Against Death and Time: One Fatal Season in Racing's Glory Years (27 page)

Napoleon's epic program of military road building in the late eighteenth century made highway travel relatively easy, although France
was yet to seriously invest in four-lane superhighways of the type that already crisscrossed Germany and were about to spread over the
United States under President Eisenhower's massive Interstate and
Defense Highway Act of 1956. But the poplar-lined two-lanes were
fast and smooth, even for Coltrin's Fiat, and we made the city of
Nevers for lunch after crossing the Loire River.

The small roadside cafe was a favorite stop of his, due in part to a
wonderful local Cabernet that Coltrin consumed with amazing relish. As we sat on a sun-drenched patio, an immense red Fiat truck
rumbled past. Hunkered down in its special two-deck storage racks
were the three battle-scarred factory Ferrari sports cars that had competed at Le Mans. The truck bore the familiar yellow and black prancing horse of Maranello crest of the Scuderia on its door, and the
driver, spotting Coltrin's Fiat on the verge, honked wildly and waved
as he sped past. The transporter, with its cargo of brutish machinery,
was headed back to the factory, where the race cars would be torn
apart and refurbished for more competition, presuming all motor
racing on the Continent was not ended forever.

"They're good boys," said Coltrin as he watched the big Fiat trundle
into the distance. "They work their asses off for the Commendatore.
Loyal as hell. The cars are practically a religion to the Italians. When
Ferrari wins, the nation cheers. When they lose, the nation weeps. It's
like no other place on earth"

We heard another engine in the distance-high-pitched and
angry. Then another red vehicle burst out of a tunnel of trees and
arrowed toward us. A Ferrari 375 Mexico coupe. Its snout sank under
hard braking as the driver expertly downshifted through the gears.
The Ferrari skidded to a stop next to Coltrin's Fiat. It was squat, with
the traditional Ferrari egg-crate grille and a hand-built aluminum
body designed by coach builder Giovanni Michelotti and built by the
Carrozzeria of Alfredo Vignale. A 4.1-liter V-12 developing 280
horsepower was tucked underneath its low hood.

The Mexico's door swung open and a svelte young woman stepped out. She was wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses. Her hair was combed back
until she reached up and unpinned it, letting a cascade the color of an
angry sunset tumble onto her black leather jacket. Yanking off her
glasses with a dramatic sweep, she approached with feline grace. I
watched, slack-jawed.

"Peter, just in time for lunch," she said, smiling. "I couldn't miss
that clapped-out Fiat of yours in the car park and thought I'd join
you." Before I had a chance to rise from my chair, she held out her
hand. "Hi, I'm Diana Logan. Peter and I have known each other for
years. Seems like we meet at almost every Grand Prix race. What fun.
Have you ordered?"

Diana Logan, the daughter of a senior production executive at
Warner Brothers, had become a motor sports groupie, drifting around
Europe, mingling with the drivers, team owners, and other elites on the
Grand Prix circuit. She was twenty-four years old, with the devastating
good looks of a screen star. As I stumbled through my lunch, I fought
the urge to stare at this lovely creature dominating the conversation.

"I was so thankful Gino wasn't involved in that awful mess," she
said, referring to Eugenio Castellotti.

"Lucky he was well back when it happened," Coltrin said.

"They have to do something about that track," she said, lighting a
gold-tipped cigarette. She turned to me, her azure-blue eyes curious
and unthreatening. "What are your plans in Modena?"

"Uh, well, I guess I'm going with Peter. Never been there. The
Ferrari scene sounds interesting." Diana looked at Coltrin and the pair
exchanged knowing smiles. "Oh yes, you could say that. Where are
you staying?"

"I made him a reservation at the Albergo Real. In the middle of the
action," said Coltrin.

"Perfect. I'm there too. We'll have to get together."

"Sounds good to me. But I'll need a translator. I know about three
words in Italian and they're all dirty."

Diana laughed. "In that crowd, you'll be in good shape."

As we finished lunch, she stood up and swept a mop of hair from
her face and put on her sunglasses. "I've got to run. I'd like to get over
the St. Bernard before dark."

"Great meeting you," I said. "I look forward to seeing more of you
in Modena."

"Me, too. And don't let Peter kill you in that shit-box:' She spun to
leave, then turned. "In fact, if you want to come with me, I'll guarantee you'll get there a lot faster than riding with him."

