The appointment with Elly is at number 5 via Vittor Pisani. 3pm. There (it has been decided) he will speak with the journalists accredited to cover Milan Pride. She will not speak before, she will not speak after from the stage set up at the Arco. Only there, where the float waving the PD flags awaits her. And it is obviously there that – at 3pm sharp – the fleet of journalists, operators, radios, agencies, cameras, poles, microphones shows up, ready to beg the party’s number one for a comment (“do you want to not ask her about Fanpage?”) , a few jokes and maybe even throw in the real question that hovers: “But will he support Switzerland or Italy?”.
In fact, whether he is for the Azzurri or not, time is running out, but not even a shadow of Schlein. And the shade, at least, even if not Elly’s, would be useful here in the Milanese hood without sun and rain. Because the journalists, crushed like unseemly sardines between the PD wagon and the pavement, have to remain like this, huddled together and grossly sticky with sweat, around a hypothetical point where, shortly thereafter in perpetual lengthening, Madame Schlein should reveal herself. Ten, twenty, forty minutes. As.
So much so that from the Democratic Party bandwagon, up there where even Fontana’s cartoon seems to be looking with barely concealed pity, they take pity at the sight of a gasping press and begin to throw bottles of water, waving the cartoon «More love, less Vannacci. No space for hate.” But here it is precisely the space that is missing. That of rights. That of those who work. Those that Schlein in the flowery green shirt then praises. But they seem only in words.
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