The Mother's Line
So. PurimGifts. That was a thing! Which I wrote fic for! And then never posted to this journal, because it was exams and I got distracted. So probably I should do that. But first, a quick comment on my recipient. After writing my first two fics, but before the reveal, I learned via the DreamWidth update post that my recipient HippyJolteon had passed away. After conferring with the mods, it was decided that I shouldn’t bother writing my third fic, but that, in keeping with HippyJolteon's desire to participate in the exchange, the best and most respectful thing would be to post the stories. My deepest sympathies, of course, go to hir friends and loved ones for their loss.
This is the first of the two fics I wrote. I’ll post the second one sometime tomorrow.
Title: The Mother’s Line [AO3]
Fandom: Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice
Wordcount: ~1000
Rating: G
Summary: Did baptism remake Jessica so thoroughly? Or is she still a Jew?
Notes/Disclaimers: Written for
hippyjolteon, for
purimgifts. Like Shakespeare, I put English wordplay into the mouths of Venetian characters. All biblical quotes are from the Geneva Bible translation, which is the translation Shakespeare himself probably used. Both decisions felt more Shakesperian to me, even though they lack historical veracity. If you havn’t figured it out already, this story contains strong religious themes. :) Thank-you to my beta
pellucere, for her help in thrashing out the details of this fic, and for reassuring me that I wasn't (totally) mutilating her religion. ^^'
“Gentle Jessica,” he calls her, and every time he does she hears: “Gentile Jessica.” At first it makes her smile, and then it makes her cringe, and now it simply makes her thoughtful. “Gentile Jessica.” She wonders if it’s true. Did baptism remake her so thoroughly? Or is she still a Jew?
An oddly Christian Jew, perhaps, one who lies beside Lorenzo every night and recites the Shema Yisrael in her head. She can’t seem to help herself. The words are written on her heart where not even the waters of baptism could wash them away. Still, she can’t believe that the Anointed would begrudge her the words. Although the Vicar might.
There had been a Christian Bible amid her wedding presents, and while the tightening of Lorenzo’s jaw marked it for a subtle insult, she’s grateful nonetheless. The Gospels are insipid compared to the Tanakh, and Paul’s letters make her head ache, as does the Apocalypse of John, but - ! There, in the Gospel of Mark, she finds words to make her heart sing:
Jesus answered him, The first of all the commandments is, Hear, Israel, The Lord our God is the only Lord. Thou shalt therefore love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength; this is the first commandment.
A sign from heaven itself, or so it seems. Thank you, she prays, Thank you, Messiah, that I should not have to sacrifice... But she is unable to finish the thought, unsure what it was she feared to sacrifice. Instead, she hastens to pray as Lorenzo has so painstakingly taught her: Our father which art in heaven...
It’s the thirteenth day of Adar, as she lies in bed chanting the final words of the Shema, that she realises it has been two full months since her last menses. Pregnant. She’s pregnant.
She wakes early the next morning, unable to sleep. Quietly, she leafs through her Bible, and her fingers still when she reaches the Book of Esther. She traces the shape of the words as she reads, although she makes no sound: Therefore they called these days Purim. Today - Purim is today. Her lips curve in a smile as she remembers the Purims of her childhood. Unconsciously, her hand comes to rest upon her belly.
In the late morning, heart pounding with the thrill of the forbidden, Jessica arranges for the delivery of a small basket, with a little marzipan bird and a generous slice of mutton-and-parsnip pie, to the young boy who lurks daily at the corner of their street. She hopes he eats it before the larger boys can take it from him. In the afternoon, growing restless, she coaxes Lorenzo out for a stroll. As they walk she slips coins to two beggars. He sees, of course, her Lorenzo, and chides her for the waste - but he’s smiling. His Gentle Gentile Jessica, soft-hearted and kind.
She doesn’t feel kind. She feels... sly. The good Christian wife, hah. She feels, irrationally, like her father. Foolishness. Her father had hated this part of Purim: the mishloach manot, the matanot la'evyonim. Hated parting from any scrap of his wealth.
