1940


Franco promised that his ruling was just temporary. After the iron surgeon completed the procedure, he would step aside and bring monarchy back. It had become clear that a king would defend Spain properly. Most of the revolters had joined the movement because they had been promised a king.

But the Caudillo kept on being the boss and the change never happened.

He ordered the construction of the Valley of the Fallen in San Lorenzo del Escorial, with an abbey and a gigantic cross, to honor those who had died in their crusade to save Spain, including the founder of the Falange party, José Antonio Primo de Rivera. Corpses of soldiers from both sides were taken there, and would end up mixed, not only inside their graves but also with the structure of the building itself. In order to reduce the sentence and reeducate, prisoners were recruited. This was not the only monument dedicated to the victory: the Arc of Victory in Moncloa, parades for every anniversary...He was even given the Pazo de Meirás, a big palace in A Coruña, once belonging to Emilia Pardo Bazán, as a generous gift from Spain himself, for his family's enjoyment.

...And in the meanwhile, families received a ration coupon to survive. Not being enough most of the time, the black market and the community kitchen of Social Aid became the only way to survive. There was another option too: dressing the Falange's blue shirt. The Party took good care of its members...

Those who had fought the uprising, anyone related to the Republic was thrown into jail and executed. Those who hid them were also exemplarily punished. That was the reason why so many former bosses of Spain, so many intellectuals or common people crossed the borders in disguise, off to France and South America...Spain could hear shots all the time, and had ended up wondering what it was like, living without hearing that damned sound in the background...


Posters showed a triumphant Spain, crushing the hammer and sickle with his boot, showing muscle and a determined look, dressed with the blue shirt of the regime's favorite party, Falange, him holding the corpse of the founder, José Antonio Primo de Rivera, in a recreation of Michelangelo's Pietà, with the words 'Present!' underneath, but the truth was that the artists implied in their making took his face as a model and drew the rest using other sources. Spain was excused from doing the salute because he could barely rise his arms, and he had no strength to hold a dead body, not even a goldfish's. When he descended the train in Hendaya, he was moved in a wheelchair by his assistant.

Upon their arrival, Germany smiled and approached, Hitler following him closely. Now that he was seeing the Führer in person, Spain thought he was as impressive as the photos and records suggested. That man really had something. It wasn't surprising that he got so many adepts so quickly and charmed Germany himself. As for the nation, he looked good the last time Spain saw him. He had gone through terrible times after he was defeated in the Great War, but recovered and it seemed Spain was not wrong when he thought he would rise from his ashes like a phoenix. Now he was exultant, glorious—Spain had never seen someone standing so tall and healthy. He had Europe in the palm of his hand. He got his delicious revenge against those who humiliated him. The contrast between him and Spain was great—it almost seemed like a joke that it was Germany the one asking for help.

But it was so, Franco had assured Spain. Germany needed him like he needed to breathe. Although Germany and his Führer had given him the runaround when he requested in his nation's name to join the war on his friends' side (he couldn't talk properly or move but he knew Spain was simply dying to contribute), England's obstinate resistance in the Blitzkrieg campaign made it possible that Spain had something to offer after all.

Franco and Hitler shook hands, posed for the cameras, so did Germany and Spain. Franco complimented Germany's magnificent looks, Hitler expressed his his admiration for Spain for getting rid of those 'communist fleas'. Soon, the four of them walked towards the room where the meeting would be held. Franco and Hitler walked in front of Spain and Germany, allowing them to have a private moment.

"How is your recovering going?" Germany asked Spain.

"Good. You know..." Spain smiled, but didn't finish the sentence.

Germany gazed at the ulcers that could be seen under his shirt and nodded.

"Of course."

After being recorded and photographed by the press, it was time to get down to business. They were taken to the room, the door was closed and the four of them were left alone. There was no need for translators: Spain knew German and could translate the Caudillo everything that was said.

"France has surrendered. He is under our control now. Our next target is England. He has put obstacles in your way for centuries. He has hurt you, stolen from you. Why not taking this chance to settle scores? You have something that is very important to England: Gibraltar." Hitler said.

"Yes. Without Gibraltar, his access to the Mediterranean sea would be cut off." Franco nodded. "And without access to provisions or a escape..."

