short fill, I'm sorry if it's not exactly what you're hoping for. Translation at the end.
–––
Ogni cosa ha un suo prezzo Ma nessuno saprà Quanto costa la mia libertà…
Edoardo Bennato, Venderò
–––
“I mean it, if you think about it, we're not even getting a whiff of what our splendid Vice–Premier,” fingers making quotation marks, "is really doing, not to mention the whole world is making fun of us nowadays!"
Italy hadn't really meant to eavesdrop, but the girl speaking wasn't really trying to keep her voice low.
If he were to concentrate on her more than on her words, he'd surely know who she was, and every detail of her life, but he really wasn't up to that; he was feeling tired and restless, and not even visiting Germany earlier in the morning had helped.
His economics were doing fine, all things considered, though the discontent with a few things, especially the rising price of oil, was making people antsy; his politics, well, those could be better, but Italy tried not to let that spoil his mood, yet…
Yet, Italy had reached the end of a bad day, and every small thing piled up to the total, making him cranky –something he rarely was.
He’d visited his boss, who had woken him up early in the morning, but the air around the Campidoglio had been rather cold and tense, and it didn’t help that he could feel what most of those politicians felt.
The hatred, the distress… he didn’t like it.
Then, his international problems –it was true that all around the world, people kept commenting of his Vice–Premier and his actions, laughing at him and at Italian people, wondering why they didn’t do anything to change things, wondering why were they so stupid as to vote for him every single time…
Not that the other side was that much better, and Italy knew it. One side didn’t help, the other didn’t act, and all in all, it only made him hate politics even more.
He was an artist, a literate, and (something very few knew) he liked his economy and dedicated a lot of attention to it, but… all of this was too much. The hypocrisy, the dislike…
After a long, boring, tense meeting, Italy had fled to Germany’s house, hoping to rest and relax with him for a bit, but his friend had denied him the comfort, too busy working ahead of schedule to notice Italy’s need for a hug, and with a few curt words he’d sent him home.
Wandering around for the remaining of his afternoon, his back aching for a derailment and stressed enough that he hadn’t even been able to take a siesta, Italy had ended up taking a stroll through Venice, staring in distaste at the trash his people left littering around.
Why couldn’t they keep that beautiful city clean? What strain could it be to throw the trash away where it belonged, and keep the small, narrow calli free of waste and foul smell?
“I know, I know!” a second girl admitted, letting out a soft sigh, and Italy, sitting on the steps of a church, mimicked her.
Why couldn’t he just stand up and leave already? He didn’t want to hear things he knew already. He wanted to go home and maybe eat some pasta, and go to sleep at his brother’s side, and forget everything for a bit…
Yet, he was too tired to even move, and he simply pressed his forehead against the cold stone of the church’s wall, watching a pigeon peck around, a few feet away. He didn’t look at the two girls talking.
“Just think about it, in Egypt they even made a song against that person, and now foreigners think that Italy is just spaghetti, mandolino, mafia and our splendid vice–premier!” the first continued, raising her voice even more, taking on a snobbish tone, once again making quoting marks with her fingers at the word ‘splendid’.
Her next tirade was lost to Italy’s ears, as he thankfully managed to concentrate on the pigeon instead.
The little thing was flapping its wings around, pecking at crumbles of bread…
Conversation [1/3]
–––
Ogni cosa ha un suo prezzo
Ma nessuno saprà
Quanto costa la mia libertà…
Edoardo Bennato, Venderò
–––
“I mean it, if you think about it, we're not even getting a whiff of what our splendid Vice–Premier,” fingers making quotation marks, "is really doing, not to mention the whole world is making fun of us nowadays!"
Italy hadn't really meant to eavesdrop, but the girl speaking wasn't really trying to keep her voice low.
If he were to concentrate on her more than on her words, he'd surely know who she was, and every detail of her life, but he really wasn't up to that; he was feeling tired and restless, and not even visiting Germany earlier in the morning had helped.
His economics were doing fine, all things considered, though the discontent with a few things, especially the rising price of oil, was making people antsy; his politics, well, those could be better, but Italy tried not to let that spoil his mood, yet…
Yet, Italy had reached the end of a bad day, and every small thing piled up to the total, making him cranky –something he rarely was.
He’d visited his boss, who had woken him up early in the morning, but the air around the Campidoglio had been rather cold and tense, and it didn’t help that he could feel what most of those politicians felt.
The hatred, the distress… he didn’t like it.
Then, his international problems –it was true that all around the world, people kept commenting of his Vice–Premier and his actions, laughing at him and at Italian people, wondering why they didn’t do anything to change things, wondering why were they so stupid as to vote for him every single time…
Not that the other side was that much better, and Italy knew it. One side didn’t help, the other didn’t act, and all in all, it only made him hate politics even more.
He was an artist, a literate, and (something very few knew) he liked his economy and dedicated a lot of attention to it, but… all of this was too much. The hypocrisy, the dislike…
After a long, boring, tense meeting, Italy had fled to Germany’s house, hoping to rest and relax with him for a bit, but his friend had denied him the comfort, too busy working ahead of schedule to notice Italy’s need for a hug, and with a few curt words he’d sent him home.
Wandering around for the remaining of his afternoon, his back aching for a derailment and stressed enough that he hadn’t even been able to take a siesta, Italy had ended up taking a stroll through Venice, staring in distaste at the trash his people left littering around.
Why couldn’t they keep that beautiful city clean? What strain could it be to throw the trash away where it belonged, and keep the small, narrow calli free of waste and foul smell?
“I know, I know!” a second girl admitted, letting out a soft sigh, and Italy, sitting on the steps of a church, mimicked her.
Why couldn’t he just stand up and leave already? He didn’t want to hear things he knew already. He wanted to go home and maybe eat some pasta, and go to sleep at his brother’s side, and forget everything for a bit…
Yet, he was too tired to even move, and he simply pressed his forehead against the cold stone of the church’s wall, watching a pigeon peck around, a few feet away. He didn’t look at the two girls talking.
“Just think about it, in Egypt they even made a song against that person, and now foreigners think that Italy is just spaghetti, mandolino, mafia and our splendid vice–premier!” the first continued, raising her voice even more, taking on a snobbish tone, once again making quoting marks with her fingers at the word ‘splendid’.
Her next tirade was lost to Italy’s ears, as he thankfully managed to concentrate on the pigeon instead.
The little thing was flapping its wings around, pecking at crumbles of bread…