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Sunday, May 1, 1994, 8:00 PM
On the plane from Imola to Paris, first-class passengers consumed the in-flight meal with wine, but Alain Prost felt nauseous to the pit of his stomach. Everyone else was eating and drinking and laughing, as if nothing had happened. He could not eat—he could not talk. Everything that followed was a blur. He didn’t even know how he got home from the airport. His luggage dropped by the door, Alain collapsed onto his bed without changing his clothes. Death tends to be an abstract concept or no more than a few column inches in a newspaper, until it strikes close to home.
In the dark room, consciousness was like a silent spell that devoured all the remaining strength after a nightmare weekend. Not a single tear was shed. He recalled the pouring rain in Hockenheim, the raging fire in Paul Ricard, and the friends he had lost, lots of them…
“Ayrton”
The soft syllables pressed against the tip of his tongue, he shivered slightly, suddenly feeling the chill of the night. He curled himself up, staring at a patch of light in the corner. Streetlights cast flickering shadows through the window. His head was heavy, lips parched, yet he lay there, letting the overwhelming fatigue drown his senses, and drifted off to sleep.
Sunday, May 1, 1994, 6:00 AM
The blinding light woke Prost. He shut his eyes, then opened them again, and reluctantly found himself in Room 147 of the Hotel Castello in Castel San Pietro, the go-to place for him during a San Marino Grand Prix weekend. Alain rubbed his eyes, puzzled. A man in disposable slippers and a bathrobe, messy curly hair, those grey-green eyes filled with confusion, was staring right back at him from the mirror. YES. The person standing in the bathroom was indeed himself.
Merde.
The ringing phone saved him just in time.
“Bonjour,” said Alain. “Bonjour, Mr. Prost,” greeted the receptionist at the front desk, “would you like to come downstairs for breakfast, or have it delivered to your room like yesterday?”
Yesterday?
Stay calm, act as if nothing was wrong.
“Room service would be fine,” he added discreetly, “and if possible, I’d like a copy of today’s newspaper as well. Merci.”
It’s been ages since he last read any newspaper. However, he didn’t want to sound crazy by asking questions like “what’s the date?” or “do you know what’s gonna happen next?”. People would have thought: Now Prost Gone Mad! Not to mention that everything about that Brazilian was bizarre enough from the very beginning.
“Of course, sir. Please let us know if you have any further needs. Have a wonderful day.”
He hung up the phone, and sat down on the bedside. Birds were chirping outside the window in the dazzling sunlight. If Death hadn’t visited this damned weekend, if it could be like that stupid Groundhog Day film, there's a chance for change, to start over again...
“Come in please.”
Sid Watkins was busying himself in a pile of medical reports behind his desk. It was a particularly difficult weekend for everyone, and it’s never a good thing for the doctor to be occupied.
“Alain,” he seemed surprised. “Is everything ok?”
The Frenchman wasted no time making small talk but explaining the situation, kindly leaving out the parts about nightmares, prophecies, or tales like time travel for obvious reasons. Alain Prost is an honest man, outspoken as always. He never lies, just not always tells the whole truth. (Though God beholds that he wants to bite his tongue off for half the time of his life.)
“You are worried about Ayrton?” The doctor asked in a slightly rising tone.
Alain blushed for realizing how weird it seemed to care about the safety of his so-called arch nemesis.
“Sid, he came to me after Roland’s accident.” Though he had yet to come at this point in time, the Frenchman continued, “I believe you understand how important a pilot’s mental state is in a race. I think it would be better for him to take some time off.”
