughed.
“Well, if she ever decides she can survive without it for a day or two, please alert me. I might have a wife who deserves a trifle of a gift.”
She beamed at me, lowering the comb again. “You win points just for desiring to please me,” she said, and gestured toward the bed. “Would you like to redeem them right away?”
TWO MORNINGS LATER, Cassio emerged from his shamed, bawd-laden hermitage and finally took my advice to approach Othello through Desdemona. So much for my lieutenant’s sash, then; Desdemona really did hold enormous sway over her husband’s sentiment, and if she argued on Cassio’s behalf, Othello would give her whatever she asked for.
So I was not happy to see Cassio, in full red-and-white military regalia, blue ostrich feather bobbing, approach along the lawn from the gate. Two musicians, young men in native costume, followed him, playing a dirgelike tune on mandolin and lute. In this courtyard, protected from both the sea breeze and the town noises, their mediocre playing carried loudly. Oh, heaven, I thought, he may as well be courting her.
“Good morning, stranger,” I said, making myself smile. I rose and crossed to meet him, giving him a hearty slap on the arm.
“Good morning, Ensign,” he said, with a salute. He gestured to the two musicians, and they stopped playing. “I’m tardy in taking your advice, but now is my last hope for it.”
“Never a last hope,” I insisted. “Othello will surely hear you out.”
He grimaced. “I was coming here to ask your wife if she would ask her lady to come out to speak to me.”
Lo, how the mighty had fallen. Cassio, when useful to Othello, had had free access to Desdemona . . . now he was asking my permission to speak to Emilia, to whom he would then ask permission to speak to Desdemona. I found that delicious.
“I was just headed inside,” I said, luxuriating in my ability to go where now he could not. “I’ll send Emilia to you. However,” I added, with a helpful smile, “I think the sad-eyed musicians are a bit much. Pay them for their troubles, and send them off.”
“Do you think so? Thank you, Iago.” He looked so touched by my offering advice, I almost felt bad for him. “Even among my fellow Florentines, I’ve never met a kinder fellow.”
“That’s high praise indeed,” I said. “I’ll send Emilia to you.”
I let myself into the cool, shady rooms where the women were keeping themselves occupied, on the north wing of the fortress. Emilia and Desdemona were doing embroidery together, near an open door that faced out into the courtyard. I knew Emilia disliked embroidery (I suspected Desdemona did as well), and I felt sorry for it. They both looked up eagerly for a distraction. I gestured with a finger, and Emilia happily set her hoop aside and rushed over to me. Desdemona watched her, looking almost envious.
Emilia approached me, leaned in for a kiss; I gave her one on the cheek and whispered, “Michele Cassio is outside the door.” In an even quieter voice, I added, “He wants the lady to help him get his commission back.”
Her eyes widened, and she pulled back to meet my gaze. “Oh,” she whispered, after a moment. “That’s a bit awkward for us, isn’t it?”
Thank God she understood. “He has asked me to ask you to go out to him, so he can ask you to ask Desdemona to go out.”
“How Florentine,” she said. “I do not suppose I can refuse to see him? Or refuse to carry the message to her?”
In that remarkable moment, I had to make a choice: either let her in on everything I thought and planned, or promise myself she never had an inkling of it. I chose the latter. I loved her too much to enmesh her in any unsavory scheme. And on a less noble note, I wasn’t sure I trusted her not to give something away.
So despite my impulse to say Do exactly as you please, I said instead, with a paternal frown, “Emilia, I appreciate your impulse, but the man deserves to have his appeal.”
“Why cannot he have it after you’ve been made lieutenant?” she shot back. I could see Desdemona out of the corner of my eye sit up a little straighter and cock her head with curiosity.
I kissed Emilia’s cheek. “The best Cassio can hope for is a reinstatement as an officer. Othello will never consider him for lieutenant again.”
“When will he consider you for lieutenant?” she asked.
I pulled away from her. “That is a different conversation,” I said. “Attend to present business.” I walked toward the interior door of the room. Here I paused and looked back. When I knew I had Desdemona’s full attention, I concluded to Emilia, “Attend to this matter honorably and honestly, wife.”
She saluted me. “You’ve a nobler heart than I have, husband,” she called out, in a tone of admiring sincerity. I bowed my head to Desdemona and departed through a curtain to a corridor.