by Garth Stein
Racers are often called selfish and egotistical. I myself have called race car drivers selfish; I was wrong. To be a champion, you must have no ego at all. You must not exist as a separate entity. You must give yourself over to the race. You are nothing if not for your team, your car, your shoes, your tires. Do not mistake confidence and self-awareness for egotism.
I saw a documentary once. It was about dogs in Mongolia. It said that the next incarnation for a dog—a dog who is ready to leave his dogness behind—is as a man.
I am ready.
And yet…
Denny is so very sad; he will miss me so much. I would rather stay with him and Zoë here in the apartment and watch the people on the street below as they talk to each other and shake each other’s hands.
“You’ve always been with me,” Denny says to me. “You’ve always been my Enzo.”
Yes. I have. He’s correct.
“It’s okay,” he says to me. “If you need to go now, you can go.”
I turn my head, and there, before me, is my life. My childhood. My world.
My world is all around me. All around the fields of Spangle, where I was born. The rolling hills covered with the golden grasses that sway in the wind and tickle my stomach when I move over them. The sky so perfectly blue and the sun so round.
This is what I would like. To play in those fields for a little longer. To spend a little more time being me before I become someone else. This is what I would like.
And I wonder: Have I squandered my dogness? Have I forsaken my nature for my desires? Have I made a mistake by anticipating my future and shunning my present?
Perhaps I have. An embarrassing deathbed regret. Silly stuff.
“The first time I saw you,” he says, “I knew we belonged together.”
Yes! Me, too!
“It’s okay.”
I saw a film once. A documentary. On the television, which I watch a lot. Denny once told me not to watch so much. I saw a documentary about dogs in Mongolia. It said that after dogs die, they return as men. But there was something else—
I feel his warm breath on my neck, his hands. He leans down to me, though I can no longer see him, he leans down to my ear.
The fields are so large I could run forever in one direction and then run forever back. There is no end to these fields.
“It’s okay, boy,” he says softly, gently, into my ear.
—I remember! This documentary said that after a dog dies, his soul is released into the world around us. His soul is released to run in the world, run through the fields, enjoy the earth, the wind, the rivers, the rain, the sun, the—
When a dog dies, his soul is released to run until he is ready to be reborn. I remember.
“It’s okay.”
When I am reborn as a man, I will find Denny. I will find Zoë. I will walk up to them and shake their hands and tell them that Enzo says hello. They will see.
“You can go.”
Before me I see my world: the fields around Spangle. There are no fences. No buildings. No people. There is only me and the grass and the sky and the earth. Only me.
“I love you, boy.”
I take a few steps into the field, and it feels so good, so nice to be in the cool air, to smell the smells all around me. To feel the sun on my coat. I feel like I am here.
“You can go.”
I gather my strength and I start off and it feels good, like I have no age at all, like I am timeless. I pick up speed. I run.
“It’s okay, Enzo.”
I don’t look back, but I know he’s there. I bark twice because I want him to hear, I want him to know. I feel his eyes on me but I don’t turn back. Off into the field, into the vastness of the universe ahead, I run.
“You can go,” he calls to me.
Faster, the wind presses against my face as I run, faster, I feel my heart beating wildly and I bark twice to tell him, to tell everyone in the world, to say faster! I bark twice so he knows, so he remembers. What I want now is what I’ve always wanted.
One more lap, Denny! One more lap! Faster!
IMOLA, ITALY
After it is all over, after the last race has been won, after the season’s champion has been crowned, he sits alone in the infield of the Tamburello corner, on the grass that is soggy from many days of rain. A bright figure in his Ferrari-red Nomex racing suit, which is covered with patches of the many sponsors who want him as their figurehead, their image, as the one whom they can hold before the world as their symbol, the champion sits alone. All around Japan, Brazil, around Italy, Europe, the world, people celebrate his victory. In the trailers and the back rooms, the other drivers, some of whom are half his age, shake their heads in amazement. To have accomplished what he has accomplished. To have endured what he has endured. To have become a Formula One champion out of nowhere. At his age. It is nothing less than a fairy tale.
An electric golf cart stops on the tarmac near him, driven by a young woman with long, golden hair. With her in the cart are two other figures, one large and one small.
The young woman climbs out and walks toward the champion.
“Dad?” she calls.
He looks to her, though he had hoped to be alone just a little longer.
“They’re big fans,” she says.