"He will have no chance but to surrender."

"But England is an enemy to fear. And if we attacked him, America will surely come to the rescue." Franco replied, knocking at the table with his knuckles.

"That doesn't seem likely. He is too comfortable back at home to get in such trouble." Germany said to him.

"This war is coming to an end." Hitler said.

"And the Allies soon will fall." Germany concluded.

"So you want Spain to help you speed up the process..." Franco said, pointing at his nation with a gesture of his hand.

"His alliance would be very useful indeed..."

"You want him to fight by your side..." Franco clasped his hands. "Well, there is just a problem you can easily see: he is in no condition to fight. His enemies, the false friends of the Republic, that bunch of communists almost got him killed. He is healing from his sickness. He needs help."

"Of course, we would provide everything you need." Germany replied, looking at Spain. "Food, construction material, petroleum, troops to crush the remaining threats..."

Franco had prepared a script beforehand. Spain knew what he had to say now.

"I know of something that will make me feel better." He intervened.

"What is it?"

"Morocco."

"Morocco?" Hitler frowned.

"Yes." Franco nodded. "You have made France bend the knee. He has affronted Spain in the past so many times."

"Morocco has not been very nice to me, either." Spain mentioned.

"Good friends don't let affronts go unpunished."

"I have quite a few unfinished business with England too, now that I remember."

"If the Axis won, I am sure you could, ahem, convince England to let Spain be the sole manager of Gibraltar."

Germany and Hitler glanced at each other.

"It is true that France controls Morocco and we control France..." Hitler stated, "but the new Europe we are building cannot exist without him. We want him happy, collaborative."

"If we stole his underling, he will never be on our side." Germany said.

"I don't want to hurt my dear neighbor, no, no, no." Spain shook his head.

"We just want to make sure an old debt is paid." Franco finished the sentence.

"Oh, and Algeria." Spain suddenly said. "That pirate made so many of my people slaves in there that I think it could be said it's a second home for me. It would be a nice place for the holidays..."

"Are we forgetting something, Spain?"

"Cameroon."

"Ah, yes, Cameroon."

"He looks like a guy who could be useful."

There was a long silence from Germany and Hitler, broken by the nation clearing his throat.

"Well...We...can consider your demands and see what we can do. There is no pressure. First, you have to take care of yourself." He said, standing up.

"Whatever you decide, I am with you, Germany. You have a friend in me." Spain smiled at him.

"I will send you these days a list of all the Jews in our territory." Franco said.

"That will be much appreciated." Hitler smiled with a nod. "We will be in touch."

Spain had the feeling that the goodbye was a bit cold, but that was only his perception. His leader was satisfied.

"They act like they are winning, but they need you, Spain." He said to him as they got out of the room. "If they want to win this, they will have to accept your assistance. And I am not going to let you sell yourself for a cheap price."

He left because minister Serrano wanted to introduce him to someone. Spain supposed it was time to go to sleep. He consulted his pocket watch. Seven hours?! They had been talking for seven hours?! No wonder he felt so tired!

When one year later Spain met with Veneciano, Romano and their leader Mussolini, Romano talked to Spain in such a way Mussolini had to ask his nation to calm down. Was he going to join the war or was he going to wait until everything was over to get the benefit? Spain replied it all depended on Germany giving him what he needed. He was still weak like a kitten. He was sorry that their last battles were not very successful, but that was the state of things.

Spain never got to formally join the Axis, even though he expressed his wish that the world learnt to respect them and communism was wiped off the face of earth. And since there was nothing settled, he worked hard to free all Jewish people he could, especially in Hungary's house, from Germany's plans of extermination, using Primo de Rivera's law giving the Spanish nationality to all the Sephardic Jews. His own home was a passageway for all these fugitives. Wasn't that hypocritical? Franco explained to Spain that he was betraying nobody: his enemy was communism, not those poor devils; Germany was very angry at them and perhaps got his reasons to, but they had done nothing to him, and it was better that the Allies saw that he was not a fascist. In times like those, when things changed overnight, it was better to adapt oneself to the circumstances.

Too bad Germany's previsions were too optimistic. Franco turned out to be right: the Axis crossed swords with America until they got him involved, then everything started to go wrong. Four years after that series of interviews, Germany and his allies were forced to surrender and went through hell and humiliation in the hands of the victors. Prussia was erased.

