"This is how Craxi made Toni Negri escape," an interview with Sandro Parenzo.

He keeps it in a drawer, among old screenplays, faded photographs, and notes. It's a typewritten, registered A4 sheet of paper, dated January 20, 1984. The paper is yellowed, but the words remain clear. It's a memoir, written for good measure: "In case someone ever wanted to ask me about that phone call."

It concerns a sensational event. Until now, it has never been reported.

The room in which he receives me is lined with wood. On the walls are four large drawings by Schifano: they seem to support it more than the walls themselves. It's spacious, filled with light. Through the windows, one can see the studios of Videa, the company once owned by Franco Cristaldi, the great producer who won three Oscars for "Divorce Italian Style," "Amarcord," and "Cinema Paradiso." The yellowed sheet of paper is placed on the table with a slow gesture, as if with an object that has already lived. And as he looks at it, the man who signed it forty-one years ago begins to tell his story.

It's January 1984. He's working at Canale 5, which he helped found. He's a friend of the young Fabio Fazio, to whom he's just entrusted one of his first shows. Fazio, at the time, was imitating everyone on television, especially politicians. He played prank calls. His Craxi impression was his favorite.

When the secretary comes in and says, "Craxi's on the phone," he immediately thinks it's a joke. He laughs. He doesn't answer. "It's that idiot Fazio."

But the call comes back. It comes back a second time. The third time, he answers.

On the other end, the low, dry voice of the PSI secretary. The Prime Minister: "Do you know you're a strange guy? Come to me right away."

He lets him get in the car. He says little. Then, halfway there, he asks: “Are you still in touch with Toni Negri ?”

“I never hear it. Why?”

“ They’re arresting him tonight. You must warn him not to come home .”

And so he returns to the headquarters, right here where we are now, among the warehouses of Cristaldi's studios. He makes up an excuse, picks up the phone, and calls Paris. He alerts his friend Nanni Balestrini , who in turn alerts Toni Negri. The founder of Potere Operaio. And of Autonomia. A fugitive. "I've never been a member of Potere Operaio, but we're all from Padua, from the same generation. Friends." That evening, Negri doesn't return home. And they don't arrest him.

But the company's lawyer advises him to put everything in writing: "A memorandum, signed, dated, and notarized. It might be useful to you." And so he does. That piece of paper is still there today. Or rather, here.

The man, now eighty-one, thin and stocky, is named Sandro Parenzo . He is a producer, screenwriter, and television entrepreneur. He has spanned sixty years of Italian media history, always walking the line between power and fiction, irony and business, culture and entertainment. He worked with Tognazzi, Bertolucci, Berlusconi, Leonardo Mondadori on Rete 4, and Angelo Guglielmi at Raitre in its heyday. "I've been on the high and the low, on the rubbish and on Gruppo 66." He created programs with Corrado and Gianfranco Funari, with Nanni Loy and Maurizio Costanzo, Enza Sampò and Raimondo Vianello, and with Giuliano Ferrara and Michele Santoro. Parenzo also produced the interviews that Indro Montanelli did on Telemontecarlo, talking about himself to Alain Elkann (Parenzo recalls: “When they ended the show, Elkann was desperate: 'What do I do now? I have three children to support.' They were Gianni Agnelli's grandchildren. So I advised him not to use that argument too much because they would beat him up”).

But Parenzo didn't just make television shows. He wrote successful films, orchestrated epochal pranks, relaunched Antenna Lombardia, attempted to build a third television network even before La7 and Discovery, and fabricated shocking fakes. And even a certain kind of truth.

