Merchant, p.13
Merchant, page 13
“The one who sat with you while you were sick?”
That must be Luka. Jessica was touched that he had been worried enough to watch over her. It was very like Luka to act distant when the weather was fine but to rush in when the storms struck.
“Does Kazuku know you left your room?” the woman asked before Jessica could reply. “Should you be walking around yet?”
“It’s fine,” said Jessica. “I’d just like to see my friend, please.” “Jess!”
Luka emerged from a different sliding door. He ran to her, wrapped her in his arms, and swung her in a large circle.
“Do you still want help?” the woman asked, unamused.
“No, we’re fine now,” said Jessica as Luka set her down again. “Thank you, though.”
“Are you feeling better, Shinku?” asked Luka.
The woman nodded without answering and continued up the tilting floor before she disappeared around another odd corner.
“Was she sick too?” Jessica asked.
“She was pregnant,” said Luka. “You don’t remember?”
Yes, of course… Jessica remembered now: Shinku, lying on the bed, screaming about… Hirokai. Hirokai, who had fallen into the water after Jessica pushed him, too surprised to defend himself. Shinku had been screaming about Hirokai, and then… a mermaid? Jessica swallowed down queasy confusion.
“I was pretty sick, wasn’t I?” she asked, wiping her sweating palms on her robe.
“Yeah, you were pretty sick,” said Luka. “I’m so happy you’re awake.”
“Were you worried?” Jessica asked, pleased.
“Of course, I was worried,” Luka said. “You looked like you were going to die. But now you’re here. And standing. And you look so good!”
“You look good, too.”
Luka wore a yellow front-tied robe too, but his only came to his knees, while the matching wide trousers he wore beneath flared down towards his feet. His hair had been cut shorter on the sides, but was still long on the top, and brushed back off his forehead. Jessica had never seen this much of his face before in such clear light; clean brown skin, glossy black eyes, and full lips that were now parted in an unabashed grin. And his teeth…
Looking at his startling white teeth made Jessica realize that her teeth did not hurt. Her scalp was not itchy, and her feet were not sore. It was like they had been reborn, transformed from decaying adults into blossoming children.
Jessica snorted a laugh.
“What?” asked Luka.
She held up her arm, letting her wide sleeve fall down to her shoulder, exposing her smooth underarms. Luka reached out the back of his hand, stroking down the smooth skin. Jessica shrieked at the tickling sensation and pulled away.
“Why would they even do that?” Luka laughed.
“Some kind of punishment?” Jessica suggested with a grin. “When I woke up, I thought that room was a prison cell.”
Luka’s laughter stopped abruptly, and Jessica’s heart dropped.
“They know,” Jessica said, and Luka nodded. “How much do they know?”
“They know about the riot,” he said. “They know the sailors are dead.”
“And?”
“What else is there to know?”
Jessica shrugged and hoped she did not look too relieved.
“Oh,” said Luka. “They also didn’t know about the letters!”
“They never got them?” asked Jessica.
“It’s complicated,” he said, with a shrug. “I don’t really understand what happened, but the empress was livid.”
“Are they going to send Venice more food?” Jessica asked.
Luka began to shake his head, then stopped himself. “Not yet.”
“What can we do to convince them?” she said in frustration. “People are going to die.”
Luka was smiling again. Jessica did not know whether to scowl at him or slap him.
“There’s nothing Andrusha and I can do,” he said. “But maybe you can convince the empress.”
“And what, exactly, can I do about it?”
“Now that you’re awake, I know that she would love to hear you perform one of your Shakespeare speeches. Or songs. Or plays. Any of them. All of them.”
The plays? Jessica stared at Luka, waiting for him to tell her he was joking, but he did not. Talia did say that the plays were famous before the Flood. Jessica had always thought that she was exaggerating to try to engage the other children, who did not enjoy memorizing as much as she did.
“The plays are important?” she asked.
“Important enough that they haven’t sent us away, or killed us, because the empress wants to hear you perform.”
