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Ferrari wind
tunnel @ factory entrance on Via Grizzaga, Maranello
“
museum & factory tour
“
test drives 488 Spider road and track, same as Lambo
Lamborghini factory tour, Sant'Agata
“
test drive Huracan Super Trofeo on track, 3-7 laps
“
“ Huracan Coupe on road,
20-30 minutes
F1 simulator, 10-15 minutes
Maserati –private collection open to viewing by
appointment, Via Corletto Sud n° 320
“
assembly line at GranCabrio
“
GranTurismo test areas
Bruce checked his map and scratched arrows on his list
as the train sped from Frankfurt towards the Swiss border. He was
scruffier than the other passengers. He’d expected to fit in better: a
college kid backpacking across Europe. There were dozens at the station
when he bought his ticket, but obviously none of them were going to Milan.
Apart from the woman with the dog and the harried mother with the toddler,
he was the only passenger in blue jeans. The rest were button down
shirts, with or without ties, or suede jackets over polo shirts. The
inner critic that would become Batman’s constant monitor of mission status
began his background notes: It was an error. He wasn’t so horribly
down market that he looked out of place, but he was just enough below the
norm that he could be noticed and remembered. It didn’t matter in this
case; he’d only been in Germany to study jiu-jitsu, but one day it might.
He glanced up from the guidebook map of Italy to the
lighted one at the front of the car detailing the train’s route from
Frankfurt to Milan, and again the future Psychobat second guessed him:
Stuttgart wasn’t far out of his way. It would have been more efficient
to go there first rather than going all the way to the Motor Valley to see
Lamborghini, Maserati and Ferrari only to come back into Germany to
hit Porsche... But he didn’t want to. For the first time since
Kyoto, the discipline that he’d always applied to his studies, the
discipline that the dojos honed and weaponized, clashed with the new
imperative to let instinct guide him.
The imperative was learned on Red Tail Mountain.
The dojos in Tokyo and Noda were similar, and with the arrogance of a
student not yet twenty, he’d approached Red Tail Mountain believing himself
a seasoned expert at studying a martial art in Japan. But the
particulars of dojo etiquette and routine hadn’t prepared him for
Maki-sensei. His teaching, his teaching style, and even his
senior students were completely different, and Bruce had struggled for
weeks—until the mutō dori. Until that one morning he went to
the dojo intending to use the freestyle sparring session to work on tanto
dori and instead found himself facing a “guest student” with speed
abilities. The freestyle randori was now “mutō subarashi
chikara dori” fighting unarmed against one with a sword or superpower,
and it took nine speed-propelled flops onto the mat to push the realization
into his body: technique wouldn’t work. The conscious application of
technique was not going to work. It wasn’t simply that the fight
overruled any preference of his and what he would like to work on;
the very idea of technique was simpl–smack– The speedster was
simply too f–smack–ast. He could outrun the very im–smack–ulse
from Bruce’s brain to his musc–smack–
Techniq–smack–
Would no–smack–
Work.
–smack–
–smack–
–smack–
His body and brain resisted as long as they could, but
as his back hit the mat the ni–smack–tenth time, something gave and a
kind of instinct took over. There was a tide. To his body and the
speedster’s body and to their fight. An intersection of the three
created a unique moment, a unique collision of force and movement that gave
rise to the perfect response. There was no technique involved; there
was only being in that moment and therefore doing that thing.
But it was impossible to be there if he was
thinking about it. He could only surrender and let it happen. If
he let go and let instinct guide him—no intention, no technique—then
somehow the movement came. Over and over it came. It was easy.
The natural result of surrendering to the tide. No thought of a wrist
reversal or unbalancing the attacker or defense against a strike from a
lower position…
Void.
Being led by the no-thing within him that felt—that was
part of—the tide—
That’s meant for fighting, not daily life,
Psychobat chided. When you’re fighting unarmed against a
superpower or a magic user or a sword and conscious thought is too slow.