Mussolini and his lover ended up lynched. Hitler shot himself inside a bunker. Franco was free to write decrees that his nation signed without thinking about it or even reading them.

As for Spain, he found himself alone again—and judged by the whole world.


1946


The ones who set out the question were Australia and Mexico. Spain's sister was very interested about this. She didn't mention Spain explicitly but everybody knew who were they referring to...

The Axis Powers were going to pay for what they did—but what about the countries who collaborated with them and whose dictators still held the power?

Poland didn't want to lose time with implicit suggestions and asked it very clearly: what should they do to Spain?

The debate was intense. Russia sounded very convincing when he took the floor to say not very kind things about him, still sore about the glorious proletarian revolution that could have been and never was. Spain could do nothing but wait at home, doing small progress getting up from his chair to walk around the house. Franco said that was all he should be concerned about. In December, the resolution was published.

«Considering Spain is guilty of plotting with Germany and Italy, circumstance which resulted in war, the nature of Franco's regime is fascist and was set with the help of said nations, and sent brigades against Russia and Morocco, ignoring the protests from the Allies, the United Nations have determined that Spain should not be part of us. Furthermore, we recommend all countries to recall their ambassadors in the Spanish territory.»

"Don't be sad, Spain!" Franco said to him upon hearing the news, patting his back. "You don't need them! You can manage perfectly on your own!"

He encouraged protests all over the country to insult Russia. 'IT'S HIS FAULT!'. Spain's suffering and current situation was his fault. He was the one who came up with the idea of the communist revolution and convinced all those loons to try and make Spain a red like him; all the blood spilled and the misery and poverty were the fruits of his ideology.

He was not sad. Nor disappointed. He just thought a lot about the voting. They didn't even bother to make it anonymous.

Some names were obviously in the list of those who voted yes: America, Russia, France and England. Poland too, like all nations who had been screwed up by the Axis. It was obvious. There were more. Bolivia, Belgium, Chile, Guatemala, Luxembourg, Mexico, Nicaragua, Panama, Paraguay, Uruguay, Venezuela...So many familiar and dear names.

Cuba and Holland abstained. Colombia, Honduras, Egypt and Turkey too. Oh...Dominican Republic, Ecuador, Peru, El Salvador, Costa Rica and Argentina voted against this veto.

Ah, Argentina! He was not completely alone and that was a relief! His beautiful girl didn't see him like a monster! It was not only the affinity between their bosses, but, in spite of everything, there was still a trace of love. Perón and his wife, the charming, famous and magnetic Evita, came to his house and it became a big happening. Everyone wanted to see Evita, take photos, admire her elegance. Spain was excited to see the woman everyone talked about but that was nothing in comparison to what he felt having his daughter back into his arms, talking to her, being able to touch her...After so long...After that horrible war...

"I brought you food, tata. Wheat, corn and oil. I also have some money I can give to you..."

No wonder she looked so concerned. His bones could be seen, as if he had no muscles under his skin.

"If there is...anything else I can do for you..." She muttered, her arms crossed behind her back.

After everything going on between them, she forgave him...

Spain didn't want her to be worried. He smiled at her, probably the first time he sincerely smiled in a lot of time, and kissed her forehead.

"Having you here is enough for me, my love."

He was not alone. He had Argentina. Thank God his precious girl was with him. And she was not the only one to let her ambassador stay in Spain. Switzerland declared he was neutral about this. Vatican and Ireland kept them too. Of course he could count on Vatican: horrified about the murder of so many Catholics and the attacks on the Church before and during the war, he had accepted Franco as Spain's legitimate boss and blessed his attempts to free Spain from his 'bad government'. So did Portugal, with whom he kept in touch. He would often call to see how he was. Spain tried to sound merry over the phone, to have a clean handwriting when he wrote to him...

...But he was not alright.

