The Art of Racing in the Rain

by Garth Stein

  Denny plopped more cookies, almost as if he had forgotten about the telephone call.

  “My assistant will be in touch with you, Denny. We will expect to see you in a few weeks.”

  “Yes, Luca, thank you.” Plop, plop. “Luca.”

  “Sí?”

  “Now will you tell me why you offered me the job?” Denny asked.

  Luca said, “I will tell you. Many years ago, when my wife passed away, I almost died from grief.”

  “I’m sorry,” Denny said, no longer working the cookie batter, simply listening.

  “Thank you,” Luca said. “It took me a long time to know how to respond to people offering their condolences. Such a simple thing, yet filled with much pain. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I do,” Denny said.

  “I would have died from grief, Denny, if I had not received help. If I had not found someone who offered me his hand. Do you understand? My boss at this company offered me a job driving cars for him. He saved my life. Not merely for me, but for my children as well. This man passed away recently—he was very old. But still, sometimes I see his face, I hear his voice, and I remember him. What he offered me is not for me to keep, but for me to give to another. That is why I feel very fortunate that I am able to offer my hand to you.”

  Denny stared at the phone as if he could see Luca in it.

  “Thank you, Luca, for your hand, and for telling me why you have offered it.”

  “My friend,” Luca said, “the pleasure is entirely mine. Welcome to Ferrari. I assure you, you will not want to leave.”

  They said their good-byes, and Denny pressed the button with his pinkie. He crouched down and held out his sticky hands for me, and I obligingly licked them clean.

  “Sometimes I believe,” he said to me as I indulged in the sweetness of his hands, of his fingers, of his opposable thumbs. “Sometimes I really do believe.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  The dawn breaks gently on the horizon and spills its light over the land. My life seems like it has been so long and so short at the same time. People speak of a will to live. They rarely speak of a will to die. Because people are afraid of death. Death is dark and unknown and frightening. But not for me. It is not the end.

  I can hear Denny in the kitchen. I can smell what he’s doing; he’s cooking breakfast, something he used to do all the time when we were a family, when Eve was with us and Zoë. For a long time they have been gone, and Denny has eaten cereal.

  With every bit of strength I have in my body, I wrench myself to a standing position. Though my hips are frozen and my legs burn with pain, I hobble to the door of the bedroom.

  “Yo, Zo!” he calls to me when he sees me. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like crap,” I reply. But, of course, he doesn’t hear me.

  “I made you pancakes,” he says, cheerfully.

  I force myself to wag my tail, and I really shouldn’t, because the wagging jostles my bladder and I feel warm droplets of urine splash my feet.

  “It’s okay, boy,” he says. “I’ve got it.”

  He cleans up my mess and tears me a piece of pancake. I take it in my mouth, but I can’t chew it, I can’t taste it. It sits on my tongue limply until it finally falls out of my mouth and onto the floor. I think Denny notices, but he doesn’t say anything; he keeps flipping the pancakes, setting them on the rack to cool.

  I don’t want Denny to worry about me. I don’t want to force him to take me on a one-way visit to the vet. He loves me so much. The worst thing I could possibly do to Denny is make him hurt me.

  When I return to this world, I will be a man. I will walk among you. I will lick my lips with my small tongue. I will shake hands with other men, grasping firmly with my opposable thumbs. And I will teach people all that I know. And when I see a man or a woman or a child in trouble, I will offer my hand. To him. To her. To you. To the world. I will be a good citizen, a good partner in the endeavor of life that we all share.

  I go to Denny, and I push my muzzle into his thigh.

  “There’s my Enzo,” he says.

  And he reaches down out of instinct; we’ve been together so long, he touches the crown of my head, and his fingers scratch at the crease of my ears. The touch of a man.

  My legs buckle and I fall.

  “Zo?” He is alarmed. He crouches over me. “Are you okay?”

  I am fine. I am wonderful. I am. I am.

  “Zo?”

  He turns off the fire under the frying pan. He places his hand over my heart. The beating that he feels, if he feels anything at all, is not strong.

  In the past few days, everything has changed. He is going to be reunited with Zoë. I would like to see that moment. They are going to Italy together. To Maranello. They will live in an apartment in the small town, and they will drive a Fiat. Denny will be a wonderful driver for Ferrari. I can see him, already an expert on the track because he is so quick, so smart. They will see his talent and they will pluck him from the ranks of test drivers and give him a tryout for the Formula One team.

