EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALFebruary 18, 1999
Calle Conde de Barajas, Seville
Alfi’s Dream
Where am I?
The floors are so clean I could make Oil-Leak Art. Someone is polishing
around me. I must be in prison, or the hospital.
Perhaps it’s Christmas. Everyone is shiny-new. I’ve never
seen so many. They’re big and colourful and they’re looking at me like I’m
some kind of freak. And what’s with my steering wheel on the wrong side, anyway?
I’m vexing the mechanics. Couples with babies and popcorn pass
without touching. They’re looking at my neighbour, less than three years old. The man
with the mustache, he’s the boss and he’s waiting for my discharge. I’m
cluttering things and in his opinion I should be in the palliative junkyard.
Brake calipers, oil change, and muffler tightening. The calipers are
new. It’s dealership policy to use only new parts. The calipers were back-ordered in
Italy, so there was a scramble for a four weeks to get the parts from somewhere else.
Turns out the calipers were sent from Madrid and Germany. Sara and Richard are paying more
for my calipers than what they could sell me for.
It’s silly, really. It was a mistake to bring me here, where
nobody gives a damn about classics. Old cars should have used parts. They’re easier
to find and cost a lot less. But on the upside, I’ve had a glimpse of what has become
of my kind. Big grills, four doors, automatic everything and still lots of power.
To my right, in the shop, is a baby Fiat, in for a brake check. She
asks me what it’s like to be so old and rusty. I can’t help thinking about
everywhere I’ve been, all the roads I’ve handled—every miniscule corner of
England, the Swiss Alps, that day I was moved by three large men in that parking lot in
Portugal. The suicide in Daphne’s garage. James’ sleeping quarters. The Flemish
alcoholic Alfa collector who had my distributor cap sitting there on the table. Crossing
the English Channel more times than I’ve had my brakes replaced.
I can’t help thinking about Margery William’s The
Velveteen Rabbit, when the Rabbit asks, "What is REAL?"
"Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out
handle?"
"Real isn’t how you are made," said the Skin Horse.
"It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time,
not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become REAL. It doesn’t happen
all at once. You become. It takes a long time. Generally, by the time you are Real, most
of your hair has been rubbed off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints
and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because you are Real and you
can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand."