He could hear it. He thought the end of the war would end with it, but he still had those echoes...'FRANCO! FRANCO! FRANCO! Long live Spain!'...His boss had signed an amnesty law pardoning those who had fought his regime—because no one tried anymore. There used to be maquis, sent by the communists from their exile, making a fuss in the mountains and the countryside, attempting to start a popular revolution against this tyranny, but they had to return to where they came from since the regime repressed them successfully and everyone was too tired and had enough problems to look for more. Everyone had thrown the towel. Alfonso had died in exile and his son Juan hoped he would become the king of Spain, as promised by Franco and with the support of England, but all he got were empty promises in a further and further future. No one would come to replace Franco—he made sure of that. Spain's stomach was growling constantly, as much as the regime fed him, because his people were dying of hunger...Starvation brought back the ghosts of tuberculosis, polio and typhus...At night, in his bed, he heard the shots, of the opponents being captured and killed...Their suffering, the fear, the resignation...Asking themselves day after day—would they live to see a new day? It was not strange to him to cry himself to sleep. Wishing one of the two sides had managed to kill him...It was unbearable...For how long would he resist?

In those feverish hallucinations, faces crowded his mind, mixed. Someone whose face and voice he had long forgotten...But he still remembered little things...The primitive dress she used to wear...Braided brown hair...The way she used to sing to him and the other children before going to sleep...Take care of your siblings, they need you, you are their older brother...Those siblings...He forgot their names and their faces too...Instead, he was seeing Mexico, Cuba, Peru...Their pretty faces, how they lit up when he came to visit and brought presents with them...Those faces turning ugly, filled with blood, enraged, pointing at him with rifles, telling him 'I HATE YOU', 'MURDERER'...It was him to be protected from..."...All that power will turn against you one day, and then you shall feel the sting of a million knives in your back, one for each of your sins..."...Mexica and Inca...They sure got their revenge...Tlaxcala and the other mothers of his babies, who he had completely forgotten...And Ferdinand, how he laughed maliciously...He was right...He couldn't live on his own...He had tried and everything had ended up wrong...He needed someone to tell him what to do, he was lost without...Isabella, little Isabella, looking at him with pity, running a hand through his hair...The older Isabella, the first, and Ferdinand...Life had blessed him with two set of parents...He became an empire thanks to them...Would they be proud of him now? Seeing their symbols all around, their quest being praised by Franco, being taken as a role model? Were they proud?...They never answered...But this was the way they used to do things, right? One had to eliminate the threats...

Gosh, he even saw Rome standing at the foot of his bed, the way he remembered him to be, up to the tiniest detail.

"The twentieth century is sure being a mess..." He sighed.

"...It was our dream to become just like you..." Spain muttered, lying on the bed in fetal posture.

"And all of you made it come true. I couldn't be prouder."

"I suppose...It always ends up the same way, doesn't it?"

"I'm afraid so." Rome sat on the bed by his side. "I'll tell you what, my dear Hispania: power is like a drug—sweet, pleasant, yet very dangerous and addicting. It destroys your mind, makes you see chimeras, changes the character, turns friends into foes...I wish I had warned you boys about it..."

"No, Rome, it's my fault. It's my fault, entirely. I should have paid more attention to the lesson you were giving me...Had I followed the example you were giving me...Now it is late to make amends..."

"You are not dead yet. As long as there is life, there is hope, they say."

"But...I have done things that cannot be excused."

"Time heals all wounds. Our kind has the gift of time. It may seem that you are trapped now, but from my experience? It gets better. Always. Remember all the times when you fell sick, when you were trapped inside a sinking ship, the battles that were lost? You've survived all that, haven't you?"

"Well...There will have to come a day when things are really over, right?"

"Yes. That is true. But what's the point of staying in bed, waiting till that time comes? Don't wait for it feeling sorry for yourself. You keep doing orgies, right? Go to one. Get outside. Until it is over, it is not over. Carpe diem while you are still alive." Spain turned his eyes to him and saw him smile, oh, the way he used to. "Come on! You are Antonius, aren't you? Not just some human's pet! This is not going to kill you, right?"

Spain went silent for some seconds.

"...No...Of course not..."

"This will pass too."

A smile grew on Spain's face. "You are right, Rome. I know who I am. I am Antonio. I am Spain...I will always be. No matter what. No matter who is in charge. There is only one person who can decide what I am, and where I want to go, and that is me. Leaders, kings, presidents—they can possess me, but there is something inside of me they will never own..."

Rome nodded, smiling too. He ruffled his hair affectionately before standing up.

