The ghost of victories past
The sounds of the party in the other room were a little muffled, but he could tell people were still having a good time. He’d come to the back bedroom alone, to reflect. Sitting on the bed, he hunched over and toyed with the whisky glass in his hands. Where was his career going? Williams clearly couldn’t prepare a car to his requirements and now there was no way of knowing what support Red Bull could give him. Except for liver problems, he grimaced.
What was holding him back? “Oh, God,” he moaned, turning his face towards the ceiling, “When will I claim my rightful place on the podium? What does Mark Webber have to do to make these teams give me the support I need?”
Exhausted, he slumped over towards the floor, his elbows resting on his knees. Just then, he became aware he was not alone. From the corner of his eye he could see a slight figure, standing diffidently near the far wall. Webber straightened and turned to face the man. “I don’t need anything tonight – you can have the rest of the night off.”
The figure didn’t move. His face was in shadow, but Mark realised he wasn’t one of his servants. He was dressed strangely, in old-fashioned lightly-coloured baggy pleated trousers, belted high on his waist, and a rumpled short-sleeved shirt and tie. Just then, the man moved a step closer, and his face, previously in shadow, was illuminated. He was slightly plump, and had an unremarkable visage, with receding black hair combed straight back. The difference was his eyes. Even slitted, as though from a lifetime of facing a bright hard sun, they were bright, intense and compelling.
Almost at once, Webber recognised him. But this was impossible. “Who, who are you?” he stuttered.
“Mi nombre es Fangio.”
Webber staggered backwards involuntarily. Fangio! “But, you’re…” he gasped, the feeling beginning to leave his legs. His knees buckled and Webber found himself on the carpet. Fangio stood above him, his smile a death’s head. “Muerto? Sí, soy muerto.”
Mark took a shaky breath and tried to hold the apparition’s gaze. “What, what do you want?”
“Solamente esto,” intoned the figure, “Only zis.”
And saying that, Fangio’s ghost seemed to stand straighter. He extended his right hand towards Webber on the floor beneath him, his pointed finger fixing on Mark’s astonished eyes. A wind seemed to lift and ruffle Fangio’s clothes and hair, though the room itself was still. The ghost’s eyes became brighter and harder, and Webber suddenly realised they seemed to be outlined as though driving goggles had been lifted from a grimy, oil-stained face. Slowly, the ghost began to speak, softly at first, but then louder and Mark was sure he could hear in it the sound of an engine’s roar, the ululation of the crowd and the high pitched scream of tires on tarmac.
“Webber, acepta que eres justo un conductor ordinario y nunca ganarás. Incluso el Botón es mejor. Ahora retirarte, cuando puedes calmar el modelo para Lowes.”
And he was gone. The room seemed lighter and Mark felt strength return to his legs. Tears began to drop silently onto the carpet. A laugh from behind the door reminded him that, beyond, the party was still going. Even though he had no Spanish, he, as though magically, understood the words the dead legend Fangio had cursed him with.
“Webber, accept that you are just an ordinary driver and will never win. Even Button is better. Retire now, while you can still model for Lowes.”
The whisky glass rolled away from his nerveless fingers.
What was holding him back? “Oh, God,” he moaned, turning his face towards the ceiling, “When will I claim my rightful place on the podium? What does Mark Webber have to do to make these teams give me the support I need?”
Exhausted, he slumped over towards the floor, his elbows resting on his knees. Just then, he became aware he was not alone. From the corner of his eye he could see a slight figure, standing diffidently near the far wall. Webber straightened and turned to face the man. “I don’t need anything tonight – you can have the rest of the night off.”
The figure didn’t move. His face was in shadow, but Mark realised he wasn’t one of his servants. He was dressed strangely, in old-fashioned lightly-coloured baggy pleated trousers, belted high on his waist, and a rumpled short-sleeved shirt and tie. Just then, the man moved a step closer, and his face, previously in shadow, was illuminated. He was slightly plump, and had an unremarkable visage, with receding black hair combed straight back. The difference was his eyes. Even slitted, as though from a lifetime of facing a bright hard sun, they were bright, intense and compelling.
Almost at once, Webber recognised him. But this was impossible. “Who, who are you?” he stuttered.
“Mi nombre es Fangio.”
Webber staggered backwards involuntarily. Fangio! “But, you’re…” he gasped, the feeling beginning to leave his legs. His knees buckled and Webber found himself on the carpet. Fangio stood above him, his smile a death’s head. “Muerto? Sí, soy muerto.”
Mark took a shaky breath and tried to hold the apparition’s gaze. “What, what do you want?”
“Solamente esto,” intoned the figure, “Only zis.”
And saying that, Fangio’s ghost seemed to stand straighter. He extended his right hand towards Webber on the floor beneath him, his pointed finger fixing on Mark’s astonished eyes. A wind seemed to lift and ruffle Fangio’s clothes and hair, though the room itself was still. The ghost’s eyes became brighter and harder, and Webber suddenly realised they seemed to be outlined as though driving goggles had been lifted from a grimy, oil-stained face. Slowly, the ghost began to speak, softly at first, but then louder and Mark was sure he could hear in it the sound of an engine’s roar, the ululation of the crowd and the high pitched scream of tires on tarmac.
“Webber, acepta que eres justo un conductor ordinario y nunca ganarás. Incluso el Botón es mejor. Ahora retirarte, cuando puedes calmar el modelo para Lowes.”
And he was gone. The room seemed lighter and Mark felt strength return to his legs. Tears began to drop silently onto the carpet. A laugh from behind the door reminded him that, beyond, the party was still going. Even though he had no Spanish, he, as though magically, understood the words the dead legend Fangio had cursed him with.
“Webber, accept that you are just an ordinary driver and will never win. Even Button is better. Retire now, while you can still model for Lowes.”
The whisky glass rolled away from his nerveless fingers.
posted by smith at 2:12 AM
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