The name on the cashier's identification was Ramón. Buamgartner gave it a brief glance but didn't retain it because he couldn't have cared less. He didn't respond to his merry, polite 'good morning' and just placed the products on the counter. Ramón couldn't help feeling curious about them. Strong trekking boots, a tent, rope, lots of canned food, a portable stove to cook them, water, a map...
"Going on a trip, sir? I have been to El Chaltén. It is marvelous, mostly in Spring."
This time, Baumgartner did reply with a small grunt, so Ramón just kept smiling with his mouth shut, seeing the old man wasn't in the mood for chatter. He didn't want to believe—and he would have been right if he had allowed himself to judge—that the elder saw little difference between the native Americans whose features had survived in people like Ramón and all the 'scum'—Jews, gypsies...—he had shot in the streets and put into concentration camps in his youth.
"That will be 38,653 pesos, sir."
Baumgartner silently took his wallet and looked for the money, to pay in cash. He was counting the bills when a man and a woman approached, so silently, so smoothly, like shadows, that Ramón was alarmed for a moment, thinking they were robbers.
"Mister Franz Selzer?" The man asked suddenly.
Baumgartner turned around, frowning. "Yes?"
"Ernst Baumgartner." His weak heart almost stopped when the man mentioned then his real name and showed him his badge. "You are under arrest for crimes against humanity."
Baumgartner didn't have the time to say anything. Before he could even move, the man was handcuffing him, to the clients and Ramón's surprise, who watched the police couple in civilian clothes take him away. The woman apologized for the inconvenience but gave Ramón no further explanations; not that he needed any to figure out what was going on.
Crimes against humanity...! When Baumgartner was taken out of the shop with much more deference than he had applied eighty years ago to innocent civilians, the cashier shook his head in disbelief, watching the purchase still on the counter. He looked like such a frail old gentleman!
And while the old Nazi was being taken to the police station, and the temple lost somewhere in the jungle was left to crumble, hiding the sands forever, Veneziano heard someone ring at his door from the shower. He didn't know who it was, but they would have to wait. But that was precisely what Romano didn't do. Using his key, he got into the house and looked for his brother everywhere. When he heard the water falling and the radio at full volume, he walked into the bathroom.
"I have been calling you for hours, have you been under the water all of this time like a fish or what?" He complained, not caring if his brother would be scared to hear someone else in the house, which was very likely.
But Veneziano was the one to surprise him.
"ROMANO!"
With that exclamation, and without putting the bath robe or a towel on, not even turning down the water, he pounced on him to give him a bear hug.
"You are here! You are alive!" Veneziano exclaimed, kissing his whole face, getting him wet and covered in soap.
"We have only been two days apart, idiot, get off me!" Romano complained, pushing him away. "Get off, I said! Urgh! Look, now I'm wet too!"
"Sorry, I just...I just...Don't you remember?"
"Remember what?"
"The sands..."
"What sands? What are you talking about?"
"...Nothing. I...just missed you."
"I bet." Romano grunted, grabbing the hairdryer to try to fix himself. "You didn't forget we gotta go to Tokyo for another one of those stupid G-8 meetings, right?"
"No, of course not."
"Are you sure? I always have to remind you everything, since you have your head in the clouds."
"I didn't forget it. Mila is coming, right?"
Romano turned his head to him in a way that amused Veneziano.
"What?"
"So it's a girl?" Romano asked. "They just told me the intern they assigned to us is coming, so they learn how diplomacy works. Have you seen her? Is she cute? Does she have...qualities?"
Veneziano giggled. "She's cute. She's very cute. You'll see."
"Why do they always tell you everything first? Again the stupid North privileges...Well, are you going to get dressed or something? I really don't want to paint you a nude portrait!"
Romano left the bathroom and Veneziano went back to his hygiene ritual with a big smile on his face, because Romano was alive, in the living room, eating his potato chips, and he had suffered no harm from him.
"Hey."
Veneziano blinked, turning to Romano. "Hm?"
"You look like you're tripping..."
"Oh." Was all Veneziano said, and chuckled. However, he didn't tell him what was making him smile: he simple fact that the airport, named after one of the greatest Italian minds that had ever existed, who improved the lives of millions throughout history with his inventions and the beauty of his paintings, was there, untouched. He remembered the awe he had felt seeing a plane fly a long time ago, back when only birds could do that. Two American brothers had been responsible for that wonderful artifact. Seeing all the cities in the monitor, people from all around the world, of all colors, of all classes, warmed his heart in a way that made it almost impossible to talk.
They didn't have time to say anything else, because a young lady, no older than twenty approached them in a hurry, dragging a pink suitcase with daisies painted all over it.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! The Uber got lost! And I was telling him 'the signs say this way' all the time, but he kept on talking about his wife spending the money. How does one miss such a big...? Uh, oh, where are my manners...My name is Mila, Mila Quadarella. Someone must have told you that I...Where's my ID...It must be in here, I remember taking it...Uh.."
"Hi, Mila! Nice to meet you!" Veneziano said, when he wanted to say 'nice to see you again'. Even though she hesitated about shaking his hand, bowing to him or what to do, Veneziano took the lead and kissed her cheeks like this was an informal introduction. After all, he was her nation. They knew each other deeply. No need for a protocol.
"Wow, it's true you smell of salt water...Oh! Sorry, I guess that was very rude...Sorry, I...this is the first time I'm with a nation, I've only seen you guys on the TV...And...he-he...I feel like my heart's gonna explode..." The girl muttered.
"Why? Are we scary?"
"Not at all! I just...Uh, I might as well shut up, right?"