The idea bored into his psyche as the train reached the
Swiss border and a customs agent did a spot check of passports, singling out
him because he had dressed down too far. Rather than
allowing his inner-critic to underline the clothing error, Bruce addressed
the previous point:
Didn’t Musashi’s Book of Five Rings say the Way
is found in everything? If Strategy was to dominate all aspects of his
life, if everything done as Bruce was to be done with an eye to the Mission,
didn’t that mean instinct was also for those non-fighting aspects of life?
The customs agent returned his passport with a nod, and
as Bruce put it away, he doubled down on the mental argument: Maki-sensei
taught that in the whole life of a sword it will spend only minutes—maybe
only seconds—in violence.
Meaning prepare! Psychobat thundered in
his mind. You cannot wait until the sword is in motion or the
super-powered fist is coming at your face. You must structure your
defense to the whole life of the sword or super-powered being attached to
the fist.
While the subconscious tug o’ war raged, Bruce returned
his attention to the map and rearranged his list to form a
northwest-to-southeast itinerary between Parma and Forli and the dozen
private collections of supercars to be found along the way. This
is why he postponed Stuttgart, and the whole subliminal argument validated
his choice: Germany had been a transition, from dojos and inscrutable
senseis, from kwoons and inscrutable sifus, and from endless, punishing days
on the mat. He’d practiced jiu-jitsu in Frankfurt, but it wasn’t a way
of life for the sensei or his students. It was something between a
hobby and exercise for men who all had jobs and most of whom had other
hobbies, who seemed to regard having a beer together after class as much a
part of the evening as their time on the mat. After the years in Asia
it was a necessary step, integrating martial arts with “real life” before
beginning the next phase of his preparations. Leaving martial arts
behind in Germany and coming to Italy to start on the car made a clean break
in a way that stopping in Stuttgart would not.
Maybe it didn’t make a lot of sense—and maybe the whole
idea was a smokescreen because he had drooled over Ferraris since he was
twelve and couldn’t wait to get to Maranello—but it’s what he wanted to do.
Maybe it wasn’t instinct he was following but a young boy’s
excitement that he’d reached the point in his adventure where he was going
to the Ferrari factory at Via Abetone Inferiore where he would see the
actual Renzo Piano wind tunnel where engineers honed the aerodynamics of the
world’s fastest racecars.
Bruce looked down at his list and playfully lengthened
the top of the F in “Ferrari” to extend over the entire word as it did in
the Ferrari logo. He did the same thing to the F in factory… and then
winced at the thought of Sifu Lin’s scowl. Maybe it would have been
more disciplined to start the automotive research in Stuttgart, and maybe he
had failed his very first test applying martial arts discipline to his real
life.
Discipline. Discipline… To make up for the
lapse, he rummaged in his backpack and found the pertinent clippings for a
workshop entitled “Science and Technology for a Safe Car,” a “Specialized
Master in Racing Motor Engineering,” Ducati’s “Physics in Motion”
Laboratory, and Guidare Pilotare’s driving courses as well as Lamborghini’s
driving academy. All took their place as less glamorous but
mission-critical entries to his itinerary, and the sheer number of hours
involved should squelch any idea that he was using the sacrosanct dictates
of The Mission to indulge a boy’s love of fast cars.
As the train crossed Switzerland he read up on the
Maserati brothers and Alfa Romeo, even though it wasn’t that interesting…
Italy’s dominance of the Grand Prix and the history of European racing after
the war, even though he didn’t think it would ever be useful even for making
conversation with his fellow tourists… He reviewed the more polite use of
the verb volere: vorrei “I would like” vs. the more… demanding… even
though… the polite form vorrei instead of the more demanding
voglio “I want”—though the train had stopped and a trio of beautiful
girls his age were boarding—all brunette—and were moving through the car:
laughing, smiling, gorgeous legs—voglio vs vorrei, the
coarser “I want” and the politer “I would like”—the calves on that one on
the right, wow—Vorrei telefonare Gli Stati Uniti...
