We ran round to the back of the house where the pool was. It wasn’t nearly as big or as fancy or as blue as the pools you see in movies, though it was in every sense a Hollywood swimming pool. And there at the bottom of it, proving that the legend about floating Volkswagen Beetles was, at least sometimes, untrue, was Leezza’s submerged, waterlogged, earth-bound Beetle.
♦
The guys who knew about these things, Motorhead Phil’s technical crew, said the situation was retrievable. The car wasn’t heavy: a small crane could be hired to fish it out of the pool. With a bit of careful manoeuvring it could be put on the flatbed truck next to Barry’s Beetle. Then it could be taken back to Fontinella, stripped down, dried off, reassembled and it would be as good as ever by next Sunday, and then Leezza could do her jumps exactly as planned. Most of this proved to be true, but not all. There was one small hitch.
The crane was brought, the Beetle was hooked up, and they were soon putting the sodden, dripping, streaming thing on to the truck. Leezza, very concerned, a little tearful and very hands-on, was squatting on the flatbed, peering closely at the underside of her car, trying to see what damage had been done when the car went into the pool. Quite a lot it seemed to me. One of the tyres had burst, the trans-axle was askew and all the basic geometry of the chassis looked out of whack. Leezza was very close indeed to the car, too close, as we now know. While she was inspecting the damage, the crane driver, unaware of where she was and what she was doing, dropped the Beetle the last twelve inches or so on to the truck, and the front right wheel, the one with the burst tyre, landed directly on top of her right foot. If the tyres had still been inflated it surely wouldn’t have been too bad, and obviously it could have been a lot worse, but as it was, the solid metal of the wheel hub and the flattened rubber smashed down against Leezza’s instep, shattering three of her metatarsals. It would be a good long time before she was able to walk or drive again.
Twenty-Nine
Transvestism is a tricky word, a tricky concept and, as I now know, an even trickier reality. There’s no denying that as I put on Leezza’s flame-red wig and her flame-retardant suit with the big false breasts sewn inside, I did feel some frisson of transgression. I can’t say there was any sexual pleasure in that, in fact no pleasure of any kind, but I certainly did feel that I was doing something wrong.
I also found it hard to believe that I made a convincing woman. My gait and posture were surely all wrong and I thought the wig only made my features look even more angular and masculine. Still, as Motorhead Phil told me, red hair and big boobs broadcast a loud, clear message that tends to drown out the background hum of more subtle, more telling signals. He assured me that by the time I’d put on the crash helmet and the diamante wraparound sunglasses, the crowd (none of whom was going to get near enough to inspect me and question my gender assignment) would be seeing me as all woman.
This made him much happier than it did me, and I didn’t altogether believe him. I was also a little concerned about the ethics and potential consequences of trying to deceive a large, volatile, paying crowd of automotive-freak-show enthusiasts, but the truth was I had far bigger things to worry about.
Leezza’s Beetle would no doubt have felt awkward and unfamiliar in any circumstances — it was built specially to fit her — but operating it while wearing these odd items of feminine disguise presented a whole other set of problems. I was very glad indeed that Leezza’s outfit didn’t include high heels, hot pants, thigh boots or any of a thousand and one other possible female accessories.
I’d had only the very briefest amount of time to get used to the car. Predictably, the drying out and reassembling had taken much longer than predicted. I’d driven the Beetle just a few times around the lumpy, crumbling circuit of track at the speedway, but I hadn’t as yet made a jump. The one I was about to undertake, in public, in front of a crowd, ‘on stage’ as it were, would be the first of what I, and everyone else, suspected might be a very short series.
The freak show, I had been told, must go on. A broken foot, even Leezza’s broken foot, was no reason to stop the fun. The main reason the show had to go on, however, was because Motorhead Phil had sold an amazing number of tickets for the final Sunday, and it wasn’t in his nature to give refunds. As far as the audience was concerned the entertainment would be going ahead exactly as planned and advertised. A sexy red-headed woman would be jumping her car over Barry and an ever-lengthening row of Beetles, right up until the moment when she didn’t. Replace ‘sexy red-headed woman’ with ‘overwhelmingly nervous English novelist’ and that was what they were still going to get.
I had been chosen to impersonate Leezza because…well, not for any good reason that I could fathom, since there were surely people attached to the automotive freak show who had some experience of these things, certainly more than I did, since I had none whatsoever, but Motorhead Phil said I had to do it because the whole thing had been my idea. I knew that wasn’t true, and I did protest just a little, but Motorhead Phil was a hard man, an impossible man, to argue with. Given that I had none of Leezza’s skills or experience, the event did promise to be a good deal riskier, and perhaps more exciting, and far more likely to end in failure, although by this time, notions of success and failure had become impossibly confused in my mind.
I sat in the car on the speedway’s tarmac, and I tapped the accelerator lightly, revved the engine just a little. Even through my terror and cold sweat it sounded great. It was fiercely, violently responsive but not out of control. It was a beast you could do business with even if you couldn’t fully tame it, and when it came down to it, why would you want to? Its wildness was its attraction. It was ready to rock, ready to race, ready to soar, far readier than I would ever be, but our fates and our destinations were now absolutely connected.
I tried to remind myself of all the things Leezza had told me over the last few days. She had been my mentor, my driving and flying instructor, and if I was a slow learner, I was also — in the interests of self-preservation if nothing else — a studious and deeply committed one. And above all else I told myself what Leezza had insisted on from the beginning, that this whole thing wasn’t personal, wasn’t about the person in the car. It was about forces in motion, about the laws of physics and gravity, of trajectory mechanics. If you understood those and went along with them, the outcome was guaranteed.
It all sounded like perfectly good advice, in a way it even sounded reassuringly like common sense, but there was still the question of whether my alliance with these timeless, immutable, non-negotiable laws was all it needed to be. I had a pretty good idea of what I was supposed to do: what had to be done. I knew, at a theoretical level, all about the required speed, about the direction, the angle of ascent, about the required rate of acceleration, but I still had actually to do it. If I did it wrong, if I lost my bottle, well that would be the moment when, instead of the show being about immutable laws of nature, it would become all too much about me. And about Barry, too.
The speedway was packed. The crowd was excited and loud and beered up. Motorhead Phil made some kind of announcement over the PA. I wasn’t really able to listen, but I could tell it went on much longer than it needed to. DJ Ballard was manning the decks and was playing something he thought appropriate: could it have been ‘Moby Dick’? ‘You Are The Wind Beneath My Wings’? ‘Love Lifts Us Up Where We Belong’? I couldn’t make it out, and I didn’t try too hard. I had other things to do.