So, yes, very important. Jessica’s palms began to sweat again.
“Well,” she said. “I guess we shouldn’t keep the empress waiting.”
#
Jessica stood on a platform of pushed-together desks in a makeshift office-turned-auditorium. Faced with the rows of chairs and many expectant eyes, she could not think of a single line from Shakespeare’s plays. She looked for an encouraging face, or something that would inspire her, but the spectacle of her viewers kept her jaw clamped shut.
In the seat of honour, Ama fidgeted. She wore a deep green gown layered with triangular skirts stiff as the petrified petals on the Kilimanjarian ship. Jessica had no idea how the material allowed the empress to bend and sit. Shinobu, standing over Ama’s shoulder, was more at ease with the pomp and display. She seemed to Jessica like a shadow all in black from her high collar to her straight floor-length hem. Luka had laughed when Jessica admitted that she had thought Shinobu was the empress, but Jessica thought that Shinobu looked more regal than Ama. Though something in the scribe’s face unsettled her. An indistinct warning, like a memory from a dream.
Jessica’s eyes darted to the scattered watching figures, so pale, with their silver-white and faint-gold hair, and their off-putting pinkish clothes. She looked away. It was easier to keep her attention on the small group from Kilimanjaro sitting at the front. Their phiran-like gowns, which Luka said were called dashiki and iro, were a mix of bright gold, vibrant blue, and lush purple, and some of the women wrapped their hair up in matching fabric. Luka himself sat at the back of the room, apparently bored, staring out the windows. But Ibada was at the front, right in the centre, looking at her like he had been watching her for years and could watch her for many years to come. It was not much, but all she needed was one friendly face.
Jessica rolled back her shoulders, took a deep breath, and was filled once more with the words of the Bard.
“The quality of mercy is not strained…”
She saw the audience, she saw the platform, but she also saw Venice. Not her own K2, though the ramparts and Upper Keep formed the base shape of her imagination, but a magical world of lovers’ plots and thwarted vengeance. She let the scene be and focused on the words, the highs and lows of her breath, the sharpness of consonants and the expanse of vowels. And as the words transformed her mouth into an instrument, her heart was pulled along with the rhythm, and the speech became her own. She transformed into something more than herself.
She was used to the Venetians losing interest, especially during a dramatic monologue that did not involve tears or wars and death. But this audience listened, quiet, captivated. The frame of K2 was replaced in her mind with the arching bridges and great monolith buildings of Fuji. As she spoke the final words, Jessica realized how easy it was to forget her home. Abruptly, the euphoria of performing was dampened by a sickening twist of guilt. When was the last time she had thought of her father?
Before she had time to worry, a thunderous applause began, started by Ibada, but the rest of the room quickly joined in. Dario smiled as he clapped, and for a moment his face seemed open, genuine, not nearly as frightening as the silver glint in his eyes suggested. Even Luka smiled: he had no choice but to be proud of her when she performed. She hopped down from the stage, nearly tripping on her gown. Her stumble was caught by one of the women from Kilimanjaro, whose headwrap added to her already substantial height. Usually Jessica felt intimidated when confronted with her smallness, but she still felt large, filled with the Bard’s words. She nodded her thanks.
“You can’t be done already,” Ibada protested, placing a hand on Jessica’s shoulder. “Encore!”
She had never heard that word before, but she knew it must mean more, from the way he said it with such enthusiasm. Or else it was the heat, pressed through the fabric that separated his palm from her skin, that said more, wanted more. Jessica shuddered, happy and confused, searching her mind for a comparable monologue. She was saved when Ama stood up, and the Fujians around her stood too, bowing slightly while they backed away. Ibada removed his hand, and her shoulder felt cold without its presence.
“Beautiful words,” said Ama, struggling under the weight of her gown as she approached Jessica. “Spoken beautifully.”
“Thank you, empress,” said Jessica, bowing in an inexact copy of the Fujians’ show of respect.
“Ama, remember?” the empress said. “No need to be formal.”
