Only then will I come to terms with my accident.
He flashed a self-deprecating smile and added: After that I can learn to fly.
Halloway nodded sympathetically, unsure whether Olds was pulling his leg. This clever, shy but self-confident man seemed to be all there as far as Halloway could tell. When they had finished the meal Halloway asked Olds to take him on a tour of the museum.
‘You repaired all these yourself? It’s hard to believe — in the first place, what about the fuel?’
Olds gestured casually at the sea of vehicles that stretched to the horizon on all sides of the car park.
There are five million cars in this city alone. Almost every tank still has a little gas in it.
Halloway walked down the line of cars, gazing at his reflections in the lovingly refurbished radiator, grilles, hubcaps and chromium trim. Olds led the way, pointing out a rare Mercedes 600, a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud, a Facel Vega. He was clearly proud to show off his collection, but at the same time Halloway noticed that he seemed slightly bored by these vehicles. His eyes were forever straying to the moss-covered airliners parked by the terminal buildings.
‘And you’re sure they all run?’ Halloway asked. He pointed to a resplendent limousine. ‘What about this one Daimler Majestic?’
With remarkable speed, Olds leapt behind the wheel of the car. Within seconds its engine roared out, headlamps pulsed, momentarily blinding Halloway. The horn sounded imperiously.
‘Olds, it’s unbelievable!’ Halloway congratulated him. ‘Let’s see you try another — this Pontiac Firebird.’
For the next thirty minutes the two men moved through the museum, Halloway shouting and pointing to one car after another, Olds leaping like an excited faun, an automotive Ariel, from one driver’s seat to the next, switching on the ignitions and bringing the engines to life. Each car he left with its motor racing and headlamps full on. First a dozen cars came alive, then more than thirty, and finally the entire eighth and ninth decks of the car park. The roar of the engines, the exhaust swirling in the headlamp beams, the vibrating floors and balustrades, the smell of burning fuel and the noise booming out over the deserted airport, made Halloway feel that the entire city had begun to spring to life, re-starting itself under the hands of this young recluse.
Finally, out or curiosity rather than cruelty, Halloway shouted out the last name. ‘One more, Olds! What about -, In the absence of the car, he pointed at random. ‘- Oldsmobile!’
Immediately Halloway regretted the prank. Too late, he saw the rictus on Olds’ face. Sitting behind the wheel of a white Galaxie, he began to pound the controls, angry with the car when it failed to start on its own. When Halloway reached him he had slumped back and was already moving into a deep fugue, mouth agape, the blood in his face making a livid lace-work of the scars. On the seat beside him, like some hyper-excited small animal, his right hand flicked out a desperate message on the calculator.
‘Olds… it doesn’t matter!’
Halloway pulled open the door and tried to calm him. Bizarre messages glimmered among the headlamps as he sank into unconsciousness, the engines of a hundred cars throbbing around him in the exhaustfilled air.
Teach me to fly!
Within an hour Olds had recovered. Sitting back on a car seat beside the barbecue, he touched his face and scalp, feeling the tracery of scars as if making sure that the jigsaw was once again in place. After dragging him to the elevator and taking him back to his lair, Halloway had moved among the cars, switching off the engines one by one. When the building was silent again he leaned against the balustrade, looking out at the distant towers of the city. Despite the moss-covered airliners by the terminal buildings, Halloway noticed that he was no longer thinking of his quest for his parents’ apartment. Already the elements of a far grander scheme were forming in his mind.
They sat together in the dusk, listening to the steady beat of the generator on the roof, their faces lit by the glow of the barbecue.
With the same innocent guile that he used on his grandfather, Halloway said: ‘Olds, you’re a genius with cars. But can you start up anything else?’
Olds nodded soberly at Halloway, not taken in by him for a moment. He inspected his slim hands, as if resigned to the talents multiplying from his fingertips.
Anything. I can make anything work.
‘I believe you, Olds. We’ll find my sailplane and you can put an engine and propeller on it. Then I’ll teach you how to fly.’
