Mario Marius Stroppa
Ruzante is the name they gave me but, I wanted to be called Mario.
And now that I am a ghost, to those who ask me my name I answer, in fact, Mario.
I am restless, always looking for things to do.
But after sixty years I don't have much to discover in the Pandino castle, of which I know each stone, wood, crevice and hiding place.
But I'm fond of it.
When the red moon rises in the sky, I cannot sit still and I feel like running; and the harder I run, the more my legs increase in number, so that anyone who hears me running thinks there are many horses.
Instead it's just me, Mario.
Every seven years - luckily for me time flies like flying machines - the horses of Erminio and Andrea come to see me, with whom I play football using slightly dented stone spheres that are everywhere.
We bring them together in the courtyard using the twentyfour arches as doors. We have a lot of fun, but the kids who insist on kicking stone balls, not really.
My knight knew the subtle art of moving in a bird's eye view with the imagination, through time and not space.
He scrutinized the art to come in terms of centuries, transferring its idea into reality. His name was Marius, almost like me.
He, Marius, was a great Artist and like all great men, humble. He created for his inexhaustible thirst for the search for the new and the beautiful, so much so that, for contingent reasons, he accepted that others would sign some of his creations (I never understood the essence).
In the end, he took refuge in a room in the tower of the Pandino castle, where he lived a simple life, but still too much robbed of his creative genius.
Every ten years a fantastic thing happens. All the works conceived by Mario and signed by other characters, apparently change their appearance: the signature on the table becomes his, as is sacrosanctly right.
In a few days the prodigy will repeat itself.
Alvaro Mario Ferlenghi