Her mother had loved sending the gifts. But when she died... well. Hard enough to be a Jew in Venice, without being a father and a widower as well. Even when she’d hated her father, she understood why he was what he was. The world had not been kind to Shylock.
Though she knows it useless, Jessica offers up a silent vow: she will be there for her child, and for Lorenzo. She will never hurt them with her absence. Because when Lorenzo smiles at her, Jessica feels like a queen; reflected in his eyes, she’s a woman worth loving. It amazes her every day, how lucky she is to be at his side. It makes her queasy to deceive him. And yet...
She’s read the megillah, given food and given money - and now there should be a feast. Instead, she arranges for the next best thing, and kicks the cooks out of the kitchen so she can work in peace.
Lorenzo finds her there hours later, in flour up to her elbows, surrounded by cooling pastry triangles, tired but happy. “Hamantaschen,” she says, in answer to his unspoked question. Her fingers hardly tremble at all as she scoops one up and holds it out to him. “A treat for Purim,” she adds, before she can talk herself out of it.
He takes the treat and looks at it, curious. “Purim?”
She doesn’t know how to explain this, how to make him understand. Her stomach roils. But she thinks of Queen Esther, alone and afraid in the palace of the Persian king, and she stands a little taller. “You’ve read the Book of Esther?” she asks.
He nods.
“Purim celebrates the defeat of Haman and the safety of - of Esther’s people. We celebrated every year, when I was... younger,” she finishes, awkwardly. When I was a Jew, she doesn’t say, and yet she is certain Lorenzo hears the words still unspoken. She waits fearfully for the look of disgust, for him to demand to know whether he married a Christian or a Jewess . Unfortunately, she’s fairly sure that the answer is “both”.
A long moment passes. With his eyes locked on hers, Lorenzo lifts the hamantash to his mouth. Bites. Chews. Swallows. “Delicious,” he says, with a little half-smile. “You’re a wonderful cook, you know.” He pauses, takes another bite. Chews. Swallows. And then, a little softer, almost shyly, “You should make these every year.”
Something in her chest unknots, and she feels herself begin to smile. “Lorenzo,” she begins, one hand rising to rest upon her belly, “I have something to tell you...” crossposted from Dreamwidth |
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This is the first of the two fics I wrote. I’ll post the second one sometime tomorrow.
Title: The Mother’s Line [AO3]
Fandom: Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice
Wordcount: ~1000
Rating: G
Summary: Did baptism remake Jessica so thoroughly? Or is she still a Jew?
Notes/Disclaimers: Written for
hippyjolteon, for
purimgifts. Like Shakespeare, I put English wordplay into the mouths of Venetian characters. All biblical quotes are from the Geneva Bible translation, which is the translation Shakespeare himself probably used. Both decisions felt more Shakesperian to me, even though they lack historical veracity. If you havn’t figured it out already, this story contains strong religious themes. :) Thank-you to my beta
pellucere, for her help in thrashing out the details of this fic, and for reassuring me that I wasn't (totally) mutilating her religion. ^^'
“Gentle Jessica,” he calls her, and every time he does she hears: “Gentile Jessica.” At first it makes her smile, and then it makes her cringe, and now it simply makes her thoughtful. “Gentile Jessica.” She wonders if it’s true. Did baptism remake her so thoroughly? Or is she still a Jew?
An oddly Christian Jew, perhaps, one who lies beside Lorenzo every night and recites the Shema Yisrael in her head. She can’t seem to help herself. The words are written on her heart where not even the waters of baptism could wash them away. Still, she can’t believe that the Anointed would begrudge her the words. Although the Vicar might.
There had been a Christian Bible amid her wedding presents, and while the tightening of Lorenzo’s jaw marked it for a subtle insult, she’s grateful nonetheless. The Gospels are insipid compared to the Tanakh, and Paul’s letters make her head ache, as does the Apocalypse of John, but - ! There, in the Gospel of Mark, she finds words to make her heart sing:
Jesus answered him, The first of all the commandments is, Hear, Israel, The Lord our God is the only Lord. Thou shalt therefore love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength; this is the first commandment.