He smiles and rolls his eyes. The idea that he has fans at all—big or small—is very silly to him and something he has to get used to.
“No, no,” she says, because she knows his thoughts almost before he can think them. “I think you’d really like to meet them.”
He nods at her because she is always right. She beckons the two people in the cart. A man steps out, hunched beneath a rain poncho. Then a child. They walk toward the champion.
“Dení!” the man calls.
He does not recognize them. He does not know them.
“Dení! Speravamo di trovarla qui!”
“Eccomi,” the champion replies.
“Dení, we are your biggest fans. Your daughter brought us to find you. She said you would not mind.”
“She knows me,” the champion says warmly.
“My son,” says the man. “He worships you. He talks about you always.”
The champion looks at the boy, who is small with sharp features and icy blue eyes and light curly hair.
“Quanti anni hai?” he asks.
“Cinque,” the boy replies.
“Do you race?”
“He races the karts,” the father says. “He is very good. The first time he sat in a kart, he knew how to drive it. It’s very expensive for me, but he is so good, such a talent, that we do it.”
“Bene, che bello,” the champion says.
“Will you sign our program?” the father asks. “We watched the race from the field over there. The grandstand is very expensive. We drove from Napoli.”
“Certo,” the champion says to the father. He takes the program and the pen. “Come ti chiami?” he asks the boy.
“Enzo,” the boy says.
The champion looks up, startled. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t write. He doesn’t speak.
“Enzo?” he asks, finally.
“Si,” the boy says. “Mi chiamo Enzo. Anch’io voglio diventare un campione.”
Stunned, the champion stares at the boy.
“He says he wants to be a champion,” the father translates, misinterpreting the pause. “Like you.”
“Ottima idea,” the champion says, but he continues staring at the boy until he realizes he’s been staring too long and shakes his head to stop himself. “Mi scusi,” he says. “Your son reminds me of a good friend of mine.”
He catches his daughter’s eye, then he signs the boy’s program and hands it to the father, who reads it.
“Che cos’é?” the father asks.
“My telephone number in Maranello,” the champion says. “When you think your son is ready, call me. I’ll make sure he gets proper instruction and the opportunity to drive.”
“
Grazie! Grazie mille!” the man says. “He talks about you always. He says you are the best champion ever. He says you are better, even, than Senna!”
The champion rises, his racing suit still wet from the rain. He pats the boy’s head and ruffles his hair. The boy looks up at him.
“He is a race car driver at heart,” the champion says.
“Grazie,” the father says. “He studies all of your races on videotapes.”
“La macchina va dove vanno gli occhi,” the boy says.
The champion laughs, then looks to the sky.
“Si,” he says. “The car goes where the eyes go. It is true, my young friend. It is very, very true.”
acknowledgments
Thanks to the wonderful people at Harper, especially Jennifer Barth, Tina Andreadis, Christine Boyd, Jonathan Burnham, Kevin Callahan, Michael Morrison, Kathy Schneider, Brad Wetherell, Leslie Cohen; my fantastic team at Folio Literary Management, most notably Jeff Kleinman, Ami Greko, Adam Latham, Anna Stein; my resident experts and facilitators, including but not limited to Scott Driscoll, Jasen Emmons, Joe Fugere, Bob Harrison, Soyon Im, Doug Katz, David Katzenberg, Don Kitch Jr., Michael Lord, Layne Mayheu, Kevin O’Brien, Nick O’Connell, Luigi Orsenigo, Sandy and Steve Perlbinder, Jenn Risko, Bob Rogers, Paula Schaap, Jennie Shortridge, Marvin and Landa Stein, Dawn Stuart, Terry Tirrell, Brian Towey, Cassidy Turner, Andrea Vitalich, Kevin York, Lawrence Zola…
Caleb, Eamon, and Dashiell…
and the one who makes my world possible,
Drella.
About the Author
The author of two novels, How Evan Broke His Head and Other Secrets and Raven Stole the Moon, and a play, Brother Jones, GARTH STEIN has also worked as a documentary filmmaker. He lives in Seattle with his family.
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Credits
Jacket photograph © David Sutton / Veer
Jacket design by Archie Ferguson
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE ART OF RACING IN THE RAIN. Copyright © 2008 by Bright White Light, LLC. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Mobipocket Reader Apirl 2008 ISBN 978-0-06-164839-7
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