posthumous conversations 3 (senna/surtees)
in memory of henry surtees (1991-2009) and, of course, ayrton senna & roland ratzenberger (1960-1994)
You are walking towards the entrance of your circuit. You hate doing this, no matter how or when. You just hate it. And, as you walk, you think of the many ways there could have been to avoid this cruel twist of the destiny. Yet you know only too well that legends die early. Too early, in this case. And in yours. And in mostly all the cases of the people who are currently racing in your… ‘private’ racetrack.
You finally reach the entrance, and readjust the neck of your racing overalls before running a hand through your hair and crossing your arms and leaning coolly against a post. You can’t help but think, once again, about this particular accident… a loose tyre, bouncing stupidly. Cars going past the spot of the first accident.
But it was written in Henry Surtees’s fate to drive by at the exact second. A little earlier, the wheel would have passed after him. A little later, he would have seen it bounce by in front of him. In the second he passed by, he received an unexpected and deadly blow in the head.
And you just can’t help but wish that this hadn’t happened. Again.
-♥-
He appears there a while later. And when he sees you, his eyes bulge out as he takes in the sight of what is happening.
“But you… you are…” he is seemingly unable to complete the sentence, and his stammered words are interlaced with something close to what you would name complete and utter respect. So you raise your hand as a half smile tugs one corner of your mouth upwards and place it on the young boy’s shoulder.
“Ayrton. Ayrton Senna da Silva,” you say. “Although I take as a compliment your knowing me. You were only three when I stopped living, at Imola.”
It’s been fifteen years and it’s still hard for you to refer to yourself as ‘dead’.
“Wow,” he mutters. “I-I don’t know…” and suddenly he stops mid sentence an looks at you and then at your hand, still on his shoulder, and then back at you and you can’t help but remember yourself upon your arrival here, and how Roland and you became the best of friends just there, with you completely in denial and him trying to calm you down… “Wait,” he says, turning whiter by the second. “If I see you and you can touch me then… then…”
“I’m sorry, kid. But yes, you have…” you stop in search for a better expression. “Passed away.” At least these words hurt less. They still hurt though. And you know you shouldn’t be saying them.
Coffee and cerulean eyes meet and he definitely looks like he’s about to cry so you pull him towards you and do the only thing you can. You give him a hug.
After he has sobbed for a little while and calmed down you pull away from him and smile.
“Want to race?”
He looks at you like you’ve just called him ‘carrot hair’.
“Harmless racing. Fun racing. You’ll see.” You wink at him and start walking towards the track, leaving him no option but to follow close behind unless he wants to get lost in the fog.
-♥-
“Hey, Henry!”
You can help but utter a small chuckle as Roland calls out from the shadows and Henry’s face goes blank.
“Who, um, who was that?” he asks you, looking clearly puzzled.
“Oh, that’s Roland. He likes to mess with the newcomers, don’t pay much attention to him.”
You smile at Roland as he steps out and waves.
“Hey, kiddo! My name is Roland Ratzenberger!” he says as he sticks out his right hand. “I’m Austrian.
“Er, hi. I’m Surtees. Henry Surtees.” To you, he looks sheepish and young. Way too young. Way too young to even be here. And he takes Roland’s hand and shakes it weakly.
“Well, enough talking. Let’s do the racing!” you say, patting Henry on the back.
And a brand new car materializes beside you guys, just like that.
“Okay, Henry Surtees.” Says Roland. “Get in the car and try to beat Ayrton!”
“No… no helmet?” he says once in the car, and you can definitely feel the panic attack that assaults him without the protection-even though that protection proved insufficient to save him.
-♥-
After a few, tentative laps you get out of the car, you and Henry go walking all around the circuit so he can get to know it better, chatting about mostly banal topics on the way.
"Hey, Ayrton?" he says sheepishly, walking a little faster so he can reach your level. "You... have a son or something?"
You are clearly taken aback by the question, as this is the last thing you would expect a recently deceased teenager to ask you.
"I don't. I never had kids," you say with a small sigh, looking to the front. But curiosity gets the best of you. "Why do you ask that?"
Henry is looking at his racing boots now. "Well, a few weeks ago I went to the Goodwood festival and there was this Senna dude driving your car... he looked a lot like you, so I thought--nevermind, I must be wrong."
He looks up at your face and is somewhat surprised to see you smiling. "That was Bruno," you tell him, hints of proudness tinting your voice at the same time a lump forms in your too-dry throat. "My nephew Bruno.
-♥-
You look in the rearview mirrors. You can see Henry Surtees smiling like mad as he tries to overtake you in the straight, but you’re more experienced and you zig zag in front of him so he has no choice but to be behind you… but at the next corner, you’re too distracted paying attention to his youthful happiness and you make a small mistake, allowing him to pass you easily.
He’s learning.