5. Plato in Moscow (7 pgs.) – Champions Renaissance

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ACT II - CHAPTER 5

PLATO IN MOSCOW

Russia spared no expense for the opening of the World Cup at the Moscow Olympic Stadium.

The French team stood on the field alongside other nations and the usual favourites. Journalists compared the show to Brazil’s last World Cup opening. Dancers performed traditional routines from every corner of Russia.

The search for Mr. Walker continued, but that story faded from the headlines. The Russian president led both the ceremony and the opening match. Victoria, her arm still in a cast, watched the event without news of Francisca for two weeks.

The stadium was full, and Russian fans never stopped singing. Russia won by one goal to zero, in a weak match.

In the following days, games took place across Moscow, Saint Petersburg, Kaliningrad, Sochi, Volgograd, Samara, Kazan, and Saransk.

After several rounds, the semifinalists were Russia, Argentina, France, and England.

Victoria was happy when England beat Germany and reached the semifinals, but that joy lasted only a few days. England lost to Russia, the first team to qualify for the final. France joined them after beating Argentina two to one.

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For Alexandre, that victory brought mixed feelings. Since the kidnapping in Venice, he had met Boris again, but hope of finding the pendrive was fading. He wanted that day to arrive so France could win the championship, yet part of him wished it never would.

That day, for better or worse, arrived. Sunday, July 15. France and Russia entered the field and sang their national anthems at the Moscow Olympic Stadium.

At six in the evening, Russia started the game. The first half was tense and full of errors. It didn’t look like a World Cup final, and it ended scoreless. Journalists complained the tournament had too few goals.

“Concentrate more, guys! We’ll beat these Russians, they’ve never won a cup!” the coach shouted. Alexandre barely heard him. All he heard was the ticking of the bombs set to explode at the end of the game.

When play resumed, he searched for Victoria, but she was too far away. Fifteen minutes into the second half, France scored. The stadium erupted. Thirty minutes later, Russia equalized with a penalty from their star, Anatole Berninski.

With three minutes left, Russia earned a free kick. The ball rested thirty meters from the French goal, the defence forming an impenetrable wall. Anatole struck. The ball curved toward the corner but met the fingertips of the French goalkeeper, hit the crossbar, and bounced away. A defender cleared it high toward midfield.

Alexandre saw the ball descend to Dubois, who controlled it on his chest. After a quick one-two with Buhle, they evaded two defenders. Dubois looked up, saw Alexandre sprinting, and sent a through ball, the play they had rehearsed endlessly. No offside. The goalkeeper charged, diving at Alexandre’s feet, sure he would touch the ball. But Alexandre let it run, just as Pelé had done in Mexico when Brazil beat Italy. He jumped over the keeper, reached the ball, and tapped it in.

“Goal! Goal! Goal! From France! Goal from France! France is about to be world champion! Duval scores with intelligence and precision! Only two minutes left! The referee adds three more! These are the most thrilling minutes of the World Cup!” shouted Russia’s top sportscaster, echoed by broadcasters around the world.

Russia pressed forward desperately. Dubois intercepted a pass and spotted Alexandre running again. He sent another long ball. Seeing the keeper hesitate, Alexandre fired a powerful shot into the top right corner. The net rippled.

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“Goal! Goal! Goal… from France! Goal from France!” cried commentators as French journalists hugged each other in the press box. The team chased Alexandre in celebration. He glanced at the giant clock, searched for Victoria, but couldn’t find her.

At 7:55 p.m., the final whistle blew. If Boris was right, the bombs would detonate in five minutes.

France had won the World Cup in Russia. French fans everywhere screamed with joy.

Victoria rushed onto the field and threw her arms around him. He lived those seconds torn between fear, relief, and love.
“I love you, Victoria,” he said, holding her tight until teammates lifted him onto their shoulders.

“Champion! Champion! Long live the philosopher!” they shouted, carrying him in triumph. He laughed, but sadness lingered.

After the ceremony, he checked the clock again. It was 8:18 p.m. Holding the trophy in his right hand, he started his victory lap. At 8:25, relief began to replace dread. Perhaps Boris had been wrong, or had found the pendrive. Then an explosion shook the air.

Fireworks lit the sky in bright colours. He smiled, thinking the fear was over. He looked for Victoria and handed the trophy to a teammate. Under the fireworks, they embraced. For a moment, they felt pure happiness, until the earth trembled again.

The sky turned white. A blinding light spread like an exploding sun. To their right, a massive mushroom cloud rose. Then another. And another.

Explosions erupted kilometers away, shockwaves racing toward them. They saw at least twenty intercontinental missiles launch from Russian soil. They didn’t see the others fired from submarines and silos.

The waves were near. They knew they had seconds.
“I love you,” she said, the last words he heard before everything vanished.

From above, he saw his own body vaporized. A moment later, he realized another body, semi-transparent, was floating, observing the inferno. His soul. His true self. Around him, other souls rose slowly like snowflakes drifting upward, drawn into a dark tunnel.

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Inside, there was warmth, silence, and calm. At the tunnel’s end, he found himself alone in the garden of a house. His reflection appeared faintly in a window. Inside, a tall man — Ricardo — and his teenage son were talking. Alexandre could see and hear them, but they couldn’t perceive him.

