by Paula Champa
“Of course. When they built this car, they did it right. For one thing, it was built by human beings, not robots.”
“Thanks for the information.”
Miguel shook his head, smiling to himself, as we made our way down the fairway.
“What’s your position on robots?” I asked, wondering if it would generate as much chatter from him as copyright law had done.
“Critical, for many things,” he said. “With cars, for preassembly, components, paint. But what he was talking about, final assembly, it’s still partially done with human hands.”
He ran his own hand through his hair, coaxing the spikes to higher points. “I think most technicians are proud of what they’re building. That’s not to say they wouldn’t be more proud to build something cleaner.”
The second Beacon was so striking in its position on the fairway that I spotted it from a hundred yards away. The pale blue body was parked at an abrupt angle to the coast, as if the couple who owned it had abandoned it there in a fit of ecstatic passion and run off together into the waves, leaving the car to gaze tranquilly at the Pacific.
As if Emerson were urging me on, I raced ahead of Miguel to reach the car first. But it hadn’t been abandoned. What I found when I ran up alongside the Beacon was a boy seated on a lawn chair—he couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old—dressed in what seemed to be the male uniform of the day: a navy blazer and khaki trousers with a button-down shirt and tennis sneakers. He was absorbed in reading the show program on his lap.
“Hi,” I said.
He lifted his eyes as Miguel rushed up behind me.
“I’d love to show my friend the engine of your car, if you wouldn’t mind,” Miguel said, panting slightly. “I’m trying to get one myself.”
The boy nodded impassively. “It’s my grandfather’s.”
Nothing about his posture suggested that he had any intention of moving.
“Would he let you give us a quick look?” I asked.
The boy turned back to the program. “He’s walking around. He’ll be back at some point.”
Miguel stared down the endless green expanse, swarming with people. “We’ll try back later,” he said with a disappointed smile. “You’re good to look after it for him.”
It was past midday when we retreated down the fairway. The sun was hotter now, the brown hills in the distance a hazy gray. A dozen speedboats were anchored in the cove, bobbing over masses of kelp as thick as the crowds hurrying across the lawn in search of food. In the hospitality area where Miguel had arranged for us to have lunch, we ate among hundreds of others on a crazy quilt of picnic blankets spanning the grass in front of the lodge. Above this lively tailgate party ascended the ramp to the winner’s circle, an Astroturf arch rising from a profusion of white flowers. In less than an hour, I reminded myself, Emerson’s engine could be crossing into that winner’s circle. And for the hundredth time that day I silently wished he were with me and Miguel.
Another loud crackle of static split the air as an announcer in a baggy linen suit took his place at the podium in front of us. “We all love to talk about our cars in superlative terms,” he began. “But today we are surrounded by some that truly deserve it! These cars are splendid.”
Spectators surged at the balcony railings of the hotel overlooking the winner’s circle, clapping gently so as not to spill their drinks.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I take pleasure in presenting more than two hundred of the world’s premier classics. Exotic, unusual and breathtaking examples of automotive artistry.”
Champagne corks popped on the lawn as the parade of elegance commenced with a collage of elaborate metalwork. The first car to make its way along the viewing lane resembled a marvelous tropical fish. “That’s extremely rare,” Miguel noted, pointing out one fact or another about each vehicle as the parade rolled by under the hot sun. To my delight, his arm and leg brushed against mine more and more frequently; he leaned closer in consultation as the announcement of the winners grew near.
“Some of these cars have been in restoration for years,” the announcer remarked. “Of course the owners have passion, or they wouldn’t do it. Their passion is shared by everyone who works on these cars—the mechanics, the metal-benders, the guys in the shop—God bless them!”
As each class was called, the winning cars crossed the ramp driven by their owners: Karl-Heinz, Omar, Buck, Corrine, Jean-Claude . . . The Beacon’s category was approaching when my eyes were riveted by an alarming sight. Was I imagining it, or was I looking directly at the back of Hélène Moreau’s blond, bobbed head?
