Marco Travaglio unemployed but there is always a spare Renzi
The disappearance of Silvio Berlusconi a month ago has left many voids in the centre-right but has caused a great orphan in the centre-left (or presumed to be so): Marco Travaglio. Without Berlusconi Travaglio is a bit Maradona without the ball, or Rambo without the machine gun, or Sandokan without a beard. It is said that the poor fellow roams sadly and silently in the editorial office of via Sant’Erasmo in Rome, located in the greenery of Porta Metronia where Francesco Totti was born and where he had a singular villa with an adjoining cinema projection room Alberto Sordi.
In short, an area that is not exactly radical – chic but radical enough, or at least just enough to be able to think positively about existence. But we said that Travaglio is sad, unlike the good Marco Gomez, director of Il Fatto Quotidiano online who grinds users or the wise Antonio Padellaro, who has made his journalistic style out of calm reflection. We were saying that instead Travaglio is frowning because Marco is a man of honor, as Marco Antonio di Bruto used to say, and he knows that without Berlusconi he has no more petrol. Because Travaglio is a right-wing man who found himself on the left keeping a family and because his mentor Indro Montanelli had quarreled with the Knight and had to leave Il Giornale with him and then even end up in la Repubblica and spoil the bitter cup until the end with the unit.
Therefore, contrary to his colleagues who have all diversified, except perhaps Andrea Scanzi who however lives in Arezzo, Travaglio no longer has an adversary. Failed B., as he calls it, however, its raison d’être has also disappeared because T. –without B.- cannot exist. It is basically a philosophical question. The proton cannot exist without the anti-proton nor matter without the anti-matter, they are bi-connected units, intimately linked, and to use a fashionable term, which are in entanglement, in perennial connection.
And this explains the existential sadness into which the Turin journalist has fallen. A tumble down the rabbit hole to understand how deep the reality is and not just limited to militant anti-Berlusconism. We can imagine Travaglio with his slightly Branduardi-style hair arrive by car avoiding – as far as possible – rubbish and Roman potholes arriving in the cheerful newsroom, as bright as ever in this Saharan summer. Park, turn off the air conditioning and face the heatwave without Him, that is the salvific Silvio who granted him years and years of glory. We see him stop at the neighborhood cafe, sweating like never before, order a coffee, then think again after seeing a newspaper with a photo of him on a table. No coffee. A bitter to cheer yourself up.
We see him go out sad and depressed and drag himself to the newsroom. Press the button of the old elevator, close the door badly, leaving it half open, and lounging in the editorial office where Gomez, laughing like an Easter sun, greets him gaily and he is saddened even more and closes himself in the “old Piedmont” style office, with the mural poster of Count Camillo Benso di Cavour who looks at him slyly and peacefully, like a little buddha from the Langhe. And then the miracle. The image comes to life and gives him advice, a bit like in the film Marcellino Pane e Vino, in which the little protagonist talks to Jesus.
The statesman smiles and tells him: “Neh Marco, don’t throw yourself down, I’ll find you another B.”. Marco raises his head, it seems to him that he is dreaming. Someone still loves him.
Camillo thus advises it in strict Piedmontese (we translate it): “Excuse me, isn’t that other one there? What is his name? Matthew Renzi?”
“Camillo, thank you. I did not think about it. It’s not the original but something can be done”
“But you think Marco. If he doesn’t help each other between us Piedmontese… just think that the good soul of Aldo Cazzullo suggested it to me and you know how good he is at giving advice”
“Thanks again Camillo. The joy of living has returned to me”.
And so, having recovered from the post-chivalrous depression, Marco throws himself on the old Olivetti that the Maestro had given him and presses the keys with a futuristic vehemence. Each letter is a cluster bomb to make Zelensky envious and which destroys and tears apart the new enemy: Matteo Renzi, other than Putin.
Subscribe to the newsletter