Renzi and Occhiuto, standing side by side, joke about Tajani, who, meanwhile, suspects a conspiracy.

Antonio Tajani, secretary of Forza Italia, has been keeping a close eye on Matteo Renzi and Roberto Occhiuto for weeks, just as Argan, Molière’s ‘imaginary invalid’, kept a close watch on his own health, counting his tokens on the table. “They’re plotting against me.” And those two, perhaps precisely because they’ve realised this, are all too eager to fuel his illness – imaginary or perhaps not – just as the doctor and the apothecary did with Argan, who, as his maid Toinette put it, was “a good cash cow” to them. It seems, in fact, that Tajani confessed this to a colleague a few days ago, who then let it slip to friends over a beer. “Those two have agreed to take Forza Italia away from me.” Rumours, perhaps. An apocryphal remark, who knows. But in this comedy, the true and the plausible go hand in hand. Last night, at the Comin & Partners offices in Piazza Santi Apostoli—where, alongside Antonio Polito and Maria Soave, the book Il partito che non c’è by pollster Antonio Noto was being launched—Renzi and Occhiuto sat side by side, nudging each other like the cat and the fox, whilst Tajani sat opposite with five zecchini in his pocket. “All you have to do is say one word about me – any word at all – and Tajani’ll have a heart attack,” said Renzi. And Occhiuto, recoiling with the modesty of an aunt who’s just been told a dirty joke: “But why do you have it in for him so much?” And Renzi, in reply, winking at him: “Me? Far less than you.” The fact is that for the past year, Occhiuto has been circling the Forza Italia leadership like a schoolboy around a cake in a shop window. Last December, he pointed out that the party, which had been promised 20 per cent of the vote, was languishing at 8 per cent. In September, in his book Il coraggio di governare, he described Forza Italia as “a bit past its best”. Meanwhile, Renzi was inviting the party’s reformists to move over to Italia Viva, and Occhiuto reciprocated by inviting him to move over to the centre-right. “Give Occhiuto time to climb the ranks of Forza Italia,” Renzi said instead last night. And Occhiuto, without ever mentioning Tajani but sketching his profile in the air: “In recent years, there has been a lack of courage to carry out liberal reforms.” And again: “There has been a lack of courage to stand up to the vested interests.”

In the first scene of Molière’s play, Argan discovers that in one month he has taken eight purges and twelve enemas, compared with twelve and twenty the previous month, and sighs, ‘I’m not surprised if I’m not feeling as well this month as I did last month’. Tajani has the opposite problem. The doctor and the apothecary—that is, Renzi and Occhiuto—administer the enemas to him for free, every other day, and the more he receives, the worse he feels. Nor can it be said that the patient is imagining it all. Forza Italia is losing ground to its allies; Occhiuto is calling for a return to at least ten per cent in the European elections; there is talk of a leadership committee comprising Paolo Zangrillo and Occhiuto himself; and Tajani is seeking a truce, first with one, then with the other. So last night, whilst the two were at it again, Renzi brought up the schools that had been evacuated because of emails from the self-styled leader of Misogistan: “You’ll see that now he, like Tajani, will ask women to wear long skirts.” Occhiuto allowed himself a smile. In the front row, his wife, Matilde Siracusano, an undersecretary for Forza Italia, burst out laughing heartily. Does that mean anything? True, false and plausible. But the conspiracy theory, for now, remains above all a case of hypochondria. Renzi is a peculiar suitor, the sort who serenades the girl whilst throwing stones at her relatives’ windows. Once the compliments to Occhiuto were over, however, at the book launch he began pelting Forza Italia with criticism, even those closest to Occhiuto. “He’s right; in these four years of reforms, we’ve seen none. But the Minister for Public Administration – pray tell – which party is he from?” Forza Italia. And a friend of Occhiuto’s, at that. And so: “Poor Occhiuto,” sighed Renzi, “he liberalises the taxi industry and finds his own party out on the streets with the taxi drivers.” The fact is that Renzi, this time round, is already betrothed to the centre-left. This time round. For now. And Forza Italia is on the right. This time round. For now. In the next parliamentary term, however, these engagements may well be broken off, and who knows – perhaps Tajani will discover he was right to suspect a conspiracy. In the next parliament, all sorts of reshuffles could well take place. After all, even Argan was only pretending to be ill, but there really was a conspiracy in his own home. All he had to do was pretend to be dead for his wife to exult: “Praise be to heaven! Here I am, freed from a great burden’. Meanwhile, yesterday, as the evening drew to a close, Occhiuto and Renzi – the pharmacist and the apothecary, the cat and the fox – locked arms in a long, sly embrace, like lovers kept apart by their families who make plans to meet again in better times. The next parliamentary term is just around the corner. “I’m fond of Matteo Renzi,” said Occhiuto, “but whenever I compare myself to him, the very next day the whole of Forza Italia calls me in a panic.” The whole lot? Are you sure? Let’s say one. The imaginary invalid. Who, after all, may not be quite so imaginary.