For Parenzo, telling a certain kind of truth meant turning the absurd into the grotesque. In May 1979, he invented a sensational prank. In April of that year, the Padua prosecutor's office had identified Toni Negri as the instigator of Moro's kidnapping. Indeed, as the author of the letters written by Moro during his imprisonment. And for this reason, the prosecutors had ordered the arrest of dozens of intellectuals and activists for autonomy, including Negri himself, Nanni Balestrini, and other friends of Parenzo's. (Did you also want to start a revolution? " Revolution seemed like crazy bullshit to me. And I never understood how those intelligent friends of mine could believe in it . Toni still believed in revolution, even as an old man. By the way, I'm making a film about him.") And so the theory in those days was simple and delusional: Potere Operaio was actually the cover song of the Red Brigades. Negri their leader. “Absurdity. So absurd that, at that point, even Ugo Tognazzi could have been the Grand Old Man,” says Parenzo. So what did you do? “Of course I went to Ugo and told him: 'I think you could be the leader of the Red Brigades. Let's make a fake arrest.'” And he? “'Come on, your usual bullshit.'” But then he liked the idea. And what happened? “It happened that I got into trouble, because we really had to do it.” And where does Parenzo go? “ I contact those geniuses of Male, the satirical magazine . So I take the car, go to Monteverde, the neighborhood in Rome, and ring the editorial doorbell. Sergio Saviane and Vincino open the door for me.” The satirical journalist of L'Espresso and the most engaging and brilliant of Italian cartoonists. Did you know them? “Never seen them before. Oh, and Pino Zac was there too.” And what do they tell you? “They listen to that absurd idea, and they don't bat an eyelid. In fact, after the first three words, they say, 'Let's do it right away.'” Crazier than him. So? “So we go to Tognazzi's house, in Velletri. I know the cinema, I know where to rent police uniforms. I put on a fake mustache. Saviane plays Colonel Cornacchia. We go into the kitchen.” And there, the scene. “Tognazzi was cooking. Apron, greasy hands. When he sees us come in, he doesn't say anything. He slips into the oven. Literally. To hide.” The photos are perfect. “Paradoxical. Surreal. But believable.” The Evil graphic designers lay out the fake newspapers: La Stampa, Repubblica, Paese Sera. The next day, newsstands display those front pages on posters all over Italy. They fall for it too. “Italy fell for it. The morning of the prank, the commander of the Velletri Carabinieri went to Tognazzi and told him, 'We understand it's not true, but don't leave the house for two days.' And there were even those who said, 'We knew it! Tognazzi? He's always had a dirty face.'” Parenzo laughs. But the point, in the end, is very serious. “The only way to dismantle that absurd theory was to take it literally. Exaggerate it. Take it to the next level. If Toni Negri is the head of the Red Brigades, then Tognazzi is too. But at least Tognazzi knows how to make ragù.”

And how was Tognazzi with you? “Do you remember 'Il sorpasso'? The Gassman-Trintignant relationship?” Of course. “Look, I was Trintignant and he was Gassman. One evening he called me: Sandro, do you remember my father, Gildo, who's always getting me into trouble. He calls the supermarket, demanding the prizes, the ones with the Barilla pasta stamps, even though he hasn't collected them. And when they don't give them to him, he says, 'I'm Tognazzi's son'? - Sure, Ugo. I remember. And what did he do this time? - Is dead - Oh God, I'm sorry. - But that's not the problem. - Ah, and what's the problem, Ugo? - The problem is that now I have to tell my son Ricky who is coming back from Mexico today. - It's a complicated thing, of course.

- Here it is, go get it and tell him.

Gassman and Trintignant. And how did you come to write the screenplay for "Malizia," Salvatore Samperi's film starring Laura Antonelli? "I was a boy, just arrived in Rome. I wanted to be a set designer, so I started hanging around the cinema." The set designer? "Yes, I have a degree in architecture, but I immediately proved, with absolute certainty, that I'm the worst set designer alive. Do you know what it means to have bad taste and know you have it? There." A tragedy. "We had to set up a set? I'd put three beautiful objects in a room, and together they were crap... everyone noticed. Even me. So much so that all our houses were decorated by my wife." And "Malizia"? "Luckily I knew how to write. Although my father, who was a lawyer, still asked me, after I'd been working as a screenwriter for many years, 'How are the sets going?' Imagine that. He didn't even understand what I did for a living." But we were talking about 'Malizia'. “Yes, of course. Since I was a terrible set designer, but I liked cinema, I started writing screenplays . And the first one, based on a book by Giuseppe Berto , went so well that they asked me for a second one. They had to adapt a book called 'Fantozzi' for the cinema”. Wow. So you also wrote Fantozzi? “Oh no. We wrote it, but the producer rejected the idea for the film. 'It costs too much,' he said. 'Too many gags.' And then he ordered us: 'Make a film that doesn't cost more than 300 million.' Few exteriors. No resources. Total savings. We looked at each other, thought about it and thought about it again. And in the end we started writing the story of a film that dealt with things that had really been close to our hearts since we were teenagers: looking at waitresses' asses”. Which is more or less the plot of “Malizia”. “Exactly. With Samperi, we plundered Brancati. And it was a resounding success. The film came out the same year as 'Last Tango in Paris.' And it grossed more or less the same amount. They gave me a million lire. Which was a huge sum. And that's how I started working as a screenwriter for Tognazzi, too.”

