The enlightened forces

On the Tuesday before the weekend of the Spanish Grand Prix, a little man in dark glasses was seen walking hurriedly along a street called Carrer Còrsega in Barcelona and then ducking into a dimly lit Catalan restaurant named Fonda Gaig. After turning round surreptitiously to ensure that he had not been followed, he made his way to a table in the corner at which another man was already sitting and sipping a cocktail. The seated man rose and stretched out his wide arms in a gesture of welcome. He was an enormous man: his belly was the size of two sacks of potatoes and he was well over seven feet tall. He had a massive head which was balding at the crown and a neck the size of a bull’s. Oddly, his eyes were tiny, sunken and beady. You could almost imagine him having posed for the portrait of Alessandro del Boro by Diego Velázquez if he had taken off his modern suit and thrown on a 17^th century regal costume. His resplendent name was Alfredo Pérez Corbacho Chaves María de los Remedios Cipriano.

I took the liberty of arriving a little ahead of the appointed hour so that I could be here to welcome you, Fernando,” said Cipriano as he enveloped the little man in a huge hug. “Pray, sit yourself down and permit me the honour of ordering a restorative cocktail for you. You are looking decidedly pale, my friend, and it is my responsibility, nay, my obligation to see that some colour returns to your cheeks.” Fernando Alonso smiled broadly. He had always found his theatrical friend pompous but yet amusing. He settled into the seat opposite Cipriano and was presently sipping an expertly prepared pre-prandial martini. He did not, however, remove his dark glasses.

“It has been a fair few years since I last laid eyes on you,” said Cipriano while resting his great head on his fleshy hands and leaning forward so as more closely to inspect the double Formula One world champion seated in front of him. “But my joy at seeing you today is no more enhanced than if I had been dining with you every Saturday evening for the past six months.”

Alonso smiled again. “You always flatter me, Alfredo,” he said.

“Ah, but it is the quality of the time one spends in esteemed company rather than the quantity, my friend. My career as a magician and thespian obliges me to suffer innumerable social inconveniences, but none when in your presence, my most excellent friend. But let us not dissipate the time we have in this establishment we both know to be unsurpassed in the treats it offers up for the gratification of our gastric juices. Allow me to order food and wine.” Cipriano summoned the waiter and, without once glancing at the closed leather menu placed before him, reeled off a list of Catalan treats. Before long, huge plates of steaming, succulent food were atop the table. Generously supplied were the Catalan delicacies botifarra amb mongetes de ganxet (sausage with white beans), pollastre de gratapallers a la casssola (stewed free-range chicken) and canelons de l'Avia (Grandmother's cannelloni), accompanied by a niceDèria from Priorat,

Alonso began to articulate his reasons for requesting the meeting with Cipriano.

“I am sure you will understand, Alfredo, that if I have been quiet over the years it is because I have had a lot of things to do.

Cipriano threw his great head back and let out a huge bellow of a laugh. “When I last looked, Fernando, the Pope was Catholic.”

Alonso shot him a quizzical glance from behind his shaded eyes but carried on. “Winning two back-to-back championships was very special to me and I will always look back upon the achievement with pride. But joining Ferrari mattered more to me. I want more than anything to be a Ferrari champion. It is the ultimate prize in Formula One and it matters more to me than anything, even life itself. I have thrown everything I have at it. I have even given up the love of a beautiful woman so as not to be distracted from it. But things keep going wrong for me at Ferrari, no matter what I do. I feel powerless.”

Alonso paused, somewhat theatrically. Cipriano lowered his fork and leant forward.

“You need say no more,“ he said, before Alonso could resume his rant. “I have followed your progress since the very beginning. Ferrari are never going to give you the prize you seek. They are a spent force,” he muttered and took a long gulp of wine. “And,” he continued,“ I fear, there are others in the contest who are more youthful and, dare I say it, hungrier.” Cipriano shovelled some cannelloni into his cavernous mouth and raised his eyes to look at Alonso.

Alonso lowered the tone of his voice.

“You know I have never asked you to do anything before for me, but..”

“I understand fully, my young friend,” interrupted Cipriano. “You wish to turn to the power of the enlightened forces, my young friend. Those who are less respectful than you describe my ancient and carefully studied craft as “black magic”. You do no such thing and show me nothing but respect. I am listening.”

“I am convinced that my problems have everything to do with luck. I suffer from ill-fortune at the moment; Ferrari are bunglers and are jettisoning my career with their history. If I recall enough from our conversations in the past, I know that you prescribe that the only solution for situations like the one in which I find myself is to place another in my place.”

“Indeed. The ill-luck exists and cannot be dismissed – but it can be moved from your shoulders to those of someone more deserving of it. May I guess that the person to whom your troubles are to be moved was a fellow protagonist in a joint enterprise which you left to join Ferrari?”

“You guess well, Alfredo.”

“It shall be as you wish. Leave it to me. Now let us enjoy the rest of our agreeable supper and talk of other things,” said Cipriano as he skewered a sausage with his fork.

At the home Grand Prix of Fernando Alonso, an English driver mysteriously ran out of fuel after securing pole position on Saturday. Fuel allocations for cars are computer controlled but some gremlins somehow got into the McLaren systems. He was disqualified and required to begin the race on Sunday from the back. After a heroic drive which was guaranteed to earn him good points, the pit crew contrived to lose him valuable time by curiously placing a loose tyre in the way of his rear axle as he readied himself to exit the pits. His name was Lewis Carl Davidson Hamilton.

Sitting in the grandstand at the Circuit de Catalunya, his colossal head partly obscured by a monstrous hat, was Alfredo Pérez Corbacho Chaves María de los Remedios Cipriano.

Gitau

15 May 2012