He tried to touch them; his hand passed through. He was in another dimension. Fear returned. Maybe Plato had been right. Maybe a supernatural world existed.

If God existed, would He punish him for being an atheist, or forgive him through divine love?

Alexandre, in his ghost body, moved closer to listen.

“Dad, I didn’t like how your book ends. Why did it have to be so tragic? I didn’t like that Alexandre had to die.”

“That makes him immortal. He defended his ideas to the end, even if he couldn’t publish the book.”

“With that ending, it feels like the bad guys won. I wanted the good guys to win.”

“The plot isn’t what matters. What matters is that he risked his life for the book that drives man to become the champion of himself. He risked everything for those values. And remember, in the real world, Armageddon can happen anytime. The tragic ending is a warning to prevent it.”

“You’re right. Thank you for writing it, Dad. It’s the best birthday gift I could get at fifteen. It inspires me to build a better future, for me and the world. The keys Alexandre put in his book will help me become the champion of myself.”

“That’s the idea, to save you decades of mistakes and unhappiness. I wrote this book for you, but also for myself. I wish I could have read it when I was your age. I hope your friends read it too. It will help them become their best selves.”

“Manuel! Nico! Come have lunch! It’s ready!” Manuel’s wife called.

“Have you followed Aristotle since your days in engineering?” Nico asked.

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“The truth is, I don’t follow anyone. I’m not a follower, I’m a thinker. I discovered Aristotle later, but I’ve always had my feet on the ground, like him.”

“I wish Alexandre hadn’t died.”

“He didn’t die. His spirit will always live.”

“I haven’t died! I’m alive! Aristotle was wrong! Plato was right! The supernatural world exists! Life after death exists! I’m alive!” Alexandre shouted, desperate to warn them, but they didn’t hear him. He tried to touch them, but his hand passed through again.

“Do you mean his divine spark will reincarnate?” Nico asked.

“No. Since there’s no conclusive evidence, my knowledge starts from the premise that God doesn’t exist. I can’t conclude any divine spark exists or reincarnates. Alexandre is a hero who will live in the memory of the living, like Achilles. They’re immortal because they live in remembrance, generation after generation.”

“No! You’re wrong! I’m alive in another kind of body! I’m spirit! God must exist! I haven’t seen Him, but He must exist!” he cried, unseen.

“Religions come from primitive cultures that believed in reincarnation. They thought the dead lived on in other bodies. None of that has ever been proven. What counts is Darwin and science,” Manuel said.

“No! No! No! I was wrong! I’m sorry! I can see my light body! I’m a divine spark! God exists! Plato was right! Aristotle was wrong!” Alexandre cried, trying again to touch them, but nothing.

“Manuel! Nico! Come eat! The food’s getting cold!” the mother called again.

Father and son stood and passed in front of the window, their reflections stretching long in the glass.

“What a great idea to write the book, Dad!” Nico said.

“It wasn’t my idea. It was Diego’s,” Manuel replied.

“Diego’s idea?”

“Yes. He wanted the truths told simply, through football metaphors, to help kids in poor neighbourhoods become better people. That inspired me. We wrote it together for your birthday.”

“Are you going to publish it?”

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“Yes,” Manuel said, noticing a strange reflection in the window. “Do you see what I see?”

“What thing?”

“It must be the wine. But you see it, right?”

“Yes.”

“I see Alexandre, just as I imagined him in the book.”

Alexandre froze. Could they see him now? He kept listening.

“How can this be happening, Dad?” Nico asked.

“I don’t know, son. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It looks like there’s a ghost inside the glass,” Nico said, stepping closer.

Suddenly, the window turned into water. Father and son passed through it into another dimension.

They stood in a dense forest. The trees were so tall only their thick trunks could be seen. Light didn’t come from above but from the ground, flat, smooth, white, and luminous. There were no shadows.

They saw Alexandre’s spirit, a ghost of light fleeing through the trees, and they chased him to the largest one.

The tree’s trunk was as wide as a Twin Tower. In its centre was a socket the size of a bus. At the top, an inscription read: Casa Milà. The socket yawned, and a pendrive the size of a truck slid out, crashing to the glowing floor.

Its cover opened, releasing red ants that left bloody footprints across the white surface. But they weren’t ants, they were numbers with legs, walking in single file and climbing the tree until they vanished into its branches.

As they looked up, one treetop moved. Sunlight poured in, blinding them. Everything turned white. They were floating in a luminous fog, weightless, with no ground, no direction, no sound. Only their bodies were visible. There was no up or down, no front or back, no thought, no speech, only fear.

Then a row of red numbers appeared, each with shark-like jaws full of teeth. The numbers lunged at them. They tried to run but couldn’t move. The numbers devoured their feet, legs, bellies, arms, and heads.

Pain without pain. Thought without self. Who were they? Where were they? No answers. Only terror.

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Alexandre saw a round mirror. Inside it, his reflection was Ronald’s face, blackened, the bones exposed, the eyelids charred shut, a grin of white teeth. Suddenly, the skull opened green eyes — Ronald’s — and burst into a devilish laugh.

A chill pierced Alexandre’s soul. He knew now: God had sent him to hell for being an atheist, and the Devil was Ronald.

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