It was an unusually chilly morning as Antonio sat on a bench overlooking the Arno. A large barge was being loaded with what he could only assume was wool or silk. He eagerly tried to sketch the scene. It was still relatively early, and many citizens of Florence were just leaving their homes for the day. Archbishop Salavati’s body still hung from the Palazzo Della Signoria, rotting for the entire city to see. In a few hours, the messenger Ezio Ruminano would ride into town and share the news that his holiness Pope Sixtus IV received word of the events that had transpired yesterday and had placed an interdict on the entire city of Florence for the treatment of Salviati, only to be promptly ignored by the Florentines; but for now, the day carried on as usual. Antonio could not sleep the night before; he was full of anger over Giancarlo’s stupid obsession over Francesca and his complete disregard for their friendship. As he immersed himself in his sketches, a shadow loomed over him. Antonio looked up and saw Petruccio standing before him with a quizzical look. Like always, he suppressed a chuckle as he stared at his egg-shaped head outlined by a horrid bowl-cut.
“Buongiorno Antonio,” he said in his comically nasal voice. The nostrils of his pug nose flared with curiosity. “What are you doing all the way out here so early?”
“I came to watch the ships. I want to get better at capturing the way water and objects meet.”
Petruccio took a seat next to Antonio, “And how is that going?”
“Ah, not bad I guess,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “I’m not having a lot of success today. But as Messer Lucardi says: ‘In time, all who practice get better’ I guess.”
Petruccio leaned over and looked at his sketchbook. Antonio always hated when people did that. “I think it’s pretty nice. But I know what you mean, lighting will be the death of my career! I am so close to taking those curtains in the bottega and setting them on fire!”
Antonio chuckled. “I think you would be doing us all a favor.”
“All except Giancarlo, I think he actually likes drawing them; when he actually decides to work on his drawing that is.” He nudged Antonio and gave out a little laugh.
Antonio immediately scowled at the thought of Giancarlo.
“Speaking of which, what do you think of Giancarlo’s new love? You saw her, she’s beautiful, no?”
“Why is everything always about Giancarlo?” Antonio shouted in a loud outburst.
Petruccio looked nonplused. “Wh- what do you mean?” He asked.
Realizing his mistake, Antonio pulled away. “It’s nothing,” he sighed. “It’s just, all I heard yesterday was Giancarlo and you guys at the Bottega talking non-stop about this stupid Francesca. She’s not even that beautiful, let alone anything on-par with what Giancarlo was describing. I’ve heard enough of this girl.”
“It’s not every day when a friend falls in love! Remember when Reggiano first met Christina? All we talked about for a week was her.”
“I’d rather have both of my ears fall off than hear Giancarlo and Niccolò going on about the shape of Francesca’s bosom for a week more.”
“Why such spiteful words, Antonio? Has she slighted you in any way?”
“No,” he said defensively. There was a long pause as Antonio stared out towards the barge. The air was moist. “Excuse me Petruccio, but I think I would rather be alone for now.”
Petruccio, sensing something more was going on, nodded and stood up to leave. “Of course, Antonio,” he said. “I will see you at the bottega.”
As Peruccio left, a violent tempest was brewing inside of Antonio, and he was racked with rage, frustration, and confusion. “Why don’t I like Francesca?” He asked himself. In the recesses of his mind, however, Antonio knew the answer, he was just afraid to admit it to himself. He was in love with his best friend. Yes, he was feeling rage, frustration, and confusion along with a myriad of other emotions, but above all, he was feeling envy.
Header Image: Coronation of the Virgin, Fra Angelico. 1432.