Chapter 15: On The Attack

The outcry was massive. Our local newspaper published a hugely inflammatory feature article against the tabloid and local shops refused to sell it any longer. After all, Regina had been a rather popular teacher and many in the town knew her.

The principal made an announcement that possession of said tabloid was banned and from now on carried the penalty of a two week suspension. He even ordered an inspection of all school bags we had with us – not exactly a perfectly legal measure, but not a single pupil protested. Most of them had joined the town-wide boycott of the dirty rag anyway.

Our telephone was running hot. Dad had been one of the first to call. Since Regina and Jenny had taken us in and more or less adopted us into their family, he also considered them part of his extended family. It should be written into the constitution of all sovereign states: "Never cross the family of David Bond, unless you're prepared to look into the business end of a semi-automatic rifle." He. Was. Furious.

He hadn't wasted any time and hired a well known private investigator to hunt down the dirty hack who'd hidden behind the pseudonym 'Holzer' and to find out how someone had managed to take a photo in the first place, considering how well-shielded the estate was from outside curiosity. PM and other competing team managers called us to offer their support.

Since our home race was coming up, none of us believed that the timing of the article was a coincidence. Until last year our team had been a tiny operation that had never scored a podium. Suddenly we were one of the big players and there were inevitably some people, who were not best pleased with that. To avoid too many distraction on the race weekend, we issued a press release that our team would not be available for any media activities until Saturday noon, when we would hold a press conference with Regina and me in attendance to answer any potential questions the journalists would have about the outrageous article about our new press officer.

Free practice was literally just practice. And it was just as well, because we could hardly concentrate. The huge grandstand was packed – really packed. Normally for national races they don't sell tickets for all the grandstands, just the main one. The interest had been so huge however, the track hadn't seen so many visitors since the American Memorial 500 in 2001. Even though the DTM was running as well, such an audience for a national event at the ass-end of East-Germanistan was unheard of. If anything, that treacherous article and the resulting brouhaha surrounding our team, seemed to have motivated the whole town to buy a ticket.

The Sorbians were back, of course. This time they could literally come by bus. But also our whole school seemed to be there and not wanting to be outdone by the Sorbians, they were singing as well, and loudly at that. My suspicion was that the principal had something to do with it, as the choreography was way too refined for a spontaneous idea. All through the training they were belting out a reworded version of Rocco Granata's "Marina", with the chorus now saying "Regina, Regina, Regina, we all stand behind you". Even the track announcer had a hard time keeping his emotions in check.

It was a good thing we could run the track on auto-pilot. I heard several transmissions from Peter telling Jenny to come in if it got too hard for her. She was probably weeping with emotion. Accordingly erratic was her driving. Not that I was any better. I spun no less than three times. We finished the practice in ninth and fifteenth. Somewhere in the pitlane someone was cackling in glee for having unsettled us. Strangely enough it was the overwhelming support that did us in as opposed to the initial offense.

After the training I went up to the tower where the track announcer sat and asked if I could make an announcement. He didn't even hesitate and handed over his headset.

"Folks, this is Mark," I started and waited for the instantaneous cheers to die down. "I can't begin to describe how much your support means to us, especially to Regina and her daughter Jenny."

Just mentioning Regina's name sent the place into utter pandemonium and I had to wait again.

"We are all very grateful and perhaps the support is even a bit too much, because both Jenny and I can barely keep ourselves from crying. We are that moved by your gesture."

Suddenly the crowd went utterly quite. The last time this place had gone so quiet so quickly, five liters of Alex Zanardi's blood had been running down the tarmac in the oval's turn two in September 2001.

"The first qualifying is coming up and frankly, trying to run when your vision is blurred by tears is a bit tricky, so I hope you won't be too upset if we ask you kindly to give us a bit of quiet time. I'm sorry and thank you."

The applause came back and this time is was my name they were chanting.

And they really did give us the chance to properly concentrate. They were still cheering wildly, whenever Jenny or I blasted past on the start-finish straight, but the emotional topics were avoided. Not that it stopped them from restarting the massive Regina worship as soon as the qualifying was over. Their help had paid off though. I was on pole and Jenny finished second. Since my car was still in 'Adria comedy configuration' while Jenny ran the more conservative setup, we couldn't be surprised by a wrong setup. Either she or I would have the right one for the race on Saturday – unless it rained. Then I'd be properly fucked.

Theoretically we could have stayed at home for this race, but with all the brouhaha about that nefarious article, we were collected by a nondescript car of dad's company and chose to take the 45 minute ride to Berlin and stayed in a Hotel.

Second qualifying on Saturday morning went reasonably well. Jenny, bolstered by the even bigger crowd, who this time didn't need an announcement to spare our tear sacs during qualifying, snatched pole, beating PM's Tino Lienemann. It was good to see PM's team having a normal racing weekend for a change. I made the second row in third, but I was distracted, because the press conference came up and Regina and I were about to shock the hell out of the lot of them.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Peter groaned, but Regina and I sent him a look that left no doubt that there was nothing he could say that would change our minds.

We walked into the media-center, holding each other by the hand, and there was a collective gasp from the journalists, a lot of 'Oh my God'-exclamations could be heard as well. Then suddenly they all stood and applauded. The two of us had walked into the place stark naked.

"L-ladies and Gentlemen," the conference manager started haltingly. "Please welcome Mark Bond and Regina Marx of the Eurospeedway Driving Academy Team, two people who obviously chose to make a statement. When you ask a question, please state your name and the publication you represent."