And so, after "Malizia," success truly launched him. Many began to seek him out. Real producers, amateur producers, and even some who were only apparently producers. The line, in those years, was thin. And sometimes, something else could be hidden behind a film.

“One day I went to the Grand Hotel to meet a guy who wanted to finance a film in which his son had to star. I didn't know it, but this guy was Michele Greco. Known as the Pope. He was basically the head of the mafia. So, I got to the hotel and found everyone sitting on the same side of the table, like an examining board: Mario Merola, Michele Greco, Michele Greco's son named Giuseppe, and Franco Franchi.” And what happened? “I repeat, I still had no idea who this Sicilian gentleman was, very well dressed, who introduced himself as a landowner and who looked like he himself had stepped out of a movie. He said to me with a very strong accent: 'You see, Dr. Parenzo. I only have this son, who is the love of my life. What can you do, I'm sentimental. Well, he wants to be in movies. I told him to forget it, but there's nothing I can do.' And at this point he opened a checkbook. He placed it in front of me. 'You write the amount.' I didn't say anything definitive; I met the boy a couple of times. He was accompanied by Michele Zaza, who was a member of the Camorra. All things I discovered soon after. Basically, this Giuseppe Greco, the godfather's son, was taken into custody by the Camorra whenever he crossed the border into Sicily.” Who brought him to you. “Exactly.” And how did you get out of it? “By taking your time, with great courtesy.” And them? "And then they got fed up. In the end, I know that Giuseppe Greco, who used the pseudonym Giorgio Castellani, actually made that film. But with other producers and screenwriters. I also know that he later died, that he served time in prison for mafia crimes. But once he was released, he bought a movie theater. He showed that one film of his every day." And that too would be a film.

For Sandro Parenzo, forgery has always been an act of creativity, an artistic gesture, an intellectual provocation . “In Padua in 1966, I organized a series of exhibitions, some with Gaetano Pesce before he became very famous. The title of one of these exhibitions was something like: portraits of the best and worst Paduans. The people of Padua entered and found themselves in a room full of mirrors reflecting their own faces.” From that room of mirrors to television sets, the step was short, or perhaps only coherent. What for others is a lie, for Parenzo is a form of truth that comes through play, disguise, and disorientation. Thus, over the years, his “forgeries” become increasingly sophisticated, increasingly ambitious. Not just Tognazzi, the leader of the Red Brigades. In 1992, on Mixer, he proposed a column to Giovanni Minoli called “Facs,” from “facsimile”: similar to the truth, but not true. The first episode is a fake investigation into the 1946 monarchy-republic referendum, constructed like an impeccable historical documentary . “There were judges rigging the ballots to prevent the return of the House of Savoy. A moved witness reveals the hidden truth for the good of the country. Even a fake 8mm period film. The star evidence.” Real intellectuals participate, such as Stefano Rodotà, who lends himself to the game and casually recounts the alleged manipulations. “There was even a representative of the House of Savoy who said: 'We've always known it.'” Was he an actor? “No, he was truly a monarchist. And he didn't know it was a joke. But he believed in fraud. Just as I do, too.” Minoli airs it as a regular report, saying only: “Watch it to the end, there'll be a surprise.” But almost no one gets to the end. The scandal erupts. The President of the Republic, Oscar Luigi Scalfaro, is outraged. He calls RAI. “He asked for everyone to be fired.”

