visits (ayrton/bruno)
May 1st 2009. 1:37 am.
You can’t sleep. And even though you blame it on the Italian night heat which is why you’re sleeping in only your boxers, you know that there’s another reason for it.
You’re tossing and turning, lying on your stomach, then your back, then your right side and you can’t find the comfortable position because that would be back in Angra dos Reis or Tatui with him. Which is impossible, and you’re starting to accept that that is the reason you’re still awake with so many things, like public appearances, to do the next morning.
Your mind keeps being flooded with all sorts of different happy memories and thoughts from those joyous times, each of them confusedly interlaced with the next one and you are almost scared to look at the clock since tomorrow you’re going to be beat and with huge bags under your eyes from getting no sleep this night.
And as you’re thinking about something between jet skis and kart tracks like a DVD player stuck on rewind, you can hear his voice. Yet it is nothing new as this is how life was almost every day on those May 1994 shock-stricken days, when you heard his calm voice calling you behind every corner. But this time is not like those others; he’s saying something different you’ve quite never heard before.
“Bruno! My little, little boy! So much time has gone by since we spoke for the last time.”
The final words echo in your head as you try to establish an order in your confused mind full of racing feelings and you find that your throat is urging you to utter a response.
“I know, uncle,” you say, and for once you can feel your eyes brimming up with tears. “I know,” you whisper, and suddenly you feel like you’re ten years old again, suddenly you feel like it was April 30th 1994 and nothing had changed your life yet.
Somehow the fog in your brain clears a bit and you can see him in his blue overalls, sitting on the wall in what seems like a circuit, inviting you to sit beside him by patting the empty space on his side, and you can’t do anything but obey.
“You’re so tall,” he whispers, having to reach up to ruffle your hair. “So tall and such a grown up person. I missed you, Bruno.” And he pulls you into a hug.
As he lets go, you have to remind yourself that this is your nearly-50-year-old uncle you’re talking to, yet he’s in the eternal body of a 34-year-old.
“Where have you been all this time?” you ask, slightly surprised at the fact you’re feeling a little heartbroken. “Why didn’t you come visit me earlier?”
“Ah, Bruno,” he says with that smile you thought you’d never see live again. “It wasn’t the right moment.” A few seconds later, he asks, “So you got your first podium in the Le Mans Series at Barcelona? I didn’t picture you as an endurance racer, kid.”
“I… I know. I’m still trying to get into F1,” you say with your trademark a cheeky smile. And you feel complied to add in a whisper, “Like you.”
-♥-
You are leaning against him like many other times, although now you’re taller than he is, and you’re trying to focus on the oh-so-missed warmth emanating from his body when he asks you something that makes your blood run momentarily cold.
“Bruno, was it… was it hard for you?”
The question is completely out of the blue. You swallow and then raise your quavering voice slightly, “What do you mean?”
He heaves a sigh. “Well, everything. From staying away from motorsport to watching… watching it on TV…”
You look into space as you carefully meditate your answer.
“When… when you died-”
He cringes and pulls you closer as his eyes seem to be brimming with shiny tears. “Can you please avoid that word?”
You nod and swallow once again, trying to fight back your own bittersweet droplets. “When you… left us, I guess I didn’t understand it until I started getting older.” You feel something wet on your hair and realize it’s a tear that has slid down his immaterial cheek, but you keep on speaking ignoring the crackles in your voice. “I was just shocked. Really shocked. And I…” You look up so your teary chocolate eyes meet his, so similar and yet so different to yours. “I sort of expected seeing you around. But the motorsport topic was just taboo… especially after-after dad died.” Finally you give up and start crying on his shoulder… like many other times in your childhood.
-♥-
“Bruno,” he says suddenly, and you instinctively know something is up. “Bruno, we must say our goodbyes now.”
You look at him, nearly devastated, and you can’t help feeling like crying all over again, yet you can’t tell exactly why; if it’s this newfound peace you sensed as you both were talking and exchanging your points of view, or if it’s just the nostalgic feeling of having lost your role-model fifteen years ago kicking in now.
“But before you leave,” he goes on, apparently oblivious to your internal turmoil, “I want you to promise me something, okay?” You can only nod before he goes on, “I want you to wave the verde-amarelha high up in the podium every single time you win. But what I want most is that you remember your extremely proud uncle… who is, has been and will be watching over you. I love you, kid, don’t you ever forget that.”
You smile weakly at him as a lump forms in your throat.
“Well, uncle Ayrton, in exchange, I want you to visit me more often… will you?” You ask, although compared to his earlier statement it sounds more like a plead.
And your uncle smiles at you and ruffles your hair once again. “Sure. I’ll invite you to my private racetrack up here… when the right time comes.”
He takes off his blue right glove and reaches out for your hand, placing the garment in it with a swift movement. And as he secures the Velcro strap around your right wrist, he looks up and into your eyes. And, again, he smiles.
“What did you do that for?” You ask, curious.
“You’ll see. I love you, Bruno.” And he hops off the wall you both were sitting on, disappearing into the fog… like every other dream.
Your gloved hand is a bit blurry too…
-
You stir a little, sigh, and open your eyes to slits, turning your head sideways. The hotel’s alarm clock glows a cheerful 4:29 back at you, but you don’t feel like sleeping anymore. Not after a dream like this.
Your right eyebrow starts itching so you raise the corresponding hand groggily…
Skin and fabric make contact and it startles you so much you open your eyes wide now. You can see a blue hand in front of your eyes, which sends your heart beating a million times per minute, and further examination by rubbing your hands together proves the single glove is completely real.
You don’t have a clue how on earth your uncle managed to do this but you’re quite certain you just heard him snicker at your puzzled behavior.
