He found a cigarette and took the time to light it and draw deep before his attention came slowly around. “Franke didn’t make it, did he.”
The pit boss, DeFeo, kicked the ground with his foot, splashing a little spiral of dust. “Dead when they pulled him out.” Then a sudden burst of anger: “Didn’t you see me wave you off?”
DeFeo came around the car and pointed to the right front wheel. “Look at it. It’s shredding. You’d have blown it in another half-lap. I could see the pieces flapping for God’s sake.”
“But it didn’t blow, did it, Sergio.” He went to the front of the car and unbuckled the bonnet fasteners and lifted it back to have a look at the intricate confusion of the long Bugatti engine. Heat contraction made it crackle and ping. Little wafts of steam drifted up from the valve covers. He laid the flat of his palm against the steel bonnet and pushed it down.
The middle-down sun burned like a flame at his back. The horizons turned bronze. Enzione came over from his own dugout—grinning. “Beautiful driving.”
“Streicher’s getting too old.”
Enzione nodded; he was twenty-eight. “Lap time gets shorter and the young ones get harder and harder to beat. You and I, we’re getting old too.” He swung himself closer and dropped his voice. “None of us could see that much in the dust back there. Did Franke try what I think he tried?”
“Yes.”
“The pig.”
Felix had to go up to the winner’s box but there was something else first and when he walked up out of the dugout he turned to his left instead of his right. Enzione hurried to catch him, half-running on his thin short legs. “Don’t do it. Not now, anyway.”
“It doesn’t feel like waiting.” He left Enzione standing in his tracks and went along to the Mercedes dugout.
He walked right up to Streicher and hit the unflinching German in the pit of the stomach. When Streicher clutched the injury Felix clouted him across the temple.
Streicher straightened slowly. A sunburned wedge on his chest was visible within the triangle of his carelessly open jumper. He got his breath and said, “The answer to your question is no. I didn’t put him up to it. It was a suicide thing to do—he knew that before he began it. You could see that much?”
By not denying it Felix confirmed it; and Streicher drew a ragged breath. “Then use your head, Highness. He was too good a driver for me to sacrifice. I give you my word of honor. I had nothing to do with it.”
“What is the word of honor of a Nazi flunky worth on the open market these days?”
Streicher wasn’t going to be baited. “You ran a good race. Very good. You might consider joining our team—as you can see there’s an opening now.” He went even more dour: “There may be several in fact.”
Felix took one parting shot: “It was time you thought about retiring anyway.” He left that behind him; turned and walked heavily toward the winner’s box.
19.
He made his way through the congratulatory crowd, answering their hoots with a spare nod. An eddy of heat rose from his stomach; he was thinking about Erich Franke and the closeness of it.
He put the crowd behind him and advanced toward the officials-only car park with the hard sun in his face. Someone spoke to him and he replied with detached courtesy without breaking stride.
He saw two people silhouetted beside the gate; he said, “Well then—this is a surprise,” but he was too washed-out to put inflection in it.
Irina Markova’s eyes were kind; it was an unusual expression on her. “Was that deliberate—what the German tried to do?”
“Yes.”
He shook hands with Alex Danilov. Alex’s long face seemed distracted. “I need a word with you.” The tone of his voice made it more than an idle invitation.
He glanced into the car park. Drivers and pfficials were pulling out. He said, “Have you got a car with you?”
“Yes.”
“I was going to borrow DeFeo’s to get to the airport. Run me out there—we can talk on the way.”
Irina said, “Alex was going there anyway.” There was something poignant about the way she said it.
He said to Alex, “I thought you were cleaning rifles in Texas or something.”
“He came to his senses,” Irina said drily.
“Marvelous,” Felix said. “Then you’ve decided to rejoin our gay little band of Ruritanian fops?” He turned with them and they walked along past the wire fence. Cars shot past, throwing up dust. Someone waved and shouted at Felix from a passing roadster; he waved casually and went on talking to Alex: “I don’t know if there’s going to be much of a polo season for you. The war and all that.”
Irina said, “It’s rather more serious than that, Felix.”
He saw the open Mercedes touring car by the road. Sergei Bulygin loomed beside it in chauffeur’s livery. “My God there’s the old warmonger.” He trotted forward and embraced the old man; Sergei thrust him back and beamed at him and Felix said, “Home from the wars, are you, old friend?”
“Why I imagine that’s only temporary, Highness.” Sergei gave Alex a pointed look; Alex only smiled; and Sergei opened the doors of the touring car. Irina slid into the front and Felix found himself moving into the rear seat beside Alex.
Irina twisted around to face him. “Are you still flying your own plane?”
“Of course.”
“Where on earth do you find fuel for it?”
“If you’re filthy rich there’s always a black market.”
Sergei knew the outskirts of the Spanish capital well enough to choose the empty roads and they drummed along at a good speed with the wind dry and hot in their faces. Alex said, “It’s no good talking now. We’ll find a spot at the airfield.” It wasn’t altogether clear whether he was concerned about the noise of the wind or the presence of Irina and Sergei.
Felix said, “Well then let’s talk about something interesting like the recipe for an American dry martini. You do have one, I hope?”
The hangar’s makeshift toilet room was rancid with the smell of disinfectant. Felix leaned his forearm against the wall over the urinal and dropped his forehead against the back of his wrist.
It was like Alex to come out of hibernation in the Texas desert and trigger a volcanic eruption in his life.
After a while he rolled his head back and forth, stood up straight and went to wash his hands.
He spent longer at it than he had to. Looking at himself. The eyes against him did not dance; the high cheeks were impassive. He had a lot of straight dark hair and his eyes were a very dark blue: the face was precise lines and angles and he looked like one of those French cinema stars, the ones who played troubled artists who inevitably fell in love with the wrong women. The appearance of physical fragility was false; the cliché about women was true enough. Perhaps it was simply because he had been born to that physical stereotype.
Old enough to know better; nothing to show for his life but an empty royal title and a steamer trunk full of racing trophies and a juvenile penchant for foolish bravado, casual promiscuity, pointless trivialities, adolescent pranks. He was ten years too old for all that and he knew it but ordinarily he arranged his life so that he didn’t have to think about it.
He had a look at the towel and shook his hands as dry as he could and went back through the big cluttered hangar. At the mouth of it Alex and Irina stood two paces apart, not talking; the low sun threw their shadows across the tarmac like something out of El Greco. Irina held herself severely upright. A close-guarded distance held her that way. He had been surprised to see her with Alex again; he was not surprised at her evident reserve. Devenko’s death would have done that. Her shoulders were high and taut; her body had its graceful pride and her face was striking as always but less willing now to display haughty amusement. Her long fingers touched the vee of her collarbone; her neck seemed very long because her hair was done up high. Her beauty never failed to stir him but he had never made advances to her—partly because she was a bit taller than he was and that had always mattered to him.