The next logical step was to get in touch with Romano. They have always been good friends..., perhaps with much more enthusiasm from Spain than Romano, though—after all, their relationship started with enslavement. But the thing is, Spain always tells Romano what he does everyday. He doesn't go to the toilet without telling Romano. If someone had to know where Spain was, it was him.
But it turned out finding him resulted to be as difficult as finding Spain. As much as I called to his number, I always got the answering machine. I tried every hour, left voice messages, waited for days, and I got no signs of life from him. In the end, I called his brother instead.
When he answered to my video call, he was cooking something, I don't know what, but he left the screen filled with flour.
"Ah, don't worry." He said when I told him I hadn't been able to get in touch with Romano, "He went to Sicily to take care of some little issues. When he goes to Sicily, he never minds the phone."
The way he told me made me suspect he meant to say that his brother was in some kind of solitary retreat, or probably it was not solitary at all, and wanted no one to ruin his fun.
Maybe he could do, I thought.
"Have you heard from Spain lately?"
"Why are you asking? Did something happen?" Certainly, Veneciano is not dumb, even if it often seems he is. He stopped mixing for a second to stare at me. He tried to get into my mind, find out what was going on. I tried to keep a neutral expression, not to let any thought show, any worry at all. However, I must remind that at this time I couldn't even suspect what was really happening: I was just a woman trying to find her idiotic, good-for-nothing big brother.
"No, I simply...I haven't had the chance to call him, just that. Since you guys see each other more frequently..."
I am not sure if my excuse got to convince him, but at least he kept doing what he was doing.
"Used to. If you try to find Romano to ask him, I don't think he'll know or want to know where he is. Him and Spain had a fight."
"They did?"
"Yes. In January...no, September. September, last year. We found out Spain came to Rome and didn't come to see us. We called him and met here, at home. We were eating, Spain got up to go to the bathroom. Romano followed him...I don't know what happened next. They started to argue, almost shouting. I approached to see what was going on, but when I reached the upper floor Spain said goodbye to me in a hurry and left, not finishing his plate. I heard Romano look out the window to tell him: 'You're stupidly stubborn and you will always be!'. Then he started grumbling and I haven't seen them talk anymore after that. Did you hear about the actor thing?"
"Yes, but...Didn't Romano tell you why they had that argument?"
"No...I asked him and he told me not to meddle. I talked to Spain by the phone some weeks after that and he told me it was nothing. He quickly changed the subject. Since none of them wanted to talk, I didn't insist."
"Why did Spain go to Rome? Do you know that?"
"Sure: he came to see Vatican City. It had to be something unofficial, because there were no bosses or cameras. That we know of."
I nodded.
All of this was very strange, certainly. Spain went to Rome and didn't stop to see his friends, like he always did? That was why Romano got mad at him?
I said goodbye to Veneciano and left him making whatever he had in hands. Then I looked for Vatican City's number in my contact list.
It was even more difficult to reach him. He has a very, very tight schedule. He doesn't usually attend to anyone without a very advanced appointment. That leaves him little time for friends or unofficial meetings. I talked to a lot of people until a secretary—or whoever that was—, after consulting him, told me he would call me back. I made use of this time to take a walk around Seville. I crossed the Triana Bridge, the streets full of people, tourists and locals who now could be outside after the sun was down and the heating temperature was descending.
I passed by the Archive of the Indies, where Spain keeps all the documents from the times when he managed my accounts, or rather, was my master.
Back when he treated me like a child with no brain, with no authority.
Now it was me the one who had to take care of him, the bird brain who had left everyone hanging.
The city brought me a lot of memories. I never got to visit it in my childhood, but it always had a special bond with America. After all, the ships with traders and explorers sailed from this port and unloaded everything they found in my land and my siblings'. Strolling around, I saw no trace of those days of wealth and glory. There were more and more people begging, people who did hard jobs for an improper salary, lines of hunger, filthy apartments. And I asked myself once more what was the use of stealing us what we had to spend it all in wars which drove him to misery. What for, if the ones who benefited from it were those who were already rich.
I ordered take away from a supposedly Mexican restaurant. It did so little justice to my gastronomy that I wasn't sure if I had to laugh or sue them for putting my name in that scam. Nevertheless, I ate it on the way back to Spain's house. At least it served its purpose of filling my stomach and clearing my mind.
Vatican City finally called in the verge of ten in the afternoon. He apologized for calling so late. He was pretty polite.
