Giorgio Faletti: I Kill

‘The team did all it could to cover you with the press, but Ferguson is fucking furious. You didn’t overtake once – for the whole Grand Prix you were only in the lead because you started in pole position and most of the others had dropped out or crashed, and then you threw away a race like that. The kindest headline was “Jochen Welder at Monte Carlo: Loses the Race and Loses Face!”’

Jochen half-heartedly tried to protest. ‘I told you, there was something wrong with the seat-’

His manager cut him off. ‘Bullshit! The range finders were there and they sing better than Pavarotti. The car was perfect but Malot was going to beat you as long as his engine held out, and he started behind you on the grid.’

François Malot was the team’s second driver, a fresh young talent that Ferguson, the Klover Formula 1 Racing Team manager, was developing and pampering. He didn’t have the experience yet, but he was great in testing and had guts and courage to spare. It was no accident that the Circus experts had had their eyes on him from back when he was racing in Formula 3. Ferguson had beaten everyone to the punch and signed him for two years. Even Shatz had plotted and schemed to become his agent. That was the rule of the sport, Formula 1 in particular – a small planet where the sun rose and set with cruel speed.

Roland’s tone of voice suddenly changed and revealed a hint of friendship, something they shared beyond a normal business relationship. Yet he was still playing good cop, bad cop. ‘Jochen, there are problems. There’s a session of private tests at Silverstone with Williams and Jordan. If I understand correctly, they’re not calling you. They’d rather have Malot and Barendson, the test driver, to check the new suspension. You know what this means?’

Of course he did. He knew the racing world too well not to. When a driver wasn’t informed of a team’s technical improvements, it was very likely that the boss didn’t want him to be able to give another team precious information. It was practically an announcement that they weren’t renewing his contract.

‘What do you expect me to say, Roland?’

‘Nothing. I don’t expect you to say anything. I just want you to use your brain and your foot like you’ve always done when you race.’ Roland paused before adding, ‘You’re with her, aren’t you?’

Jochen smiled in spite of himself.

Roland disliked Arianna and wouldn’t even call her by name. Just ‘her’. But no manager liked a woman if he thought she was the reason his driver was going soft. Jochen had had dozens of women before and Shatz had always judged them for what they were: the inevitable perks of someone constantly in the limelight, pretty objects that shone in the reflection of the champion’s sun. But Shatz went on high alert when Arianna entered Jochen’s life, like someone trying to convince a stubborn child to wash behind his ears. It was time for Jochen to explain that Arianna was just a symptom, not the disease.

‘Roland, hasn’t it occurred to you that it might be over? I’m thirty-four and most drivers my age have already retired. The ones who are still around are just caricatures of what they once were.’

He carefully avoided mentioning those who were dead. The names and faces and laughter of men who suddenly became corpses in the twisted bodywork of a single-seater, a bright-coloured helmet thrown aside, an ambulance that never came fast enough, a doctor who couldn’t save them.

‘What are you saying?’ blurted Roland with a flash of rebellion at his words. ‘We both know what Formula 1 is like, but I have a bunch of offers from America for the CART. You still have some time left to enjoy yourself and make piles of money without any risk.’

Jochen didn’t have the heart to dampen Roland’s managerial hopes. Money certainly wouldn’t change his mind. He had enough money to last him several lifetimes. He had earned it by risking his hide all those years and, unlike many of his fellow drivers, he hadn’t been tempted to get a personal jet or helicopter or houses all over the world. He didn’t feel like telling Shatz that it was something else, that he wasn’t enjoying it any more. The thread had snapped for some reason and he was just lucky it hadn’t happened while he was still hanging by it.

‘All right, we’ll talk about it,’ he said instead.

For now, Shatz realized, there was no use insisting. ‘Okay. Get in shape for Spain. The season’s not over yet and all you need is a couple of good races and you’ll be riding high. Meanwhile, enjoy yourself, man.’

Roland hung up and Jochen sat there staring at the phone. He could practically see his manager’s face.

‘Great!’ said Arianna as she came up the steps, rubbing her hair with a towel. ‘You wait for me to leave and then you start with the phone calls. What am I supposed to think? Is there another woman?’

‘No, it was Roland.’

‘Ah.’

Their whole situation was contained in that monosyllable. ‘He doesn’t like me, right?’

Jochen pulled her towards him, encircling her tiny waist with his arms. He leaned his cheek against her shoulder and spoke without looking at her.

‘That’s not the problem. Roland has issues, like everyone, but he’s a friend and his heart is in the right place.’

‘Did you tell him?’ asked Arianna, running her fingers through his hair.

‘I didn’t want to talk about it over the phone. I think I’ll tell him and Ferguson in Barcelona next week. But I’ll make the official announcement at the end of the season. I don’t want to be followed around by journalists any more than I am now.’

The international press was having a field day with their relationship. Their faces were plastered on the front pages of all the gossip magazines, and reporters were making up all kinds of stories about them.

Jochen raised his head and sought her eyes. His voice was a whisper of emotion.

‘I love you, Arianna. I loved you even before I met you.’

She didn’t answer, but silently watched the glimmer of light from below. Jochen felt a shudder of insecurity but he had already said it, and he couldn’t and wouldn’t go back now.

The man’s head emerges from the water not far from the prow of the yacht. Through his underwater mask, he spots the anchor chain and swims to it slowly. His right hand grabs hold and he observes the boat, its fibreglass hull reflecting the full moon. His breathing, fed by his oxygen tank, is calm and relaxed.

The five-litre tank on his back is not for long dives, but it is light and manageable and gives him enough air for his needs. He is wearing a plain black wetsuit, without logos or colours, thick enough to protect him from the cold water. He cannot use a torch but the almost glaring light of the full moon is more than enough. Careful not to splash, he slides back underwater, following the outline of the submerged hull with its long keel extending down towards the sea bed. He reaches the stern and grabs on to the ladder still hanging down.

Good.

No acrobatics needed to get on board. He loosens the rope around his waist. After affixing a snap hook to the ladder, the first thing he does is attach it to the other end of the hermetically sealed box he is carrying. He removes the tank and the belt of weights and leaves them hanging on the ladder, a couple of feet below the water’s surface. He does not want to limit his movements. He intends to take the two people above by surprise while they are asleep.

He is about to remove his fins when he hears footsteps on the deck above. He abandons the ladder and moves to the right so that he is hidden by the wall. From his position in the shadows, he sees the girl walk to the side of the boat and stand looking out, enchanted by the play of moonlight on the flat sea. For an instant, her white bathrobe is yet another reflection. Then, in a fluid gesture, she lets it fall to the ground and stands naked in the light.