The audience applauds as if operated by remote control when Daria Bignardi, beautifully dressed, walks onto the set and reaches the center of the stage, positioning herself with her back to the megascreen, which is showing scenes from the hostage taking in slow motion. She greets the spectators and announces the title of this episode: “Do-it-yourself Justice.”
We guests are seated facing each other in two rows of three.
I’m sitting between Giancarlo De Cataldo and Ambra, wearing a sky-blue suit and my old down-at-the-heels Blundstone 500 slip-on boots, which give just the right touch of slovenliness to my overall look. I have three days’ worth of stubble and I’m not wearing a tie.
Across from us sit Emanuele Filiberto, Vittorio Sgarbi, and Fabrizio Corona (who can’t seem to stop looking at my Blundstones, though I can’t figure out whether that’s because he likes the fact that they’re so beat up or because he’s disgusted with them for the same reason).
Bignardi introduces us to the welcoming applause of the studio audience while the TV cameras archive one face at a time (the first—I’d like to see them try any other order—is mine), she summarizes in a few evocative lines the whole dizzy adventure at the supermarket, then she asks the control booth to run a few sequences (in particular, the one in which Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo scolds me for having an antiquated conception of the legal profession, reiterating the theory of TV as the sole forum for the only kind of trial that really counts anymore), and then opens the dances, starting (and I would have put money on it) with Ambra.
“I don’t know about you,” says the TV host and actress, “but I haven’t been glued to any television the way I was to this in a long, long time. Aside from the principles in question (televised trials, the question of why you can’t take the law into your own hands, etc. etc.), I believe that the live feed from the supermarket has been one of the most gripping and tragic television spectacles that we’ve witnessed since 9/11.”
Silence falls over the audience in place of the applause that one might expect but which doesn’t come.
Daria Bignardi is caught off guard. When a guest beats the clock in terms of the time assigned to them to speak, it’s as if the program has just suffered a heart attack. Which means that it runs the risk of stagnating, unless there’s an urgent and decisive intervention.
I immediately look at Sgarbi, who nods progressively, showing that he approves—if not of the content, then at least of the aesthetic—of the opinion that Ambra has just expressed.
“Right,” he breaks in, seizing the floor, “very good. I think that’s the one sensible thing we can say on the topic.”
Ambra preens, satisfied that she’s dodged the bullet of cynicism that she knows she risked.
Emanuele Filiberto blinks twice in succession, as if he can’t quite see why Sgarbi found her observation so exhaustive.
“Could I ask you,” Bignardi asks Ambra, starting to take a step forward but then stepping back (which is her way of battling against the basic immobility of the role of moderator without going for a stroll around the set the way some colleagues of hers like to do, for instance Giovanni Floris, who does so much traveling around the studio during his show that sometimes no one even seems to know where he is), “whose side were you on?”
“Well, not on the Camorrista’s side, that’s for sure,” Ambra replies.
A wave of laughter, followed by applause.
Daria seems put out.
“Have you noticed,” I break in, speaking to everyone and no one in particular at the same time, in an attempt to undercut the irritation that seems to hover in the air, “that a second after the laughter comes the applause? It’s a little bit like a second sneeze, don’t you think?”
Everyone turns in my direction, baffled.
I wait.
It takes a while to get this one.
The first one to get it is De Cataldo, who unleashes a hearty slap to my leg. The others follow in rotation, nodding and snickering, showing their approval of my subtle juxtaposition.
So now I get a round of applause myself.
Fabrizio Corona intercepts a roving TV camera and shoots it a ferocious glare.
“The second sneeze, nice work, Malinconico: they both come in pairs,” Daria acknowledges.
“Right,” I confirm with some satisfaction.
“In any case, you have a point, Ambra,” she resumes, putting things on a personal level, “I should have been more explicit. The choice was between a despairing father who was demanding justice and a lawyer doing his best to stave off tragedy by insisting that trials should be conducted in a courtroom and not on TV.”
Sgarbi snorts impatiently and brushes his hair with his hand, as if he’d suddenly had a hot flash. No question that Daria’s clarification, unobjectionable though it was, did have the ring of rhetoric, truth be told.
“Oh, I was rooting for Malinconico, obviously,” Ambra replies, playing the fool. And she flashes me a big smile which I return without especially wanting to.
“As we were preparing this episode,” Bignardi says, overcoming her momentary disgruntlement to return her focus to the program with admirable professionalism, “we conducted a broad survey of people from various walks of life, and what we found was that everyone, and I mean everyone we spoke to, was rooting for Counselor Malinconico during the live broadcast. Does this mean that the country is much more concerned about the protection of civil rights than we imagine? That lawyers are actually more popular than is widely thought? Or is this consensus limited strictly to Malinconico? De Cataldo?”
“Well,” replies the judge/author, shifting around in his seat to get more comfortable, clearly caught off guard by the question, “as much as I may find Malinconico likable, I’m not sure I’d go so far as to name him Italy’s favorite son.”
