Malagò and Mancini, just like in a film

The plot was somewhat difficult to follow, but what a film, gentlemen – what extraordinary actors! Giovanni Malagò was our very own Clint Eastwood (MalaClint). Great style, calm demeanour, a Caraceni jacket, ready to sacrifice himself ‘for a fistful of journalists’. He dominated the scene – bang! – pretending to have been hit, only to get back on his feet, like someone who’d only pretended to be dead. He smiled again and, standing upright once more, seemed towering, even taller than usual. He made some rather off-the-cuff remarks, yet still came across as credible, because when MalaClint speaks, people listen – with that voice reminiscent of Rossano Brazzi in "Coralba". He winks, talks about the future, despite his age. He’s a brilliant poker player, always ready to play his trump card. He led everyone to believe – a sublime bluff – that he’d gone along with the marvellous duo of Maldini and Leonardo. He took them on, brought them onto the set, and then sat back and enjoyed the show.

Leo and Maldo had barely begun to act (silent film?) before they walked away, looking concerned, with a phone in their hands. ‘Hello, Pep, are you there?’ ‘No,’ came the reply. Meanwhile, MalaClint, sitting in the director’s chair, yawned, then examined his perfectly manicured nails, and finally half-closed his eyes like any old Lotito in Parliament. When the two returned, he roused himself, looking at them fondly. Maldo spoke, saying “Andrea”; Leo, as if in a Pavlovian reflex, added “Pirlo” in a hoarse voice. And everyone burst out laughing – from the rest of the actors right down to the lowliest stagehand – whilst MalaClint, megaphone in hand, ordered filming to be halted, completely rewriting the script.

Action! We’re filming again, but this time it’s a different film: my own. Thousands of kilometres away from the new set, the coach from Brescia – unexpectedly dragged into the story by Leo and Maldo – suddenly found himself reimagined in the feminine form, from Pirlo to ‘pirla’ or ‘Pirlova’, as they say in Russian. Meanwhile, mounted on a white horse, with music by Pino Silvestre playing in the background, he galloped towards his saviour, the new actor, known as ‘Mancio’, looking extremely elegant, having escaped the chill of oblivion wrapped in a cashmere cape. “Hi Roberto”, “Hi Giovanni”. The two embraced, holding each other tight, like two old friends. “It’s so good to see you again; with you, we can start afresh.” But there was still one role left to cast: that of the wise old man. They needed a white-haired gentleman, full of charisma, who refused to retire. They found him, rang him up, and he replied straight away. Entering the scene suddenly, he only had time to deliver one line. Except that nobody was listening. The film, just as it had begun, was already over.