"Come with me," the servant said. Was it possible that his voice was just a shade warmer? Haroway could feel his pulse beating in his throat as he entered the building. He was in — inside the Castello Prestezza!
The interior was dark and in his elated state he noticed no details, though he had a vague impression of carved wood, beamed ceilings, suits of armor, and pieces of furniture as bulky as freight cars. With uneven step he followed his guide through one chamber after another until they came to a room where tall, mullioned windows opened onto the garden. A girl stood in front of a window holding his note disdainfully by the edge, as though it were a soiled Kleenex she was about to discard.
"What do you want here?" she asked, the cold tones so unsuited to the velvet warmth of her voice.
At any other time Haroway would have taken a greater interest in this delightful example of female construction, but now, incredible as it seemed, he looked upon her only as an undesired interference. The jet-dark tresses dropping to the creamy tan of her shoulders were just hair. The ripeness of her bosom swelling above the square neck of her dress was another barrier placed in his way, while the pouting loveliness of her lips spoke only words that barred him from Bellini.
"It is no business of yours what I want here.” he snapped. "I will tell that to the Maestro."
"The Maestro is a sick man and sees no one," she answered, her voice just as imperious as his. "We can have no one disturbing him." She dangled the card like a dead mouse. "What does this message mean—'Unfinished business from Le Mans 1910?' "
"That business is none of your business, Miss. .?"
"I am Signorina Bellini."
"Miss Signorina—"
" 'Signorina' is the Italian word for 'miss.' "
"Sorry. Miss Bellini. What I have to say is only for the ears of the Maestro himself." He took a firmer grip on the handle of his brief cast. "Now — will you take my message to him?"
"No!"
"Chi el" a deep voice rumbled from the direction of the ceiling and the girl went white and clutched the note to her breast.
"He's heard. .!" she gasped.
The apparently deific voice grumbled again and the girl answered it in staccato Italian, and appeared to be talking either to heaven or to a corner of the ceiling. After some blinking Haroway could make out a loudspeaker suspended from the crenellated molding with what appeared to be a microphone hanging next to it. Then the conversation terminated in what could only have been a command and the girl lowered her head.
"That was… he… him?" Haroway asked in a hushed voice. She only nodded her head and turned to the window until she could speak again.
"He wants to see you — and the doctor has expressly forbidden visitors." She swung about to face him and the impact of emotion in those large and tear-dampened eyes was so great that it cut through his indifference instantly. "Won't you leave — please? He's not to be excited."
"I would like to help you, but… I just can't, I've waited too long for this chance. But I promise you that I won't get him excited; I'll do my best, really I will."
She sighed tremulously and lowered her head again, turning. "Come with me," she said and started toward the door.
Haroway did not feel the pain of his injured foot, for in truth he felt scarcely anything as he stumbled after her as through a sea of cotton wool. His senses were suspended as though, unbelieving, they could not accept the fact that a lifetime ambition was being realized at last. One final door swung open and he could see the bulky figure swaddled in blankets and seated in a wheelchair — a chance ray of sunlight fell from the window and struck a reflection from his mane of white hair, a halo of light that would not have surprised Haroway if it had been real. He could only stand, petrified and speechless, while the girl went over and silently handed the Maestro his note.
"What does this mean?" the old man asked, waving the card at him. "There was only one piece of unfinished business at Le Mans that year and it is too late now to start a lawsuit or anything like that. What do you want?" He frowned at Haroway and the effort wrinkled a network of fine furrows into the mahogany skin.
"N-nothing like that.” Haroway stammered, then took a deep breath and grabbed hold of himself. "I of course wasn't there, I hadn't even been born yet—" He fought down an impulse to giggle hysterically. "But my father has told me about it, many times, so I almost feel as if I had seen the race myself. When that eleven-liter Fiat brushed against your 1327-cc Type 13 and turned it over, what a horrible moment that must have been! But your driver, Fettuccine, was thrown clear and it was only when the radiator cap flew off and into the crowd—"
"The cap — I knew it!" the Maestro said, and pounded on the arm of the wheelchair. "It had to be that, there was no other unfinished business at Le Mans!"
"Grandfather, please!" the girl begged as she stroked his hand. "You promised not to!" she said, glaring at Haroway.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. Anyway, there's nothing to get excited about, my father was the one who was hit on the head by the radiator cap."
"Aha — the mysterious wounded man, found at last."
"He wasn't really hurt; it was a very small fracture and he was out of bed inside of a month. And he still held on to the radiator cap— his greatest treasure. He had no money, — he had worked his way to Europe just to see Le Mans, and he was treated in a charity hospital, that is why you never discovered him, though I know you tried very hard to find the man who had been injured."
"It was a mystery, many saw him fall — yet later there was no trace."
"Well Dad always was shy; he couldn't possibly consider talking to a great man like you. When he recovered he managed to make his way back to the United States and life was different for him after that. He always said that he had sown his wild oats and he was satisfied. When he met Mom and they married he worked in a filling station; then, finally, he saved enough to buy in and that was all he ever did — but he was always a happy man. He had the radiator cap sealed inside a glass case and framed and hung over the fireplace, and it's the earliest thing I remember, and him telling me about it. I grew up with that cap, Mr. Bellini, and it would be no lie to say that it shaped my whole life. I loved cars and I studied them and went to school nights and right now I'm an automotive engineer. There has never been anything else I have ever wanted in the whole world. Outside of meeting you, that is. Then Dad died last year and his last words were 'Take it back, son. It don't rightly belong to us and I knew it would have to go back someday, but couldn't bear to do it, not in my lifetime. That's your job, son, what you have to do. Take it back to the man that rightly owns it.' "
Haroway had his briefcase open and fumbled through it and extracted an object wrapped in many layers of polythene. One by one, with light, reverent touch, he unwrapped them until the old radiator cap was revealed, dented and scratched but polished like a jewel. He held it out to the Maestro who took and turned it over, squinting at it.
"A nice piece of brass," he said, then handed it back. "Keep it."
"Thank you," Haroway said in a humble voice as he carefully re-wrapped it and slid it gently back into the briefcase. "Thank you, too for your courtesy in receiving me." He locked the case and picked it up. "I'll not disturb you anymore — but, if you would permit, there is just one question I would like to ask before I go."
"What is that?" the Maestro asked distractedly, looking out the window and seeing only Le Mans in the year 1910. If it hadn't been for that hulking Fiat his Type 13 should have won. With the overhead camshaft they were getting 3,000 rpm. .