There are whispers that Mr Fisher, the Watermelon Merchant of the local fruit and vegetable market is an Aquarius. Last summer, he was seen by the pond, dipping his feet. There would be nothing unusual about that, had he not taken off his shoes and socks beforehand. No one even mentioned the uncuffed trouser legs of his suit.

Someone claimed to have seen him on the bridge, attempting to leap into the raging river for this time of year. Clad in an old bathrobe over his pajamas, he resembled someone about to dash out for bread or cigarettes from the shop around the corner, never to return. Then he bloviated about some romantic misadventure, instead of directly responding to the questions about motives.

When a pipe burst, flooding the entire basement of the city hospital housing the psychiatric day unit, it was none other than that Watermelon Merchant, with a smile on his lips, who single-handedly rescued all the mentally and nervously ill. And then he turned green with anger when told that it wouldn't affect the visitation quota.

People say he once seemed like an ordinary Watermelon Merchant, but that was long ago. Before he began drowning his sorrows in some strong liquids.

Perhaps the only person who doesn't believe in all these revelations is his former love. As if nothing were amiss, she brings him walnuts, almonds, and dried plums.