I looked at Coltrin, seeking his response. He shrugged in defeat.
"Lemme see," he puzzled. "Ride with me in that junker of mine or in
a Ferrari with a beautiful woman. I give up."

Diana grabbed my hand and hauled me toward the Ferrari. Pitching
my small leather bag and portable typewriter in the tiny trunk, I
wedged in beside her. The interior of the Ferrari smelled of rich leather
and Chanel. The V-12 came awake with a lusty crackle from its exhaust
and a cacophony of gear whines. Diana powered onto the highway,
leaving a shower of stones and a desolate Coltrin in her wake.

She drove across western France like a fugitive from the furies.
Rushing toward the Swiss border, we skimmed a farmer and his
horse-drawn wagon at 120 miles an hour. The Ferrari lurched sideways in a long slide under hard braking. She laughed hard as we
regained speed.

The St. Bernard Pass over the Alps was a sickening maze of serpentine curves and switchbacks that probed through the craggy peaks.
Traffic was light, which meant that Diana had a clear shot with the
Ferrari, unimpeded by slower vehicles that might have served to ease
her pace. And my mind. We plunged off the mountains with the car's
outer wheels gnawing at the edge of the pavement and within inches
of 1,000 foot drop-offs. "Your knuckles are getting white," she mused,
glancing down at my hand gripping the dashboard. "Not to worry, I've
made this trip a hundred times. The car practically steers itself."

Once on the flats of the Aosta Valley, the long legs of the Ferrari
unlimbered and we sped south with the tachometer floating at
around 6,000 rpm. With the gear lever jammed in fourth gear, I was
unable to see the speedometer, but I reckoned the Ferrari was touching speeds of 160 mph.

She short-cut around Milan and headed east on the ancient Via
Emilia, a Roman road that had served the empire since three hundred
years before the birth of Christ. It remained an engineering wonder,
with one 163-mile stretch from Rimini on the Adriatic Coast to
Piacenza on the banks of the Po River an almost perfectly straight
line, with barely the suggestion of a hill or a curve. There being no
speed limits in Italy and virtually no traffic enforcement, we blazed
across the northern part of the country like a low-flying airplane,
reaching the outskirts of Modena as the sun dipped into the horizon
to the west, reflecting off the shimmering thirteenth century Duomo
and the various campaniles scattered around the city.

Modena, once known as Mutina to the Romans, had been a center
of commerce on the vast Padana plain since Etruscan prehistory.
Controlled by the powerful Este family during the Renaissance,
Modena-a center of metal crafts, porcelain works, and machine-tool
industries-was the thriving capital of Emilia-Romagna known for its
heavy Lambrusco red wine, its "Zamponi," stuffed pigs' feet, and
swarms of summer mosquitoes that bred in the marshes of the Panaro
River. The uncrowned king of the city was Commendatore Enzo
Ferrari, at the height of his powers, running the Scuderia Ferrari racing stable and producing the most exotic, powerful, and expensive cars
in the world. But, unknown at the time, a challenger to his throne was
on the rise. A young, robust twenty-year-old schoolteacher was refining his stunning tenor voice, hoping someday to leave school and
enter the opera. Six years later, he would shake the music world with
his power and range, when he debuted in La Scala's La Boht me. This
Modenese teacher and aspiring singer was named Luciano Pavarotti.

The Albergo Real, owned by an ex-madame, was set on the Via
Emilia, which sliced through the center of the city, bordering the edge
of the elegant Garibaldi Square. Diana pointed to a cross-street as we
eased toward the hotel. "Ferrari and his family live down there.
Eleven Viale e Trieste. An apartment on the second floor over the old
race shop. The main factory is a few miles out of town on the Abetone
Road. Down there about a mile is Maserati. Owned by the Orsi family. Ferrari and the Orsis hate each other. Bad blood."

We entered the lobby, a slightly threadbare example of provincial
Italian baroque. The staff, with typically grand gestures, hauled off
our luggage. As we headed to the elevator, Diana spun away and
rushed into the arms of a slight handsome man. I immediately recognized Eugenio Castellotti.

The Albergo bar was crowded with a cacophony of chatter in
Italian, English, French, and German by the time Coltrin wandered
in. He was still growling about the evil behavior of his Fiat.

"Was your ride with Diana OK?" he asked, knocking back a second
Scotch.

