1- First metres...
The ever-sharper howl of the Italian V8 broke the silence of the towns that crossed our path, while we went through the Basse Corniche at vertiginous speeds. The few still awake pedestrians turned as we passed, alerted by the scandalous siren noise emanating from the police entourage that tried to hunt us down, which dyed the night red and blue.
—Ha, ha, ha! This little thing roars! Yeeeha! Ha, ha, ha!
—Shut up, Sébastien! I have enough trying to keep us alive, to have to stand your junkie version! If you can´t control yourself, stop picking!
—Ha, ha, ha! Relax, Michel, and enjoy the moment! Pure adrenaline!
—Damn imbecile…
But the damn imbecile was right. The diesel minivans from the gendarmes, together with the precarious abilities of their drivers, couldn´t do much against the rhythm imposed to the Ferrari F430 Spider on that coastal road that I knew as if it was an extension of my body. At every turn, the sirens decreased their intensity, and gave prominence to the wail of the sportscar´s rear tyres, which screamed when being punished with the constant sways of the back, while they left a trail of smoke and burnt rubber after them. After getting out of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, I managed to lose sight of the herd of police, and, before entering Villefranche-sur-Mer, I turned right at a turnout from which a small, uphill, badly lit road was born, which led to the Moyenne Corniche. I traced two hairpin corners and stopped the Ferrari on the shoulder.
I turned off the engine and headlights and we got out of the car to carefully look over the guardrail. Sébastien inserted his hand into the inside pocket of his turquoise jacket, pulled out his wrinkled Marlboro light packet and brought a cigarette to his mouth.
—Do you want one, partner? —I nodded, and, together with my buddy, I lit another cigarette, which I puffed while I flexed my right leg to rest it on the crash barrier. We didn´t say anything. We just enjoyed the flavour while we contemplated the spectacle of lights and sounds that the gendarmes offered us on their race to Nice.
The night was gorgeous. The Mediterranean granted the Côte d’Azur an ideal temperature, which invited to cover the last metres to our destination open-topped.
—I don´t get you, Michel. As nervous as you got before, and now you open the roof of this junk?
—Give me another cigarette… and enjoy the moment.
I turned on the Italian sportscar´s radio, and In the Air Tonight, from Phil Collins started playing.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkADj0TPrJA
I felt like Sonny Crockett aboard his Ferrari 365 GTS/4 Spider replica. After ten minutes, we arrived to Sébastien’s house front door. A gorgeous two-floor construction situated halfway between Villefranche-sur-Mer and Nice. He got out of his trousers the remote that commanded the sliding door of the garden, which also led to the garage door, that he opened when pressing the second button of the same remote. Thereupon, he got out to signal the manoeuvre for me.
—Park it to the right of the 348TS.
And as he indicated, I parked the F430 Spider next to his forerunner.
—The lines of the eighties were so beautiful, with those angular bodies, and those infinite air intakes that take up the whole door, right Michel? Oh, if Il commendatore raised his head…!
—Leave the eighties romances and help me cover them. We must wait a prudential time for them to cool down, so we can deliver them to Your Royal Highness.
We covered both cars with an enormous white sheet, prepared in advance for such necessity. With the vehicles camouflaged, Sébastien started up his decrepit Renault Master T35D, and parked it in front of Maranello´s machines, in a manoeuvre that blocked any possible visual contact. Once the garage was reorganized, I decided it was time to go back home.
—Which car are you lending me, Séb?
—Take the R-25 —He reached the keys to me with his hand—And take care of it, they don´t make French cars like this anymore.
—Don´t worry. Keep in touch.
—Rest well, Michel.
And Sébastien pushed the first button of his remote again, this time without taking it out of his trousers, while I crossed the door in the Renault 25 Baccara, on my way home.