"That's the spirit! Now get out of there and live, dammit! I didn't raise a lazy bum! And think of what I've told you. Don't waste your time with grudges and vengeance. What is the use of that? You, Britannia, Gaul and Lusitania used to be very good friends. Don't let your old friendship be ruined by stupid power games. You are not children anymore to be playing empires."

"You should see your grandsons..."

"Oh, I have. I see everything from a peephole. They are handsome, aren't they? I see that you are very fond of Romano and he likes you too. That is nice. I knew I left them in good hands."

"You are being flattering because you are a hallucination of my mind..." Spain chuckled.

Rome raised an eyebrow with a grin. "Perhaps I got a leave from the Big Boss..."

Spain chuckled and then paused.

"Rome...I never told you, but..."

Spain blinked, standing up. Who was he talking to? He was lying in his bed and there was no one in the room but him. Rome, the others, had been dead for a very long time. The morning sun was filling the room.

Running a hand through his face, he got up. He had to support himself on the walls, use a walking frame. But that morning...he felt different. The sickness was still there. He wouldn't get rid of it in a while...But that morning he felt...he could deal with it.

He had breakfast and left the house. His assistant tried to help him, but he told her he wanted to do this alone.

He left the luxury of El Pardo and walked to the poorest area of the city. Many buildings were still in ruins because there was no money to reconstruct—there was barely food to eat. Spain caught a couple of men who were selling fish and chocolate when nobody was looking, using newspapers to hide their merchandise. Many walls still had bullet holes. Still, a group of seven or eight boys played soccer in the street, among the debris, yelling and laughing, like any child their age.

Spain smiled, gazing at them. They didn't know it, but they were filling him with life.

"Hey, kids. May I join in?"


1950


"You guys...I think we've been maybe a little harsh to Spain. I mean, he's not that bad...I mean, this boss is still an asshole, but him...We should cut him some slack, don't you think?"

America's words brought a frown to Russia's face.

"You called Spain an enemy of freedom not so long ago, maybe this change of mind is motivated by strategical interests?"

"I really have no idea what you're talking about. So, let us vote. Who thinks Spain should be allowed in our little club?"

Argentina, of course, immediately raised her hand. Other ex-colonies of his, like Ecuador, raised their hands. Venezuela and Bolivia, as well as Belgium, Holland and Luxembourg, changed their minds and votes yes.

"Who says no?"

Mexico was still in favor of giving Spain what he deserved, for having allowed the fascists get the power. Russia and his loyal sister Belarus were not going to give the regime that legitimization. Poland and Israel had no sympathy for him either and also voted no. So did Uruguay and Guatemala.

"Abstentions?"

Cuba just crossed his arms. Australia, so interested in this matter last time they voted, decided he had changed his mind. France and England, who once despised Spain, didn't say anything this time. Denmark and Sweden, who voted in favor of leaving Spain out last time, now were neutral about this.

"That is 38 in favor, 10 against, 12 abstentions. Okay, so...Can somebody call Spain and tell him to come in?"


1953


"I've been wanting to ask you for so long...Why did you do that, America? Defending me before the UN. I thought you hated my boss."

America licked his lips, apparently not listening to Spain's question.

"What was this called, again?" He asked.

"Sangría."

"Hm." He muttered, then he left the glass on the table. "Well, let's make one thing clear: I still think your boss sucks. He's a fascist pig and goes against all I believe in. No offense."

"None taken."

"But he is against communism, and that is something in his favor. Why do you think France, England, Australia, so many people have changed their mind? Because communism is a problem. That is the one thing the Axis was right about. It is dangerous, it kills people. Look at the people under Russia's control: do you think they like it? I saw Lithuania the other day. He used to be something big; now he's the guy who cleans his boots. Russia's a tyrant. He won't stop until he rules the world and turns it into a gigantic gulag."

"And I suppose you're here to stop it..."

America glanced at Spain with a smile.

"Someone has to do something, right?"

"I suppose..." Spain shrugged.

"You probably have the best house in the whole Europe. A very well-situated point."

"I know. That's why I've been having trouble all of my life."

"So, listen to me: I'll give you everything you need, money, food, all that stuff, if you let me build some bases here. Four or five. Both of us will be winning. What do you say?"