“Why not?” I object.
Laughter.
“Because you have a very different style, caro mio,” he replies.
Hey, I think. He’s right.
“Does that mean you’d like to have him as a character in one of your novels?” Bignardi cuts in, quick on the uptake.
“Sure,” says De Cataldo.
“As long as we can work out an agreement on the royalties,” I retort promptly.
Applause. Not sure if it’s for me or for him.
“In any case, coming back to your question,” De Cataldo resumes, speaking once again to the moderator, “I suspect that it is precisely the division between judicial hardliners and civil rights advocates that constitutes the aberration that has ensured the spread of a generalized mistrust toward the administration of justice in this country. For that we should be grateful to our Counselor Malinconico, because he has reiterated a statement of values that we should all be able to agree on: trials should be held in courtrooms. With all their shortcomings and all their flaws, there is no better place for them.”
“You think?” Corona breaks in, ready for a fight.
“Why, yes. I most certainly do,” De Cataldo confirms.
“Bah,” he retorts, shooting another sour glare at the camera. (“What on earth did those cameras do to you?” I think).
He doesn’t seem to want to say anything else; but the next thing you know he’s back on the subject, challenging the judge/novelist and actually pointing a finger in his face.
“Go tell that to someone who’s been taken hostage by an absurd trial for a crime he was eventually acquitted of.”
“Well, Corona,” De Cataldo replies, unruffled, “the fact that a person was acquitted shows that criminal trials aren’t a form of persecution but rather a system subject to an effective oversight process, don’t you agree?”
“Vittorio,” Bignardi cuts in, calling on Sgarbi even before Corona has a chance to reply, “is De Cataldo right? Do we live in a country split between judicial hardliners and civil rights advocates? And how would you explain the massive groundswell of support for Counselor Malinconico?”
“Hm,” the critic begins his reply, squirming uncomfortably in his chair, “I think that what happened in the supermarket is an episode that can be analyzed without having to bring in pro-justice topics that I don’t think our viewers are any too interested in hearing about.”
“Ah, I see,” says Daria.
As if to say: “Thanks for informing us that up until now nobody’s said anything interesting.”
“The engineer and would-be judge, jury, and executioner had, in fact, an iconoclastic plan,” Sgarbi harangues. “That hostage taking and intended execution, offered up to the eyes of an audience practically forced to watch and wonder what it all meant, almost resembled an art installation.”
And at this point he accompanied the statement with his hands, sketching out two imaginary half-moons in the air, as if he were giving form to the concept.
Whereupon everyone (with one exception) nods.
The critic comfortably pockets our attention, and continues.
“By kidnapping the alleged murderer, claiming to put him on trial on a live broadcast, without any legal due process, that desperate father leveled a radical critique at the justice system. Malinconico, on the other hand, by dismantling his artwork, behaved like an authentic intellectual: by defending the supremacy of the jury trial in a court of law, in a certain sense, he prevented the collapse of the hall of justice itself.”
We all sit in hopeful silence, looking at each other as if to convey the impression that we understood what we were hearing.
“Malinconico?” Bignardi finally calls on me.
“Eh,” I reply.
As if to say: “The question being?”
“What do you think?”
“What do I think of what?”
“Of Sgarbi’s analysis.”
“Well, I don’t know if I understood it all, but I liked it.”
Laughter/applause.
“That’s always a good sign,” Sgarbi comments.
“This may strike you as a provocative question,” the moderator says, suddenly turning more serious, “but how about you, Malinconico—whose side were you on?”
“You know, I’m glad you asked me that, because the truth is that I don’t know.”
She smiles at me, at the same time intrigued and satisfied that I appreciated her question.
“To put it briefly,” I add, “when you find yourself dealing with a man in that state, it’s difficult not to feel a certain degree of solidarity.”
At this point I get an applause without laughter.
“So tell us, are they going to make a movie out of this?” Ambra unexpectedly asks me.
“Oh, please,” I reply.
“Well, why not? There are plenty of TV dramas being made in Italy all the time based on actual events taken from the news: why shouldn’t they make a movie, or at least a TV movie, based on this story?”
“Because it would never stand up to the original, which we all already watched live,” Corona tosses out.
“An impeccable observation,” says Sgarbi. “Bravo.”
“Thanks,” Corona replies.
“You’re right, Fabrizio,” says Bignardi. “But let’s say a producer decided to go ahead anyway and offered you the part of Malinconico, would you take it?”
“Why not,” he says (but it’s obvious that he doesn’t mean it). “I have something to offer.”
It’s not clear what that has to do with anything, but whatevs.
“Oh come on,” Sgarbi breaks in, “Corona is too tall, too muscular, too scandalous, too macho. He wouldn’t be believable as Malinconico.”
“He says that because he’s never seen me in a Speedo,” I say.