It was hard to imagine their conversation as anything but formal when the other people in the room had formed a loose circle around them.
“I’m looking forward to hearing the whole play,” Ama continued. “Such a powerful woman with a great command of language is sure to defeat whatever her foes throw at her. It could be instructional.”
“I wouldn’t say Portia has many foes,” said Jessica.
Ama nodded but frowned.
“Would you be willing to recite for our scribes?” asked Shinobu. She had quietly followed the empress, her persistent shadow. “It is important to record the verses.”
“The words weren’t meant to be written and stored away,” Ibada interrupted. “They’re meant to be performed and enjoyed.”
“They can’t be performed if they are forgotten,” said Shinobu.
“I’d be happy to recite for you,” said Jessica. “Though it may take some time.”
“You’re welcome to stay for as long as you like,” said Ama.
The empress was distracted, and the words could have been rote, but they still made Jessica want to cry. The empress said she could stay… Outside the circle, Jessica saw Luka in whispered conversation with Dario and Andrusha. His eyes were fixed on her, and his expression was cold.
“Thank you,” said Jessica, bowing again.
“What did you mean, that Portia doesn’t have foes?” asked Ama.
“If you want foes, you need stories of battles,” said Jessica.
“Julius Caesar!” said Ibada, and Jessica nodded, surprised. “Stories with kings and armies.”
“You know them?” asked Jessica.
“We all know them,” said Ibada.
“We know about them,” corrected the tall woman, approaching Ibada’s side. “We don’t know the exact words. And the words matter. They lend truth to rumours.”
“Fadhila is mad because she didn’t want your speech to be good,” laughed Ibada.
Fadhila lightly smoothed the fabric of her headwrap with her fingertips, her jaw clenched, and did not respond. Jessica assumed that this meant Ibada was right.
“I’m not quite as prepared to accept your words as truth,” Shinobu said to Jessica. “But Luka said there may be others in Venice who could confirm the accuracy of your verses. In the Upper Keep?”
Luka separated himself from Dario and Andrusha and came to stand next to her. Jessica’s stomach flipped; not at his approach, but at the way all three men looked so smug, so secretive. When men’s faces flickered with secrets on the Main, Venetians knew to run.
“There are others who know the words,” said Luka. “But no one performs them like Jessica.”
“No one performs them as well?” asked Shinobu. “Or at all?”
“No one performs them at all,” Luka said, a smile brightening his dark eyes. “But probably because they knew they could never perform them as well as Jessica.”
“But if Portia doesn’t have any foes, who is the Jew?” asked Ama.
Jessica flinched. Abraham’s words whispered in her ears: Every place has its own problems, looking for someone convenient to blame. If you go to other worlds, they’ll know they can blame you. They won’t stop and wonder if you’re Jewish enough. Once they realize hating Jews is an option, they’ll hate you.
She gripped her necklace, hiding the pendant in her palm. Only Shinobu seemed to notice her sudden change in mood. Jessica turned to Luka for help, but he had taken hold of Ibada’s arm and was already guiding him towards the back of the room.
“If I can borrow you for a moment,” he was saying, “Dario would like to have a chat.”
Jessica rolled her shoulders back. Encore.
“Shylock is the scapegoat,” she said to Ama.
“Shylock?” asked Shinobu.
“Scapegoat?” asked Ama.
“He’s being blamed for things outside of his control,” said Jessica. “He’s being punished for who he is, not what he has done.”
“But he has done something very bad,” said Shinobu. “He’s trying to kill the merchant for his debt. I’ve read about this work. I know what a Shylock means.”
Yes, Shinobu was correct, but the most accurate interpretation seemed dangerous when Ama was already stumbling on the word Jew. Jessica had a sudden image of a face above the Flood, watching her drown.
“He’s a pawn in a game Portia has begun to play with his life,” Jessica insisted. “A tragic figure.”
Ama still looked confused. Shinobu did not.
“Portia is the hero,” the scribe said. “And this is a comedy.”
“Maybe it’s not so well written after all,” Fadhila suggested.
