Early One Morning (9 page)

Robert smiled. ‘Jealous?’

‘Only all of me, brother.’

Lunch was called and they strolled back to the house. Ettore fell in beside Williams and Eve. ‘How is my Bugatti?’

‘I think one of the ends has run.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I can hear it.’

Ettore raised an eyebrow, surprised. It wasn’t the quietest engine in the world when it was blown by a supercharger, and he thought nobody else could pick up every metallic nuance like its designer. ‘We’ll have to strip it down.’ He looked at Eve. ‘Expensive.’

‘I had assumed as much,’ she said with an affected weariness. ‘Dogs are so much cheaper.’

‘Well, there might be another solution,’ Bugatti replied enigmatically and veered off to talk to Jean before either of them could ask exactly what that solution might be.

Lunch was held in the grand salon of the house, a feast of Alsace delicacies, with a foie gras pot-au-feu, spaetzle, baeckeoffe, kugelhopf and a vast assortment of sausages. The language in the room switched rapidly between German, French and English, with Ettore occasionally using his native Italian to emphasise a point. Robert and Maurice sat opposite Williams and Eve, with Bugatti at the head of the table.

Ettore did the introductions at their section, and Robert looked at Eve and said, ‘Ah. Bill Orpen’s muse.’

‘Ex-muse,’ Williams said quickly.

‘I have a fine example of your musing.’

Eve stopped short of sipping her pinot noir, puzzled. ‘You do, Mr Benoist?’

‘Robert, please. Yes. “Early One Morning”.’

Eve felt Williams shift uncomfortably, trying to figure out where this was going. ‘Really? Bill said he’d never sell it.’

‘I made him an excellent offer.’

‘I’ll match it,’ said Williams.

‘With what?’ retorted Maurice. Eve glared at him and he went back to his plate of snails.

Robert waved a fork airily, as if distracted. ‘No, it really isn’t for sale now. I do admire it so.’

Aware that some kind of tension was building Ettore interrupted. ‘Williams’ car needs a re-build. I was thinking of giving him a team drive. What do you think, Robert?’

‘You have a place?’

‘Yes. You know we do.’

Robert took a mouthful of Gewürztraminer before saying, ‘I thought I might have that.’

A silence fell. Constantino began to say something and then fell silent when Robert flicked a fierce glance his way.

Ettore said quietly, with a hint of flint in his voice, ‘I need you in the Paris showroom.’

‘I can do both,’ insisted Robert. ‘We can do demonstrations before races.’

‘That wasn’t the agreement,’ said his employer, trying hard to keep the irritation from his voice. ‘Now I have two would-be drivers, one place.’

‘I have an idea,’ said Maurice brightly. ‘How about a challenge? Twenty laps of Montlhery—’

‘That’s unfair,’ objected Eve. ‘You have raced there dozens of times, Mr Benoist. Will just once.’

Williams touched her arm. ‘That’s all right, Eve. A duel? Why not?’ Williams watched Robert’s grin broaden. Time to find out if it was true the man never backed down from a challenge. ‘But let’s throw in the painting. Just for the sport.’

Williams could see Robert’s brain working furiously. To refuse the wager would seem churlish, cowardly even, a vote of no-confidence in his own skills. He couldn’t think of a way out that would save face. Eve felt Robert’s eyes bore into her as he laughed at Williams’ audacity and said: ‘“Early One Morning”? Why not? Just for the sport. Ettore—name the day, I’ll be there.’

Bugatti hesitated, wondering if he should be part of this, then noticed Jean signalling furiously. It was a second before he understood what his eldest son was saying. Finally, he nodded his consent.

‘Excellent.’ Robert stood up and clicked his fingers at Maurice. ‘We have to take our leave. We have a few days in the country.’ He hesitated and finally shifted his gaze from Eve to Williams. ‘Does anyone know where I can find a decent chauffeur?’

M
ONTLHERY RACETRACK, JULY 1929

T
HE EARLY MORNING
sun glinted off the brace of Bugattis sitting out on the concrete, the last tendrils of a damp mist curling around the eight-spoked, aluminium wheels. Both were painted in the Bugatti factory blue, each had been beautifully prepared, overseen by Jean, who had watched every last rivet being ground down, strengthened the drive train when he thought it too delicate (a source of friction with his father, who always thought his designs perfect) and tuned the vast sixteen-cylinder engines to perfect pitch.