The girls left the car and Bruce returned to his
studies—discipline!—Psychobat squelching the thoughts before they
could form... Vorrei noleggiare una macchina. Thoughts of
following the girls Vorrei indicazioni per la
pista da corsa.
Of changing his seat
Vorrei partire in quarta…
No.
Bruce saw the girls again at the train station in
Milan, and with his freshly drilled vocabulary, he thought “fare battere
il cuore” as his eyes gave those amazing legs a final, longing caress
(though it was meant to be a ’62 Ferrari GTO that quickened the speaker’s
heart, not a pretty brunette’s perfectly toned calf).
He hoisted his backpack and endured a new round of
Psychobat taking in the kind of detail an aspiring detective should be
noticing: though the girls were no older than him, they clearly had a
sense of the city’s fashion focus. Like virtually everyone bustling
around the platforms, they were chicer than their counterparts in Tokyo,
Hong Kong or Berlin. The girls knew, and they were no older than him,
so this probably wasn’t their first trip to the city. There were
boarding schools in the part of Switzerland where’d they joined the train.
If they were students there, they probably made the trip regularly.
Shopping for the day—Enough leggy girls!—or maybe a weekend, meet
some boys, flirt, What else could be deduced—make a date, enjoy the
night life and back for class Monday—that might conceivably be useful?
He sighed as the girls turned under a sign reading
Piazza Luigi di Savoia and disappeared into the thickening crowd. What
could be deduced that might be useful? Well… Milan’s fashion industry
wasn’t a niche apart from the rest of the city… He considered the shops that
dominated this part of the station, the stacks of fashion magazines on the
news stands, the other passengers on the train and platform apart from the
girls… It wasn’t like Gotham; ordinary people spent more of their income on
clothes than in other places. Also the pace was brisker than
expected. That was more like Gotham, more than one imagined in an
Italian city. Even the traffic rivaled Gotham for density and
aggression…
Bruce made his way through the chaos to a
pedestrian-only thoroughfare near the Duomo, and to the family-run inn he’d
booked for the night. At least he hoped he had. No actual
sign marked the 19th century building where his directions led, and
nothing through the unmarked doorway or the scrolled iron gate beyond gave
any hint that this was the place… Nothing up several flights of dark,
unmarked stairs offered a clue… leading the future detective to wonder, as
all first-time visitors wondered, what he had gotten himself into.
He would eventually learn the “inn” scattered its
handful of rental rooms through three buildings that consisted mostly of
offices and residential apartments. His room, when he finally reached
it, was a pleasant shock. It was small but light and airy, with high
ceilings, tasteful furnishings, and homey touches like a bowl of fruit and
stacks of books and magazines. There was also a thin balcony with
stairs that led to the roof and a dizzying view of a small park and the city
beyond. He acclimated quickly to the height, and did all he could to
memorize the neighborhood backstreets and absorb the tempo that had been so
baffling when he was caught up in the street traffic.
Dropping off his bag, he embarked on one of the more
bizarre days he would experience before costumed rogues entered his life: a
blitzkrieg of fittings such as the stores arranged for VIPs during Fashion
Week, changing in the back of cabs to appear plausibly clad at the next
stop, and finally returning to his room under an embarrassing load of
Zegna, Dsquared, Etro, Armani, and Pal Zileri
bags. In a day, Goal One was accomplished: he could never again feel
ridiculous. Whatever poses of foppish vacuity were required of him
when he returned to Gotham, this baptism by single-breasted, notch-lapeled
fire would make it as effortless as blocking a suwaisho strike.
