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Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, Ayrton shows up with that damned helmet, painted like it still mattered. He doesn’t speak. He just sits there, on the edge of a piano Gerhard doesn’t remember owning, gloves on, elbows pressed into his knees, like he slipped back into his consciousness by mistake. It’s a dream, of course. The track is made of smoke, and the curves ignore physics. But he’s there, in that invented corner, sharper than any photograph.
And Gerhard does what he always does: tells a bad joke. Something about Brazilians and European weather. Ayrton smiles like he used to, back when he didn’t realize his friend was being serious.
Years have passed—so many that even the jokes have started to rust. Sometimes Gerhard believes it was love. Sometimes he believes it was just Ayrton. Some nights, he misses him like anybody miss things that were never said. Others, he doesn’t. But those don’t last.
—You live in my dreams —he whispers quietly, unsure if he’s thinking the phrase or also dreaming it.
Ayrton sometimes appears mid-turn. Doesn’t enter through the door, doesn’t emerge from the smoke: he’s just there, precisely where he shouldn’t be. No words needed. Gerhard knows it’s him by the way he turns his head, as if listening to music in a language he hasn’t learned yet.
He speaks to him like he always did, without looking.
—We don’t race anymore, but you keep showing up in curves. Stubborn bastard —Berger whispers.
Ayrton laughs, soundless. That mocking-yet-tender gesture. The helmet reflects something impossible: Berger’s own reflection, years younger, with wet eyes. He doesn’t cry, of course. Humor’s always been his thing.
Loving was that: living in the fantasy that maybe he understood Ayrton, just a little. He never said it. Never knew it.
But Ayrton keeps appearing.
—I can’t tell if you’re getting younger or if I’m getting older.
No reply. Just that half-laugh again. This time the helmet is cracked, though maybe it’s just the dream. Maybe Gerhard himself is tired of rebuilding Ayrton so precisely. He looks at him like you look at pain you’ve chosen not to heal—because it’s the last thing you’ve got.
Dreams are like that: the turn never ends. He watches Ayrton keep spinning, and he never fully disappears. No crash, no finish line, no explanation. Just that damned curve, the same one from years ago, where he maybe lost him. Or found him. It’s the same.
Some nights, Ayrton talks. Not many. But when he does, it’s never what you expect.
—Do you think time is like rain? Sometimes it pours, sometimes it pools.
Berger tries to laugh, but the voice won’t come. He remembers all the old jokes and turns them into prayers.
—You never liked European weather, but here you are.
Ayrton looks at him with tenderness, or something close to it. No way of knowing if he understands or if he just likes that someone’s still talking. Dreams don’t come with interpreters. Grief speaks every language.
The track folds in on itself. No car exists. No pain either. Just that touch—that improvised dialogue between two ways of not saying "I miss you."
He wakes with his hands on the steering wheel, though he hasn’t raced in years. There’s dust on the window, silence in the house, but Ayrton is still in the curve. He knows it. Doesn’t doubt it.
Sometimes love is just that: still seeing someone where they’re no longer there. And letting the dream serve as a pit stop. A pause. A repair that’s never quite enough, but lets you race a little further.
People talk about moving on. Berger never understood the direction.
Once, he tried to explain it in an interview. Said something about tires, how some wear doesn’t show until the car begins to tremble. Nobody realized he was talking about Ayrton.
“I can see him behind my eyelids,” he might confess to someone. If someone asked. If someone understood.
He often dreams of a track shaped like a spiral. He and Ayrton spinning at different speeds. From above, the curve looks like a poorly drawn laugh. Berger tries to catch up, but he’s always a second behind. Like real life. Like everything else.
But Ayrton just raises his hand. Waving, maybe saying goodbye. As if it didn’t make a difference.
Sometimes there’s no dream. Just silence.
Berger sits in front of the switched-off TV, the old helmet resting on his legs. He doesn’t race anymore, but some nights he still suits up—just in case.
The dream returns.
This time, Ayrton says nothing. Just looks at him. As if he finally got the joke. As if he finally knew that Berger loved him. Or missed him in the only way possible: with humor, with silence, with a wheel in his hands that no longer turns, but still trembles.
He doesn’t know if he loved him. He knows he’s still looking. That’s enough.
—See you —says Ayrton, without moving his lips.
Berger laughs. He doesn’t know if he’s asleep. Doesn’t know if he was ever awake.
But the curve’s still there. And he keeps returning.
Maybe that was love, too.