Petra, the Great - (Book One)

"Can one desire too much of a good thing?"

Chapter Eleven

"Can one desire too much of a good thing?"

- As You Like It (Act IV, Scene I).

        FAT PETE'S SHOP - A POOR excuse of an establishment - stands alone in the most demolished part of the neighborhood, as if no other shop wanted to stand beside it, just as no one wanted to stand beside his stinky self. I jiggle the doorknob in such a way that the door opens with ease.

Empty. No stolen stock. No Fat Pete.

        I walk out of his shop only to be blinded by the high noon sun and crowds of market people. At first I am confused as to why they are all waving at me, and handing me free food: freshly baked bread, fresh vegetables and fruits.

        "Signora Fortuna!"

        I turn and face none other than the flushed face of Alberto the gondolier.

        "Signora! You are alive?"

        "No, I am a phantom."

Alberto's eyes widen with alarm.

"I only jest! Of course I am alive. No thanks to you by the way."

        "I thought you had drowned mia cara! Oh, I for sure thought I would executed, but then! Then!" Alberto turns to the crowds and announces, "Il captiano de Luca he jumps in and rescues you. Oh mio dio! It inspires me to sing!"

Does it really count as rescuing if he is the reason why I almost died?

        Alberto hands me a fresh flopping fish.  "This is for your good health, signora!"

        He jumps on a stand with surprising agility not common for a man of his circular shape and bellows out:

        "Our Royal Fortune Teller is in good health and spirits, Florentians! Let us celebrate!'

        Another market goer comes out with a guitar and the other uses his ale barrels as drums. Within seconds the piazza is transformed into a peasant ball. Before I am sucked into the festivities, I pull Alberto aside.

        "Do take all this food to the fruit vendor Bernardino." I return the fish and ask whether he knows where Fat Pete maybe.

        "The stocks, milady. He started a brawl at one of the taverns. Good for nothing Northerner."

I recognize the boar like stature of Fat Pete on his knees, his arms hanging out of the contraption, his bald head, red and shimmering with sweat in the mid afternoon sun. He struggles to look up at me, my shadow giving him momentary relief form the heat. I grab a rotten tomato from the barrels beside him and toss it into the air, contemplating whether he is worth it. He is nothing more than a pig, attempting to look up at the sky.