Lorenzo was yawning as usual. And when he wasn't he excused himself to vomit into a white bucket that his pit crew had stuck behind the wall.
I yawned too, helplessly. Not wanting to. Not needing to.
"See? You yawna too," he said.
"It's because you make me tired, Zo."
Lorenzo smiled meekly. His damp and pallid face gave him the odious air of a stage villain.
"How many times have you done this, Zo?"
"Twenty-nine. After today, thirty. Se Dio vuole," Lorenzo said, crossing himself. Rocking foot-to-foot.
"Twenty-nine. You'd be used to it by now I should think."
"Never, Malcolm," he replied somberly, shaking his head. "Never, never, never, never get used to it."
His strangled syntax made confession sound like admonition. Or is that what he meant? I didn't get a chance to ask.
"Excuse-a me, Malcolm," he said with a yawn. "Good race for you, OK? I go now. Che Dio ti protegga."
I waved as he went off to vomit once again.