“You can’t get the whole plot from one monologue,” said Jessica, and Fadhila nodded, reluctant. “And Portia is the hero. That’s why it’s extra tragic that she is going to these lengths to punish Shylock, when he’s the one who has been cheated.”
It had always seemed that way to Jessica, so it was basically the truth, she told herself. And they were only words – the Bard’s words, yes, but now they were hers, and she could use them as she pleased. No matter how justified Shinobu’s mistrust was. It could hurt a lot of people if Ama cast Shylock as Portia’s foe and hurt Jessica in particular. Ama did not know that Jessica was Jewish, but so far away from the Upper Keep, she did not feel so “half.”
They won’t stop and wonder if you’re Jewish enough…
“But it’s a comedy,” Shinobu insisted.
“Maybe we should trust the woman who knows the whole story,” said Ama.
“You’re lying,” Shinobu said to Jessica. “Why?”
Jessica was not quite lying. Except about Portia’s speech being tragic, and Shylock being blameless. Except about the original point of the play.
“Do you have the full text of The Merchant of Venice hidden in the Vaults?” asked Ama. “No? Then wait until you do before you call her a liar. You don’t know everything, Shinobu.”
Fadhila had slipped away, clearly uncomfortable, while the women argued. Jessica wished she could do the same. She looked over her shoulder, but Luka was gone, as well as Andrusha, Ibada, and Dario.
“It’s a comedy,” said Shinobu. “She’s describing it like a tragedy. Portia’s a hero, synonymous with intelligence. She’s not making any sense.”
“If you don’t understand, that’s your failing, not hers,” snapped Ama. “Ai, Shinobu, sometimes I wonder if you actually are a Dreamer!”
It was like Shinobu had been slapped. She turned on her heel and glided towards the door in a breeze of black fabric. A few of the Fujians were suppressing chuckles, and Jessica did not know what was so funny. She wanted to apologize to Shinobu, but it seemed now even more important for Merchant to be a tragedy, because she was sure the empress had just given Shinobu an excuse to cast Jessica as the villain. Then, suddenly, Jessica’s hands were caught up in Ama’s grasp, and she found herself being tugged with surprising force towards the door.
“Come on, Makoto,” called the empress, abruptly cheerful. The Fujian with the wide face jogged towards them. “We must talk, and Makoto must record.”
Jessica could not follow the sudden movement of Ama’s moods, and she thought of the kings and queens in the plays, the dangers of Hal’s whims, Lear’s insanity, Lady Macbeth’s ambition. Her necklace poked into her chest. She did not have a free hand to adjust it, and she thought it might be best not to draw attention to the star, even though she was sure Ama would not know what it meant.
“What do you want to know?” asked Jessica.
Ama laughed and tossed her arm over Jessica’s shoulder.
“Absolutely everything,” she said.
CHAPTER 15 (SHINOBU)
Shinobu’s hands cramped. She formed fists and then flexed her fingers as the thick muscle of her palm twisted under her skin. She had switched from writing with her right hand to her left when she felt those initial knots beginning to form, but it was too late to prevent the pain. She had left Makoto with Ama and Jessica and followed two arching bridges from the Vaults to the Observatory to escape the endless copying.
The Observatory was walled with glass, broken only by cream-coloured support beams in each corner. Even the ceiling was glass, for observing the stars as one reclined on the pastel ottomans scattered in planned disarray around the room. A large hole cut in a perfect circle in the centre of the ceiling allowed a great ginkgo tree growing in the middle of the room to rise out into the open air. Legend said the tree had been transplanted before the Flood, but Shinobu did not believe this was the same ginkgo as that historical wonder. The authenticity did not really matter, but knowing whether or not it was the same ginkgo did. It irked her that she could never be sure.
Shinobu looked up, ignoring the complaints of the muscles hunched too long over a desk. The sky was a solid sheet of dark grey clouds. From this distance, the Vaults looked equally dark and secretive. She could not help but imagine the small crowd still gathered around Jessica in Shinobu’s temple.
