Nothing could possibly dissuade him from flying a winner
Silver Eagle
I stopped the car just in time to avoid hitting a young man and rushed out to see if he was hurt. He was looked more shocked than injured. I asked him repeatedly, “Are you all right?”
He did not answer. He kept silent and suddenly raised his hand to his mouth indicating that he couldn’t speak. I understood and asked him to get into the car to take him to a hospital. When he recovered from the shock he took out a pen and a piece of paper and wrote,
“I’m not hurt, sir. I don’t need a hospital.”
I shouted, “I’m glad to hear that.”
He wrote, “You don’t have to shout; I can hear very well.”
I smiled and asked him, “Where do you live?”
“Via Turalia 3,” he wrote.
“Fine, I’ll take you there.”
“It’s not necessary, Mr. Mancini, I can mange,” he wrote.
“It’s the first time anyone refuses a ride with the Italian car racing champion Giuseppe Mancini,” I said laughing. I was really glad that he was all right.
He removed his dark glasses and looked at me. He flinched when the sunlight met his eyes. The big hot blue eyes glared at me like a burning flame. I shuddered at this look and drove nervously to Via Turalia.
When he got out of the car, he signed to me. I asked in a loud voice,
“What does it mean?”
He wrote in large letters, “GRAZIE!”
“Prego.”
I watched him go inside the house and close the door behind him. I felt sorry I didn’t ask him his name. I drove away.
A few days later, Giovanni Tacchoni opened the door of his house and received a strange visitor.
“Can I help you, signor?”
“You’re not,” I murmured. “But he lives here.”
“Do you mean Hamilton, signor?”
“Hamilton! Si, I think I mean Hamilton.”
Giovanni was quite bewildered. He shouted, “Marco, un visitatore.”
He was wearing shorts and a colorful shirt. He signed and Giovanni translated,
“I’m very happy to see you again, Mr. Mancini. What brings you here?”
I stood perplexed; I didn’t really know why I came to see him.
“I wanted to see if you’re all right. I was afraid you might have been hurt in that accident.”
“To me it was a fortunate accident. I’m a big fan of yours,” translated Giovanni.
Giovanni invited me to have a drink. He told me many stories about his American friend. He told me that once when he visited the United States, he and some friends were caught in a snowstorm. The rescue team commander refused to send them a helicopter in this stormy weather. Marco, who was still a trainee, flew the rescue helicopter to save their lives. He was suspended for disobeying orders and didn’t get his license. However he did save them in time.
“Right, l'Aquila D'argenta?” exclaimed Giovanni.
I looked at Marco. His face turned pale and his hands started trembling. He immediately left the room, his hands clasped to his head.
“L'ho fatto ancora!” said Giovanni.
“You did what? What’s wrong with him?”
“Marco had a terrible accident a year ago. His plane crashed. He was in a coma for a while. He still gets terrible headaches and nightmares.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Assolutamente, I think you’re the only one who can help him. He is a big fan of yours. He’ll listen to you,” said Giovanni enthusiastically.
I went to his room; knocked twice and let myself in. Marco was sitting in a big chair bending forward, his hands clasped tightly to his head and breathing heavily. He looked up; his eyes were wandering desperately. I pulled a chair and sat beside him. I didn’t say a word. I stayed for a while then left.
Three days later, I came to see him. This time we were alone. He was listening to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5. The music was very loud. I did not understand any of the signs he made. He pulled my hand and we went to his room. He took a paper and wrote, “I’m glad you came again.”
He showed me a poster of myself and indicated to me to sign it; I did. He immediately hung it on the wall, looked at it proudly and smiled.
“I’m racing in Monaco next Sunday,” I said. “I’d like you to come with me.”
He seemed surprised. “I’ll only bring you bad luck,” he wrote.
I looked at him; I saw the same lost look in his eyes. I tapped him on the shoulder and said, “We’ll win.”
I took him for a ride in my car. Sometimes, I accelerated to cheer him up. It worked. When we arrived at the track, he asked me to let him drive the Ferrari. He drove the car as if he were flying an airplane. He turned a couple of laps. When he stopped, I was out of breath.
“I didn’t know you could drive like that. You could easily win a race!”
He smiled and stepped out of the car to let me take over.
When we returned from Monaco, I started coaching him. He had the flare for driving racecars and becoming a champion. I persuaded my sponsor to give him a try.
We went to Montreal, Canada. He had a good start at the race. He was third on the grid on his debut. There was a battle going on between him and the German driver for second place.
With only sixteen laps left, there was a big crash. The wreckage was everywhere and the safety car was brought on. The drivers lined up behind the safety car but he didn’t. He pulled out of the race. I finished second behind Schuster.
When I checked, I was told he had no mechanical problems. He just left the race unfinished and headed to his hotel. I went to see him. He was in a terrible condition, pacing in his room with frantic steps. His hands clasped to his head as if he would go mad.
The team manager wanted to fire him but I begged him to give him another try. I told him he panicked when he saw the crash.