Looking at Vatican City, it almost seems impossible that he is related in any way, even geographically, to Italy and Seborga. He is very old, even if, like most of us, looks in his twenties, and is linked to divinity; that gives him an air of sanctity and a serene aura like I have never seen. It often seems like he walked out straight from Heaven and wasn't therefore affected by earthly matters.
He listened to everything I had to tell him calmly. I wanted to know why he had come to see him so spontaneously. I did tell him that his government was looking for him desperately and his argument with Romano, in case that convinced him to be frank to me.
But his answer was: "I'm sorry. I can't tell you anything about it."
"So it was a secret meeting indeed." I said. In the video call I saw him in his office, at the Saint Peter Basilica. The Pope was probably praying in another room before going to sleep.
"We met without our bosses knowing, yes. Spain was worried about something and wanted to share it with me so I gave him my two cents." Vatican said.
He was once a very powerful nation, because the Christian nations were eager to do anything at all to deserve God's blessing: they offered him gold, souls, land...He was so powerful that some, like the Protestants, feared and hated him at the same time, and fought him, convinced that he didn't have the right to hold so much power in his hands, being a slave of the Lord. Those who keep believing in his authority, us Catholics, Spain included, still hold him in great steem, keep agreements with him, so it had sense that Spain went to him in the time of need.
"Like...A confession?" I asked.
"Yes. A confession." Vatican gently nodded. "So I suppose you understand I can't tell you what was on his mind."
"Please, Vatican, Spain hasn't been seen in months...Who knows what he's doing now, where he is."
"I know. I heard about the actor."
"Couldn't you make an exception? The Lord will understand..." I insisted, leaning towards the screen, thinking that I could move him with my babydoll face.
Vatican just shook his head once again. I should have known that someone who's got his head in the clouds wouldn't fall for that. But I refused to accept it. I believed he was being very selfish.
"Well, if you're not going to help me...Thank you for your time." I said, now in a bad mood. My finger was moving towards the hanging button when I saw him turn his eyes to the large window on his right, which showed a gorgeous garden full of roses.
"Sometimes it is terrifying to know that there are eyes watching from above..."
He paused, then turned his eyes to me and drew a smile.
"Good night and thanks to you."
I suppose that was all he could say to help me.
I took note of everything I knew in a notepad I found by the fridge. I stayed up till late, reading and rereading my conclusions that day.
First: something told me I couldn't trust Spain's bosses much.
Why should I have? They had lied to us all. They had tricked us and replaced their nation to get certain benefits and save their skin. I know Spain never liked his bosses much. Very often they hadn't done much to deserve his trust and respect. In my walk around the streets I had the chance to hear that he was surrounded by real sewer rats, thieves, people with no scruple capable of selling their own mothers for a salary for life. Certainly good old Spain rarely had a good eye for choosing the hands he put himself in.
Eyes watching from above...
Was he escaping from them?
Second: something big had to happen between him and Romano to end up angry at each other.
As I have already said, Spain has always adored Romano. He always appreciated him dearly. Romano could spit him in the face, Spain would even thank him for it. It was difficult for me to believe that in all of this time they hadn't tried to make peace and both of them, two inconsistent guys, had maintained hostility.
The last thing Romano had told him was that he was stubborn...I mean, nothing none of us who know Spain ignore, but...
My head started to hurt from so much thinking and not reaching any conclusion. I decided to go to bed. A bit of sleep would give me clarity. I don't remember what I dreamed that night, but when I woke up I felt weird, finding myself in Spain's sheets, in his bedroom; I felt lost, bizarre for not being at home, but, most of all, because he was not at his. His apartment was not the same without him running around, offering everyone olives and chips, cracking jokes, talking badly about those who were not around...
His fridge was empty, but many of the things inside had expired many months before, even rotten. I found nothing to have for breakfast, so I went to the closest coffee shop and ordered coffee with churros.
They had a national newspaper on the bar. Since I was recovering my sight, I took it and entertained myself reading it while I ate.
Then I found an article, in an almost anecdotal corner of the page:
«Gorka Olabarría, 'Gorkito', has been arrested in Pamplona for stealing Spain's wallet and paying a party with his money. The stolen quantity is of five hundred and thirty eight euros. The money and the personal effects have already been returned to the nation.»
I was convinced that the last line had been added by the authorities to ease the population, just like everything they had been saying to the date.
I quickly grabbed by cell phone and searched who this 'Gorkito' guy was. It was at this moment when my hunger disappeared. From that instant on, I started to fear that my brother hadn't disappeared of his own will. Everything changed the moment the search engine answered my question.
This 'Gorkito' was a member of ETA.