And then there was Zanicchi's arrest. We're on Canale 5, 1998, in the midst of a counterprogramming war with the Sanremo Festival. At the time, there was talk of fraud at the Festival, and the atmosphere was right. "With Maurizio Costanzo, director of Canale 5, and Emilio Fede, who was hosting, we decided to arrest Iva Zanicchi live. The footage started at the same time as the start of Sanremo. Everything was set up, even Iva agreed. There was a fake police presence, she was in handcuffs... But Zanicchi's parents saw their daughter handcuffed on TV and risked a heart attack. She called them: 'Mom, Dad, it's not true!' But they said: 'We saw it on TV!' They believed the images on the screen more than their daughter's voice." Good times. Today, you see something real and you're sure it's fake.

And as he speaks, sometimes the suspicion arises that Parenzo is making something up in this interview too. Especially when he says, "You could easily write that this is the only interview in which I tell the story of my fakes." What do you mean? "That the last time Panorama sent me a very good journalist to interview me, and I had her find an actor, Jacopo Capanna, who played me. He conducted the interview himself. He was the caricature of a vulgar producer. He'd force open drawers and pull out wads of banknotes. Because he paid everyone under the table. Then he'd swear on the phone, yell at his collaborators." And you weren't even there? "Yes, I was there, I reserved a cameo. I came in dressed as a waiter and spilled coffee on the producer's trousers." There.

There's a precise quality to Parenzo's irony. It's not cynicism, it's not sarcasm, it's not even a form of defense. It's perhaps something more ancient and profound. It's a cultural reflex, probably. It belongs to a tradition, a legacy passed down through laughter and trauma, like a mother tongue that isn't spoken but understood. A Jewish irony, in structure and destiny. Capable of saying the most painful things with a lightness that illuminates them, not dissolves them. "When they ask me if I'm Jewish, I say: half and half... Half Sephardic and half Ashkenazi." His family was exterminated in concentration camps. His parents escaped the Nazi-Fascist roundups by going up into the mountains. That's where Sandro was born, in 1944. "Then they ask me if I'm circumcised... Go find a rabbi in the mountains in '44." And he laughs, laughs loudly. His gaze is lively and dynamic. The eyes are sunken into wrinkled sockets, sometimes not unlike those of a chameleon.

And what does David Parenzo mean to Sandro Parenzo? “We've decided he's my nephew. Officially. So no one asks me questions. In fact, I don't even know if we're actually related. Our grandparents were cousins. But I've known him since I was a child, from Padua. He started with me, on TV. He spent seven years at Telelombardia.” And Sandro talks about David with his trademark irony, seemingly blunt, which this time doesn't mask the pain but reveals the affection. A bit like when he tells me that “I ruined Nanni Balestrini” (his great friend). In what sense did you ruin him? “He was a Milanese dandy, elegant and very well-mannered. Then I introduced him to Toni Negri, and he ended up wanted by the police.” But let's get back to David. “If you know David's parents, you wonder: ‘But how did that come about?’” In what sense? “That his parents are two very respectable and modest people. His father is a lawyer. And instead, they emerge as this creature ready for anything. I once heard an episode of 'La Zanzara'…”. Where David is a great pairing with Giuseppe Cruciani. “I was ashamed: we're not related, not even cousins!” You exaggerate. “He plays the punching bag, the Jew who suffers”. It's a stage role. He plays the leftist, who suffers. “Leftist, but Jewish… who suffers”. We're always talking about Jewish irony. And the violation of every principle of non-contradiction. In fact, Sandro then says: “We look a lot alike”. Exactly.

And how did you meet Berlusconi? “It was 1980. I was working with Cristaldi. One day, this Milanese businessman, who looked like he was from Brianza to me, showed up. Just another douchebag. He said he wanted to produce a film. Actually, two. Because he had this 'friend,' Veronica, who wanted to be an actress. He showed me some pretty risqué photos: 'Tell me how much it costs.'” Cristaldi, who was a gentleman, replied: 'To make a film, you need a screenplay.' So he asked who was the best. And Cristaldi, kindly, mentioned my name. And obviously, I wasn't the best. So it ended up with this Berlusconi appearing on the phone, making an appointment, and repeating: 'Congratulations, write me two screenplays.' The problem was that I was working a lot at the time, I didn't have time. So I procrastinated, and in the end he got bored. But a month went by, and he called me back: 'I'm Berlusconi, do you remember?' Then again: 'Would you do television?' And I: 'But television is RAI!' 'No, one more thing, come to Milan.'" Canale 5 began. "I take the car, arrive an hour early. I wander around Milano 2. And I understand that this man is not like the Roman property developers I knew: predatory and nothing else. There, among those tree-lined avenues, there was an intelligent urban planning idea. It was a beautiful place. Very beautiful. Then I begin to understand: do you see that this Berlusconi is not just any old bauscia from Brianza? I meet him. And he tells me he's hired Mike Bongiorno, that his television was born in a basement. He offers me to supervise the texts and content." Did he fascinate you? " He was seductive, imaginative, enthusiastic. And he paid well. In short, I start going to Milan one day a week, then it becomes two days. And in the end I stay ."