Almost as soon as I spotted it, the apparition of her coiffure disappeared into one of the hospitality tents across the grass. I excused myself from Miguel, trying to suppress my panic as I made my way through the crowd, leaping over and between picnic blankets like a dancer en pointe.
What the hell is she doing here?
You know exactly what she’s doing here, Beth.
Spoiling everything, when I was so close.
The security guard at the roped-off entrance glanced down at my badge. “You don’t have a pass for this tent.”
I pressed closer to the rope. “I know that woman.”
I pointed to what I assumed he could make out, through a crowd of at least fifty others in a shaded tent, as the bobbed back of Hélène’s head.
“Can’t help you.”
The guard waved me to one side to let a small group enter the tent.
Be ruthless.
“What about that guy she’s with, the guy with the bright yellow baseball cap?”
Whoever the blond woman happened to be, she was—according to one of the helpful guests passing into the tent ahead of me—drinking coffee with the chief executive of a French crystal company.
I was certain it was Hélène. Or was it? It was impossible to tell from the back, and the woman wouldn’t turn. What if Emerson had been right all along? What if she was the real owner after all, using the other couple as a cover? Or was she there to get the engine herself and to mount it on a pedestal in her studio like a Duchamp sculpture, as Emerson imagined? So soon after I had reveled in a sweeping sensation of triumph, victory could not have felt any less certain.
Then the Beacon’s class was announced and I was forced to abandon my surveillance. I raced back across the viewing area toward Miguel, jumping through the field of blankets and bodies. When the announcer called the winners’ names I leapt into the air.
“Howard and Sissy Russell of Beverly Hills, California!”
My heart leapt next, at the sight of the pale blue car advancing down the lawn at a jaunty clip. Then, to the sound of the audience’s applause, Emerson’s engine was rolling into the winner’s circle.
“Nobody could believe these cars when they first came out,” the announcer cried. “George M. Beacon won worldwide acclaim for his company’s stunning roadsters.”
At the foot of the ramp, the driver hit the throttle.
“Listen to that engine! A sound to die for, as you can hear. And one that rarely failed. Thank you, Howard and Sissy, for bringing it across.”
The car passed us in the viewing lane, a prize ribbon fluttering from the windshield. I fell into step behind it. I could hear Miguel jogging in his brogues behind me, rushing to keep up as we followed the car back to its parking area on the grass. Once again I felt myself pulling ahead of him, straining to reach the car first. Even before the Beacon came to a stop I called out to the driver. “Congratulations!”
“I was just—going to say the same,” panted Miguel, arriving on my heels.
The man I presumed to be Howard climbed out from behind the wheel. He pulled the ribbon off the windshield and dropped it onto the front seat.
“Sis, this is inside,” he said, wiping his mouth.
He was tall and strangely muscular, or maybe it was just that he had a youthful body compared to his face: The sharply angled cheeks were sanded by wind and sun, framed by sideburns the same s
tark white as the hair peeking out from the sides of his baseball cap. He wore an impeccably pressed version of his grandson’s outfit, with the addition of a necktie.
Howard glanced over at his car and broke into a wide grin. “It’s something, isn’t it? Hardly the most significant Beacon in the world, but it’s something.”
The grandson unfolded himself from his chair and announced that he was walking down to the winner’s circle to watch the rest of the ceremony.
“How much time did you spend restoring it?” Miguel ventured.
“You never ask those questions,” Howard protested. “Not about the time or the money. The truth is, I don’t think about it. And I never keep the receipts—because a long time ago, I did keep the receipts, and I made the mistake of adding them up and dividing the total by the number of times I drove the car. I was so miserable, there weren’t enough drugs to console me . . .”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the hood of the Beacon. One pale blue sheet of metal was the only thing standing between me and Certain Victory.
