An italian week

Source: the Times

My Week: Silvio Berlusconi
According to Hugo Rifkind

Lunedi “A tape?” I say to my private secretary. “Impossible!” My private secretary is loyal. Without my patronage, she would still be predicting cold fronts on Il Bazookas!, Italy’s finest, nude, cable weather channel, which I own. Normally, she is a fine girl, firm-buttocked and unflappable. But today, standing there in her miniskirt, on the huge mirror that covers the floor surrounding my desk, she looks distinctly uncomfortable. “It does not sound like a fake, Signor Berlusconi,” she says.

“But where could she have put the tape recorder?” I ask. My private secretary says she doesn’t know. “The things we did,” I breathe. “It is not possible. I shall draw you a diagram.” My private secretary says this won’t be necessary.

“Anyway,” I continue. “I have nothing to hide. What does this so-called tape have me say?” My private secretary blushes and says something about a bed.

“A flower bed?” I suggest. “Clearly I was considering making her Minister for Agriculture!” “You called it the Putin bed,” she says. “You said it had curtains.” “These Russians!” I say, grandly. “Notoriously flashy gardeners.” “And anyway,” says my private secretary, “you made me Minister for Agriculture. Remember? When I wore those heels.”

Martedi I am hiding out in my office. In the morning, Putin calls. He’s pretty angry. “Now whole vorld is knowing that Putin bed is next to Silvio bed,” he says. “I am looking nancy. Thees schleepover voz to be our secret. If you say I cry at scary ghost stories, I deny everything. Lasht varning. Or no more gas for Italy.”

“He is just bitter,” I say to my private secretary, once he has hung up. “Because all his women look like potatoes! Ha!” My private secretary says that I ought to stop making jokes like that.

“This is becoming a real issue,” she says. “Especially for women voters. They’re starting to think you might be a misogynist.” “A misogynist?” I scoff. “Even with so many hot pieces of ass in my Cabinet?” “Even so,” says my private secretary.

She’s not thinking straight. Misogynist indeed. It must be her time of the month.

Mercoledi Still in the office. A Cabinet meeting. It’s an unusually terse and uncomfortable affair, mainly because, unusually, we're not having it in a hot-tub. Even so, I still allow all the women to wear tiny bikinis, and rub sun cream into each other as much as they like.

Misogynist indeed.

Giovedi My God. Can it be true? Apparently there is another tape!

“Seriously,” I say to my private secretary, when she wakes me up on the sofa. “It’s just not physically possible. The woman must work in a circus.”

My private secretary rubs her eyes. Perhaps, she says, it’s time for a new strategy. One tape even suggests that I don’t usually use condoms, for heaven’s sake. It doesn’t look good. So, my press officer has decided that maybe it’s time to sound contrite. Release a statement.

To all newspapers. Not just the ones I own. “And no jokes,” she continues. “OK?” “Fine,” I sigh. “Tell them I’m not a saint.” My private secretary writes this down.

“Although,” I add, “a saint wouldn’t use a condom either, eh? Eh?” “Oops,” says my private secretary, grimly, “broken pencil.”

Venerdi Another night in the office. Where else can I go? I have many homes, but they are all full of young women in bikini bottoms and big sunglasses, who spend their time drinking champagne and calling me Papi. I’m suddenly worried that they might all have tape recorders. Somewhere. Would a misogynist find himself in a situation like that?

All the same, I’m lonely. Who can I invite over, without causing scandal? I pick up the phone, and dial Moscow.

“Vladimir,” I say. “Fancy a sleepover? Scary ghost stories? I’m sleeping on the sofa, but there’s another sofa for you.”

“Will it have curtains?” says Putin, sulkily.

“Sure,” I say.

Putin says he’ll be here in time for a midnight feast.