“He’ll get used to that, sir; just give him a second chance.”
When we returned to Milan, I went to see Giovanni.
“You’re hiding something, Giovanni. He looked as if he would go mad when he saw the crash. What really happened, Giovanni?”
“His two sisters were killed in the crash, Giuseppe. Joanna was fifteen; Alexandra was twelve. Marco was only nineteen. They were very beautiful little girls and he loved them a lot. He took them while he was still suspended. He was badly hurt and lay unconscious for two months. He did not know what happened to them till his father showed him the pictures.”
“Pictures! What pictures?”
“Pictures of the crash… they were disfigured. By God, Giuseppe, he almost went mad. And he didn’t utter a word afterwards.”
“Aphemia!”
“Yes, Giuseppe. He blames himself for what happened; though, it was a mechanical failure. There was nothing he could do.”
“How cruel! How could a father do such a thing? He’s just a kid.”
“When I heard about the crash I went to see him. He was so devastated; he wouldn’t even eat on his own. I took him with me to Italy. I tried every psychiatrist in town; there was no use.”
“But he’s suffering, Giovanni.”
“When I see him like that, Giuseppe, I wish he had died in that crash.”
“Don’t say that. Maybe if I talk to his father…”
“There is no use in that either. I tried many times. He even showed me the pictures. That man has completely gone mad. I think the best thing he did was letting me take Marco to Italy. I don’t know what would have happened to him if he stayed there.”
“You must love him a lot.”
“He’s like a son to me, Giuseppe. I even learned sign language so I could communicate with him.”
“What shall we do, Giovanni?”
“Give him time. He’ll get over it. He’s a very strong lad, especially now that we are both on his side.”
“By the way, why do you call him Silver Eagle?”
Giovanni smiled and did not answer.
The next race in Mangy-Cours, Marco grabbed poll position. He led a wonderful race but the experienced German driver Michael Schuster overtook him on his last pit stop. He finished second. I ended up with mechanical trouble that forced me out of the race.
We were celebrating. I proposed a toast and said, “To you, Silver Eagle.”
His hands started trembling and he dropped the glass. I saw terror in his eyes and sweat running down his forehead. He clutched his throat and was struggling to breathe. I had to call a doctor.
Those anxiety attacks happened a lot lately. Sometimes at night, he was startled by nightmares. I tried to convince him not to race at Silverstone. He was in no condition to drive a racecar but he insisted so we went to England.
Schuster, the defending champion, issued a statement before the race criticizing Hamilton. He described him as a reckless driver. He also alluded in his statement to the plane crash in which his two sisters were killed. Marco was furious about that statement but that only made him more determined to win the race. I took poll position; he was fourth on the grid.
The race started. I took the lead setting the pace for other drivers. He was ninth; Schuster was third. After the first pit stop, he advanced to fifth position. I was terrified by the way he overtook Jansen and moved up to fourth position. On lap forty-two he overtook Schuster on the inside and advanced to third.
“The white flag is up with one lap to go.”
He shifted into high gear and let the car run wild. He advanced to second position right behind me drafting along the racetrack. At the last turn, he overtook me and took the lead winning his first Formula One race of the season.
“I have prepared a special celebration,” he wrote on a piece of paper and took me for a long drive on a country road to a private aviation club.
“The Silver Eagle is flying again,” he wrote.
I was happy for him and afraid for his life. He seemed determined to fly alone. His eyes were glowing with blue fire. Nothing could possibly dissuade him from flying a winner as he did at Silverstone.
I watched him take off to the air. Far above in the sky, he looked like a silver eagle flying toward the clouds. I felt a grip at my heart as he was looping and spinning in the air. An attendant approached me and said,
“Mr. Mancini, I have a note for you from Mr. Hamilton.”
I unfolded the paper quickly and read,
Dear Giuseppe.
After the accident, I wanted so much to shout and tell my father that it wasn’t my fault; I couldn’t. Instead, I wrote him those lines.
Rise, Silver Eagle, and shake the dust
Fly with the scorching wind; hover with the gust.
Soar high above the clouds into a dream
Turn the world into chaos with your thundering scream.
Shake the dust of years past and years to come
With your everlasting scream, strike them dumb.
Behold, the flaming orb awaits your wing
Fly unto the sun, your burning throne, O’King.
And there unite with God, “O’hasten thither
No more let life divide what Death can join together.”
Your ever-thankful friend
Marc Hamilton
I looked up. He made a loop, a spin then… a crash.
Huda
You have the incredible ability to gel your stories with consummate ease and skill, and allow your emotional content to permeate throughout your works and labors ..
I love your style !
Love, Peace and Harmony
Peter
Reviewed by Michael Wells
5/7/2006
I remember this special story from your book Blue Fire
Wonderful expression of human suffering through the medium of story and poetry.
I love the poem
I'm glad the hero found his voice
God Bless
Mick
A compelling story, Huda. It captures the reader's attention at the start and holds it until the end. Thank you for sharing your gift. Love and peace to you,
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Silver Eagle
