Francesca Pascale: “I write to Tajani every evening, telling him he should resign”

Rome. Every evening, as the sun sets, a message arrives from Pascale. “And today, too, you’ve missed your chance to resign!”, she writes to him. Another ring. “Goodnight!”. One can only imagine the grim expression on Antonio Tajani’s face—the look on the face of the Forza Italia secretary who receives that message every day, or rather, every night, for years.

Francesca Pascale, Il Cavaliere’s long-term girlfriend, is his Hecate. She is the goddess of darkness who has nothing to lose, who fears no harassment (commonly known as stalking), and who will never give in.

“It’s true!” Berlusconi’s wife confirms to Il Foglio. “I write to him every night. And then I tag him.” Really? “Yes. I tag him on Instagram.” What perseverance! “It’s my favourite obsession, I admit. But it’s not the only one.” “Battistoni, Martusciello, Gasparri… All of them, whom I hold responsible for the decline.” And what do they do? “Nothing.” Do they reply? “Oh no. Don’t be silly,” laughs Pascale. “They’re so high and mighty, so noble, so supreme… Would they ever reply to me?!”

Constant dripping does not wear away the stone. “No, no. They’re not backing down. Quite the opposite. They’re behaving as if they’d earned something! But what?!” Yet she does not give up. “I’m sticking to my guns. Especially with Antonio Tajani. I’m writing to him constantly. Because he, more than anyone else, has benefited from Silvio Berlusconi. He, more than anyone else, hasn’t earned a thing.” Relentless. “No! Even after his death, he continues to benefit from his surname.”

Berlusconi in FI is like the flame in FdI. Should they get rid of him? “Yes. If Antonio Tajani feels so powerful, brilliant, handsome, the undisputed secretary and a Roman emperor, then he should put his surname on the party emblem. He might even pick up a few votes!” Really? Would he? “Yes. But I reckon it would be thanks to his father.” General Raffaele Tajani, a Second World War veteran. “He’d get them because of the respect many people still have for his dad.”

Francesca supports Roberto Occhiuto’s stance. “And I wonder if we can still allow the future to be managed by someone whose present is already in the past. A seventy-year-old man. But when does he get any rest?”

Antonio Tajani, however, has averted disaster; he is a patriarch, he is Padron Ntoni, even if young people do not recognise him as such. “But please! No. The only thing he has done is to secure a future for his descendants. And then… Just look at them. Martusciello, Gasparri, Librandi… Take a look at them!” I look at them. “Their faces say it all. And this isn’t about body shaming.” Is the face the mirror of the soul? “Exactly. Those in politics devote themselves to the public good. Do you think they can devote themselves to the public good? They even used Berlusconi’s name for that birthday farce!” On 29 September, Il Cav. would have turned ninety. “Yes. And they all organised a gathering. They got together. But just to eat a bit more.” Gluttonous lot, too? “Yes, of course. Absolutely. They did it to indulge their vices. Even though they go on about the traditional family… But let’s leave it at that, shall we?” All right.

But have you written anything today? “No. Not yet. But I’m going to write to them now.” What? “I don’t know,” smiles Francesca, “but I like being the voice of reason.” Who is she writing to today? “I’ll see. But anyway… I give them all a hard time every single day, even if it’s pointless. They don’t listen to me. I’m not saying they have to restore Forza Italia to its former glory, but they shouldn’t let it sink this low either.”

Apart from Roberto Occhiuto, who would be the party’s shining star? “Compared to Antonio Tajani? Even Gianfranco Rotondi would be more credible than him.”