background. He had carefully sat in the armchair furthest from the television.
Since his wife's death, the retiree had been suffering from depression and found that at his age, everything made little sense.
He had accepted Sandra's invitation as a courtesy. But now that he was there, he had to admit to himself that he found the company of all those excited and cheerful people pleasant.
After a row of bombastic commercials sponsoring the event, the theme song for Next Generation began.
In the living room, there was a loud buzz. Daisy, their little Daisy, was about to make her talent show debut.
On stage, dazzled by powerful lasers, appeared the slender figure of a young woman.
"Here she is. It's her!" screamed Annetta as she leapt to her feet, her finger pointed at the screen like the barrel of a gun.
"That's the announcer. Don't make a mess and stay down” her husband told her, pulling her by a flap of his shirt and making her butt plunge back into the soft cushions of the sofa.
"But when do they frame her?" Franz's wife asked impatiently, holding her hands on her chest, her heart beating with a hammer.
"It's still early” explained Adriano's uncle, the only one who regularly watched all the episodes of the talent broadcast on Channel 104.
"The jury presents first. Actually, they are the stars of the show. At some point they will call the contestants one by
one. The guys will sing and dance for a minute. The good guys go on for a minute. The others go home."
Adriano observed the group gathered around the TV. He knew they were to be considered his bodyguards. His mother had invited them in order not to leave him alone. Sandra called from Milan to see if everything was all right. Her sister reassured her. A quick hello to her son, and everyone crossed their fingers.
Sandra stood backstage at the Millennium Arena, more stunned than excited. Lasers were cutting through the stage. The head-clacks at the foot of the bleachers sweated under the headphones and waved to cheer the audience on, but there was no need for that as the screams, energy and frenzy were completely spontaneous.
Rows of screaming boys raised banners wearing t-shirts with photos of their friends ready to take to the stage to sing.
The presenter, sheathed in a sequined dress, announced the arrival of the Next Generation jurors.
The four of them walked down the bleachers through the bleachers in a forest of arms waving like reeds in the wind.
The chairman of the jury was Sebastian Monroe, the format's author, a coarse New Zealand producer called Gold Nose – a nickname for his unerring nose for finding talent, but one that also referred to his nasal septum, which had been tried for years on cocaine.
Sebastian, impatient with the rules of show business, where everything had to be politically correct, was a misguided, indisposed, often drunk guy; he had no trouble getting a whisky on the air, or arguing with someone in the audience. The only prohibition was smoking: if he showed himself in public with a cigarette in his mouth, the sponsors would abandon the program. However, a certain quarrelling and a few vices in the protected band were tolerated, if not even encouraged, since they usually produced record peaks in the audience.
That evening, Sebastian showed up with an unkempt beard, a t-shirt greyed under his armpits with haloes of sweat and a bad mood. The other jurors were three parvenu of show business. Jenny Lio was an African singer who had sold two million records thanks to a song that had been at the top of the charts in fifteen countries for three weeks. It was catchy, childish. No big deal. Jenny Lio's artistic biography was like a layer of honey. It's a pity that in her curriculum vitae was omitted an arrest made in her youth: getting caught in Tripoli with a brick of hashish hidden in her suitcase wasn't the best for those who, like her, sang cartoon theme songs.
The other star of the jury was Isabella Larini, famous not so much for her singing qualities as for being the interpreter of a recent summer catchphrase. It was a song to dance to with stale spanking, hands between her tits and winking touches between her thighs. On the beaches and campsites the animators had imposed Isabella's Dance. By the time the autumn arrived, everyone had already forgotten about her.
The last juror was Alessandro Boni, aka Circe. A Drag Queen with an imposing physique and excessive makeup. A brilliant conversationalist, but without any particular artistic talent. They had built a sadomasochistic reputation around her, just to add some substance to the character.
Circe had made the news for ruining the political career of a congressman who had fallen in love with her. Someone had filmed the congressman in a hotel room, completely naked, his ankles and wrists tied to the side of the bed. Circe was accused of kidnapping, harassment, and drug dealing. There was a trial, where the verdict finally spoke of ʺA sex games between consenting adultsʺ. The heads of the prosecution fell and Circe was acquitted in full. The result was one less congressman and one more TV personality.
Now, the four jurors, the souls scratched by human sins, were ready to judge the contestants in the race. The first artist was called Fernando Ramirez. He was a young
Mexican who entered the United States illegally before the Trump Administration allocated $2 billion to raise the walls along the border.
Fernando, once past the curtain, was caught robbing a gas station in a remote Texas desert town. ʺI had to eatʺ, he told the public.
Arrested and kicked out by the feds, penniless, he embarked on an adventurous journey that took him overseas. Now, for some years, he had been living in Rovigo, a guest of second generation uncles and cousins.
Fernando, with his olive skin and black, fiery eyes, after touching everyone with his story, began to sing. He had a rough and engaging voice, and the audience appreciated the performance by peeling their hands with a remote-controlled applause from the leader.
Three out of four judges found the performance convincing.
Sebastian Monroe voted against, explaining that in his opinion the boy was barely an amateur, a smartass who wanted to pity them with his sob story. The public booed outraged at that statement, and Sebastian responded with the middle finger. The web went wild. There was a hailstorm of insults on the socials, controversy raged and the share went up half a point.
Other competitors followed. Some were amazingly good, others were talentless, but eccentric enough to capture the public's attention. The authors of the program gave them a strategic location to raise the audience's attention.
They spent a few commercials inviting viewers to buy products that were voluptuous, but so seductive and captivating that they were indispensable.
After a flurry of dream cars, fine perfumes and designer clothes, the live broadcast could begin again.
The share was around eight per cent when Daisy Magnoli took the stage.
Her young, perfect, restless face, smiling, shrewd eyes, and short pastel-colour dress immediately attracted the jury's attention. ʺHere we are another creature who could lose his innocence behind the glittering world of show business, the judges thought, more or less, they knew they were looking at a potential character.
"Hey, everybody! Aren't you going to say anything? Isn't this little girl a beauty?" Sebastian Monroe exclaimed, addressing the audience who responded to his solicitation with a round of applause.
"Jenny, what do you think of this flower that suddenly blossomed on stage?" Sebastian insisted, repeating the lines on the monitor.
"A truly splendid lily, Sebastian. But I don't like your tone; it sounds like the hum of a bee hunting for pollen, if you know what I mean. And it's underage” Jenny remarked, scrolling through the lines written on the hunchback by the authors.
"Oh, come on, Jenny, you know you're the flower of my dreams” Sebastian replied with a resolution.
Circe didn't read any of the lines, preferring to go on the arm.
"Come on, dear Daisy. Why don't you tell us something about yourself?"
"Hello, everyone” smiled Daisy, who, in spite of her age and with