Dieci giorni fa ero in zona Tottenham per partecipare all’annuale hip hop free-style contest, quando sento il cellulare vibrare, proprio mentre ascoltavo la trasgressiva esibizione del mio amico Elament.
“Hello?”
“Gigi, it’s Eizabeth.”
“Aiuduing?”
“Gigi, come here as soon as you can.”
“Why? What happened?
“I can’t speak. Just come. Soon!”
Un’ora dopo ero davanti a Buckingham Palace; non avevo fatto a tempo a cambiarmi, dunque ero ancora nell’abbigliamento da contest: cappellino girato, canottiera dei Lakers e pantaloni extralarge col cavallo ad altezza ginocchio. La guardia, per questo, mi ha riconosciuto solo appena ha potuto riconoscere il mio viso:
“Ehi Gi, aiuduing man?”
“I’m fine. You still here?”
“I sent my CV to Hamleys, but they never called me.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll talk to the manager. Listen, what happened?”
“I dunno. The Queen has spent all day watching Italian television and reading Italian newspapers.”
“Has she?”
“Yeah.”
Mi ha fatto entrare in camera nel palazzo; un minuto dopo nella camera di Elisabetta. Occhiali da vista in volto, sguardo corrucciato, la mano nervosa che sfogliava freneticamente il Corriere della Sera poggiato sul grembo, Elisabetta era la versione ipertesa della donna rilassata che conoscevo.
“Ehi! What’s up?”
“Gigi. Gigi. Thanks for coming!” si è alzata subito per abbracciarmi.
“Tell me.”
“I can’t. I’ m worried about…about…” e ha sibilato “microspies! They listen to me. They listen everything I say. They intercept my calls, they watch my life. I don’t trust anyone.”
“Who are they?”
“I dunno!! Let’s go downstairs!”
Siamo scesi nel basement, nella stanza dedicata al suo tifo sfegatato per l’Arsenal.
“We are safe here.”
“What happened?”
“Gi. You know about Prince Vittorio Emanuele? He is jailed in Potenza. You know about his calls, about his flirts, about his life?”
“Yes, I heard of it.”
“Gi, honestly. When you were in Italy, have you ever heard something about him I was involved in some way?”
“No. Apart from his position. He was supposed to be King of Italy if Italian citizen hadn’t voted for the republic, ages ago.
“Yes yes I know. I mean…something more private.”
“No. But why?”
“…”
“Come on.”
“Gi, this thing will stay here, as true as David Beckham is the best footballer in the world.”
“Mmhhh. Yeah… sure. As true as…that.”
“Once I and Vittorio Emanuele had a flirt. I was young, he was very attracting, a rampant guy in his twenties…I accepted. He told me about a revolution. He was organising a revolution in Italy, to take over the nation. He looked so brave, so resolute. We spent a night together, then he went to Switzerland, where his monarchic army was settled.”
“I studied Italian history. I’ve never heard about a monarchic revolution? I think he just wanted to impress you.”
Lei ha abbassato lo sguardo.
“I know. Now.”
“Have you ever heard from him anymore?”
“No. Never. Tell me. In his interception did he ever mention me?”
“Oh my God… Yes! He talked about a girl called Elisabetta. He called her “the notty Elisabetta.”
“It was me. Fucking hell Gi, if all this story will spread out, I’ll be finished! Can you imagine what a scandal! I betrayed my husband for a pretentious revolutionary who just wanted to…no no no!” ha iniziato a piangere. Era da quando l’Arsenal ha perso la Coppa Campioni contro il Barcellona che non la vedevo così disperata. E solo le sue lacrime mi hanno aguzzato la mente in cerca di una soluzione subito arrivata.
“Listen. There are some Italian show girls with your same name.”
“Give me one name.”
Le ho dato il primo nome che avevo in mente, associato mentalmente ad uno dei calendari migliori degli ultimi anni. La Regina ha poi aperto un armadio da dove ha tirato fuori un telefono rosso coperto da una cupola di vetro.
“What’s that?”
“It’s the Royal line. I need it when something very very bad is happening. And now something very very very bad is going on. You can call only other monarchs with this line, or people who aspire to be. You know, just in case of revolutions and stuff like that. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah. Something like the Bat telephone of Inspector Gordon?”
“Yes yes. Something like that. Let me call now.”
Ho ascoltato bene cosa diceva:
“Hi, can I speak with Emanuele Filiberto…hi darling aiuduing…please tell your father to find a covering for that name…I don’t want to be involved…I have a name if you want…which reputation do you think it’s more important? Mine or hers?…Tell Vittorio he’ll became King of the Isle of Wight if he’ll do that…Thank you.”
La Regina ha chiuso la cornetta con un sospiro di sollievo.
“He’ll talk with his father. Hopefully in a few days all this mess will be over. Thanks Gigi anyway.”
Mi ha abbracciato riconoscente. Io per un attimo ho avuto la tentazione di chiederle un’onorificenza, ma poi ho realizzato che la più grande onorificenza era quella di risolverle ogni mese qualche casino.
Qualche giorno dopo sui giornali è spuntata la notizia che Elisabetta Gregoracci è implicata nel giro di donne di Vittorio Emanuele di Savoia. Lei ha smentito, dicendo che è stata tirata in mezzo. Quando ho chiamato la Regina per congratularmi per la sua audace diplomazia, mi ha risposto il maggiordomo:
“Hi Gi. No, the Queen is in her room with Flavio. She asked me not to disturb for any reason.”
”Who is Flavio?”
“You don’t know Flavio? He is the rich guy who wants to start a revolution to turn Sardinia into his monarchy.”
Quell’ingenua della Regina!
