Above a wooden stage hang two gilded masks. Their faces are wound together by the thorn covered stem of a red rose. Flaking gold paint and fading crimson petals don’t dampen the message, which pulses like a heartbeat down to the boards trodden by so many storytellers.
“Tragedy and comedy,” explains the proprietor in his tie-less blue shirt, not quite standing on the domain of tricksters.
“And the flower?” asks one observant tourist.
“The rose, the third mask, is the link between them. Comedy turns into a tragedy because of Love. But Love gives hope even after the greatest tragedy.”