16 anos de saudade - iii
iii. the tribute
Tamburello
Like one of many other times, you’re walking through the layout of the Autodromo Enzo e Dino Ferrari, under the merciless midday sun.
Even though, this time is different. Your footsteps don’t echo on the sizzling tarmac, and the familiar noise of the engines roaring in the pit does not resound through the circuit. And there are no clicks from the photographers’ lenses as they immortalize your image.
Only your image. You’re already dead.
A slight breeze runs through the area, and, for one moment, you actually wait for it to mess up your hair. You wish for it to mess up your hair. But your brown curls stay where they are. And that’s another reason why this time isn’t like those other ones.
But maybe the most obvious reason is the presence of various objects hanging up on the fences on both sides of the corner that is no longer a corner (but a way too boring chicane, in your opinion). They either have the words ‘Ayrton Senna’ on them alongside a small, heartfelt message, or a picture of you. Some of them are just flowers. But you know only too well that each and every one of them are there in your memory.
-
A cloud covers the hot sun for a moment, and that’s when people start to arrive. You were staring at yourself, at the metal copy of you, which is facing towards Tamburello. It is not exactly as you are, and maybe it’s better that way. And suddenly, somebody walks past you, slowing down until they reach the statue. It’s a man; and he drops a flower in the space between your double’s hands. And then he leaves.
You don’t need a watch to know the time is around 2 pm, because people start coming in larger groups. Some of them are even crying and you wish you could comfort them because it is actually thanks to them why you are here today. The day no one in the world remembers you is the day you will actually die, because as you said, the only ones that die are those who are forgotten. So you might not have a body, or a breath, or a heartbeat… but you are alive, in a way. Only in a way though, and not for real.
Hands in your overall pockets, you sigh and try to stay calm. But it’s hard to do so. Millions of people are still mourning you, and it’s something quite unprecedented. Not even you are sure about what you should do. First your birthday, now this. It makes you feel more alive.
A thunderclap startles you, all of a sudden. And then it starts raining.
This time is definitely not like those other ones. You can actually feel the drops, small cold needles prickling at your immaterial skin, like the storm that broke out the night after you died.
The rain does not stop the people from coming, quite the contrary. More and more start coming, people from all over the world; you think you hear them speaking in Portuguese, even. Brazilian Portuguese.
You sit on the gravel trap, against the concrete wall your Williams smashed into, heaving a sigh. Your statue is hardly visible on the other side of the track, between the flowers, the people and the rain.
The asphalt is getting wetter and darker, and you focus your attention on the curve that is no longer a curve, but a boring chicane. You miss the good old days in which this corner was a flat-out bend, always playing on that fine line separating life from death. It was great fun.
No, you don’t hate this corner for claiming you.
The raindrops mix with the tears of the people that have come to pay their respects to you.
You close your eyes and let them mix with yours.
-
After you open your eyes you’re back in your beloved Brazil. If Imola was sad, this is heartbreaking.
And it’s everywhere. Tributes of all sorts for a fallen hero, the idol of Brazil and half the world.
You’re tempted to visit Angra dos Reis. All newspapers say today is Saturday, and like every other weekend your dad must be in the estate back there. And that’s precisely why you hesitate. You haven’t seen your parents in these 16 years, at least not face to face. And you know you wouldn’t have the courage to turn back after that. Because the dead shouldn’t mingle with the living, that’s why. But with millions of hearts keeping you alive, why shouldn’t you?
You sit in a bench in a small park, somewhere in São Paulo, and bury your face in your hands. Longing. Regret. Uncertainty. A confusing swirl of emotions running through your soul.
Finally you decide not to. It’s already hard enough like this.
-
It’s been 16 years and it feels like it was yesterday. At least, for you it does.
Life is short, death is eternal.