The curtain falls on an absurd era of strife and paranoia. “Woe betide if they try to impose support for the Democratic Party on me”
In Rome it is called “romanella”: a rough patch, like those on certain holes. More stubborn than a sampietrino, Virginia has tried to the last to patch up her break with the rest of the world. «I don’t give up, I’m the only one to keep up with the battleships of the center-right and the center-left», She hisses in the evening, appearing ectoplasmatic to the electoral committee,« after five years of violent and personal attacks ». But five years ago she was the grillina battleship, with a large 35% in the first round and a sensational 67% in the ballot. Now dance around 20%, sad, solitary y final, threatened by the rookie Calenda, with a tweet from the Brothers of Italy who maramaldeggia: «Hello, Virgì». “We were all wrong in choosing people for the places that matter,” he says to the most faithful: “But woe betide me if they try to force me to support the Democratic Party in the ballot”.
You almost want to defend it: if it weren’t for the seagulls, wild boars and all the runaway zoo that attracted us to the city, his advice. At the polling station she also quarreled a bit with the sheet-sheet, «folding it is not easy» and they replied with a piddino grin: «She is the only one who cannot complain». It goes like this, when it goes wrong (and even the “Iron Bridge” over the Tiber is on fire, as in the exaggerated ending of a bad TV series: yet another conspiracy?).
It is maligned that even Conte has rowed against her, with the lights off, craving the parliamentary seat of Gualtieri in the college of the historic center. “The big names are holding their breath, it’s the great time to get it out of the way,” whispered a few hours ago a former traveling companion, one of the many she dumped in these five roughest years of the pine-decayed Christopher Columbus. Grillo sang the of deep pretending to support her when, remotely, on Friday evening at the Bocca della Verità, he assured her “you will not disappear if you lose your position as mayor”. Not quite Al Pacino in Every damn Sunday.
The last (failed) romance of the Rays was, therefore, to deny itself. With the promise of a miss, so much deprecated in the form of Renzian 80 euros: “If I am re-elected, I will cut my bills with ACEA money”. And, even, with the abandonment of dear pauperism: money is no longer the devil’s dung, so she raises her thin arms and shouts “daje!” when a Di Maio transformed into a Draghian banker announces at the pueblo grillino of the last meeting that “the candidacy of Rome Expo 2030 has been launched, and it will be 40 billion euros!”. Daje: like Marino, like Mourinho, the bogus battle cry of the exaggerated and, specifically, betrayed Romanism, given that five years ago the Raggi made us lose the Olympics and the works that would have resulted from it for “ideological obstinacy” (copyright by Giovanni Malagò, on whom he imposed a humiliating antechamber and which today is much more popular than her thanks to sport).
Distrustful to the point of paranoia (the reporters call her the “pretty girl with retractable nails”, with possibly involuntary sexism that she reciprocates with ostentatious aversion), certainly presented at worst by the first professional acquaintances in law firms close to Previti and by the curricular omissions, Virginia seems from the beginning a woman under siege. She always seems forced to beware of male counselors who are determined to overwhelm her and protects herself by always provoking new ones. So here is Daniele Frongia or Salvatore Romeo; here is Raffaele Marra, not very recommendable Mister Wolf, useful, however, to keep the overflowing economist councilor Marcello Minenna at bay; here is the lawyer Lanzalone, with his judicial messes to fill a stadium, for a stadium that we will never see in Tor di Valle.
Among the rare not hated journalists there is a hidden adviser, distant but decisive like Marco Travaglio; and above all the last voice inside appears, Teodoro Fulgione, former parliamentary reporter and then a listened and feared spokesperson (they call him “Richelieu” or “the mayor”) to whom a large part is attributed in the disruptive choice of reappointment: with it the Raggi breaks the possible Cinque Stelle-Pd agreement by making litter of the grillino limit of the two mandates, sends the now governist Grillo to the mad and in solluccheri the Guevarista Di Battista and, finally, puts his head on the block in this electoral evening in which everything collapses . It weighs on the Web, “among those who are not Roman”, say the detractors. And 22 thousand votes in the race for the committee of Five Star guarantors make her “the queen of our microcosm”, raging. Small consolation.
Clinging to the only loyal hold of the last year (not surprisingly a woman, the strong and independent Federica Angeli) Virginia tried the impossible Romanella to convince us that theThe problem of Rome are the Spada and the Casamonica (sad epiphenomena of the carrion city) and not the insane traffic, the floods, the abandoned greenery (there were 2,500 gardeners in the Eighties, today 347), the buses that cannot be found or are on fire, the endless metro, the broken escalators, an infamous quality of life that threw her to 99th place out of 100 in a survey of the year last on the approval of the mayors and, finally, the garbage, an authentic brand of the house. La Raggi is so aware of this that she has given history an unforgettable conversation with the administrator of the Ama, Bagnacani, “the Romans look out the window and see the shit”. But in public he tells us that he healed her, he loves her, while it is the municipalized garbage that has never been removed to infect us. He proclaims himself “mayor of the suburbs” (which have largely abandoned it) and reveals that his real regret is not having built “the Casalotti cable car”.
In this plunge into the absurd, it is of little use to revive memorable gaffes (one for all, the dome of the Colosseum), Homeric blunders (even on the date of the elections on the site of the Municipality), the alienating carousel of councilors and leaders trumpeted, the surreal conciliaboli on the roof of the Capitol for fear of bugs. In the darkest hour, her martyr husband, Andrea Severini, remains beside her, who immortalized her in a Facebook series, “31 days with Virginia”, while having breakfast, carrying shopping, cooking: a sort of sequel to Morisi’s Salvini if today it didn’t seem offensive.
“The wind has changed,” she said one evening five years ago. Now Casalino is dragging his shopping bag on his scooter like an ordinary “gieffino”, Mario Penna from Avellino sings “Roma don’t be stupid” and it seems Leone di Lernia disguised as Califano, the new one who advances is Pecoraro Scanio. A cameraman looks around and takes away the equipment even to go to the toilet, “I didn’t let it go on camera, I know the times of honesty, honesty are gone …”. Curtain.
October 4, 2021 (change October 4, 2021 | 22:58)
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