The new, impeccably
cosmopolitan Bruce now left the inn and checked into the ultra-posh
Hotel Principe di Savoia. He had the concierge arrange a series of
private viewings of the collections at Versace,
Tod’s, Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana, and of course Prada, followed by another
round of fittings. At the end of this, Goal Two was completed: he had
one outfit that screamed “I am obnoxiously rich and here to buy an obscenely
expensive car” and a dozen combinations of quiet, casual clothing that would
go unnoticed unless an observer recognized the one detail of particular
quality that distinguished a Ferrari buyer from the dreaming enthusiast.
The clothes were packed into a new Prada duffel while
the vagrant backpack that had seen him through the most punishing kwoons in
Asia was folded up without a thought and dropped at a youth hostel on his
way out of town. Back at the train station, the young man boarding the
Express to Bologna would have been unrecognizable to anyone who saw him
arrive a few days before.
Doctor Fibrosi was an American who’d gone to medical
school with Thomas Wayne before moving to Bologna. He was happy to
meet Bruce at the train station and help him get his bearings, as he often
did with the children of old friends taking a semester abroad.
He’d heard that Bruce “wasn’t going back to Princeton,” so he assumed this
wouldn’t be the usual meet-and-greet with a student from Yale heading for
Rome, from Harvard going to Trento, or girls from Smith, Barnard and Bryn
Mawr “perfecting their accents” in Florence. He therefore planned a
walking tour that focused on food—even Italians came to Bologna for the
food, after all—and figured he would let Bruce’s interests shape the rest.
He was mildly surprised when the interest turned out to
be cars. It was a shock when Bruce walked up to him: his father’s
coloring and carriage, no extra luggage (the non-student Americans always
had too many bags for the train or the trunk of a small European rental car)
and a pair of driving gloves he’d obviously bought yesterday and was still
breaking in.
Bruce’s lack of interest in the food was also a
surprise. Even to a transplant like Dr. Fibrosi, the reluctance to
spend time munching their way through the Quadrilatero
market was peculiar, and to be planning weeks in the region
without luxuriating in the rich butter-based cuisine was almost sacrilege.
He did get Bruce to sit down for a Negroni and an hour of people-watching as
they talked, which made it bearable. He advised Bruce on the
ins-and-outs renting a car in Italy: having a ready supply of one and two
Euro coins for tolls and parking, the necessity of a chipped credit card to
gas up at mechanized pumps, and so on.
After a pleasant hour they parted ways, Fibrosi leaving
Bruce with new notations on his map: the Maserati collection housed in a
farmhouse that also made the best Parmesan cheese in the region, and the old
ducal court in whose 700-year old cellar, perfectly situated on the Po River
for curing meat, they made “culatello.” After a brief litany about this
legendary ham made from special black pigs and seasoned by the magic fog
that came in from the river, he gave Bruce one additional recommendation for
a modest bed and breakfast that he would find near the car rental office.
He would have been astonished to see Bruce heading
instead for the 18th Century palazzo that was the region’s only 5-star
hotel, and more astonished still to see him emerge the next morning: not the
unassuming young man on his way to rent a car for a roadtrip but a Eurotrash
nightmare waiting to be picked up for a crass motor coach tour.
The Enzo Ferrari Museum silenced Psychobat almost
immediately. There was too much to absorb in the mechanical workshop:
the experimental engines, eight and twelve cylinders, in which you could
see the ideas evolving from design to design; the lines of those
Pininfarina chassis, different ideas evolving there, different from
the engine but still ideas about speed… There was too much to take in
to monitor how Bruce might appear to others, if he was memorable or how his
behavior might impact the future mission…
After the workshop was the museum proper and The 212-E.
Built in 1952, a scant five years into the company’s existence. The
lines of it! Seeming poised to roar into motion even as it was
sitting there… Angle after angle as you looked at it: from the front,
it suggested a horse impatient with your nonsense, aching to rear up, break
its reigns and run! Then as you moved around it… the back wasn’t that
interesting, but the sides—the sides! The car he was looking at
belonged to Roberto Rossellini, and it was black. The gallery lights
reflected along the sides gleamed like stars in the inky depths—like the
lights of the city would at night—and Bruce couldn’t restrain a smile
imagining how they would race across it as the car moved. The magical
effect was hinted at as you walked beside it, changing your angle just
that much it promised the wonders to be achieved when it raced through a
city after dark…
“…a wedding gift for his wife, the Swedish actress
Ingrid Bergman, and the couple used this car quite a lot to travel around
Europe.”
