There is a central figure, in the miserable tragedy that Italy is playing again before the startled eyes of the world, that no major American newspaper or English TV network can understand . Maybe only those who lived and grew up in Milan where Berlusconi also grew up and lived can hold this figure to exemplary. It is the figure of the “ragiunàt” (the accountant).
In the deepest heart of an empire as extended as it is “surreal” as the New York Times wrote, in the midst of shady lawyers of international calibre, skilled bankers, financiers who the sire might buy amongst the best in the world, the one who reigns is the one that all the news, media, internet only define with his position and the name: the ragionier (accountant) Spinelli. Because in Milan in the danèe, the little factories, the “Butega“(small shop) , the accountants has no name. The identity was in the qualification, unquestioned and proud.
The “ragiunàt” works in the shadows of the customer,scrupulously does what he is told to do within the rules, laws and regulations, so much so that the accountant Spinelli, by the first name of Giuseppe, is not even touched by the investigation or covered by suspects. People are exploring and rummaging through his books as now people rummage through the memories of the computers on HD, but no one would dare to indict Toshiba, Apple, Hewlett Packard or Dell because on the disks were found evidence of crime.
In the Milan of young Silvio, who has employed the accountant Spinelli for at least thirty years, since he was a forty year old rampant man, ethics touted by the “moral capital” were the ethics of the accountant, his beauty was the beauty of accounting . It was easier to suspect the wife or husband rather than the “accountant”, because on him, more rarely on her, rested the whole bases of the Milanese high society and its business, despite the ephemeral tunes from great cosmopolitan metropolis. I asked the accountant, the accountant told me, he knows how to talk to an accountant, send the papers to the accountant, people used to say in the offices of the smallest firm as well as the great Spa before the arrival of the avalanche of “MBA” to fool the poor “cumènda,” the managing director, with “asset allocation”, “swap”, “price to value,” “hedging” and “derivatives” and the end send him sprawling.
In the centrality of the Accountant of another era, who is emerging from clean from the sewage that even him had to write, there is the dimension of an insuperable provincialism. Silvio Berlusconi, the “doctor” in the language of business, may believe, when it is bathed in the halo of his admirers in the court of pimps on a taximeter, to be a giant in the world, a titan among the Titans, the Caesar Augustus of Brianza. But behind the flabellum, the spotlight, the billions, narcissism, he needed him, when there was something delicate and serious to be treated: the accountant. That is why the account must be surrounded and protected by the Great Wall of immunity. Because if in Milan the “ragiunàt” talks, than it is the end.