It was his fantasy come true: to have the resources of the finest automobile maker in the world to build his baby, and the best driver to test it. And because they were both passionate men, Marza understood the old man and knew that this car was no bitch, no flashy tramp; this car vas a lady — elegant, beautiful, the perfect champion. So Di Fiere had named it Milena, after the one thing Marza loved more than racing.
Noviliano arrived last, and predictably so. He was a man of tradition, disciplined and habitual. He arrived at the factory, six days a week, at precisely nine o’clock, a large man, almost six-five, his weight wavering around three hundred pounds. Yet everything about him was impeccable. He wore an impeccable blue three-piece suit, with an impeccable red carnation in the lapel, and an impeccable white shirt with the perfect blue-and-red Countess Mara tie_ His steel-gray hair and beard were trimmed impeccably. Nobody had ever seen Noviliano in anything less formal, or his hair mussed or his tie pulled down.
Elegance was Noviliano’s trademark. He was the perfect playboy, and was, in his own way, as good an advertisement for his cars as was Marza.
He was carrying a wine cooler in one hand and three champagne goblets in the other. He didn’t say a word, he just came in, put the bucket on a workbench ,took the bottle of Dom Pérignon from it and popped the cork. He filled each of the glasses, handed one to Marza and the other to the Professor. A hint of a smile played at the corners of his lips but it was almost obscured by his beard.
Marza turned to the Professor. ‘Did you see that, signore?
Hunh? I think it was a smile. Yes, by God, it was definitely a smile. The great padrone has finally smiled.’ Laughing, he raised his glass. The three goblets chimed as they tapped.
‘Salute,’ Noviliano said, ‘e grazie.’
Marza and Di Fiere each took a sip and put their glasses back on the workbench.
‘I’ll be watching from the control booth,’ Noviliano said.
He slapped Marza on the back and kissed Di Fiere on the cheek, then the two men got in the car and buckled up. Marza turned on the ignition and cranked it up and pulled the stick down into ‘D,’ and the Milena rolled smoothly out on to the track.
‘What do you say, Professor?’ Marza asked.
The old man leaned back, smiling ‘with great contentment. ‘Ready. Finally ready.’
Marza dropped it into the ‘1’ position and started off. ‘We’ll take her around once just to get warmed up,’ he told the tower.
The Milena moved Out smoothly, the green lights on the digital reader changing constantly as the Professor punched buttons, checking speed, mileage, engine heat, stress. Marza took it around the track at 35 miles an hour. The engine had been broken in on the bench and it cruised quietly, responding instantly to Marza’s commands. He let go of the wheel for a moment, marvelling at its stability, then did the back stretch of the track, driving with one finger on the wheel. He jiggled the wheel, felt the car respond, stopped and felt it settle back almost instantly.
‘It drives itself,’ he said.
The Professor smiled. ‘Grazie.’
They started the tests. The car performed magnificently twisting through the slaloms at 35, 40 and 45. Marza was amazed at the stability of the passenger sedan. Di Fiere had made the conversion from racing car to street car with immaculate precision, losing as little as possible in the transition. The Professor was keeping a running tab on the mileage, and the car was averaging better than 60 mpg, dropping off to 45 or 46 when accelerating. On the straights at 50, the digital counter zipped up to 70.
Buonissimo,’ he said with great satisfaction as he continued to push buttons and carry on an almost whispered conversation with the tape recorder, making suggestions which he would later evaluate when he listened to the tapes. He noted a tremor in the front suspension at 40 mph which he attributed to a slight overbalance for torque; he suggested increasing the alcohol mixture in the injection system to increase the mileage three or four mpg; he made note of a whistle in the window of the right door, which developed at about 52 mph.
Occasionally it was Marza who threw’ in an observation: ‘We should think about softening the springs on her, they’re too tight now. She rides a little too hard.’
But mostly he drove and talked to the car under his breath and silently revelled in the fact that he was the first person to drive a car which might someday be driven by millions of people.
Then he felt the Milena was ready t show some stuff. ‘I’m a little bored with this,’ he told the tower, ‘we’re going to try some accelerations.’
‘Good, let’s see what she’s got!’ Di Fiere said.
V
Falmouth was glued to the superscope, his fingers punching the ‘Start’ and ‘Stop’ buttons as the Milena passed the markers, his eyes flicking from the eyepiece to the calculator, checking the speed. It had gone as high as 40 once, then dropped back down.
Jesus, isn’t he ever going to let it out he thought.
Then he thought, maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll just do some preliminaries and save the fast tests for someone else.
Sure.
This is Marza, remember, the fastest driver in the world. He’s going to open it up. Before he’s finished today he’s going to have that son of a bitch wide open.
The car pulled to a stop at the far end of the track, pointed toward Falmouth. It suddenly took off, pulling out smoothly. It passed Falmouth’s markers and he checked the speed.
25
35.
Okay, he’s into acceleration tests. That would have been zero to 30.
He’s getting restless.
Falmouth watched the car move around the track to the start. It slowed to a stop again. Maybe this time, Falmouth thought. Maybe now he’ll go for it, push it on up there, over 85 mph.
Falmouth was chain-smoking now and there was a thin line of sweat high on his forehead, along his hairline.
The car moved out again. This time Marza did zero to 40. Then he seemed to pick up speed going around the near curve. Falmouth checked it out on the back-stretch markers. He was doing 65 and seemed to be picking up speed as he approached the far curve.
Marza drove the Milena through the far curve of the track at 70 miles an hour, and it felt as if he were driving on the flats.
‘Fantastico! he exclaimed, pulling into the straight. ‘Let’s goose her up a little — what do you say, Professor?’
Di Fiere beamed. ‘You bet! Let’s pinch the lady’s ass, shall we? Slowly, now — don’t force her!’
Marza raised an eyebrow, as if to say, ‘Are you telling me how to drive a car?’ and when the Professor pulled his head down into his shoulders in embarrassment and said ‘Scusi,’ Marza laughed and assured him, ‘No offense, my friend, it’s the excitement.’
Di Fiere stared at the digital readout as Marza began to let the Milena loose, watching it climb fast by tenths of a mile.
75.5.
80.
80.6.
82.
85.
85.7.
88.
89.
On the front stretch, Falmouth had checked it out at 62.8, watched it zap through the near turn without even dropping a tenth of a mile an hour, and then zoom into the back stretch.