Oh who cares! Psychobat growled. More
about the two shades of black, please. And the problems Enzo Ferrari
and Battista Farina had communicating in the early years. That would
be useful to know, how a partnership like that developed, since he would
have to establish a dialogue with creative makers if he was to get the kind
of car he craved…
Hm, and the Dino 246 GT, named for Enzo’s late son. (Who
cares!) Six-cylinder. Central engine. Low. A
masterpiece. And light. It was so light, and with that engine’s
central position in the chassis allowing such a fluid shape, it was fast.
On only six cylinders, it was so fucking fast. The aerodynamics
around the rear windshield, those wings! Engine access from the rear…
So many possibilities.
Paradoxically, he tuned out when the tour turned its
attention to Gotham and the rather dreary history of importer and Le Mans
driver Luigi Chinetti who pioneered the super car’s entry to the U.S.
market. The 250 GT might be coveted by collectors, but it had little
to offer his mission (though he did note its influence on the “racing style”
of the GTO and “perfect proportions” of the GT Road: its ultra-long and flat
hood leading to a steeply inclined windshield framed by thin, sleek
columns). He shook his head at the buffoon calling it “flimsy,”
contrasting it—contrasting a Ferrari 250 GT universally recognized as a
masterpiece—with what sounded like a miniature tank that would have
all the aerodynamics of a dead rhinoceros.
The second Ferrari museum was more useful: its Formula
One focus laid out the challenges of cramming enough power into a vehicle to
generate the target horsepower, kilometers per hour, and acceleration while
keeping enough weight in the front so it wouldn’t “take off like a rocket.”
He learned the importance of carbon, titanium and magnesium in maintaining
the desired body mass index, and tried to drill in his understanding while
his tour mates enthused about the tortellini and local cheeses of their
“typical Emilia-Romagna lunch.”
Bruce ate little. And despite the pretense of
organizing his thoughts, he couldn’t really think of anything besides the
next stop: The Autodromo. A F458 Challenge Ferrari. How could he
care about noodles in cream sauce when he was going to drive a supercar.
A supercar. A F458 Challenge, 570 horsepower at
9,000 rpm, 390 pound-feet of torque, 0 to 60 in 2.9 seconds, 62 to 0 in 107
feet. 7-speed Getrag dual clutch transmission…
Approaching the man with the clipboard, Bruce flashed
on his first day in his first dojo, trying to convince himself he didn’t
look as hopelessly young as he felt. He snuck a glance at his
reflection, the flash of the Milanese clothes pushing a little more “money”
into his gait. Aggressive money: he wasn’t some kid about to buy a
Ferrari the day he got a learner’s permit (Alfred had put a stop to that);
he was a grown man who liked fast cars and had the means to indulge himself.
The mantra pushed into his muscles just as technique had pushed out the
remnants of his insecurity in the dojo, and in the remaining steps to the
clipboard, Wayne the Playboy was born.
The “Driving Experience” he’d purchased began with a
safety briefing and introduction to the equipment “conducted by a
professional driver.” Today that driver was Stefano Fanti, who handled all
of the English-speakers, and as he spoke about situational awareness and
race craft, the nascent playboy absorbed his smooth Italian charm and
king-of-his-world mannerisms. The particulars would come later, in
London, with the first year analysts hunting Sloane Rangers at Annabel’s and
blowing through 5-figure bonuses in the South of France, but the foundations
were laid in that safety briefing. While the future Batman heard “the
theoretical limit of adhesion in a corner” and the future actor logged the
tone and tempo, the ease of Stefano’s body language... “Engineering
competence, balance and discipline” …the tilt of the head and warmth of the
smile.
