Campo dei Mori is one of those quiet corners of Venice where time seems to have frozen, much like the petrified Mastelli brothers. Venice is a city of legends and ghosts, though most of its legendary heroes are famous for deeds that were far from noble. The legend of the Mastelli brothers is no exception.
Long ago, there lived three Greek merchants: Rioba, Sandi, and Afani. They traded in silk and spices but were known as misers and cheats. Eventually, they lost their consciences entirely. While attempting to swindle a seemingly poor, honest woman, they failed to recognize her as Mary Magdalene. As punishment, they were turned to stone, forever frozen into the walls of their palazzo as a warning to all dishonest traders.
The most famous among them is Signor Antonio Rioba. In the 19th century, the statue on the corner lost its nose, which was replaced by an ugly but “lucky” iron prosthesis. Since then, a tradition has emerged: rubbing this iron nose for good luck.
One sunny day, as we were strolling along the Fondamenta dei Mori, we saw something incredible. Standing on the bridge was an elderly Venetian man, wrapped in a scarf and a brown jacket. He perfectly mirrored the distinctive profile and posture of the stone Rioba on the corner.
“Look! It’s a living Rioba! Even the hat is the same!” “Let’s go talk to him,” we decided.
The local resident – let’s call him Antonio Junior – turned around. He was the spitting image of his petrified double, though he possessed a real nose instead of an iron one.
“Good day, dear Signor!” we addressed him. “Forgive our curiosity, but are you perhaps a relative of Signor Rioba standing there on the corner? You are his double – the resemblance is uncanny!”
“That is not a kinship one should be proud of,” Antonio Junior laughed. “Though, it’s ancient history now. People love that statue, and not just for the nose that stands out in every sense of the word. Rioba served the city well when he was one of the Venetian ‘oracles’. He used to amuse people too – they’d play pranks on mailmen by demanding they deliver packages to ‘Signor Antonio Rioba, residing in Cannaregio, Campo dei Mori.'”
“What happened to his head then, when it went missing a few years ago and was barely recovered?” we asked.
“Ah, the head! That was quite a story. You know, that night I woke up from a terrible chill and a splitting headache. I thought maybe it was just a hangover, it happens to the best of us. But in the morning, I heard the news about the statue! So, perhaps it wasn’t a vandal at all. Maybe my great-great-grandfather just decided to go for a little stroll to see why no one had brought him any satirical poems lately. Did everyone suddenly become happy with the government? He must have tripped while rushing back to his spot and lost his head. They found it half a kilometer away – no small feat to carry such a weight!”
“It would be nice to actually know Italian,” we thought as Antonio Junior walked past, seemingly oblivious to the tourists staring at him.
We hurried to the corner of the building to touch Rioba’s polished iron nose. Signor Antonio looked indifferently into the distance above us with his stone gaze, guarding his secrets and promising nothing. But the weather that day turned out to be wonderfully lucky.
