Fantacronache of a wedding

This article is published in issue 13 of Vanity Fair on newsstands until March 29, 2022

S.It was the ancient chronicles of his fake marriage that convinced our best archaeologists – assisted by a staff of doctors in cultural anthropology – that Silvio Berlusconi really existed in the beautiful Italian peninsulatoday almost entirely disappeared under the waters of the Sea of ​​Azov.

Until that time, the many artifacts found in the ancient Assyrian-Brianza Mausoleum, located in the center of the present rainforest of the Po Valley, led to believe it was an artificial idol, generated by a predominantly plasticized era, which modified the political devices along the western axis polluting them with media populism – contemporary with the idol, its four most faithful priests shone: Putin, Trump, Erdogan, Orbán – and of course sending the terrestrial oceans to ruin, up to the well-known climatic catastrophe of the democracies surviving liberals, since then, in the greenhouse.

Subjected to carbon 14 examination, the remains found in the Mausoleum sarcophagus had established that the idol’s hair was artificial, the cheekbones, the auricles, the lifts under the heels, the two dental arches and at the same time the mandibular mechanism capable of producing an almost infinite number of dazzling white smiles. Just as some internal organs were of synthetic origin, thanks to ancient manual surgeries, including the heart valves and those of the entire reproductive system.

Fortuna would have it that inside the Ark, under the heels of the body, documentary traces of a rite entitled “The fake marriage of Silvio Berlusconi” were found, so surprising and imaginative as to be consistent with the madness of those ancient and credulous times . So the fake marriage was real, as were its protagonists. It happened, to be precise, around the 1920s of the third millennium. In front of a three-tiered cake, a thousand white flowers, perhaps lilies of the valley, a grand piano, sixty guests, the sacrificial remains of a calf transformed into meatballs with celery cream for lunch, and a blond vestal transformed into a Lady Marta, chosen very young, since she was half a century younger than the idol, to play the role of fake-true bride.

The reasons for the rite – supported by consenting adults and dressed in liturgical feathers – still appear controversial today. There had been a planetary plague and the cheerful ceremony would dispel the last mists of the national depression with a collective liberating laugh. A bloody war was underway in Ukraine with the customary slaughter of innocents stacked in mass graves. And no rite propitiates the desire for rebirth as much as the marriage one that announces children, a home and mortgages. Last hypothesis, the most romantic one. The two betrothed truly loved each other. A Don Rodrigo Pier Silvio objected, threatening the use of hateful tax laws to prevent it. Not because he was in love with the fake bride, but because he was in love with the real estate. The two fled to a certain Villa Gernetto, far from the cops of the red prosecutors. Love triumphed. Everyone toasted, except the calf. The envious ones died.

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