“Architecture is the incorruptible witness of history”
Octavio Paz
Anad opens his eyes, startled. An unconscious shiver tells him he has slept longer than he should have. The room is empty; shirts and trousers lie tangled in the sheets across the four beds. Everyone has left, and he never heard them go. Trying not to panic, he sits on the edge of the bed and takes a deep breath, then begins to sing softly, sending the song upward, toward a sky much farther away than the peeling ceiling.
He walks into the bathroom with a mischievous smile. The good thing about oversleeping is that he won’t have to wait. He closes the door with a practiced movement and looks at himself in the piece of mirror still clinging to the wall. His almond-colored eyes seem to blend into skin brightened by the sun. He cups his hands and fills them with water—precious water—which he splashes over his face. He does it twice, then runs his fingers through his oily, neatly trimmed hair.
Anad is wearing the same clothes as the day before and has no intention of changing them. He looks at his arms and legs and thinks his mother would be proud to see that he has gained weight. The sudden thought reminds him that time is still passing and he needs to get to work. It is 8:30, and the journey to the Colosseum is a long one.
Outside the room, he pauses to make sure he has forgotten nothing. In his left hand he carries a plastic bag stuffed with selfie sticks and portable phone chargers. He touches his chest and feels the rudraksha-seed rosary beneath his T-shirt, then checks the keys in his back pocket, mixed in with coins of every denomination.
He is ready.
He races down the stairs and, as if performing some kind of magical choreography, makes six floors disappear behind him. He keeps running along the pavement until he reaches the bus stop. He is breathless but not tired; the adrenaline in his blood tells him the day has begun.
The 81 pulls up moments later, and he hurries on through the rear door. He pushes past everyone around him and settles into a corner, unconcerned by the looks of disapproval aimed at his frantic presence.
Horns. Turns. Chaotic traffic. People and more people. The everyday.
The tiers of the Flavian Amphitheatre rise between the avenues. A few tourists on the bus take pictures and sigh with excitement.
Anad thinks he has seen better monuments back home.
Once in the square beside the Colosseum, he takes short steps toward the Arch of Constantine, pleased to have secured his spot after months of arguments with other vendors who, incidentally, have already been working for hours.
The golden summer heat beads sweat across their foreheads, but it does not stop them from approaching tourists, trying to convince them that they need water, necklaces, hats, trinkets and every accessory required to keep technology doing what it is supposed to do.
Anad greets his colleagues, who quickly offer him something to drink. Suddenly he remembers he has not eaten breakfast, but relaxes when they tell him Ali will be there soon with vegetable and turmeric sandwiches.
Just one euro, and an ecstatic stomach in return.
After some twenty “noes,” he finally gets a “yes” from a group of Australians who think his chargers are a good deal. They pay him ten euros and ask him to take their picture.
They are a happy family.
They smile at the camera of a phone so large it barely fits in Anad’s hands. He thanks them in poorly pronounced English and immediately forgets them when he notices a man looking at his merchandise.
Three hours have passed since he arrived, but the day still promises more sales. Hundreds of people keep arriving by the minute, determined to witness the colossal remains of a fallen Empire.
The air is almost imperceptible, though yellow. Better this than the silvery winter.
Children run around excitedly while their parents strike their best poses against the Roman backdrop. Anad does not know whether it is the heat or the children’s smiles, but suddenly he remembers himself barefoot, playing in the streets of Agra with his cousins.
Like a scene from a film, he sees the happiness he felt back then and thinks that he could never have imagined himself capable of leaving his homeland.
—Anad! Anad!
His daydream bursts when he sees his companions running toward Circo Massimo.
His heart floods with exhilaration, and nerves make him laugh.
The routine again: run.
A police car bursts into the ocean of tourists. No one understands what is happening.
No one except the fifteen vendors who, only minutes earlier, had been satisfying foreign desires.
Now they run, protecting the goods they work with, knowing that one careless moment will leave everything in the hands of the officers.
Now their legs are as fast as those of athletes whose only hoped-for prize is peace.
Now they flee like criminals from a crime they never committed, the unspoken offense of having been born into a world that, sometimes, has no place for them.
Anad does not think.
He runs.
His mind is blank. He hears strategic whispers.
He does not think.
He runs.
A young tourist falls while trying to move out of the vendors’ way. People around her rush over to help while staring at the escape in shock.
They neither do nor say anything.