A sign from heaven itself, or so it seems. Thank you, she prays, Thank you, Messiah, that I should not have to sacrifice... But she is unable to finish the thought, unsure what it was she feared to sacrifice. Instead, she hastens to pray as Lorenzo has so painstakingly taught her: Our father which art in heaven...
It’s the thirteenth day of Adar, as she lies in bed chanting the final words of the Shema, that she realises it has been two full months since her last menses. Pregnant. She’s pregnant.
She wakes early the next morning, unable to sleep. Quietly, she leafs through her Bible, and her fingers still when she reaches the Book of Esther. She traces the shape of the words as she reads, although she makes no sound: Therefore they called these days Purim. Today - Purim is today. Her lips curve in a smile as she remembers the Purims of her childhood. Unconsciously, her hand comes to rest upon her belly.
In the late morning, heart pounding with the thrill of the forbidden, Jessica arranges for the delivery of a small basket, with a little marzipan bird and a generous slice of mutton-and-parsnip pie, to the young boy who lurks daily at the corner of their street. She hopes he eats it before the larger boys can take it from him. In the afternoon, growing restless, she coaxes Lorenzo out for a stroll. As they walk she slips coins to two beggars. He sees, of course, her Lorenzo, and chides her for the waste - but he’s smiling. His Gentle Gentile Jessica, soft-hearted and kind.
She doesn’t feel kind. She feels... sly. The good Christian wife, hah. She feels, irrationally, like her father. Foolishness. Her father had hated this part of Purim: the mishloach manot, the matanot la'evyonim. Hated parting from any scrap of his wealth.
Her mother had loved sending the gifts. But when she died... well. Hard enough to be a Jew in Venice, without being a father and a widower as well. Even when she’d hated her father, she understood why he was what he was. The world had not been kind to Shylock.
Though she knows it useless, Jessica offers up a silent vow: she will be there for her child, and for Lorenzo. She will never hurt them with her absence. Because when Lorenzo smiles at her, Jessica feels like a queen; reflected in his eyes, she’s a woman worth loving. It amazes her every day, how lucky she is to be at his side. It makes her queasy to deceive him. And yet...
She’s read the megillah, given food and given money - and now there should be a feast. Instead, she arranges for the next best thing, and kicks the cooks out of the kitchen so she can work in peace.
Lorenzo finds her there hours later, in flour up to her elbows, surrounded by cooling pastry triangles, tired but happy. “Hamantaschen,” she says, in answer to his unspoked question. Her fingers hardly tremble at all as she scoops one up and holds it out to him. “A treat for Purim,” she adds, before she can talk herself out of it.
He takes the treat and looks at it, curious. “Purim?”
She doesn’t know how to explain this, how to make him understand. Her stomach roils. But she thinks of Queen Esther, alone and afraid in the palace of the Persian king, and she stands a little taller. “You’ve read the Book of Esther?” she asks.
He nods.
“Purim celebrates the defeat of Haman and the safety of - of Esther’s people. We celebrated every year, when I was... younger,” she finishes, awkwardly. When I was a Jew, she doesn’t say, and yet she is certain Lorenzo hears the words still unspoken. She waits fearfully for the look of disgust, for him to demand to know whether he married a Christian or a Jewess . Unfortunately, she’s fairly sure that the answer is “both”.
A long moment passes. With his eyes locked on hers, Lorenzo lifts the hamantash to his mouth. Bites. Chews. Swallows. “Delicious,” he says, with a little half-smile. “You’re a wonderful cook, you know.” He pauses, takes another bite. Chews. Swallows. And then, a little softer, almost shyly, “You should make these every year.”
Something in her chest unknots, and she feels herself begin to smile. “Lorenzo,” she begins, one hand rising to rest upon her belly, “I have something to tell you...” crossposted from Dreamwidth |
comments on original post