You can’t sleep. And even though you blame it on the Italian night heat which is why you’re sleeping in only your boxers, you know that there’s another reason for it.
You’re tossing and turning, lying on your stomach, then your back, then your right side and you can’t find the comfortable position because that would be back in Angra dos Reis or Tatui with him. Which is impossible, and you’re starting to accept that that is the reason you’re still awake with so many things, like public appearances, to do the next morning.
Your mind keeps being flooded with all sorts of different happy memories and thoughts from those joyous times, each of them confusedly interlaced with the next one and you are almost scared to look at the clock since tomorrow you’re going to be beat and with huge bags under your eyes from getting no sleep this night.
And as you’re thinking about something between jet skis and kart tracks like a DVD player stuck on rewind, you can hear his voice. Yet it is nothing new as this is how life was almost every day on those May 1994 shock-stricken days, when you heard his calm voice calling you behind every corner. But this time is not like those others; he’s saying something different you’ve quite never heard before.
“Bruno! My little, little boy! So much time has gone by since we spoke for the last time.”
The final words echo in your head as you try to establish an order in your confused mind full of racing feelings and you find that your throat is urging you to utter a response.
“I know, uncle,” you say, and for once you can feel your eyes brimming up with tears. “I know,” you whisper, and suddenly you feel like you’re ten years old again, suddenly you feel like it was April 30th 1994 and nothing had changed your life yet.
Somehow the fog in your brain clears a bit and you can see him in his blue overalls, sitting on the wall in what seems like a circuit, inviting you to sit beside him by patting the empty space on his side, and you can’t do anything but obey.
“You’re so tall,” he whispers, having to reach up to ruffle your hair. “So tall and such a grown up person. I missed you, Bruno.” And he pulls you into a hug.
As he lets go, you have to remind yourself that this is your nearly-50-year-old uncle you’re talking to, yet he’s in the eternal body of a 34-year-old.
“Where have you been all this time?” you ask, slightly surprised at the fact you’re feeling a little heartbroken. “Why didn’t you come visit me earlier?”
“Ah, Bruno,” he says with that smile you thought you’d never see live again. “It wasn’t the right moment.” A few seconds later, he asks, “So you got your first podium in the Le Mans Series at Barcelona? I didn’t picture you as an endurance racer, kid.”
“I… I know. I’m still trying to get into F1,” you say with your trademark a cheeky smile. And you feel complied to add in a whisper, “Like you.”
-♥-
You are leaning against him like many other times, although now you’re taller than he is, and you’re trying to focus on the oh-so-missed warmth emanating from his body when he asks you something that makes your blood run momentarily cold.
“Bruno, was it… was it hard for you?”
The question is completely out of the blue. You swallow and then raise your quavering voice slightly, “What do you mean?”
He heaves a sigh. “Well, everything. From staying away from motorsport to watching… watching it on TV…”
You look into space as you carefully meditate your answer.
“When… when you died-”
He cringes and pulls you closer as his eyes seem to be brimming with shiny tears. “Can you please avoid that word?”
You nod and swallow once again, trying to fight back your own bittersweet droplets. “When you… left us, I guess I didn’t understand it until I started getting older.” You feel something wet on your hair and realize it’s a tear that has slid down his immaterial cheek, but you keep on speaking ignoring the crackles in your voice. “I was just shocked. Really shocked. And I…” You look up so your teary chocolate eyes meet his, so similar and yet so different to yours. “I sort of expected seeing you around. But the motorsport topic was just taboo… especially after-after dad died.” Finally you give up and start crying on his shoulder… like many other times in your childhood.
-♥-
“Bruno,” he says suddenly, and you instinctively know something is up. “Bruno, we must say our goodbyes now.”
You look at him, nearly devastated, and you can’t help feeling like crying all over again, yet you can’t tell exactly why; if it’s this newfound peace you sensed as you both were talking and exchanging your points of view, or if it’s just the nostalgic feeling of having lost your role-model fifteen years ago kicking in now.
“But before you leave,” he goes on, apparently oblivious to your internal turmoil, “I want you to promise me something, okay?” You can only nod before he goes on, “I want you to wave the verde-amarelha high up in the podium every single time you win. But what I want most is that you remember your extremely proud uncle… who is, has been and will be watching over you. I love you, kid, don’t you ever forget that.”
You smile weakly at him as a lump forms in your throat.
“Well, uncle Ayrton, in exchange, I want you to visit me more often… will you?” You ask, although compared to his earlier statement it sounds more like a plead.
And your uncle smiles at you and ruffles your hair once again. “Sure. I’ll invite you to my private racetrack up here… when the right time comes.”
He takes off his blue right glove and reaches out for your hand, placing the garment in it with a swift movement. And as he secures the Velcro strap around your right wrist, he looks up and into your eyes. And, again, he smiles.
“What did you do that for?” You ask, curious.
“You’ll see. I love you, Bruno.” And he hops off the wall you both were sitting on, disappearing into the fog… like every other dream.
Your gloved hand is a bit blurry too…
-
You stir a little, sigh, and open your eyes to slits, turning your head sideways. The hotel’s alarm clock glows a cheerful 4:29 back at you, but you don’t feel like sleeping anymore. Not after a dream like this.
Your right eyebrow starts itching so you raise the corresponding hand groggily…
Skin and fabric make contact and it startles you so much you open your eyes wide now. You can see a blue hand in front of your eyes, which sends your heart beating a million times per minute, and further examination by rubbing your hands together proves the single glove is completely real.
You don’t have a clue how on earth your uncle managed to do this but you’re quite certain you just heard him snicker at your puzzled behavior.