The first show? “Perhaps the worst in history: 'Domenica con Five'. Do you remember Five? He was that hideous puppet that looked like a dick with hair. Oh well. He was there, and there was the comedy group 'I Gatti di Vicolo Miracoli'.” That is, Umberto Smaila, Franco Oppini, Ninì Salerno, and Jerry Calà. “Exactly. The voice of the puppet Five was done by Marco Columbro, who wasn't hosting anything yet. We had fun making stupid jokes. At the end of the credits, I wrote: 'Thanks to HIS BROADCAST for his kind hospitality.' And what happened? “The production manager called me and said, 'You're fired.' Because I was making fun of the Cavaliere and his boss.” Instead, Berlusconi was having fun. "Of course. In fact, immediately afterwards, in an interview with Playboy, when they asked him what he wanted to be called—'Knight,' 'Doctor,' 'President'—he replied: 'For goodness' sake, call me Your Eminence.'" And so, too, "Your Eminence" was invented by Parenzo.

At that point, you no longer stopped at Fininvest. "We started buying films, almost all Italian cinema. Until we even opened television studios in Rome. At a certain point, I said to Berlusconi, 'Look, we need to produce in Rome too, not just Milan, if we want to grow.' And so he gave me a room in Rome: 'Try it for a few months.' Three months later, we took over an entire office across from RAI, with checks ready. To recruit the public company's television personalities. Corrado, who was waiting for his contract renewal, was one of the first to sign." And then? "Johnny Dorelli, Raimondo Vianello..." The list is endless.

And what did you make Corrado do? “'Lunch is Served'. An adventure suspended between craftsmanship and recklessness. We shot it in a movie theater. The Palace, in the Montesacro neighborhood. Without air conditioning. The first day Corrado arrives, comes in and says, 'You can't breathe.' So I buy ten ceiling fans. And I assemble them. It was ridiculous. When Corrado sees them, he laughs: 'Okay, okay... let's get started.' I produce five hundred episodes of Corrado, five hundred of Vianello who did 'Zig Zag.'” And is it true that you invented “Drive In” and not Antonio Ricci? “I produced 'Drive In' in 1983, the last year I worked with Berlusconi. And no, Ricci wasn't there. It all started with a phone call from Fatma Ruffini, the producer in Milan: 'We have this contract with twenty comedians, you do the show from Rome.' In a meeting, one of her assistants brought up the idea: 'Why don't we set it in a drive-in theater?' So, that's how it was born, in Fatma's studio. And without Ricci. Take the tapes of the first 'Drive In,' get to the end credits, and you'll see that Ricci isn't there.” And what were these sketches like? “Deadly boring. But Enrico Vaime, who was a television genius, came out with this: 'How long is this piece? Five minutes? Fine, do it in one minute.' And that's how the rhythm was born, that speed that later became the hallmark of the program. The director was Giancarlo Nicotra, someone who had already done sketch shows for RAI. There were Enrico Beruschi, Ezio Greggio—there was even Greggio's brother who wrote the sketches… And I had no contract with Berlusconi. None. I had started my own company, Eurovision. I made the bill. Basically, at the end of the year I wrote down a figure myself. And they paid me.” Everyone's dream.

