RED CARS | charles leclerc (eng)

6

Spring was showing its face. The red city was sunnier, and seemed to come alive despite the occasional rainy days. Tourists were returning, visiting each unique place with more fervor than usual. It pleased Raphaëlle. She loved Bologna and showed off her great skills as a tour guide. Her schedule was even busier at this time. March was the beginning of the tourist influx, the perfect season to visit Italy. The weather was cool, the sun was peeking out, and most importantly, there weren't the crowds of summer. The young Frenchwoman loved these moments, even if her schedule was becoming increasingly difficult to manage. From ten in the morning to six in the evening, she took care of the tourism agency, especially the tours with French and English groups. She would do anything to avoid spending her days at the Office, alone with her boss. So, she maximized the number of visits to the city's cultural sites. Piazza Maggiore was particularly popular. The way the young Frenchwoman told the story played a big role. The square was the center of the red city, like the star of a solar system that brought together many people and events. Since the Middle Ages, it must have seen a lot. That's what Raphaëlle told all her groups; they all got the same spiel. Yet, whenever she got along well with certain tourists, she would tell them the secrets of this square. Her outings with her friends, her discoveries the first times she came, and even the wildest nights with Emiliano. It worked every time. She often got laughter, and some people even added their own anecdotes. Often about their own cities, it warmed the Frenchwoman's heart. Her days were full, but she always had the opportunity to meet wonderful people. That's what had motivated her to apply. Even if her increasingly difficult relationship with her superior had made her less eager to stay for a while. The understanding between the two women was complicated, and opposite to what connected her with the bar owner. Her night job, on the other hand, provided her with a pleasant environment and good relations with her colleagues. She worked evening shifts during the week and every weekend. This left her with very little free time. Every minute of this precious time had become her Italian friend's responsibility. As she had promised the two drivers, she intended to know every detail that would help her understand something about the upcoming Grand Prix. She still didn't know if her employers would agree to give her so many days off when the number of clients increased so much.

Raphaëlle was exhausted. She had just returned to her apartment, where Emiliano was already waiting for her. The week was coming to an end, as far as the Italian knew, the drivers were supposed to try out their cars. He had tried to explain to Raphaëlle how it worked. He had also talked to her about the different teams, especially the strongest ones on the grid, but after hearing about Mercedes and their domination, or Red Bull and their golden driver, she had stopped listening. She remembered a few names, including one she already knew: Lewis Hamilton. Raphaëlle had never followed motorsport; she watched some events on television, like most people. Her grandfather and brother sometimes watched car races on Sundays during family meals. However, she had never managed to concentrate long enough to try to understand who was hiding under those multicolored helmets. As she grew up, she had become much more attached to the 24 Hours of Le Mans than to Formula 1. To try to get her interested in this sport, the Italian had, of course, talked to her about the two French drivers on the grid: Pierre Gasly and Esteban Ocon. And, of course, for his own pleasure, he had talked to her about the Italian on the grid: Antonio Giovinazzi. Emiliano had known this sport for years. The Boot-shaped country had a very intimate history with motorsport; many brands had their headquarters here. This world was the very essence of Italian luxury; among perfumes, fashion, and gastronomy, Italian automotive passion was part of this universe. Especially Formula 1, which, in addition to hosting many teams, had the honor of being the home country of many legendary drivers. Emiliano had seen many of them parade on the grid, and he didn't think his friend would have so much trouble learning twenty little names. He recognized that some were difficult, but he thought Raphaëlle would endure this learning better. So, he had given up when he saw the Frenchwoman lying on her couch, putting her sore feet on his legs. She even asked him to massage her, according to her arguments: he kept making her work outside of her working hours. The handsome Italian couldn't believe it; his friend was very cheeky. Yet, he still did it. He understood that it wasn't necessarily interesting. Even if it seemed for now to be torture for her.