  “Try me,” he will say, and they will try him.

  They will see his talent and make him a driver, and soon, he will be a Formula One champion just like Ayrton Senna. My Denny!

  I would like to see that. All of it, beginning this afternoon when Zoë arrives and is once again together with her father. But I don’t believe I will get the chance to see that moment. And, anyway, it is not for me to decide. My soul has learned what it came to learn, and all the other things are just things. We can’t have everything we want. Sometimes, we simply have to believe.

  “You’re okay,” he says. He cradles my head in his lap. I see him.

  I know this much about racing in the rain. I know it is about balance. It is about anticipation and patience. I know all of the driving skills that are necessary for one to be successful in the rain. But racing in the rain is also about the mind! It is about believing that one’s car is merely an extension of one’s body. It is about believing that you are not you; you are everything. And everything is you.

  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. They 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 feel his warm breath on my neck, his hands. He lea
ns 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.

  That 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, Denny 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 racing suit. All around 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, indicating her passengers.

  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. “Dení! We hoped to find you here!”

  “Here I am,” 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.

  “How old are you?” he asks.

  “Five,” 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.”

  “Good,” the champion says, “very good.”

  “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.”

  “Of course,” the champion says to the father. He takes the program and the pen. “What’s your name?” 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.

  “Yes,” the boy says. “My name is 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.”

  “Excellent 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. “Excuse me,” 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.

  “What’s this?” 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.”

  “Thank you! Thank you very much!” 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.

  “Thank you,” 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.

  “Yes,” 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 Children’s, especially Alyson Day and Phoebe Yeh; Jeff Kleinman and my fantastic team at Folio Literary Management; 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

  GARTH STEIN is the author of three novels, THE ART OF RACING IN THE RAIN, HOW EVAN BROKE HIS HEAD AND OTHER SECRETS, and RAVEN STOLE THE MOON, and a play, Brother Jones. He has also worked as a documentary filmmaker and lives in Seattle with his family. You can visit him online at www.garthstein.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  EXTRAS

  RACING

  in the RAIN

  MY LIFE AS A DOG

  Read an interview with author Garth Stein

  Check out cool photos of Garth racing,

  his dog, Comet, and more!

  Q&A with Garth Stein:

  Q: Where did the idea for the book come from?

  A: The first seed for this book was planted in my mind about ten years ago. I was no longer working in documentary films, but a friend asked me to help with the U.S. distribution of a film he knew abou
t from Mongolia called State of Dogs. I didn’t end up getting involved with the film, but the idea really stuck with me. In Mongolia, there is a belief that the next life for a dog is as a man. I thought this was a cool concept and I tucked it away, thinking I might someday do something with it.

  Q: What challenges did you face as you were writing from a dog’s point of view?

  A: Enzo, as a dog, has certain limitations: he has no thumbs, for instance; he has a long, floppy tongue that can’t be used to form words. But Enzo, as a dog, also has certain advantages: people will say things in front him because it is assumed he doesn’t understand. People will allow him to see some things for the same reason—Enzo is a fly on the wall. I had a great deal of fun playing with this idea.

  Q: Is there any significance to the name Enzo?

  A: Yes! Denny’s dog, Enzo, is named after Enzo Ferrari, who built one of the greatest car trademarks in the world. Ferrari automobiles are famous everywhere. And Ferrari is a serious player in the world of Formula 1 racing.

  But I have a funny story about how I arrived at Enzo’s name. . . .

  When I first started writing this novel, Enzo was not named Enzo. He was named Juan Pablo, after Juan Pablo Montoya, the race car driver. When my wife read the first few pages, she said that she loved what I was writing, but the name of the dog wasn’t quite right.

  “How about Enzo?” she asked. We had two sons already, and were expecting our third. I had always wanted to name one of my boys Enzo. I thought it was the ultimate cool name: Enzo Stein. But my wife very much disagreed. “We have a lot of different nationalities in our combined backgrounds,” she reasoned. “Russian, German, Austrian, Tlingit Indian, Irish, English . . . but we have no Italian.”

  “But then we won’t be able to name the baby Enzo,” I said.

  “I thought of that,” she said, nodding slowly.

  “I really wanted to name him Enzo,” I said.

  “Enzo, the dog, is your new baby,” she replied. “And when our new baby comes, we’ll find the right name for him.”

  (For those of you who are interested: We named our son Dashiell.)