But then you broke off relations with Berlusconi. “Yes. One day Leonardo Mondadori showed up at my place, accompanied by Carlo Freccero. They owned Rete 4. And he said, 'I know you want to go on your own. I'll offer you a billion if you come with us.' I replied, 'Well, a billion is a good reason to come to you. But first I want to talk to Berlusconi. I want to tell him.' And sure enough, I didn't sign anything. I left the Mondadori offices on Via Sicilia, here in Rome, just steps from Via Veneto. I went to my house in the Pantheon. And when I got there, the phone had already been ringing for who knows how long. All hell broke loose. Someone had told Berlusconi I'd signed with Mondadori. Even though it wasn't true. In fact, the next day they called me: 'Parenzo, it's better if you don't come to work. Berlusconi didn't take it well.' I'd never signed a contract with the Cavaliere, but they fired me anyway.”

Who told Berlusconi? “I have an idea: Carlo Freccero. In fact, Freccero told a journalist from Sorrisi e Canzoni, so that I could never go back to Berlusconi.” And you worked with Leonardo Mondadori on Rete 4. “Yes. But since I always get into trouble with my jokes, the work environment quickly became very tense.” What do you mean? “Well. I was there, manager of this Mondadori network, an environment of refined, elegant, polite, cultured, tie-wearing people—I'd say almost perfect. But with one flaw: they didn't understand a damn thing about TV. Absolutely nothing. And yet they made TV.” That could be a problem, indeed. “So it happens that the monthly magazine Prima Comunicazione comes along and interviews me. They ask me: 'How do you define Rete 4?' And I reply: 'The cemetery of the elegant.' After that, obviously, everyone stopped greeting me.” Who knows why.

But let's get back to the Cavaliere. He took the betrayal very badly. "For several years I never saw or heard from him again. Then we made peace, thanks to Giuliano Ferrara. I went back to work at Fininvest. Giuliano and I had decided to make a program called 'The Professor,' which previewed all the programs on Corrado Augias. So we made a first edition of this highly cultured program. We sent the tape to the Cavaliere. He watched it... And Giuliano and I always imagined this scene: Berlusconi watching the tape on two gigantic televisions, the ones of the time, cathode ray tubes. And he was so disgusted by this program, so disgusted that he kicked the two televisions. In fact, he actually walked right into the two televisions and walked around the room with the two screens on his feet."

When you worked for Berlusconi, you may have also met Fedele Confalonieri, Marcello Dell'Utri, and Urbano Cairo. "Of course. Dell'Utri has always been very fair to me. Even when I started my own business, he was kind enough not to crush me." What do you mean? "That with Publitalia, they could have strangled me in the cradle by dumping advertising prices. But they didn't."

And what was Cairo like back then? “I met him when he was Berlusconi's young personal assistant. Cairo was brilliant, with that weasel look he still has today. But I think you have to see a person play football to understand him.” And how did he play? “He played pretty well. We played at Arcore.” And…? “And he never passed the ball to anyone, except Berlusconi in front of the goal.”

For a while, in Milan, Parenzo earned a curious nickname: "The Red Berlusconi." When he bought a local television network, Telelombardia. When he became a publisher. Were you a communist? "I've always been left-wing, yes. And I still am, I think." And how did you become the Red Berlusconi? “When I bought Telelombardia, I negotiated with Mediobanca, which was selling part of the Ligresti assets. It was a period when Salvatore Ligresti was under house arrest. Mediobanca had to prove they were selling something of his. Essentially, it was two of the Ligresti empire's boogers: Richard Ginori and Telelombardia. So, I applied for the television deal. They asked for a bank guarantee. Everything was fine: I relied on Banca Commerciale, the price was twenty billion lire. But suddenly, all negotiations stalled. The bank manager said to me: 'Look, someone's got involved. They're afraid you're going to make a communist television station. They don't want to give it to you.' And who was blocking everything? “It was Ignazio La Russa. And I didn't even know who he was. The fact is, I found out he was on a sports show on Telelombardia, called 'Cartellino rosso.' You know, he's an Inter Milan fan and he likes football.” Of course. And what happens then? “I called him, set up a meeting, and we met in Rome, at the Circolo della Pipa. He said, 'You're a PCI man.'” And what do you say? “And I explained that wasn't the case. And that, in fact, I would have been happy if he had continued to appear on the show. I wanted to make a secular, non-biased TV show.” And he? “Very nice. He said, 'I don't believe you're not a PCI man, but maybe precisely because you're a PCI member, I trust your reassurances.' So, in the end, I bought Telelombardia and became friends with La Russa.” But first, Mediobanca had another request: that Parenzo also meet Ligresti. “He receives me with great courtesy and tells me he's very sorry to lose his television. So I say to him, 'Engineer, I've seen the financial statements. You lose two billion a year with Telelombardia. Why are you sorry to sell it?' And he says, 'Dear Parenzo, I sense you don't understand anything about television. Thanks to Telelombardia, I built half of Milan and elected two mayors.'” The power of publishing. Spurious. And what have you done with Telelombardia? “By not being a politician or a builder, I made money with Telelombardia. By only doing television. Telelombardia today is channel 10, channel 11, channel 12. In Lombardy, we're first, second, and third. In the dwarf ranking, we're the biggest dwarf. We provide news and sports. We do what local television should do. We only talk about AC Milan, Inter, and Juventus.”