Spain considered the offer looking into the red liquid in his glass.

Finally, he offered his hand to shake.

"Deal."

America grinned and shook his hand.

"I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." He imitated Humphrey Bogart's voice.


That child had a prodigious voice. Spain loved films with musical numbers—Manolo Escobar, Lola Flores, Carmen Sevilla, Concha Velasco, Juanito Valderrama, Peret...—, and Marisol's were some of his favorites. They got to meet one another, as some kind of publicity event for this little star.

"It is an honor to meet you, sir. You are so handsome, I must say!" Like in her movies, she showed her confidence talking to him. Her bright blue eyes were fixed on his, hypnotizing him.

"Heh, thank you. The honor is mine. You are a real angel." Spain returned the compliment, bending down to hug her.

It wasn't until some years later that Spain knew about the ulcer in her stomach due to the stress, all those producers and managers not allowing her to be a child. Then, he would think to himself that he understood her perfectly. Being forced to have this big smile on his face while, on the inside, things were not as pretty...


1965


"Oh, my God, there they are!"

The girls started screaming, making Spain's friend, Toño, to cover his ears.

"Jesus! All this fuss for some long-haired morons?!" He complained.

"Where've you been? It's the Beatles!" Spain chuckled.

They were getting off the plane, waving their arms at the mass of fans greeting them in the Barajas Airport.

"I still don't know why you like their music. You have a gorgeous music of our own. And look at their hair! They look like Tarzan!" Toño kept bickering.

"Gee, Toño, I am the oldest here by far, but you, you are acting like a grandpa, dude." Spain chuckled.

Spain was there to receive the group. Photos were taken, which Spain would ask for to frame later. He complimented their music and hoped they had a nice stay, and the Liverpool boys were really flattered and thankful. Then, when the crowd surrounded them, Spain moved away, and it was then when somebody tapped his shoulder with a finger.

"England!"

"Hello, Spain." He removed his sunglasses and smiled at him.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, the group was on tour and I said to myself that I could take this chance to go on holidays. I have some free time and..."

"Oh. I...had no idea you were a fan of the Beatles."

"What surprises me is that you are a fan."

"Are you kidding? They're sweet!"

England chuckled.

"We finally agree on something..."

"Who would have thought it!" Spain smiled too. "Hey, why don't you come to my place?"

"Well, I am not in the mood for diplomatic visits..."

"No, that's not what I mean. My boss is in a ceremony concerning a new reservoir. I mean you and I, at my place, alone. I could show you around if you want—I mean, if you promise this time you will not try to destroy and rob my cities."

England smiled.

"That was long time ago. I am starting to feel old: I just want to have a peaceful time."

"Or maybe you are feeling younger."

"Yes, we can see it that way."

"So...What do you say?"

"...Alright. Yes. Why not?"


That was enough, he judged. Spain abandoned his lying position and checked that he was not red. No. Good. He wasn't sure of how long he had been sunbathing—he wanted to get a bit of suntan, not to end up like an African or a lobster. He sat under his umbrella and grabbed one of the magazines he had bought at the gas station. Julio Iglesias sang at the television program Galas del Sábado, Raphael was greeted at the airport by a crowd of hysteric girls, the latest news about empress Farah Diba...

He raised his eyes from the magazine and found something which made him lose all interest in gossip.

A man who had been swimming in the placid water and now came out, dripping, shaking his hair a bit. He was the blondest guy he had ever seen.

A funny feeling took over his body when he saw him. His pupils dilated and blush made his cheeks burn more than the recent exposition to sun.

He watched him walking to the blue towel he had left in the sand, drying himself a bit before sitting on it, putting his glasses on and just sat in there, watching the Levante beach, looking really relaxed.

Spain was so extremely curious that he couldn't resist the urge to approach him.

"Uh...Hey there!"

The blond guy turned his bright blue eyes to him. Gosh, those eyes almost made him forget what he was about to say.

"What's up?"

The guy didn't reply.

"I'm Spain. Who are you?"

"Sweden."

"Sweden?"

That Scandinavian nation? What was he doing there? It seemed like he was blocking the sun to him, so he moved to sit by his side.

"I've never seen you around before."

"I heard about your beaches."

"My beaches?"

