Lo Spirito di Roma

2,745 words

Julien did not consider himself to be a normie. He was what we often call a hardcore nationalist, definitely JQ aware, and was the kind to take a few drinks in honor of the race, the ancestors, and the past, passing a few stickers here and there, just for the sake of not being completely useless, and giving a few bucks for some mag subscriptions to make sure washroom time was not totally wasted.

All year long he saved his dough for a trip to Paris that would give him a break from the shitty job he had as a consultant for the government. He spent his life typing useless reports and advice to a State that did not give a damn, but felt it was its duty to “consult” its people. And Julien was one of its remunerated people, blackening hundreds of pages of politically correct non-sense every year, writing exactly what the government wanted him to write.

But once in a while, Julien needed to express his rebellion. He did not dare do it in his home province, as it could have cost his cozy chair at the firm he worked for, so he had to save to fly to France once a year, meet like-minded fellows who shared his dreams about a New Order based on something other than materialism.

In the comfort and the anonymity of a foreign megalopolis, he could express himself freely, always using an assumed name. Sébastien. This is how his French comrades in beer called him. He visited them once a year. He sometimes attended a lecture or two with them and he even took part in a demo a few years ago. And they drank. And they dreamt. And they talked about how they would overcome and overthrow that senseless regime. And they drank some more.

Sitting in front of his report on how mass immigration was not affecting the housing market, he started daydreaming… a few days left before Paris… a few days left before freedom.

And a few days later, he landed in Charles-de-Gaulle airport. The security clearance went fast. Julien had never committed any crime and was on no watchlist. He had even pretended to be coming to see some remote cousin, but such a pretense was not even necessary.

After heading to his Airbnb, he opened his Telegram account and saw that his friends were meeting at an underground identitarian bar downtown. He loved the idea of being in such an outlaw place, somewhere his sense of adventure would be fulfilled while the stakes were not too high. The chances of an Antifa attack or a police crackdown were limited. So, he left his passport and anything bearing his real name, pocketed some euros he had retrieved in Montreal before taking the plane, and took the subway to the given location.

The ride in the Paris metro was even worse than in Montreal, if that were even possible. As a white, he clearly felt like a minority and he had to keep his eyes to the ground to avoid any eye contact that could lead to an altercation with one of those who had come here to “enrich France” by their very presence. Despite the smell, the loudness, and the rudeness, he managed to have an uneventful ride until he arrived at the right station. A few blocks to walk and he would be safe from all that madness. Looking around, he foresaw what his own country would be like in a few years from now if nothing was done. Something had to be done. But unluckily, there was no courageous man who stood up for whites in Quebec. There was no Jean-Marie Le Pen to vote for. No one was there to defend them. If one eventually stood up, Julien would gladly vote for him and may even pass out a few flyers for him, but time was running out. Such a man was needed now.

He finally found the address that had been given to him. He knocked on the heavy door and a small window opened. He did not have to say anything: a loud “Sébastien! Good to see you!” was shouted from behind and the heavy door opened. Inside sat a dozen young men, all pretty athletic and well dressed. After shaking their hands, he excitedly sat at the bar and ordered a pint from the pretty red-hair girl sporting a blue Fred Perry polo on the other side of the counter.

The ambiance was great. Under the flags of the different regions of France and a single Celtic Cross that gave away the political side of the owners of this private club, the comrades in arms, some who recently came out of jail after clashes with the police while they were protecting the bar from Antifa attackers, welcomed their friend from the other side of the pond. After the usual greetings and relating their own stories, the French patriots asked, as every time they saw their friend: “And what about in Quebec? What’s up there?”

“Well, not much… there is nothing worth it there”, was Julien’s usual answer. That unpleasant moment he had to go through every year was sometimes embellished with some stories of a brawl with invaders or his actions in a demonstration, but it was always lies and he knew it. He did not do anything, except in his dreams, but his friends would never know. As the saying goes, à beau mentir qui vient de loin.[1]

A bit embarrassed, but not enough to show it, Julien remained silent while trying to come up with a story that he could exaggerate just a bit in order to prove to them he was a real one, one of them.

