Francesco Bernoulli alights in Radiator Springs the way he does anything - with aplomb. Mama comes with him, enchanted by the promises of the desert and its interplanetary strangeness. Phoenix is already different from seaside Porto Corsa. Lightning McQueen has arranged for his and Mama's transportation to his little town, and within the first few miles Francesco immediately understands why. The desert is vast.
Francesco's seen on TV the haulers that transport the American racers, but the truckbed he and Mama ride in is open to the air. Her scarf whips like a proud flag in the wind and it's exhilarating, truly, to watch the sand slip past and feel the wind streamline around them. The truck is only going 100 or so kilometers an hour, but the slow speed feels different when it is not Francesco's own wheels on the bitumen, and when the world is so flat and open and shimmering with the slightest dusting of snow in places. Everything is wide and straight, and once outside the serpentine coil of the Phoenix autostrada, it is not so busy. He has been here before, of course. But it has been a long time, and he does not remember. The first time he'd ridden in a private jet, courtesy of the United Kingdom; he hadn't seen much beyond the makeshift track they'd driven. And when Francesco races, he does not tend to see scenery.
Francesco is in Radiator Springs today for yet another race. In the years since he'd last touched ground in America, his friend McQueen had, it seemed, gone and found himself a protégé. And in this, her third year in competition for the Cup, she'd won it. She'd then decided she wanted to seed a charity race with a portion of her winnings, and so McQueen had hit the phones.
Francesco is not sure who else he'll see this week, though he imagines it will be mostly Americans; McQueen had not actually offered more incentive than a race and a room at something called "Wheel Well" that he promised was delightful. ("I know, I know. Open wheels. Whatever. You're welcome to sleep outside if you want," McQueen had preempted.)
"Open wheels," gapes a muscular yellow car, upon his arrival. The way McQueen looks at her, she must be the protégé.
"Not you, too!" he says, rankled. Then he turns to Francesco and adds, smoothly, "Francesco! Glad you could make it!"
"Your country is very beautiful," replies Francesco. "It's a pleasure to return. And Mama says she enjoys the desert very much, which is always a welcome thing."
McQueen blinks. Clearly he'd been expecting an insult, but that's the game they play. Rather, Francesco orchestrates, and McQueen follows. See, Francesco enjoys fluttering between insult and grace; it keeps his companions on their toes, and in all the years they've known each other McQueen's never been able to anticipate which tack Francesco will lead with. To his credit, it doesn't always matter. Some days McQueen adapts seamlessly to either, and doesn't so much as bat an eye. This, while always a slight disappointment, Francesco does grudgingly admire. Other days, McQueen is less successful. This is one of those days.
"No comebacks?" Francesco offers. "Francesco leaves you alone for a decade and you go soft on him?"
"But you said it was beautiful. Why would I need a comeback?" McQueen frowns. Francesco can nearly see the cogs in his head clicking against each other. "Wait, unless you really mean that - "
"Of course, all nature pales in comparison to such automotive beauty," Francesco says to the protégé, and offers her his best smolder.
She squeaks. "It's such an honor to meet you, Mr. Bernoulli!"
"Please, call him Francesco," says Francesco.
"Still with the third-person, ey?" greets a bedazzled Chevy as he sails by. His tone is slightly less than overjoyed, but not unfriendly. But Francesco never breaks eye contact with the protégé.
"You're an oasis in the desert. This is what they say, no?"
"About - about me?" the protégé stammers. "Uh, no, I don't... I don't think they do - !"
"Can you not?" McQueen pouts, eyeing Francesco. "How have you not outgrown this?"
"For Francesco there is nothing to outgrow. He does not outgrow romance! Francesco only masters it. Where's Signora Sally?"
"Aren't you married?" McQueen asks.
"Then why are you worried?" Francesco replies playfully, and wiggles his eyebrows.
"He's happily married. Four kids, Italian supercar. She's been on the cover of Vogue five times. She's actually in Monaco on a shoot with a Saudi prince right now, so it's probably Francesco who should be worried," says Sally, popping out of her small hotel. Lightning gives her a look. "What? I read magazines!" Sally replies defensively.
"Giulia and the boys will be flying in from Monaco tomorrow," Francesco confirms.
"Right. Fascinating. Well, let me show you to Wheel Well, Francesco," McQueen says, pulling in front of both Sally and his protégé. "There's a view I think you might be interested in."
"Oh, allow me!" volunteers the protégé, pulling even further forward. "Come on, Mr. Bernoulli. Follow me!"
McQueen's protégé zips down the road, taillights flashing - whether in playful provocation or sheer excitement, Francesco's not sure. But it's all play, really. He can't help it. Something about McQueen just demands this sort of fun. Truly, Francesco had nearly forgotten how much he lives for that look on McQueen's face. It's good that he's come here now.
"Take good care of my mother, McQueen!" Francesco calls, as he whisks past him in pursuit of the protégé.
Behind him, he hears Mama's engine rip into action, then the silky rumble of what can only be German engineering. McQueen is last and loudest.
Francesco hasn't raced in some time. Long and empty roads, to be sure - often faster than he'd ever raced professionally, as the twisting roads he'd trained for had never allowed for the pure, full, untechnical speed of retirement. But when he hears that engine, it's an exhilarating, titillatingly almost-forgotten thing. He enjoys racing McQueen very much. And this yellow one, too, he realizes. She slides through a patch of raw gravel with ease, where Francesco is obligated to slow. "I'm sorry!" she shouts, of the gravel her movement kicks up, before it clatters into his face. When they get to this "Wheel Well" he should ask her name.
For now, five engines echo through the canyon, which makes the desert feel somehow vaster. Yet it's far from empty. Francesco kisses the earth with his tires, digging into the heat of it and letting its warmth encourage more speed.
The desert, he thinks, is lovely. Perhaps beyond compare, it is beautiful. But when they reach the top, Francesco decides this is probably not what he'll tell Lightning McQueen.
It is so much more fun to tease.
* Fun fact: Francesco's wife in this fic is an Alfa Romeo Giulia!