Spain gazed at the water.

"What about them?"

"They are nice."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes."

"Ah...So you came all the way here to have a swim and stuff?"

"Yes."

"Thanks, I guess...Hmm...Did you come here alone? I mean, are you with someone?" Seeing the way Sweden was looking at him and his mutism, Spain clarified: "I would love to show you around."

Sweden took his time to answer.

"...Okay."

So the first place Spain took him was a restaurant.

"This is arroz a banda. It's not exactly paella, it's a recipe original from Alicante. You got moralla, a type of fish, and alioli, uhm, a sauce made of garlic and olive oil."

Sweden watched the plate for long. Then, he grabbed his fork and took a bit. Spain wasn't sure if he liked it, because that guy was so inexpressive, but he thought he had seen a positive reaction in his eyes.

"Do you like it?" He asked.

"...Yes" Sweden admitted, and he showed it taking a more generous bite.

Spain, however, didn't eat. He placed his elbows on the table and watched Sweden eat with a transfixed expression.

"I also suggest you to try the espetos."

"What is that?"

"It's fried fish."

"Bring them in, yes."

"If you're still hungry we got horchata, fartons, flan, fruit, Catalan cream..."

"Mmmkay." Sweden nodded, still eating.

"Anything you want."

"Thanks."

"By God, your eyes are really gorgeous, did someone ever told you?"

"Hm?"

"Nothing."

Sweden had probably eaten too much, it was difficult for him to stand up from his chair, so Spain took him for a walk to let the food settle.

"We call this the Balcony of the Mediterranean. Isn't it beautiful?" Spain spread his arms to show him the sea around them.

"It is." Sweden nodded, his hands on the balustrade to lean forward and watch the walls of rock under them.

The sudden sound of the camera taking a photo made him turn around.

"No, no, no, don't move. You look fabulous right now." Spain said to him, shaking a hand.

So Sweden continued in the same posture so Spain could take him one or two more photos.

After that, Spain took him to the Tower of la Escaleta, then to the church of Saint James. After that, they continued to take a walk.

"If you're tired, we could have an ice cream" Spain suggested.

"Ice cream would be nice, yes." Sweden nodded.

"Are you...having a good time?"

"I like this a lot." Who would have said, seeing how serious that guy was, but Spain considered he was being sincere, and it brought a wide smile to his face.

"I'm so glad! But you've seen nothing yet. The best thing comes when sun goes down."

That night, he took Sweden out to have dinner out. After that, he suggested visiting an Andalusian place he knew, ran by a gypsy family. Being the nation, he was very well received and served the very best, on the house, of course. But Spain had chosen this place because they did these flamenco shows. He smiled seeing Sweden mesmerized by the frenetic heel tap, the movement of the dress of the girl in the stage, her beautiful but fierce expression, the raspy voice of the male singer, the rhythmic clapping. The group asked Spain to join them and he didn't need much insistence to get on the stage. His intervention, dancing with the girl, seemed to make the show even more impressive, as if he, representing the country which invented that dance, made it even more magical, supernatural, breathtaking. When he finished, he saw Sweden clapping with a smile—did he shout 'Olé!'? Perhaps. They had drunk so much alcohol that day he was surely a bit tipsy.

Spain bowed to his audience and it was then, turning his head into the direction where he had heard a whistle, when he saw him. He narrowed his eyes, not sure if...but yes, it was him.

"France?"

Yes, it was France. He knew because when Spain recognized him, he almost chocked on his drink and talked to the lady by his side, and tried to escape. Spain jumped from the stage, told Sweden to please excuse him for a second, and walked to that table.

"France?"

France was pretending to be lacing his shoes. But that didn't work, when he raised his head Spain was still there, looking at him with an eyebrow raised.

"What are you doing here?"

France pressed his lips, not sure of what to say.

"...I like your gastronomy, okay?" He was forced to admit.

"Sure...The gastronomy..." Spain smirked, pointing at the dancer with a thumb.

He smiled at France.

"Well, I hope you have a nice time here. And I really mean it...Look, I'm with Sweden in that table over there, if you and your friends want to join us..."

So many people were interested in his place lately...

...And that gave him an idea...

He grabbed his pen and pad from his pocket and wrote something: «Call boss. Tourists.»