But no. I ignore the line for the decreasing radius hairpin and position myself at her right rear tire again—she’s passed me—she’s in the high chute faster than she’s prepared for, judging by the way her rear end is chattering, almost a skid. Ah, the speed she made in the straight was meant to spook me, but she wasn’t ready for my being so close, it’s spooked her instead.
Coming out, I squeeze into second and roll to the inside, blow by the wallowing Formula E.
For the rest of the lap—through the short straight, the elevated S’s, the back straight, and reentry turns—we run at a smooth and even hundred, she wants me alongside and I accede. Without turning I can see in the periphery of my vision her helmet turned toward me. Coming into the flying start the tunnel of motion surrounds us both, I concentrate on my breathing, take it down from fifth to slow us both, I know this is annoying her. She does seem shaken by her mistake—but she can afford a mistake and still take the lap we are about to run.
A hundred meters from Massimo, who’s energetically waving the flags, I brake hard, pop behind, and switch sides, jam the throttle. As we cross Massimo’s lap line and the race begins I am above Steiner on the track. She’s lost me until she looks for her own line in the S’s—but that’s where I am, up on her right, the Ferrari doesn’t belong up here and the wheel fights the track. But the Formula E has to slow, and I drop in front of it.
My mirror shows her inches behind—and I tap the brakes. The Ferrari weaves and her pass is disabled; I downshift, downshift, tap the brakes again, take us out of the S’s in what seems like slow motion, is slow motion, down to forty. We begin the run at the straight, but this time she is far below her torque range. I have the Ferrari’s sweet spot in third, then fourth, and before she can catch me I’ve picked up a few seconds, then move up behind to get sucked into her slipstream, the hairpin ahead.
We are both sliding too much in this turn, its radius decreasing, becoming sharper and sharper, I bang my hand and jam a shift, the wheel is pulling fiercely. Still, I get below and out again, the Ferrari so flawlessly smooth as I get on it that the blur of acceleration makes me feel as if I am flying over the track, flying toward the elevated S’s.
I almost lose control—wind, a gust of wind?—my mind registered nothing, had to have been blank—the Ferrari breaks loose, I feel a stab of panic drifting up to the Formula E, passing but then behind in its slipstream inches behind the black car, the Ferrari straightens out and Eva pulls the two of us tail to nose into the approaching curves.
Ice grips my heart—for an instant out of control, had I not been caught by the Formula E’s slipstream, who knows, I don’t remember just why I broke loose—but now, surfing through the elevated S’s, the car is in full communication with the paving, responds perfectly, tracks its line as a sailboat in perfect trim sails itself. My breathing settles back to something like normal. Inches behind the Formula E, these turns so wide my advantage is to use her greater speed by riding her vacuum, I gain seconds this way and I ride close, the inch between us a static moment amid the smear we scream through, so close that she cannot shake me until two hundred meters into the back straight. She begins to pull away meter by meter, the distance between us increasing more and more rapidly when I lose the vacuum from her tail. But I think she is too late, the straight won’t be long enough for her to get what she needs for the last rights and lefts that will finish the race.
By turn eight, three to go, I am back at her right rear wheel, up on the high side of the track, teasing her line and watching her rear end chatter and slip. I can take it down to the Ferrari’s proper line and get by, but I wait, want her higher still, push her through the next two turns.
I know I’ve won; I tell myself, Easy, now, as we perch up for the last left, shift down a gear and right into the center of the sweet spot of maximum torque as I aim the nose for the lowest line I can imagine and slip by her, through the chute and thrown out by its massive G’s propelled dead center on the track, booming toward the checkered flag, Eva Steiner a length or more behind—like tick-tack-toe, lady, and I had the first move—cross the line, I am exhilarated, high out of my mind, float through a victory lap on the sunbathed track, barely make that on the gas I’ve got remaining.
I guzzle from a split of Asti Spumanti, accepting Massimo’s congratulations, I am radiant. What driverly moves in the final turns, Massimo tells me, not a mistake. Why did I drift up in the first straight? Reckless but somehow right, since I gained time. What a triumph for the Ferrari, he laughs expansively, trionfo, vittoria.
This is genuine pleasure, I tell him, impossible to program, dazzling to grasp.
Pulling into the pits, I saw Collette in the first row of the grandstand, wide-eyed and carriage erect as I have not seen her since our first meeting.
Helped from the cockpit of the black Formula E, Eva Steiner is ashen, a pallor to her face visible under the sweat-smeared grime.
“Si raccoglie quel che si semina,” Massimo says.
“Which means?”
“How you say? If you dig the pit, you will fall into the pit.”
She pulls her racing helmet from her head, swings it by its chin strap, arches, and slams it into the car—then lets the helmet fall clattering to the concrete floor.
“You drove well, Eva,” Massimo says kindly.
She takes a long breath and glares at him, at me. “I’m mortified, of course,” she says to me. “But you’re reckless. I didn’t see that in you, but you’re reckless, you’re dangerous, now I can see that in your eyes. You nearly killed us both in the first straight.”
I slosh some wine in my mouth and watch her expression. I still don’t know what happened there, and it seems inconsequential; something happened, yes, the Ferrari was out of control, but from that error I locked into her slipstream and perhaps won the race because of it.
The skin surrounding her gray eyes is creased with fatigue, but her head is erect and her lips tight. “I might have won with my own car,” she says bitterly. “I could have pulled far enough away from you. Such a race isn’t worth my life.” She is motioning toward the chain-link gate, to the pasty, older man looking after the women of her entourage.
“Campari?” Massimo offers. “Eva, you drove well, you have no need to be ashamed. Rawley has run the lap in 202. 202!! That is faster than my own best time.”
“Perhaps you will allow me to make some arrangements,” she says to me. “I’m not so sure I feel bound by our agreement. You’re a dangerous man, I can see it in your eyes, I don’t trust you. You tried to kill me in the straight.”
“Now, Eva,” Massimo says, “such things can be in a race, do not misunderstand—”
“Prego,” I say, interrupting him, I talk to Eva Steiner. “I never did like your game. You’re about as interesting a prize as a lovesick Doberman. Tell your man to bring those women over here. Maybe we can reach a compromise.”
An anger rises in my blood as I stand before Collette, look from her body to her face. Her hair is tucked under a vaguely military hat the same charcoal as the severe suit she wears; she looks severe, but passion and fright bleed through the glaze of her green eyes. Her lips—her lips are in almost an inviting smile, full and glossy, they compress as I squint every so slightly at her. When I ask her to turn and she does, she ends up facing me but not looking at me now, her lips tightly drawn, her face paling. Her whole bearing, the scent of her, the warm familiarity of her face so close to mine, make my heart skip a beat. I exhale nervously and turn away.