The journalists applauded us again and out of the corner of my eyes I could see that the whole shebang was shown on the big screens outside. Someone seemed to have quick reflexes, because on the public screens certain parts of our bodies were covered by black bars.

"Mark, seeing that both of you have the same fashion sense," a journalist from "Die Welt" started with a snicker. "Can we assume that at least one tiny part of that article is true and the dress code in your home is rather casual?"

"You are from the western part of this great country, aren't you?" I asked back with a smug grin. The hack nodded, visibly confused by my question.

"You see, someone spent a lot of effort writing a whole article about how outrageous it is that some woman walks across her own backyard in the nude and most people around here will have shaken their heads and said: So she likes FKK, why the hell's that worth an article?"

"James McClaghan, the Telegraph, could you explain what FKK means?" a journalist asked.

"FKK stands for Freikörperkultur," Regina explained. "It translates to 'nude body culture'. What Mark was trying to say is that nudism was, and still is, quite common in the eastern part of Germany. In fact it was actually encouraged and supported by the state. Common joke around here was that they did so, so they could sell all the swimsuits and bikinis to the West to earn some hard currency."

There was general amusement among the journos.

"Maik Heidenreich, Die Zeit. Apparently one Mrs. Lange doesn't share that sort of affinity to FKK. She seemed quite upset and stated how much it offended her having to see nude people in the neighboring estate all the time."

I snorted.

"Mrs. Lange never gave that interview. Whoever this 'Holzer' guy is, and I suppose it is a guy, because I've yet to meet a woman who's so full of shit..."

"Mark!" Regina hissed, but couldn't avoid a chuckle. So couldn't the journalists.

"Anyway. Mrs Lange is ninety-two years old and she certainly hasn't seen any nude people, because she lost her eyesight to pseudoexfoliation glaucoma fifteen years ago. The only reason why she can still live in her home is, because her daughter and grandchildren care for her. My team mate and girlfriend Jenny, sometimes I, often do the shopping for her. Let me tell you one thing: Whoever wrote that has badly upset an elderly lady and if nothing else, just for that I'll give him a very clear piece of my mind if I ever meet him in person.

"To top it off, and if it wasn't so sad what has falsely been written in her name, it could almost be hilarious, because in the seventies, Mrs. Lange was the president of the Senftenberg FKK club. Do you really think, even if she could still see, she would have been upset by seeing a naked person?"

I could spot one journo who was squirming in his seat. Others were openly laughing at him, so it wasn't hard to guess what 'publication' that loser represented.

"Johann Kraich, Frankfurter Allgemeine: Mrs. Marx, how has it affected you to have such a private photograph published, without your consent I presume?"

Regina smiled at him. "As you will probably have guessed by now, I'm everything but self-conscious about my body..."

Some journos snickered.

"The photograph is something I couldn't care less about, although, if I have to see myself naked in a magazine, I'd prefer it to be the Playboy. Those guys do at least know how to make a classy photo instead of a cheap jpeg full of compression artifacts."

Most of the hacks were laughing hysterically. But the laughter died instantly when Regina put on a very serious face.

"What I can't accept, however, is the intrusion into my most private space. That could just as well have been a photograph of my teenage daughter, nice fodder for some rather uncouth types to whack off over. Our estate is well shielded from outside view and forensic investigation has revealed that whoever made that picture, must have specifically set out to do so. The picture was taken by renting a mobile lifting basket from a construction company in Senftenberg. The owner of the company has admitted as much."

That had some of the media types gasp, and I could see that the guy from the yellow press rag had at some point fled the room. The whole room vibrated as there were massive boos in the grandstands outside. Someone had just ruined his business, considering that there was only one construction company in town that was known to have trucks with lifting baskets.

"You see, we don't give a damn what people think about the fact that we don't always wear clothing at home," I added and gestured along my bare torso. "In fact I wished I could go like that more often. Unfortunately I've inherited my dad's skin, which means I get sunburn whenever I go anywhere near anything stronger than a 60 watt light bulb..."

Amusement spread among the audience.

"I'm from America. Back home every movie that shows even a hint of female breast gets an R rating. Had we done back home in the US of A what Regina and I am doing now, namely sitting in a press conference stark naked, we'd already be arrested for indecent exposure in most states. Obviously that's not the case here. So can anyone please tell me what the friggin' hell this whole brouhaha is about?"

The room went silent.

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too," I snorted and stood to go. Just to amuse myself I moved a bit erratically, giving whoever operated the big screens outside a hard time trying to keep the black bar over what it was supposed to conceal.

"Oh, and a message to whatever team that is responsible for this," I said before we left. "Prepare yourself for the most thorough butt-whooping of your life."

Having gotten dressed again, Regina and I walked out into the pitlane. I was immediately assaulted by a bond-haired missile as Jenny jumped into my arms.

"Oh my god Hasi, you were amazing!"

I just smiled and Jenny grinned at me mischievously. "I bet Cyndie's making her pussy sing 'La Paloma' right now. They quickly put on the black bars, but your stuff was visible long enough."

I nearly died laughing. Jenny meanwhile heaped the same praise on her mom.

The whole place was in utter turmoil as we were cheered at a volume that was normally reserved for starting jet aircraft.

"That took some guts," PM said and gave me a pat on the shoulder.

"No, Mr. Mücke, it's just ridiculous. How much more ridiculous can it get than having to hold a press conference, because you were sunbathing in the nude in your own fucking home!"

Suddenly PM started coughing. I hoped he didn't prepare to become an actor because it was not very convincing.

.cough. Laufert.cough.

Ding, Ding, Ding ... We have a winner ... Laufert Racing of Austria ... Someone had it coming...