"No, no, please. We've got 18 hours to get bored. We can talk..." Romano intervened, wrapping his arm around Quadarella to gently drive her to their terminal. Veneziano knew his brother had been reticent to having interns ("They are just super glad to hang out with us and place their tongue between out buttcheeks"), but he would instantly click with Quadarella, maybe because being such a cute girl was an advantage, or because she was just charming. Before getting into the plane, Veneziano knew they would spend hours talking, playing games; at some point he would have Quadarella's head resting on his shoulder while she slept—and he knew he was going to love it.
"I think we should go a bit earlier."
"Why? We've got time to spare."
"Just in case we find a traffic jam."
"Nah, the Japanese are very organized. Those things don't happen here."
But several minutes later Romano had to admit Veneziano was right: they were trapped in the road, even with all these agents making sure they reached their destination safe and sound. Much of it was due to a protest against the G-8.
Veneziano found himself smiling at the sight of all those angry drivers and even was glad to see all those signs and hear the anti-capitalists calling him and his friends 'anti-poor', 'murderers', 'greedy pigs', 'stuck-ups' and some other insults which made him cringe.
When they finally got to their destination, oh, he stopped and Romano and Quadarella left him behind while he took a moment to look at the friends who were waiting for them in the entry.
He saw Big Brother France posing to the cameras, answering to the questions of the journalists like a movie star, aware of his fame and beauty. A nation who in the past had great ambitions and didn't hesitate to kill Holy Roman Empire, everyone in his path; but someone Veneziano knew he could always count on, nevertheless.
Watching France with his arms crossed and a disapproval expression was England, the stoic, collected England. Maybe his food was the worst thing that had ever happened to cuisine, but, to Veneziano, England was one of the best things that had happened to the world.
By their side was Russia, big and strong like a bear, impassible like a block of ice. It was true that even then Russia seemed like a scary man Veneziano couldn't fully understand, but he was still glad to see him with them, and safe from a nuclear attack.
Oh, America! Young, loud, cocky America! There were times when no one could stand him, yes, but at that moment those things everyone hated about him were what Veneziano loved the most about him.
And by his side, smiling at his quarrel with England, was Japan. He had left hate behind. He had a different way of looking. He could never get rid of the pain, but he had learned from it, it had allowed him to bloom, to get out from his withdrawal and show the world who he was. His good friend Japan.
Germany...His arms crossed, worried about his partners making a fuss...Veneziano was seeing Holy Roman Empire in him. Born from his remains, Germany was the living proof that Holy Roman could never be forgotten, his legacy in the world. He had also suffered a lot, had so many things to regret, but he had so many qualities one couldn't just not forgive him.
No time for crying again, Veneziano, he told himself. And pushed that lump in his throat where it wouldn't bother him.
"Ciao, everyone!"
"You're late." Germany said. And Veneziano knew what was going to happen next. "And this is...?"
"Mila Quadarella, sir...Your Excellency? Your Highness? Mister?"
"She's in an internship in our Parliament. She has to follow us everywhere, take notes about how politics work...I don't know, these useless papers they give fresh graduates to wipe their asses with..."
"I won't bother you, I promise! I'll just sit in a corner and watch!"
"You always choose the best-looking interns...Naughty you..."
Italy gladly went through all of it again. The supposed double-intentions they had concerning their intern, the press conference, sitting in that cold room and delaying the unpleasant matter of world hunger as much as they could with irrelevant chatter.
Eighty years in the past, such scenario seemed impossible. Japan, the terror of the Pacific, the responsible for the slaughter of Pearl Harbor, talking about action figures with America. America, who would nuke Japan, joining his enemy in a high-five. Germany listening to the conversations of those who ruined his life, who awoke a monstrous feeling of vengeance in him, and smiling even though he tried to remain serious. France, who once sworn to hate Germany for destroying everything he loved, whispering into his ear while passing him a jar with water. Romano showing a video on the phone to that English traitor. Russia getting up to date with Canada, even though their points of view were completely opposite.
"Hey, everyone, we should all go to Shinjuku after this and have a huge dinner! I'll pay!"
Maybe the past hadn't treated them well. There were wounds which would never heal, lots of elephants in the room.
But he had one thing clear: it didn't matter how many lives he lived, how many times he was offered the chance to change his destiny—he would always want to live the life he had lived, meet the people he had met, love the ones he had loved.
He had to admit, he hadn't treated the Big Boss the way He deserved. Disobeyed direct orders, tied angels up so he could go under. He would be lucky if he didn't end up 'down there'. But he just had to see his grandson, his boy. And Romano too, of course. But this time, he had had full permission to go and did things right. It was his way of compensating for behaving like a little heathen. After all, and even though there were things he didn't understand or thought worsened the situation rather than helping, His ex-machina had saved his grandsons and the balance of the world.
From the door of the restaurant, Rome watched how the group got louder as more and more bottles of beer were consumed. The jokes, the laughs. The ties wrapped around their heads. Everything nice about being alive.
And he watched Veneziano thinking...of how absurd it was, wanting to emulate his feats, when he could have been himself..., marvelous Italy...
He almost wanted to join them, but that was not his place. He was a mere spectator. So, in silence, Ancient Rome returned to where he belonged, a place where time did not exist, where he had a different vision in front of him to delight himself with until the day where he could meet his grandchildren again: of the old villa where lemon trees bloomed, Veneziano and Romano playing chase with him at the the peristyle, filling the air with their laughter, blissfully unaware of the cruelty of life, free from the slavery of their past and the uncertainties of the future.
THE END