“I knew… I met him in the hospital yesterday,” the doctor sighed, “He got very very upset and cried a bit. And that’s when I said to him, ‘Ayrton, you have been three times world champion, you're the fastest man in the world, don’t need to prove anything more, and…you like fishing, so why don't you quit and I’ll quit, and we just go fishing.’ He thought of it for a while,” This well-respected old man had been working in Formula One for 16 years, he took his glasses off, looking exhausted, “finally he said, ‘Sid, I can’t quit. There's no way that I can stop driving now.’ ”
Alain swallowed hard. Of course Ayrton would think that way, because he didn’t know…
“Just this one race, Dr. Watkins. Ayrton respects you a lot, please.” “Alain? I’ll never get used to Prost not wearing his overall,” Gerhard grinned, “coming for an interview, eh?”
The Austrian driver’s beaming smile was contagious. Alain was amused by his dramatic tone, thinking about his next move. He even had Dr. Watkins issue medical advice at last, but Ayrton just didn’t give a shit about psychological profiling because God is always behind him.
For God’s sake, not this time.
“No. I’m here for Ayrton.” “Aryyyyytoooon?” Gerhard dragged out that name, teased, a cheeky sparkle dancing in his eyes, “That’s news.”
Alain rolled his eyes, and Berger got serious, “The year I had my accident at Tamburello, we walked down there, and talked about what we could do,” he gestured with his hands, “you can’t move the wall, there’s a river behind it, nothing could be done.”
In fact, Prost is a very stubborn man. His experiences give the impression of calmness and patience, speaking softly, never raising his voice. However, he detested giving up as well as failing, even to fate. A true champion would say: I don’t contemplate losing. So it’s not over, not yet. Improving track safety would take more than a day’s work. At least Gerhard agreed that he’d talk to Ayrton.
Thierry, Rubinho, Mika, even Michael—his friend, his rival—no matter whose advice it was, Ayrton fucking Senna just didn’t listen. After months of trying, Alain had no choice but to rule out this possibility. He buried his fingers in his hair, frustrated, almost depressed. Maybe it’s time for a strike, all together, against this damn Grand Prix - for the drivers’ benefits, for safety, like they once did in 1982.
Du— Du—
“Hello?” “Niki, I need your help.”
Before hanging up, Niki called out.
“Hmm? ” “You care about Ayrton,” slowly, Niki said.
Alain bit his nails, it was an unconscious gesture when he was nervous. He wouldn’t have been surprised if someone as perceptive as Niki had noticed something. He waited for the other shoe to drop. You idiot, are you nuts? There was no downpour at Imola. Hundreds of thousands of tickets had been sold. The circuit would be crowded with reporters and broadcasters worldwide. A world champion dies, so what? The Grand Prix continues anyway, let alone a rookie. But I’ll help you. No matter what. That was Niki.
“But—” Lauda’s voice was somehow distant through the wire. “Take care of yourself, you sound tired, Alain.”
“I will,” something warm blurred his eyes, “thank you, Niki.” He hung up the phone.
Not surprised, to be honest, you cannot convince everyone, at least not in half a day, even if you had countless half-days, even with Niki’s help. Perhaps Ayrton could, he always got that kind of mystical aura. Alain felt frustrated once again, yet had to admit this idea wouldn't work. It never could, from the very beginning.
The Williams motorhome, too familiar a place. Former colleagues greeted him with smiles. Alain forced himself to relax a bit and smiled back. Not far away, Frank Williams was in his wheelchair, talking to an engineer. The Williams car was even more difficult to drive after the active suspension was banned this season. The ambience inside the team was completely different from McLaren’s. Ayrton was not used to it, just like Alain was last year. He knew the team all too well, here, you’re nothing more than an employee. When you win, you win as a team; when you lose, you are the one to be blamed. He waited, until the engineer left.
“After what happened, we have no objection at all to Ayrton dropping out of the race,” Frank Williams cautiously began.
Yeah, but not objecting and being supportive were two completely different things. He felt sick.
Shit.
He thought it aloud, like some rude tabloid journalists, but Frank wasn’t offended.
“Did you see yesterday’s news?”
He asked. “What?” Alain shook his head. Frank’s “yesterday” for him was more than a year ago. Besides, he stopped reading newspapers when he was driving. Now it’s only used to check the date: Sunday, May 1st, 1994, every day.