After the briefing, Bruce put on the white cowl-like
hood that would form a disposable barrier between the borrowed helmet and
his hair and sweat. As the sleek fabric flattened his hair against his
head, it was as though it also sealed away the playboy nonsense as well as
the insecurities that persona was created to mask. There was no time
for it… as the helmet came down over the hood ...not with 570 horsepower at
his command. He had to focus.
And focus he did. Everything nonessential started
shutting down as he walked towards the car. It was, of course, Ferrari
Red. Two mechanics with shirts of the same hue stood in front of the
open hood. He realized later that while they appeared to be doing a
“final check,” the hood was really raised in case he wanted to have a look
before getting in. At the time, his mind was prioritizing what he
would focus on, and a man in the tan jump suit commanded his attention.
The suit was covered in racing patches, and the man stood beside the car
looking at Bruce and holding the door open. Naturally Bruce followed
that lead and sat…
…non pensare d'essere la macchina comoda sociale
aimette la cintura… A barrage of Italian rolled by as the jumpsuit
fastened his seatbelt for him, and still leaning in, pointed to the
dashboard …Non si puo lasciare roma ma e gia al massimo non e una machina
fatta preso il sole molto a questa—
What? ‘Can’t leave Rome’? The best
something. ‘La machina’ is ‘the car.’
…allenato da Stefano cerca di andare in progressione
e di mettere la macchina dritta…
The part of the mind that realizes ‘this is your ass’
snapped into gear, and in a heartbeat the instinct of the dojo took
over—VOID! Norepinephrine flooded his brain, tightening his focus.
…questa costa peccato.
Bruce laughed at the colloquialism about the price of
the car and answered in easy Italian with a joke of his own. Then in answer
to a question, he introduced himself more fully and the jumpsuit shook his
hand, then they chatted for a minute more as he offered a pair of driving
gloves. Bruce took them rather than wearing his own. He was
putting them on as Stefano got into the passenger seat next to him.
The hood of the car slammed down, and one of the men in
red shirts now wore a white jump suit over it, with red highlights,
identical to Stefano’s. He held a matching red and white helmet—so,
not mechanics. They were other drivers. The reality
of where he was reasserted itself: the Autodromo di Moderna in Italy’s Motor
Valley, the bays around him filled with Maseratis and Lamborghinis, while he
himself sat behind the wheel of a Ferrari F458 Challenge.
He started the engine. The roar echoed in the
vibration under his thighs and buttocks. Stefano watched as the
jumpsuit walked him through a brief lesson on steering— lo stresso a
sinistra a sinistra giro alla destra, a centro—and precisely 1 minute
and 26 seconds later his foot touched the gas to ease the car onto the
track.
For a quarter of the first lap, Stefano talked him
through accelerating and turning at moderate speed, and then… Time dilated.
All sense of himself disappeared: no Bruce, no playboy, no mission.
Only action and awareness. The dashboard—black, leather—the car beyond
extending out from his legs—red, bizarrely red—and into the road.
Dopamine flooded his brain, tightening focus—The dash,
the car and the road, all a part of him, an extension of him… Stefano, not a
part of him but a resource, information.
Anandamide, serotonin, and endorphins flooding his
brain—and power, the roar of the engine, and speed, no time for technique.
No intention, no thought. Surrendering to the tide.
Opening it up on a straight stretch, then slowing for
the turn. Fusing the sound of that engine into his being, feeling
rather than sensing its hiccups, the car a part of him, not an outside
thing… Opening it up again, not slowing so much on the next turn. Feeling
the edge of the road and where it would be, just like the speedster in the
dojo. His body and the speedster’s, a unique collision of force and
movement… Five times around the track. Being in the moment gave rise
to the perfect response.
