EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALSeptember
8, 1999
Villars-sur-Ollon, Switzerland
"This Is Really Special"
In Villars, the woman at the travel agency tell us we can get a better price to Canada
in France. Never mind, it’s an hour to Evian. On the way, there’s a little Fiat
garage in the town of Bex. We stop in to ask if they have an alternator belt for Alfi. An
hour later, after perusing the antique shops and getting to know the locals, we return to
the garage.
"Come here," says the mechanic, young but with an aging round stomach, grimy,
and beckoning with his finger. He points to Alfi, hood up. "You have to put oil
in your car."
"I did that yesterday." Rich replies. Rich knows all about the oil. He’s
wondering about the belt.
The mechanic is superior. "How much money you spend a year on oil?!"
He’s laughing. He’ s got a scowl on his face. Such stupid people, English
plates, no clue. "You big rich guy buy lots of oil for your car!" From where
I’m standing, over the engine, I can see the fresh puddle forming under Alfi as Rich
pours in another litre. The mechanic stands over him and says, "I think you like to
pour the oil onto here instead of into here!" He’s pointing to the top of
the engine, around the oil cap. "It’s okay, like people, when they exercise,
they perspire, and so do Alfas. They all do."
Next he gestures toward the duct tape holding the windshield wiper together. "You
think it’s okay to be driving around with this?!" He accuses.
"Sure!" Rich is taking it easy. "What happened to the air intake
funnel?" The piece that’s been held on with more, melting duct tape has been
completely removed from the cylinder exhaust pipes. Rich has been monitoring it, along
with the eroding alternator belt and the leaking, burning oil. It’s all normal with
Alfi. She’s simply not a Swiss watch.
"Oh, that was useless, I took that off. It’s on your seat now. You only need
that warm air intake in winter time, otherwise your carburetor will freeze, at least in
Switzerland."
I say, "So now that you’ve taken it off we have to replace it in the
winter?" (Surely the duct tape would hold?!)
The mechanic looks at me for the first time, with passive aggressive befuddlement.
"You think you gonna be driving this car in winter?!" He’s having a good
laugh. "I want to ask you something." He’s talking again to Rich. "Why
you bring this car in here today?"
Rich says, "I wanted to replace the belt."
"But why today?"
"I saw it needed replacing."
"Oh!" says the mechanic. "So today you clean your little
glasses!"’
Rich plays along. "That’s right!"
The mechanic continues, "And why you bring it here?"
Rich says, "Because Fiat bought Alfa Romeo."
"Oh yeah, okay I forgot. You know this belt is like this for a year."
Rich says, "You think so? Good thing we changed it!"
The mechanic sits in the driver’s seat, about to start the car, to test the new
belt. At the last moment he takes his hand off the key and gets up. "No, I’m not
going to touch it." Rich takes over, and the mechanic stretches his arm out in front
of me dramatically, muttering "Attention!" as if Alfi may blow up at any
moment. Alfi fires and hums cheerfully.
The mechanic is shaking his head. He says, "Where you going now?" He’s
really curious as to how we got here. Then we have a brief discussion about how his friend
had one just like Alfi and replaced the 2 litre engine with 3 litres and put six gears in
her. Rich asks him if he knows anyone who would be interested in the car, perhaps for
parts. The mechanic shakes his head. "Not in Switzerland. They’ll charge you to
come and pick it up and take it to the dump."
"But this car is a classic!" I protest.
"Oh yeah, yeah, it’s a classic," says the mechanic. He puts his
finger on Alfi’s battery, where someone, long before we picked her up in Newton
Poppleford a year ago, has wired the terminals in an artful maze of connections, holding
things in place with tape and fine gauge wire. "This here, this is really
special," he says with amazement. He stands there with his hands on his hips, pursing
his lips like a plumber at a modern art gallery that exhibits toilets as kinetic
sculpture. But behind him, in the corner of the garage, is something pre-war, a Citroen
perhaps, no paint, four flats, covered in dust and decaying under a tarp, but parked
there, permanently, a ghost of somebody’s fantasy that she may one day be driveable.
"Is that your car?" Rich asks innocently.
"Oh yeah, sure, that’s mine," says the mechanic, feigning
sarcasm. "Now. You owe me twenty francs."