“Even after years of therapy,” Howard continued, “I keep buying cars.”
“Let’s drink to the Concours,” said Sissy, offering around a tray of plastic champagne flutes. “Because anywhere else, people would be horrified by these things he’s saying.”
“To victory,” said Howard, giving me a wink that reminded me uncomfortably of Alto Bianco at the party in Germany.
Miguel turned to Howard. “May I ask where you found this car?”
“The chassis was in Argentina,” Howard said. “This was supposed to be the ‘donor’ car for another Beacon I was working on—a coupe. I didn’t plan to restore this roadster, too, but one thing led to another. What can I say? I love them both.”
“Howard’s been restoring this car for as long as I can remember,” Sissy said. She was a slender woman who I guessed to be in her sixties, with blond hair fluffed over the sides of a black tennis visor. Her freckles and the champagne flute in her hand made her look more girlish than sun-damaged. She turned to Howard. “There was that part you could never find . . .”
I tensed.
“A taillight,” he said. “No, it wasn’t hard to find. You just heard about it a lot when I was doing it.”
They kissed.
“Sissy’s into cars,” Howard informed us.
“I admit it.”
“This really was a golden age, wasn’t it?” Howard said. “You look at the Beacons after this era and they’re not as subtle.”
“This was the cleanest sculpture,” Miguel agreed. “May I touch it?”
“Sure. It already won!”
Before I knew what he was doing, Miguel took my fingers in his own, cueing a reveille of nerves at the base of my spine. I panicked for a split second: I thought he was going to make a lunge for the hood, but instead he gently placed my hand on the front fender. The curved metal was warm from sitting in the sun. His hand guided mine as our fingers spanned the length of the car, like blind children. The flow of the lines felt like a body bending backward, but stronger and more permanent.
“Miguel is affiliated with the Beacon Motor Company,” I told Howard and Sissy, launching into the introduction we had agreed on earlier.
“My grandfather’s pride,” said Miguel, releasing my hand. “Destroyed by my father. As every Beacon owner knows.” He shook his head. “Apparently there weren’t enough drugs to console him either.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sissy, patting Miguel’s arm sympathetically.
“It was a long time ago,” he said, reassuring her with one of his ruffled smiles. “He took himself and my mother out in a blaze of glory. I’m pretty sure they didn’t feel a thing.”
Howard put a hand on Miguel’s shoulder. “I know the Germans are involved now with Beacon. Sis and I got an invitation to some event. After being out of business all these years, you’re going to build cars that don’t pollute?”
“We’re not building anything yet,” Miguel said. “Unfortunately. But what you’re talking about, what we showed in Germany, that was just one concept, to start.” Suddenly his tone grew cynical. “To feed AG’s publicity machine.”
The three of them were huddled around their discussion like my father and mother with Garrett at the dinner table.
“No one’s figured out the fuel,” Howard said.
“That’s right,” Miguel said. “But that’s only one piece. We’re looking at how to integrate different forms of mobility. Forget the old idea of a car. Think about transportation more broadly . . .”
While no one was looking, I touched the Beacon again. The heat of the body sank into my fingertips. I felt for its dormant pulse beneath my own. Inches away, under the hood, lay a piece of machinery that could convert energy into motion, could generate power on an earth-changing scale. It had altered everything in the world in the span of its brief existence. I felt all the more tiny and ineffectual by comparison.
“. . . and innovative energy policies,” Miguel was saying. “The world’s population is being compacted into dense urban areas. What if our forms of mobility changed entirely?”
Howard took a step back, visibly overwhelmed by the extent of Miguel’s to-do list. “Well, the last Beacons in the seventies were terrible,” he said, “with all due respect to your father.”
Miguel let out a hearty laugh, apparently enjoying Howard’s critical assessment. “No, believe me, my father would not have commanded your respect if you’d met him in the seventies. And probably not much before that either.”
