That evening, Terada and I decided to leave the cars and the race prep behind to try and clear our minds. After how the FR Challenge went and how our hopes of victory were immediately shot down by the mystery newcomer - a certain Alexis La Murène - in his silver Venturi 300, it was time for a break.
It surprised the both of us how cramped the streets already were; even more so to find long lines of cars parked on one side along the entire length. We both joked about how we'd move here if it weren't for parking being a nightmare and the racing events not being an eternal affair. The Foundation pulled off a lot of miracles, but even that felt out of their reach.
Nestled in the middle of town was the restaurant the hotel receptionists recommended we check out. It was just like everything else here: unexpected and, at the same time, full of character. Half bar, half restaurant, spread between two buildings - one on each side of the street - yet both with the same distinctive, mint green-ish color, with pale yellow accents and hand-drawn cats in suits for a logo. Neither of us knew what to make of it when we heard the name, but it was even more indescribably unique.
When we peered inside, we found ourselves inside a decor that could only be described as colorful. The furniture felt like a blend of the 30s and the 50s, with no two chairs the same color and the walls lined with historic posters and even more hand-painted cats.
"Yo, Hawkins! Terada! You finally made it! Thought you were never gonna leave your hotel rooms."
Calling out from the back was the voice of Charles Marsan, clearly in his element. Although he wasn't competing in the same events we did, he'd always been welcoming and enthusiastic about showing us around. We also recognized other drivers; some we'd beaten, others who got us back as we progressed through the Special Events and made points to qualify for the next League event. This weekend, we'd all be adversaries again for the third round of the Clubman Cup, but today, and especially tonight, most of us were gonna be here for the good food and the good vibes.
As far as I understood it from Charles's explanation, it might not be the biggest eatery of any kind in town, but it was the place to be whenever something important was in town. Something about celebrities loving the place and retreating there between events. I could see why; there was something cozy about this place, something that made it easy to feel comfortable. Felt like a sort of home, more immediately welcoming than the hotel, that's for sure.
We both sat down at his table, and Charles immediately leaned forward with that easy grin of his. "You guys haven't heard the rumor yet, have you?"
Terada shook his head, and I had to reply with the snarky banter. "It's not a rumor, everyone knows you can't drive a mid-engine to save your life." That drew a snort out of my teammate.
Charles, of course, brushed the joke off with a smirk. "Very funny. But I'm serious, I spoke with the owner, and apparently someone really special is gonna visit and eat here tonight. I couldn't get a name, but he gave me hints... That guy can drive."
Terada perked his head up. "A famous guy? Maybe a French racing driver?"
I quickly asked a question of my own. "Hey, what if it's a local? Isn't Gasly from around here?"
Charles smiled, but this time, it was to tell us we were off the mark. "Even more local. Someone from the town, not a celebrity or anything, but apparently he's really fast."
As if to punctuate his sentence, the ambient noise and chatter were briefly drowned out by a distant but sharp engine note from a nearby street. The sound of exotic cars passing by and making noise was a daily occurrence since the racing started, but this one sounded old, raw, somewhat like an old motorcycle. Yet, it felt as though it had distinctively more cylinders and with an odd whirr and whine as it drove away.
Soon after, someone else in the back of the restaurant audibly joked. "Was that somebody's Harley?" Another, a younger voice, quipped, "Definitely not a Supra!" That got chuckles from the other patrons in attendance, ourselves included.
Charles leaned again, with more to say. "You already know how the license system works, right? If you can pass, you can compete? Word on the street is the man got all golds on both national tests right here, passed the last test just a couple of days ago, and now he's looking to get in some racing with the rest of us..."
Terada's eyes went wide. "All gold on National B and A? I thought I was doing good with my silvers..." I kept my mouth shut; I was a silver B, but all-bronze on my A tests. A polite way to say I barely deserve it.
"You think he's gonna join in on the Clubman Cup?" I asked.
But Charles shook his head. "No clue. But if he's fast, I want to know what he's gonna be driving. Can't hurt to chat him up and get some pointers, right?"
Eventually, the waiter got to our table, and the three of us ordered. We chit-chatted in between bites, changing the subject in favor of more inconsequential things. Finally, I was starting to feel it! The one place in town that wasn't trying to keep me in the tension of competition. No more thinking about strategy, credits, tunes, and especially no more constant competition atmosphere. I didn't realize how much I needed it.
Eventually, I saw Charles's head lift up, his expression changing from his usual smiling and chatty self. His smile dropped, and both Terada and I turned around to see why.
A tall masculine figure just entered, jet-black hair, slicked and combed back like he stepped out of the 1950s. Tan leather jacket, white shirt, faded blue jeans, a soft but distant smile; polite, if it wasn't for the sharp eyes, those of someone who's gauging, assessing, measuring. The style was decidedly classic and masculine. A waiter recognized the figure, and soon after, the restaurant owner got out of his office in person to greet the newcomer. They exchanged words in French... and Charles helpfully translated before we even asked.
"His name's Monsieur Huit... Mister Eight," he muttered.
Terada turned back. "That's got to be a nickname, right?"
Charles shrugged. "It's what he's called, apparently."
I was thinking. Was he the guy who Charles was saying got all golds? He certainly has the looks of a cool driver. That's when the three of us distinctively heard the owner say a name that made us all jump. Even through the French I didn't speak, there was no mistaking what he just pronounced, yet I turned around to look at Charles with an expression of concern as if I hoped he'd correct us, as if I hoped we'd misheard. But the look on his face confirmed it.
"Owner said, 'And how's the Venturi?' And the guy just replied, 'Winning as always'," Charles translated again.
I was about to say it when Terada spoke even more quickly, in hushed but surprised tones. "That's him! It's La Murène!"
Charles quipped. "Guess I'm not asking for pointers anytime soon..."
Just like that, I was in the competitive mood again, fiercer than ever. Now that I could put a face to the Venturi driver, I could think of one thing only. I need to find a way to beat La Murène. But why did he show up here with a weird nickname? Why "Mister Eight?" It's only getting weirder...