Nora Cristobal 1

The Mask Maker

The sun gleamed past the posts of the stand, reflecting off a metallic empty peg. Little
beads of sweat were beginning to form on Gio's forehead, disrupting his usual 12:30 in the
afternoon nap. He was curled up in the corner of the mask stand sleeping after lunch while his
father watched out for customers. Gio worked at this stand his entire life, the way his father
worked at this stand, the way his grandfather worked at this stand. He didnt like it, but it was the
family business and he was obligated to put in effort.
Get up Gio, theyre coming in, said Agostino, Gios father.
Alright, alright, no need to yell, said Gio. He wiped the sweat from his brow.
You cant even wait until Siesta?! I really wonder what your good for?
I dont know, maybe watching this damn stand every day, said Gio. The words muffled
under his breath.
This damn stand is the shirt on your back, the food you stuff yourself with. Show some
respect and help the customers, maybe fill that empty peg, said Ago.
Gio peeked outside and looked down the street. He scanned the canals, and up towards
the bridge. The way they were flowing out, it looked as if the streets were bleeding people. It was
the busiest time of year and the stand was overflowing with on-lookers, masks splayed
everywhere, fat tourists, and kids crying from the particularly hot day. He started to fill the
empty peg. Three to a peg, like the rest on the wall. He always left one mask out on the shelf, a

Nora Cristobal 2

part from the others. It was the one his father had bought him from the mask maker when he was
a kid. There was nothing very special about it, but he didnt want it to be sold by accident.
Gio was starting to hate the stand. At first he dealt with the people who didnt buy, and
his father calling him lazy, but as the years progressively became more redundant, his patience
turned into detest. Conversations with the customers didnt amuse him anymore, and they treated
the masks like shit; never truly respecting the craftsmanship or the ornate details. He was getting
tired of treading circles around the stand, speaking English, and bargaining prices.
Since his grandfather became ill, Gio found himself being asked more often to fill in.
What used to be a few hours here and there became six days a week. It became six days a week
setting up the stand, six days a week breaking the stand down, six days a week closing for Siesta,
six days a week opening back up from Siesta. Selling masks was how his family made money.
Maschere di Carnevale was one of the more profitable stands in Venice. The family had picked a
prime location and paid the city rent every year to keep it. And every year there would be
tourists, and people from around the city, neighboring cities, and neighboring countries, who
would come to buy their masks to prepare for Carnevale.
The masks were the best around. Maschere had them all, everything that anyone could
ever dream of. Masks with elongated curved beaks, masks with pale music notes and feathers.
Masks with gold gears on grey splash background, with argyle print, curly-que papier-mache
ringlets adhered to the side, masks that adorned like an indigenous head-dress. Bright, dull,
black, white, orange, lime, and fuchsia. They had them all, and if they didnt, they would get
them custom made. Maschere really was the best in the city. And as much as the city and their
guests loved them, Gio dreamt of leaving it every day.

Nora Cristobal 3