Next to the machines, on an easel, a protective cloth thrown over it, was the prize, the one Williams wanted above all. He would always find a way of getting a drive, whether he got the Bugatti seat or not. He wanted that painting back where it belonged. With Eve.

He sat in the pits, alone, slowly emptying his mind, reminding himself of his golden rules. You can only be sure of winning if you start a race absolutely calm, your hands not sweaty. The juice in the bloodstream can come later, but there, on the start line, up to the first bend, too much means a stalled car, a bad line, an over-ambitious out-braking into the curve.

No Robert, as yet.

Williams emptied his pockets into the small wooden container he always used. Already superstition and ritual were entering his racing life. Cigarettes. Lighter. Wallet. Change. All into the box. Next, the dressing routine. Shoes off. Overalls on. Soft kid racing boots, laced. Gloves, tucked into belt. Tweed cap. Goggles. Ready. Where was Robert?

The faint buzz entered his consciousness at that point, and he knew exactly where his opponent was.

The noise grew louder, angrier, and all heads turned upwards, eyes shaded against the sun. The bright red biplane appeared over the far side of the banking, the rotary engine screaming as the plane dipped, coming in on a collision course for the two Bugattis, sending mechanics and spectators scattering. At the last second it rose up, fixed wheels almost touching the metal of the cars and sideswiping the painting, the engine straining to claw into the air once more, the propeller wash peeling back the cover off ‘Early One Morning’, sending it tumbling down the track. Williams could see Robert at the controls, the trademark grin across his face.

The biplane gained height, circled, did a single, lazy roll and then came in to land on the far straight, taxiing off on to the central grassed reservation. Robert leapt out and bowed to the smattering of relieved applause.

He strode over towards Williams, stripping off the heavy leather gloves, jacket and helmet as he went, to reveal his racing suit underneath. He collected his white canvas helmet and goggles from Maurice and slipped them on. ‘Ready?’

Williams nodded and they went to their respective cars.

‘I hope you drive better than you fly.’

Robert laughed, knowing that was nigh on impossible. ‘We’ll see. One last look?’

Williams stopped before the naked form of Eve in the painting and then glanced over at the real thing, who blew him a kiss. Robert signalled for the portrait to be removed and stepped into his car. With one leg in he froze, extracted himself, walked back and held out his hand. Williams took it. ‘I forgot. Goodbye, Williams.’

With no further explanation Robert got behind the wheel, the mechanic cranked the engine and sixteen cylinders fired in an exuberant explosion of power. Williams followed suit, heart racing with anticipation as the engine responded to the tiniest throttle pressure, watching Ettore and Jean tussle over who would drop the starting flag. Le Patron won, of course, and took his position on the low starter’s podium.

Stay calm, thought Williams. Get the heart rate down. Don’t worry. He may be more experienced, but he is older, slower, less hungry. Bugatti held the flag aloft and hesitated. The engines started to protest as the rev counters crept round to the red line, the intricate mechanical innards chattering away, blurring the instrument panel. The flag twitched. Williams reached up and swivelled his tweed cap backwards, pulling the goggles in place with a fraction of a second to spare. The flag cracked down and the world around Williams became a rocketing blur.

Two cars and two drivers each perfectly matched. Glued together the Bugattis powered round the track, a mechanical
pas de deux
, sweeping along the straight and up the banking, as if choreographed, occasionally one inching ahead, but never for very long, as if afraid of hogging the limelight, the thirty-two cylinders all firing on cue.

Even Eve, who thought this whole thing a theatrical sham, had to admit it was exhilarating and beautiful.

As she watched another neck-and-neck lap she became aware of someone at her side. Maurice. He offered her a Celtique cigarette and, after a slight hesitation, she took one. ‘Peace offering?’

‘Are we at war?’ he asked.

‘I had the impression you didn’t like us.’

‘No, no, no. Far from it. My brother is a great admirer.’

‘And you?’

Maurice shrugged. ‘Haven’t you heard? I like what my brother likes.’

Williams in the lead now, edging ahead, and a slight frown flicked across Maurice’s face.

‘Why do you say something like that?’

‘Oh, it’s always been the same. I am the elder, but Robert … in the war I was stuck in the mud at Verdun,’ he slapped his gammy leg, ‘while Robert was the fighter ace. After the war when we took up racing … well, the leg again. I am one of those miserable creatures Josephine Baker despises so much.’ He said it with a smile in his eyes.