"The woman can drive, I'll say that."

"She's something. Half the guys on the Grand Prix circuit are in
love with her. But she's elusive."

"Not with Castellotti. She was all over him like a cheap suit when
we got here."

"And that shot your dreams in the ass, right?"

"My mama didn't raise no fool."

"Relax. She may have the hots for of Gino, but he's all hooked
up with an Italian movie star, Delia Scala. The two are Italy's heartthrobs. He's from Lodi. Old Italian aristocracy. Ego the size of the
Coliseum. A little self-conscious about his height, so he wears elevator shoes. But now that Ascari is dead, he's the great hope of Italy
to run with Fangio and Moss. If Ferrari lets him live long enough,
he might have a shot."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning the old man-that's what we call Ferrari-plays crazy
mind games with his drivers. Keeps them on the edge, tweaking them
to go faster. They call him an `agitator of men."'

"Americans have the idea that he's this towering genius and a kind
of benign father figure."

"Yeah, like Mussolini. He's one crafty old son-of-a-bitch and a
small-town Paisano. You'll see later."

"He's coming in here?"

"Regular as clockwork. About eight. His home life is a nightmare.
His wife, Laura, is an ex-putana from Torino and his mother is an old
shrew who lives with them. His only son, Dino, is twenty-three and
dying of something-maybe muscular dystrophy and nephritis, who
knows? Although some claim he contracted incurable syphilis in his
mother's womb."

"Man, what a mess."

"That's only the half of it. He's got a mistress named Linda Lardi
who lives in a little village, Castelvitro, near here, and she's got Enzo's
ten-year-old bastard son, Piero. Laura knows about the kid and keeps
Enzo's feet to the fire. He comes over here-it's just around the corner from his house-to get away from her."

"Can you blame him?"

"The best part of it is that he's maybe the biggest ass man in northern Italy. Hard to figure, but he always has women, including a few of
his customer's wives. The Rasputin of automobiles. He's amazing. I
think the only thing he likes better than his cars is pussy."

Diana's fierce red head eased through the crowd. She came up,
dressed in an elegant silk blouse and tight-fitting leather pants, riding on four-inch stiletto heels. Slick-haired Italian heads swiveled in
her wake.

"Are you all settled in?" she asked.

"My little home away from home," I said.

"Sorry we left you, Peter. But I guess you made it all right," she said,
turning to Coltrin.

"Better late than never," he answered.

"We should get some dinner. There's a little trattoria around the
corner.

"I figured you'd be eating with Gino," I said.

"Don't be silly. We're just old friends. Tomorrow he's testing the
Grand Prix car at the Autodrome. I'll see him there. Are you going,
Peter?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world. And I'll bring my American
cousin here." He gestured to me.

Coltrin had settled in with a sweet, slightly round Italian woman in
a small apartment, but seemed to spend his waking hours either at
the Albergo bar or haunting the various car businesses scattered
around Modena. He joined us for dinner-heaping portions of
tortellini, the favored local pasta, and endless glasses of Lambrusco.

"What is it about this world of motor racing that so intrigues
you?" I asked Diana. "I mean, you were raised in the movie industry.
Hollywood. All that glamour. Why this?"

"The people. The joie di vivre. Living on the edge, I guess.
Hollywood is so plastic. So filled with poseurs. This is real."

"Yeah, real. Like maybe a hundred dead in Le Mans. I was there when
Vukovich got it. And Chet Miller. Then Ascari. Maybe that's too real."

"Oh, I know. Sometimes it's terrible. But the rest of it-alive,
vibrant. Packed with fascinating people. Like tomorrow. Gino trying
out a new car. The noise. The power. The fumes. To me it's haunting."

Outside the restaurant, a Maserati roadster fired up, its blatting
six-cylinder instantly recognizable compared to the V-12 shriek of a
Ferrari. Its driver powered away, the roar of the engine echoing off
the shuttered buildings lining the narrow street.

"You don't hear a sound like that on Wilshire Boulevard," said Diana.

"Hot rods and fatso Cadillacs," sneered Coltrin. "The whole damn Los Angeles basin is a nightmare. I was there last year-never again.
The politicians are talking about building thousands of miles of
their so-called freeways and it's `drive-in' everything-hamburger
joints, movie theaters, shopping centers. Even a drive-in church in
Garden Grove."