Bruce had no chance to process the experience at the
Autodromo. The tour went on: the wonders at the factory and assembly line
barely penetrated. The Formula One simulator was a pale, dead
experience, the knowledge that it was a simulator preempting any firing of
hormones and neurotransmitters. It was interesting, and another day it
might be exhilarating, but after the F458, it was a bumpy TV show.
Even seeing the famous wind tunnel couldn’t get him back “on mission,”
though the emerging Psychobat logged the basic principles: reduce drag in
ways that will not cost more in lost downforce than is gained.
Even the wording was clunky, but he couldn’t be
bothered to string the awkward translation into a better framework to make
it memorable. He returned to his room in Bologna exhausted, and he
slept hard. If there were any dreams before the Crime Alley nightmare
that woke him, he didn’t remember them. Indeed, the only thought he
had opening his eyes was that his ambivalence to the local cuisine was
catching up with him. He was famished.
The only sensible course was to throw on clothes and go
down to breakfast, but Psychobat squelched that idea before it could reach
his consciousness. DISCIPLINE was the watchword of his new life, and
he was not going to start bending his habits less than a week out of the
dojo. The day started with meditation, period.
He knelt in seiza on the floor of his room, closed his
eyes and focused on his breathing, in and out, in and out, noting and
dismissing the ambient sounds—when his eyes snapped open. April 8.
It was Alfred’s birthday.
Calculating that it was nearly 1 a.m. in Gotham, he had
time. A quick breakfast was followed by a trip to the car rental to
make arrangements for his road trip. Predictably, all the Ferraris
were red. There were a number of options for the Maseratis, including a
blue GranCabrio convertible that would be a treat. But then…
Lamborghini. A Gallardo, dark blue; a Huracan Spyder, dark grey; and a
Murciélago in a deep, rich black called Mezzanotte. It was love at
first sight.
He returned to the hotel to work out how to call the
United States…
Bruce was unsure how it happened exactly, but after the
birthday wishes and a cursory overview of his life over the last year, the
conversation understandably turned to where he was now and, somehow…
Of course he would be happy to see Alfred again, happy to get caught up
face-to-face, but Alfred coming to join him simply wasn’t part of the
plan. Even for a part of these mission-prep travels, he didn’t…
hadn’t… he just never saw himself having company. Especially now when
he was, essentially, attempting to rejoin society after literal years living
as a dojo tramp.
Yet the passing reference to Dr. Fibrosi’s fixation on
the food in Bologna and then to his fellow motor-tourists’ wild admiration
for the tortellini—one passing reference in a ten minute phone call—and here
he was, he and his Midnight Bat Lamborghini, speeding back to Modena, and
not to the Enzo Ferrari museum but to the train station a scant 500 meters
away.
Psychobat grumbled a little as he parked and a little
more as he waited, all these deviations from the plan is what he
objected to, one after another. It was such a bad habit to get into…
but all that was squelched the moment he saw Alfred again.
“Buongiorno, Master Wayne,” was all he had to say and
Bruce couldn’t restrain a smile, though at the same time, it hurt. The
flash of home in that voice, after all this time running away from it.
The manor was still “with him,” he learned that his first weeks in Tokyo.
He carried it inside him, but he’d grown used to it. The sudden
dial-up was disconcerting—
“I see you finally got your Ferrari,” Alfred said when
he saw the car.
“A Lamborghini,” Bruce corrected, “A Murciélago; it
means ‘bat.’”
“Bats again,” Alfred muttered, looking worriedly at the
passenger seat and then noting the roadster was “not exactly designed for
cargo, is it?”
Bruce opened the trunk with a boyishly mischievous
smile. “I have it on good authority you can store two million in cash
in here; I think it can handle your suitcase.”
The reaction was odd. The disapproval that always seemed to hang over Bruce’s talk of fast cars, but with something new. Bruce swallowed hard as Alfred handed over his luggage, realizing it was acquiescence. The words of his greeting belatedly sunk in: “Buongiorno, Master Wayne”, not Master Bruce. The dynamic was changed forever.
To be continued…