But at a certain point Parenzo also attempted a national takeover. The purchase of the then Telemontecarlo, before La7 . Did you want to create the third television hub alongside Rai and Mediaset? “ The word third hub brings bad luck, in TV as well as in politics .” And Parenzo makes some apotropaic gestures. Are you superstitious? “Very much.” And so the purchase of Telemontecarlo, superstition aside? “I tried. Here, in this same office, we signed a pact: me, Angelo Guglielmi, Giovanni Tantillo, Bruno Voglino, Michele Santoro, Piero Chiambretti, Antonio Lubrano, Serena Dandini… practically all of Raitre. It was 1989. There's even a photo. The agreement was: if I manage to buy TMC, they'll all move to Telemontecarlo with me .” But you didn't succeed. "Telemontecarlo had ended up in the chaos Montedison. And the liquidator of Montedison was Enrico Bondi, the same one who will then reappear with Parmalat and the steel mills. A great character. The restorator . I can put together the capital, there are also cooperatives, Unipol ... in short, a great economic coverage. And then I'm going to talk to Bondi thanks to the lawyer Guido Rossi. Because it was a historical chance. And there I make a sensational mistake. I say: 'Nobody'. And he understands immediately. 'But in your opinion, I in the Casino della Monteison I take on the TV to someone who has nobody behind?'. He was looking for a political contact person, not an adventurer. A pirate, like me. The next day TMC buys it Vittorio Cecchi Gori. Maybe he didn't have the 70 billion that I had, but he was senator of the Italian Popular Party . "That missed opportunity never went down to him, in Porec." And in fact I tried to build a national television that competed in Rai and Fininvest. Close to 1994. I went to Carlo De Benedetti, who then controlled Olivetti. It seemed logical to me that a company like Olivetti could enter the radio and television sector. If you think about it today, Olivetti is Vodafone Italia, mobile phones and TVs are two connected sectors. "And how did you go? "That I arrived in Ivrea, I presented the project to De Benedetti and Corrado Passera who worked with him. De Benedetti listened. He took the notes I had prepared, he said to me:" Then with Passera we study the accounts "and bructly changed. 'You worked with Berlusconi, he read that he wants to go down in politics?', The engineer makes me burning. Think? '.' I think he goes on the field and wins'. And we laugh. "

Now, in the room overlooking the warehouses of the video, while the afternoon light draws slow reflections on the wood of the walls, Porec gives itself a moment of silence. The interview is over, but he remains there, sitting, as if he had just begun. A smile hints: "Do you know what is the beauty, in the end? That nobody ever understands if I'm telling the truth or if I'm inventing it". Then he adds: "But if you believe it, it works the same". He laughs once again. And for a moment, it is not clear whether he has just told his life or if he has only written - again - a magnificent script.

PS. When I arrive in his studio, at the beginning, before starting the interview, Porec welcomes me with a smile and a premise: "I wanted to do this interview because I have passed the eighty years. There are things about my biography that I would like to specify. I think I can say that this is the last interview of my life".

At the end of the conversation, after hours of anecdotes and paradoxes, of sketch and politics, he looks at me and ask me: "When does it come out?".

- "I don't know," I reply. "It takes a couple of days. It must be written."

- And he, with his Jewish irony: "Okay. I do not expect to die in the next two days".

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