Free Ambition by Julie Burchill

faces did not appeal to Susan one little bit. Especially if some of them were dead.
    ‘What happened?’ she asked weakly.
    ‘She was seventeen when she met Tobias Pope. Maybe you don’t understand how it is for Latin American girl. No, you Inglesa, you probably understand these days. So near and yet so
far. So rich and big, Estados Unidos. So much promises big fun. United States take and United States give. They God now.’
    ‘That’s a bit overwrought.’
    ‘They
are
. You know what they can give. You young, pretty girl . . .’ He laughed rudely. ‘You no want Pope’s beautiful young body.’
    She couldn’t deny
that.
‘Do you want to tell me about your daughter?’
    ‘It’s a short story. Short and sad. He gave her cocaine one carnival. Such a casual thing. Then away, back to work, other girls. But Cristina wanted more. She started to stay out at
night. Clever girl, beautiful, studying history. She became girl of cocaine
politico,
though – we have a big cocaine problem here now, stops over from Bolivia and Colombia. She died
when gangs had a shootout.’ He shrugged. ‘Studying history, OK. But what use history against half an hour of ecstasy?’
    ‘I’m very sorry.’
    ‘Thank you. But I’m not sorry. Not any more. Just angry now.’ He stood up, threw a handful of
centavos
on the table. ‘One day I kill him. Not here, too easy to
trace me. But in Europe, or Estados, I kill him and fade away.’ He smiled like a real assassin. ‘There, I’m just another wetback. Catch me if you can.’ He put his palms flat
on the flimsy table, which trembled under his hatred as he spoke pleasantly into her face. ‘And maybe you’ll call me and help me get up close, when he dumps you like he dumped my
daughter, and you hate him. Maybe you already do. But you will soon. If he doesn’t kill you first.
Adeus.
’
    The soft evening breeze of Rio, almost as thick and sweet as the whipped cream which oozed from the melted meringue abandoned in Susan Street’s suite, blew from the
Atlantic Ocean across the beaches of Leme and Leblon, over the patio and through the French windows of Tobias Pope’s bedroom on the Avenida Atlantica, taking with it like trailing bridesmaids
the sound of the sea lapping at Copacabana and the distant hum from the samba contest in the stadium on Rua Maquis Sapucai marking the start of the carnival.
    Pope sat with his back to the windows in a big leather armchair and looked up from the copy of
Fortune
in which he was reading about himself. He looked at Susan Street, who was lying on
the bed in a knitted pale green two-piece by Rifat Ozbek which left her pale stomach and shoulders bare, reading a Kathy Acker novel.
    ‘Lies, all lies,’ he said.
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘Think nothing of it. So you weren’t impressed with Rio?’
    ‘Not what I saw of it, no.’
    ‘Maybe you’ll be impressed by the carnival?’
    ‘Maybe.’
    ‘Or maybe it takes more than the futility rites of the poor dressed up for the leering Polaroids of the American-speaking world to impress you.’
    ‘Might do.’ She carefully noted the page number and closed the book. She felt the muscles in the soles of her feet cramp, a sure sign of wariness.
    ‘How about a posse of pussy and a yard of cock?’
    She turned over and sat up slowly. ‘Sorry?’
    ‘You heard.’
    There was a knock on the door. Pope grinned broadly at her. ‘Ah, good. The floorshow.’
    He opened the door, and six young people, three boys, three girls, filed in. None of them was over twenty and none of them was over the moon. They leaned placidly against a wall in a row and
looked calmly from Pope to Susan. One of the boys whispered something to another, who looked at her and nodded.
    Tobias Pope stood in the middle of the room and clapped his hands. ‘Your attention, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you. Now, what I wish is this. That, one by one, you will each step forward
and explain in no more than three – that’s
three, tres