Laughter.
“But have you watched many Italian TV dramas, Vittorio?” Ambra interjects. “Do you really think that they worry about that kind of thing when they cast actors?”
There’s a moment of awkward silence, but no one seizes the opportunity.
Emanuele Filiberto looks around, bewildered. Hostage takings, judicial hardliners and civil rights advocates, casting for TV dramas based on televised trials . . . This is a ship of fools and madmen, he seems to be saying to himself. What on earth am I doing here?
“Excuse me, Daria,” he volunteers. “But what do I have to do with the subjects of this conversation?”
“What kind of question is that?” says Corona, visibly disgusted.
The prince looks at him, nonplussed, and Corona, in response, does nothing but shake his head as if he were having trouble believing what he has just heard.
“In any case, I’d like to thank the audience for giving me such a warm round of applause earlier,” says the prince.
“So would I,” says Ambra, probably sarcastically.
“Hey, people,” De Cataldo pipes up, “why don’t we try to to restore some civility here, okay? We’re deteriorating to the level of farce.”
“Malinconico,” Bignardi suddenly asks me point-blank, practically giving me a heart attack, “did you end up making that phone call before coming on the show?”
It must be a joke, I think. I didn’t hear her right.
“Excuse me?” I reply, or rather, I ask.
“What do you mean,” she says sarcastically; and she shoots a couple of glances at her staff, who flank the set like so many vultures, “are you trying to tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“No, I have no idea,” I reply, turning beet red at the very same instant that the cameraman aims his lens at my face, taking an obscene closeup.
Audience and guests all chuckle.
“Was there someone you should have alerted to the fact that you’d be appearing on this program, by chance?”
I’m left speechless. I stare at her, in horrified confusion, still doubting my own ears.
“Come on, Vince’, it’s all right, you gave it a shot,” De Cataldo says to me affectionately.
I look at him. Then at Ambra. Then Bignardi. Then Sgarbi. Then the prince. Then Corona.
All of them dead serious.
What is this, a conspiracy?
I get to my feet, swiveling my head back and forth, as if I were searching for the nearest emergency exit.
“I want to see the Candid Camera banner. Come on, let’s see it.”
“Sit down, Vince’,” Giancarlo advises me, taking me by the arm.
I do as he says, dazed.
“We have a little surprise for you,” says Bignardi. “Something you weren’t expecting; part L’Isola dei Famosi and part Carràmba!, if you see what I mean.”
And she looks up with a coy smile, as if inviting us to notice something in the air itself.
When the voice of Alessandra Persiano echoes through the studio, I’m stunned into disbelief.
“You’re an idiot, Vincenzo.”
There ensues a moment of silence, after which the audience doesn’t just start laughing: they’re rolling in the aisles. A couple of really stupid women in particular howl in a disgustingly vulgar manner, attracting everyone’s attention and encouraging copycats.
“But how . . .” I ask, in a state of panic.
“Of all the pathetic machinations you could have come up with to get my attention, this is the most childish by far. What did you think, that if I saw you on television I’d come crawling back to you?”
“Heyyy!” I shout, leaping to my feet once again, to a another burst of laughter from the audience. “What the hell is going on here??”
“And another thing,” Alessandra Persiano resumes, her voice turning even grimmer, “submitting to the advances of a young girl who happens to like older men does you no honor, just so you know.”
“Whaaat?!?”
“What, now you act all surprised?” she drills in. “Next you’re going to try to tell me that you believed her story about being the son’s girlfriend, aren’t you? You may be an idiot but you weren’t born yesterday. Come on, you knew it all along.”
“Eh, that’s pretty serious, Vince’,” De Cataldo says to me, with the tone of an expert.
I’m about to implement the decision I’ve just reached, to rip off the microphone and the transmitter that the sound technicians clipped to my jacket before this miserable program got started and take to my heels toward the exit when, thank Heavens, I wake up. Drenched with sweat, by the way.
With a twinge of horror I realize that I’m already on my feet, which makes my return to reality all the more laborious. I eagerly reach around for the light switch and flip it on, blinding myself. I cover my eyes with both hands and sit down on the bed, waiting for the cardiac tempest to die down.
I’ve always had a gift for nightmares, but this one blows them all out of the water. I remember that as I was falling asleep I tried to imagine how Bignardi’s program might go (I think I did the casting while still wide awake), but I never would have believed I could drag it down with me and script it in such detail during full-on REM sleep.
When, after a short while (but a short while that seems to last a long time), I start breathing more or less regularly again, I put on my slippers and I shuffle into the kitchen. I get a mineral water out of the fridge, I drink right from the bottle, and then I carry it with me around the apartment, chugging on it like a bottle of vodka, thinking over and over again about the bloodcurdling perfection of my nightmare and finally concluding, though with a cold sweat, that things can’t get much worse if even my subconscious has decided to start mocking me.