Eve shook her head. The silly Baker woman had told a journalist how war deformities made her feel nauseous, a statement she quickly withdrew after the scandalous outrage that followed. Still, being the scantily clad toast of Paris she was quickly forgiven. Except by those she defamed. ‘You shouldn’t believe anything Americans say.’

Maurice glanced back at the track and stretched his collar. He was fashionably dressed in a wool suit, with waistcoat, shirt and tie and the brown suede shoes that the Americans had made acceptable, but it was not the best ensemble to be wearing in bright sunshine. Eve was glad she had chosen a simple cotton dress and brimmed cloche hat.

‘You know,’ Maurice said in a low voice, ‘no matter who wins out there, I can think of two losers.’

‘Who?’

‘Us.’

He stood up to cheer as Robert came home to take the flag and Eve felt her heart sink.

Williams took it well. He pulled over and climbed out to the thin applause and shook hands with Robert. Jean wanted to press him on how the car had behaved, but he strolled over to see Eve, with the young Bugatti in tow, hectoring him with technical questions.

Maurice popped the champagne and handed Robert a glass. ‘Still got the old magic, I see.’

‘Only just.’

‘What do you mean?’

Robert stripped off his helmet and took a sip of the drink. ‘How many Grand Prixes have we raced?’

‘Forty … fifty?’

‘Seventy-two. And Williams?’

Maurice shrugged.

‘One. One proper race and a handful of secondary events. Yet I beat him by this much.’ He held his arms out to show a metre, slopping his drink. ‘Next time this much.’ He narrowed the gap to half that distance. ‘Then.’ He handed his glass to Maurice and clapped his hands with percussive force, causing Maurice to jump. ‘I don’t like it.’

Robert retrieved and gulped back the remaining champagne before walking over to Eve and Williams, who were talking to Jean near the Orpen painting, its protective wrapper back in place. Jean said: ‘Congratulations, Robert. Williams here was just saying he could feel a vibration at around five thousand revolutions. Front left wheel. Did you feel anything?’

Robert shook his head and a concerned Jean pulled Williams off to examine the two cars. As he stepped away Williams hesitated and asked Robert: ‘What was the goodbye for? At the start?’

‘Don’t you know that? All factory Bugatti drivers always say goodbye to each other before a race … it’s good luck.’

Williams went off with Jean.

‘Sounds more like pessimism, Mr Benoist,’ suggested Eve.

There was a sudden squeal of rubber on concrete and a cloud of acrid smoke as Jean took out Williams’ car for a few laps.

‘It’s like “break a leg” in the theatre. We don’t mean it. Anyway, your husband is a fine driver. I suspect he doesn’t need luck.’

‘That might be true. But he isn’t my husband.’

‘Really?’ he said with feigned surprise. ‘I would do something about that. Or he should.’

Williams returned, wiping his face with a cloth. He held out a hand belatedly to Robert, who took it. ‘I was just saying, you’re not bad for a chauff …’ He stopped himself. Time to drop that. ‘Actually, not bad for anyone.’

‘Bugatti says he’ll build another Thirty-five C. So there’s two places. One each if we want it.’

Robert threw back his head and laughed. ‘Wonderful. I bet the old rogue had two places all along. I was also just saying, Williams, you should marry this woman quick, before someone else does. And I have the perfect wedding present.’

He walked over to ‘Early One Morning’ and yanked off the covering, leaving Eve’s flesh tones glowing in the sunlight. Robert looked at the representation, the subject and finally at Williams before saying quietly, ‘She’s all yours.’

FRANCE, SEPTEMBER 1929

I
T NAGGED AT
Williams every time he saw the painting. ‘Early One Morning’ hung at the head of the stairs in the Normandy watermill, and, like any everyday fixture, he quickly became habituated to it. Every so often, however, maybe once a day, he saw it afresh, and felt that grip round his heart when he realised that the beauty lying naked on the rumpled sheets was his. All his.

It was at that point he wondered why the man had done it.

They were at Bricktop’s in Montmartre when he finally got around to asking him. He and Robert had spent the weekend at Molsheim testing new cars, all business-like and professional, so it hadn’t been the place. On the Monday Williams stopped over in Paris en route to Eve, and after a dinner at Paquin’s and drinks at Le Grand Duc they had crossed over to the hole in the wall where Bricktop, the red-haired hostess, had kissed Robert on both cheeks and ushered them to a corner table, jammed between the bandstand and a coterie of Americans.