Silvano Cardellini I met in 2004 when it participated in press conferences that I organized. It came with a slow pace, his cap fell on his head, his glasses in the middle of the nose. His colleagues, if they saw him, I asked "Silvano is?" because if he was there, then there was the news. Otherwise, no. After the conference, he stopped to confabulation with other journalists, that is by turns ironic and respectfully asked him to cut that would give the article: here too, did the school. He had a very difficult when composing his phone number did you know that he would answer more than a 'yes' and you were playing in seconds. It seemed a bit 'grumpy - maybe he really was - and at first I awe of him. Sometimes I scold - "You can call me any time to ask if I received the press release!" - But he passed away and then, more available, I listened. So there was little because I wanted to become attached to him and raised him to the role - not that I ever knew - a teacher. One day they told me it was bad and I had also explained why: I addolorai much as I was delighted, after a long period of time, to review progress from the armchairs of yet another conference, greet me and take a seat. I remember one morning and the Sole 24 Ore North Center published a preview of a news story that we would give a press conference that day, when I called to see if he would come, he said reproachfully: "The news is burned, do not do this! Come to do What?" . Then came, took me aside and told me, to my great surprise: "I just came over to you."
Recently, when he struggled to move and he also felt pain - even if it gave you to see - I took him at a press conference in the car: we talked of this and that but not of his illness, of which perhaps there was nothing to say, because it was there, you could see, could feel it. Who does not know who it was, I introduced him as "Silvano Cardellini, the great journalist of Il Resto del Carlino", and were amazed to see small, bundled up, almost camouflaged among cap, goggles and scarf. One evening I had gone to visit him in the newsroom: Although the Pug had already closed the edition of Rimini, seemed to have more work to do. He stopped to chat a bit happy 'with me, then got a phone call. It was his wife who was waiting below: of a sudden - this is the impression that I drew - seemed to shrug off his mask as a journalist, his aplomb. He pulled up all smiles, his eyes shining. Planted everything there, as it was, took his coat and went down the stairs in a gallop. Followed him, I just said goodbye, he flew over the Piazza Cavour and lost sight of.
the day of his funeral in the Cathedral, when they brought out the coffin, one of the porters asked me if I wanted to support it. I said no, with difficulty, but I regretted immediately. No, because who was I to deserve this honor? I was sorry but much, because it seemed to deny him one last favor. And I had him, and how! Still think of it, and I wish I had: If I could I'd give it a happy phone call to explain everything. But that code should do to call you in heaven?
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