“What did they say?”
“Round 3: Schumacher—20, Senna—0. It’s on the front page,” Frank looked into his eyes, “You knew Ayrton. He’s a very proud man.”
For sure, for sure...but Ayrton didn’t know, none of them did. Alain lowered his head and fell silent. His former team principal patted his shoulder, as if to comfort him, “I’ll talk to him.”
“I’m sorry, Frank. Thank you.”
“We all heard that sweet little message on the team radio,” the Brit laughed, “We are happy, for both of you.”
Before his emotion collapsed, Prost fled. Ayrton was determined. The Williams mechanics checked the car inside out over and over. Not a single problem was found. Alain got even more anxious as time passed by, the cycle didn’t break.
Sunday, May 1st, 1994. Imola, San Marino Grand Prix. He walked with his head down, hurrying along...
“Alain,” Ron Dennis stopped him in the pit lane, “Is everything ok? You look...”
He nodded and showed a habitual smile. Perhaps it was because Ron had always been a close friend, or because he really needed to talk to someone. There was one moment when he wanted to talk, explain everything—to begin with the feeling of powerlessness: day after day the accident had repeated itself, and he kept opening his eyes and starting all over again. Like an eternal exile, he was trapped at a singularity of time—eternal like a star, like a galaxy—forgotten, over and over again. He sounded calm, detached, as if telling someone else’s story: Alain Prost’s Imola Adventure. He smiled, and didn't care whether Ron believed it or not. Somehow, Niki’s voice echoed in his mind: you sound tired, Alain.
No.
He pursed his lips, said nothing.
“Well...” His friend hesitated for a moment, giving Alain a hug anyway.
“I saw Ayrton, he’s looking for you,” Ron said before leaving.
Alain looked at that man: Ayrton Senna was movie star handsome. His nose was pointed aristocratically, with a few boyish freckles scattering on his cheek. His eyes were bright, fierce, slanted like a big cat about to spring. His lips were full, shaped perfectly while two of his canines were slightly crooked, flashing when he smiled. Looking into his face, one heard the rhythm of Bossa Nova, the beating heart and soul do Brasil - so young, so beautiful. Ayrton smiled, lashes thick, eyes brown, brimming with love, seeing Alain coming his way, as if that’s the best thing in the world.
“Ayrton, you’re so fucking stubborn,” Alain said, “No matter who tries to stop you, no matter what changes I make, you always end up in that damn car, every single time…” His voice trembled.
Ayrton’s look was doubtful at first, then shifted to relief, an otherworldly calm, as the signs were revealed. The gloomy tension that had haunted him all weekend dissolved at last.
“How many times?”
“What?”
“How many times did you try?” Ayrton asked in a normal way, as if he were asking about a lap time.
“Does that matter?”
He looked at Alain, Alain’s short curly hair, frowned brows and eyes about to rain. His gaze was focused, yet gentle, “Alain…I always thought you were clever,” Ayrton spoke softly, as if afraid of scaring him.