Just then, a 25-year-old lad, with a short haircut and a blue sweater with the name of the club written on it, suddenly appeared from a back door, yelling excitedly: “Just got the confirmation! Xavier and the band made it to Rome!”

A loud hurray shook the walls of the small club.

Puzzled, Julien asked the guy sitting just beside what the fuss was all about. With a broad smile, Luc answered that Xavier and his legendary (at least on the identitarian scene) band In Memoriam had reformed and were going to play their first gig in years in Rome the following day. Everyone would leave early in the morning to attend the long expected comeback at the not less legendary (at least, once again, in the identitarian scene) venue of Tana delle Tigri in Italy.

Julien’s face turned whiter than it had ever been.

He had saved his money to come here in a spirit of rebellion and all his comrades would be leaving for a day or more, leaving him alone in Paris. What would he do? Visit the Eiffel Tower or Le Louvre? Suddenly, his whole world fell apart. All of that money wasted for a useless trip…

Too excited to see that Julien was less than enchanted by the news, Luc casually told him that he was of course invited. They would take the train early in the morning and reach Rome during the day.

“But what about my Airbnb?”, shakily asked Julien.

“Well don’t mind for that, we’ll be back within two or three days, and we’ll sleep at Casapound while in Rome. They have dormitories for out-of-town visitors. We all need to be back in a few days maximum because of work and all, you know… it’ll be exciting!”

Exciting was not the word Julien would have chosen. Destabilizing, annoying, even frustrating would have been more appropriate. Why did that band have to reform while he was there. Exciting was his vacation plan: hanging out at the club with fellow like-minded people. This unexpected surprise was less than welcome.

The volume of the music suddenly increased. The red-hair girl had selected songs from the cult band to cheer the news. To Rome they would go! “À jamais idéaliste!” echoed Xavier’s voice in the speaker. It had never sounded so true.

Completely flabbergasted by what had just happened, Julien had become remote to the whole scene. The others stopped caring about him and just sang aloud, as if they were at an actual concert. The comeback of the band they had listened to for years overshadowed the comeback of their once-a-year-comrade from Quebec.

Julien, offended by this sudden lack of interest in him, but also by the fact that his plans were unexpectedly changing, remained silent for the rest of the evening; an evening that was not as long as expected since the red-haired girl, going by the name of Céleste, decided to close the club at 11 to make sure everybody would be ready for the 7 AM train for Rome.

When the music stopped, Luc looked at Julien ecstatically and told him to be at the Gare du Nord at 6:45, maximum. They’d eat breakfast on the go.

With a million thoughts in mind, Julien headed back to the room he rented. Wasn’t it too risky to attend a gig that Antifa or police could attack? Wouldn’t he risk being doxed? And what if they ran into trouble? His friends were tough and might get him into hot water.

After the few beers he had taken, his mind could not focus properly, but the risks greatly outweighed the advantages. He finally decided to postpone his decision to the following morning. If he decided not to show up, his friends would not wait for him and ruin their plans for him, so he could make a last-minute decision. A decision on the spot, based on his feelings.

But that did not happen. The whole night was spent turning from one side to the other and reflecting on if he should go or not.

After an hour or two of sleep, his Telegram app rang: Luc was going to stop by a café before reaching the train station and wanted to know if he was coming or not.

The sleeplessness had finally managed to convince Julien of one thing: if he did not go with his friends, he would remain alone in a city full of hostile sub-Mediterranean foreigners. All his yearlong waiting for that…

So, he grabbed his phone and simply answered “Yes, I am coming.”

He got up and hurried. Not because he was excited, but simply because he did not want to be left alone. Not after waiting for a year to feel that brotherhood of men.

After a shower and quick coffee kindly prepared by the Airbnb owner, Julien grabbed his travel bag and headed to the subway. All along, he had the deep feeling that the choice he had made might have repercussions for the rest of his life.

He arrived on time at the station, even before Luc, who was still as excited as the night before, but his eyes were clearly less sparkly than a few hours before. The fact that he was accompanied by the red-haired girl, who now sported a casual dress, may have explained the tiredness of his eyes.