“But for Britain—Sissy and I lived there for a while—this is national culture. The marque may carry on, but where’s the authenticity? They’ve moved the Heritage Trust to Germany, for God’s sake. There’s a bunch of companies doing these revivals—”
“You can forget about the World War Two order of things,” Miguel said. “The industry isn’t organized as much on national lines now. In many cases, that’s not even desirable.”
Howard smiled ruefully. “Tell that to the blokes in Lugborough who are out of work.”
“Unfortunately, they would have lost their jobs anyway, because Beacon—as it was—could never have continued. My father had psychedelic visions, but he and his colleagues didn’t have the vision to lead anyone into a sustainable future, let alone—”
I tapped Miguel anxiously. He looked confused and then, suddenly remembering my mission, he, in turn, tapped the hood of the car.
“Since we’re going on about Beacons, Howard, could we show Beth here the engine? It was the most important part of the car to my grandfather. I’d love for her to see it.”
Howard nodded and handed his champagne to Sissy.
I felt my stomach contract as he reached under the center of the dashboard for the hood release. But I knew what I was looking for, and where to look. Emerson had coached me thoroughly.
The announcer’s voice clattered on through the loudspeakers. Howard propped the hood open. I stepped closer, filled with the sense that I was about to encounter something alive—a heart of metal. I expected for it to expand and contract and beat its way out. But the hunk of metal remained still.
I fixed my eyes on the block, behind the line of six cylinders. Stamped there, on a metal ID plate, I read:
ENGINE NO. 39212
BEACON MOTOR COMPANY, LUGBOROUGH, ENGLAND.
MADE IN ENGLAND.
Mission accomplished.
Miguel flashed me a smile. I turned to Howard, attempting to conceal my jubilation.
“And—how do you find this engine performing, in terms of speed?” I asked, hoping the question sounded less rehearsed than it was.
Howard’s answer was interrupted by an unintelligible shout from Miguel, standing across from us on the passenger side of the car.
“I know—there’s some engraving on the cylinder head,” Howard said, chuckling. “Odd son of a bitch, isn’t it?”
I followed Sissy over to where Miguel was standing.
Howard fro
wned. “We had someone translate it once. Said it was probably a joke between the mechanics. It doesn’t affect the performance, I can tell you that.”
I stood with Miguel, examining the arcs of thick lettering tattooed along the length of the engine:
HÉLÈNE, MI RICORDO.
“It’s Italian,” said Sissy.
“What does it say?” I asked Miguel. “I mean, I can see the woman’s name . . .”
He dropped his gaze to the ground.
“It says, ‘I remember.’”
Hardly realizing what I was doing, I reached out to touch the lettering. I was about to make contact when I felt a presence by my side, as if summoned by those words scarring the metal.
With a start, I turned to find Hélène beside me, her flat face inches from mine, leaning in to study the writing on the engine. She was smiling strangely, with her teeth clamped together. I was so alarmed to find her there in the flesh—she was the woman I had seen earlier, after all—I couldn’t think.
I stepped back.
“The engine remembers?” I asked, discovering to my dismay that my voice was shaking. “Did you know that was there?”
She unclenched her teeth, then put her hand to her mouth and fell into a fit of laughter.
A look of uncertainty flashed across Miguel’s face, then he joined her.
“He was a conceptual artist!” she shouted.
“We thought it was funny ourselves,” said Howard, but he looked at Sissy in confusion.
“The bastard,” Hélène muttered, laughing again through her fingers.
Spurred by Miguel, her laughter gathered force until it was finally punctuated with a single word. “No,” she said. “No,” she repeated, more softly, but whatever other words she intended to follow it were overtaken by a heaving breath that collapsed into sobs.
Miguel offered her his pocket handkerchief.
“A minute,” she said.
She stepped away in the direction of the shoreline, leaving me stunned.
“What was that all about?” Howard asked, grinning at his wife in disbelief. He turned to me. “Is she with you?”