“You’ll get into that car anyway.” Alain looked away, “I’m not stupid, Ayrton. I know I can’t stop you. But I was too proud, too arrogant, too lo…”
He lowered his head and rubbed his eyes, “Do you know that I hate you, Ayrton? From the first day you came to McLaren, your youth, your smile, your passion. I hate how you unnecessarily push every race to the limit, how you keep chasing me on the podium with a fucking champagne. I hate the way you race in the rain, showing off your talent like nothing can ever touch you. You have never seen a dear friend dying right in front of you while you can only watch, do you know what it is like to be involved with an accident that ended a driver’s brilliant career just because he couldn’t see me in the rain? It had nothing to do with skill or courage, I fear not the rain, I fear the triste looks on a mother who lost her son, a wife who lost her husband, kids who lost their father. Yet you could still say those stupid things to the press, in a naive way, and somehow everyone believed you, backed you, even covered for you. I hate you promised me first then breaking our agreement and lying without a blink of your eye, I hate debriefing longer than it should be just because you obstinate ass won’t fucking leave before me, I hate you were joking with everyone in the paddock and just ignored me. You cared so much about other people’s lives yet attempted to destroy me so many times, putting my life along with yours in danger just to beat me…”
Ayrton was just listening, so he continued, “I hate you embarrassed me deliberately on the press conference, wishing me good luck with your family, then grabbed my arm and pulled me up to the first podium, holding me close like the animosity never existed, you know I felt like pushing you off from there? It was me that came to you first, we could have raced with each other’s helmet before I left Formula One, but it had to be you, né? To decide when and where and how, as if you were the one who took the initiative to restore our relationship. And what you were saying, me being manipulative? You stopped talking to me for years yet the first one to call when I retired, after like two days, the whole winter, hours and hours, talking about your work and life. So you do have a human side, it’s just after all these years, I was the last one to meet you, the real you. Ayrton, I once thought you hated me, it was hate, yes, I hate you suddenly showing up at my door without telling me before, you certainly knew how to be attractive, flying across half the world just to say I miss you in my face, you were not afraid of openly admitting that, that and you wanted me to always stay by your side. I didn’t even dare to think such things could be said out loud, while you gazed at me like an idiot, as if people could not tell. I hate you always…” Always rushing into someone’s life as you please, come then go, no hello and never goodbye.
“I saw through you the moment I met you yet fell for you anyway, you know what’s a bigger feeling than love?” Ayrton was standing right before him, safe and sound, alive. He looked up, straight into those young, innocent eyes, “Loss.”
Alain Prost thought he had stood a chance, that was why he was forever trapped in this day, watching the one he loved drive toward his fate again and again, as though love itself were a mistake. In that moment, all the exhaustion, bitterness, and unspoken grievance surged up at once. He bent forward in pain, and broke down in tears.
A pair of warm hands cradled his face.
“Look at me, Alain.”
Ayrton knelt down, his eyes clear, full of apology, “I’m sorry, for everything I have done, everything you have been through and…everything about to happen.”
Alain cried even harder, though he wasn’t the one who shed tears easily. Ayrton drew him close, stroking his back gently, soft kisses pressed on his forehead, nosetip, and lips, tears tasted salty. In the end, they simply knelt face to face and held each other tight, without all the noises, cameras or flashlights, nobody was around, just the two of them. Not far away, the iconic yellow helmet that never seemed to rest fell into silence, as if a moment were forever.
“You have more time, Alain. You like playing golf, skiing, and even… like you said, you want to buy your own team.” He smiled, two small, crooked canines flashing between his lips, “You deserve more time, Alain, to have a normal life, living the fantastic in it. Then grow old with grace, be safe, be happy. With, or without me.” His voice was reverent and determined, like a blessing, “And, at the end of the day, we will see each other again.”
Sunday, May 1, 1994, Imola, San Marino Grand Prix, on this day, Alain Prost changed nothing. He watched the man he loved go, without saying goodbye.
Thursday, May 5, 1994, 10:00 AM, São Paulo, Morumbi Cemetery.
Prost’s eyes, which I will never forget, and his words: “We came to terms with the fact that we are different, and respected the differences between us. We hated each other sometimes, and loved each other. That was the sophistication of our relationship, special. We stopped trying to remake each other. We were necessary to one another. We would never have become what we were, him without me, or me without him, our careers would have been completely different. We chose to be each other’s rival, willingly, arguing and competing, till the end of the line. We were both born to win, to challenge, and to be challenged. We have always been the closest of enemies, Senna—Prost, Prost—Senna, two sides of the same coin, inseparable. Our names will go down in history, forever next to each other in time. Now he is gone, a part of me has gone with him. In his memory, as a promise of our mutual fidelity, I will never again sit behind the wheel of a Formula One car. Ayrton was my only rival. And there shall be no other.”