In any case, they were ten of them waiting on the platform. Julien then realized that if the make-up of the people around them was still the same as in the subway the night before, the brown and black faces were far less hostile and inquisitive than they had been. Those ten white youth, clearly fit to fight and not ashamed of anything, were a statement in themselves, a loud and yet silent “we won’t back down.”

The ride to Rome was uneventful. Most slept, including Julien, who finally felt good and safe, surrounded by his friends. An hour before reaching the Eternal City, Simon, a short black-haired guy who looked more Corsican than French, phoned someone named Gianluca, a friend who was also involved in Casapound. Gianluca would welcome them at the train station and lead them to Casapound’s headquarters. Like most Europeans, Gianluca spoke more than one language, and was fluent in French. A few of them had already been to the Tana delle Tigri, but they nevertheless preferred having a local guide so as not to waste any time.

Gianluca was already on the platform when the train arrived. Identitarians being easily identifiable, Gianluca instantly recognized them as they disembarked from the train. He started waving his hands and shouting Simon’s name. Julien was soon introduced to the young black-haired and black-eyed man, who was an activist in the Blocco Studentesco, the student association linked to Casapound.

Julien found him fascinating. Despite his youth, he had been in countless protests, he had fought against Antifa and policemen, he had known repression, but he was still smiling and confident in his future and the future of his nation. Despite, or because of, the train nap, everyone was still a bit foggy, while in contrast, Gianluca looked as fresh as a rose. Julien could not believe it when he explained that he had only slept a few hours as he had been on duty at Casapound for most of the night. For Julien, it was a real puzzle. How could someone study and work and still accept to spend a sleepless night simply to guard a building, without even being paid?

While heading for Casapound, Gianluca explained to his Quebecois counterpart that everybody had to give something in order to make something great. A movement is made up of every small part. Everyone is useless and can eventually be replaced, but everyone must play his part for the whole movement to move on.

“This is the spirit of Rome”, explained Gianluca with a grin.

They finally arrived on Napoleon III Street, where the tall building of Casapound stood defiant.

Impressed, Julien wondered how they had bought such a building downtown.

To which came Gianluca’s simple answer: “We didn’t buy it, we took it. And they cannot take it back, because we stand our ground.”

The French troop was led inside and they visited the premise. Some apartments were reserved for the needy, but the whole building was an anthill of activists. No one asked for Julien’s credentials. He was with the French, and that was good enough for everyone. Solidarity extended to friends of friends. Somehow, Julien started feeling a bit like an imposter. Everyone was so selfless that he started doubting himself. Was he doing all that he could? Was he really doing his best?

He started realizing that his efforts were limited to not buying on Amazon too often or not going to the Chinese restaurant more than necessary. That was his part for the survival of his people. That had been his part.

Seeing all those young activists running around doing different chores made him realize how pointless his life was. He had a good job. He made money. But he betrayed what he believed in every second of his existence. While the people he met all had determination in their eyes, he was a weakling. They had something he had never achieved, a sense of fulfillment he never even dreamt of.

He kept on listening to Gianluca explaining the functioning and philosophy of Casapound. They dropped their bags at the dormitory and headed for the pub Cutty Stark for a few drinks before the show.

Just as the night before, everything seemed remote to him, but this time not for the same reasons. Somehow all changed, changed utterly: a terrible resolution was born.

During the concert, close to his French friends, he listened and felt carried away. Hearts with one purpose alone sang along with the Italian band:

La mia bandiera ora vedrai, rigonfia al vento
Il carapace ora rinnova lo spirito di Roma. [2]

Ten hearts, one beat. One hundred hearts, one beat. One thousand hearts, one beat.

The rest of the night was lived as a dream. Nothing really mattered anymore. His mind was set. For the first time in years, he longed to be back at home, not to cozy up and watch yet another Netflix flick, but to do something.

There would be no savior, no messiah. If he wanted things to happen, he had to ignite the flame.

Only then could something happen. Only then could he look himself in the mirror and see the man he longed to be.

Notes

[1] “Travelers from afar can lie with impunity.”

[2] “My flag you will now see, bulging in the wind.
The carapace now renews the spirit of Rome.”