Ambition (14 page)

The phone went dead. She sat down slowly on the stairs, stared at the flowers that filled the hall and felt as though she was at her own funeral.

‘You should hear Washington Brown sing! Well, you will, in a matter of hours, I guess! He’ll be squealing like a stuck pig when I cut him loose – black
pudding!’ Pope chuckled at his subtle witticism.

‘Washington Brown is a legend,’ said Susan primly from where she sat at the window of the hotel penthouse suite which overlooked the Pope Fun Complex of Sun City. ‘You know, Mr
Pope, something I can’t work out is that when white South Africans are questioned about whether they really have any right to be on this continent, they rhapsodize about how they love the
country, how it’s the most beautiful, unspoiled heaven on earth. So what do they do with paradise? Build Las Vegas in the middle of it!’ She gestured down at the complex of nightclubs
and casinos. ‘If this is what they want, couldn’t they just move to Paris or London or Nevada, where they’d have all the sleaze they could shoot up? And let the real South
Africans get on with it?’

‘You have the logic of the global village idiot, my dear. The world turns and civilization, lemming-like, must have its say and its way.’ He threw down the room-service menu he had
been studying. ‘God, these people are hicks. They still drink French wine!’

‘Don’t you like them? The whites?’

He made a face. ‘Give me credit for some finer feelings, madam. They are quite possibly the most despicable white race on earth. They’re hideous, for a start – they look like
those inbred retards you have the misfortune to see around the Mississippi Delta. Their women are
useless
as sex partners, put completely beyond the pale by that
disgusting
accent, which must be the ugliest ever to torment the human ear. When God made the Boer, he was firing on three cannons. Why couldn’t he have slapped the British or the Italians down here, a
white race with some grace or humour? At least they might have stood a chance of getting some part of the civilized world on their side against darkie. As it is, your Southern and Western African
darkie is a charming chap, and the women are delightful – beautiful legs. Yes, one day they’ll give these hicks what for. I only hope I’ve shut up shop by then.’

‘But if you dislike the whites here, why do you do business with them?’

He smiled at her as if she were a beloved backward child. ‘It’s called money, my dear.’

‘But of course.’ She felt stupid, to be caught talking to him as though he was a normal human being.

‘Get up to North Africa, on the other hand, and the women make appalling sex partners – vile legs and moustaches that any self-respecting sailor would kill for.’

Susan couldn’t help laughing at the matter-of-fact grumpiness of his voice and the depravity of his words. He looked at her, startled, then smiled. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘You are! You’re such a swinger!’

‘Well, listen to the toast of the
favelas
!’

She fell silent. It was the first time he had referred to Rio since London. She remembered that Tobias Pope liked to mix pleasure with business, and that once again she was the bait.

‘Talking of rough trade, you should hear my new boy. Two years ago he was a struggling blood bro from the south side of Chi. I do believe he sang on one of those “I hate Sun
City” records. Now he’s found God and cocaine and an expensive
Ebony
model and he’s going to sign with me here for a cool million.’

‘What about Caroline’s little sister and her crew?’

‘Oh, just a little support act. Not the real thing. People come here to see great
black
singers, like Washington. They
adore
Washington. Or they did, until very recently.
Always leave them wanting more . . .’ He laughed at her, not unaffectionately. ‘What’s that sour little mouth on you? It looks just like a little cat’s asshole.’

‘I just think it’s a bit much, that’s all – to say these people
adore
a black man, whereas when they go home from their dirty weekends they’d
spit
on him if he so much as tried to use the front door.’

‘Well, you’ll be able to demonstrate your great love for our black brothers very soon, won’t you, dearest?’

Tobias Pope bent over his papers with a secret smile.

Susan sat at the window and thought about Washington Brown while Pope’s lawyers worked in another room to write him off the map. One of the biggest stars of the Seventies, white powders
and white wives had made a mess of him. Now in his mid-forties, he was about to be dumped for an unmarked if unremarkable young lightweight who made more money endorsing breakfast cereal than he
did singing.

He was understandably bitter and unmistakably here, standing in the doorway between two white men half his age and swaying like a boxer in his tropic-weight beige suit. They dropped him like
laundry as they passed with Pope into the boardroom.

She stared at him. He had been big before her time, but she had almost comprehended what he meant from the old footage she had seen of him and the old records which, like any lonely, horny teen,
she had sought out. Now he was overweight, bleary-eyed, with bad skin and a sour smell. It was the smell of withered success. In the morning, before the shower, she smelled the ghost of it on
herself.

He scowled at her. ‘How long your boyfriend gonna be?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Hey, you English.’ He really relaxed. She saw the muscles move forward, then backward, in his arms. ‘Hey, I always liked England. I like the people, I like the clubs. I
especially like Branston pickle. You know Branston pickle?’

‘Not socially.’

‘Yeah, I like those English clubs – and the English girls! You sure mix a lot in England. Well, not you personally, I mean, I don’t
know
you. But English girls sure do
mix a lot in them clubs. You look at a white girl where I come from, she thinks Black Power’s gonna rape her grammaw!’ He cracked up.

‘Mr Brown . . .’ She felt very shy and awkward, and hoped desperately that she wouldn’t be required to sleep with Washington Brown. Not only was he very probably terminally
jaded by now and murder to arouse, but he had once been her hero. And it was always a terrible mistake to sleep with your heroes. ‘I know it’s a boring thing to say and you must have
heard it a million times this week, but I loved your records when I was growing up.’

‘Aw, thanks.’ He looked both abashed and calculating. ‘You tol’ your boyfriend that?’

‘He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my boss.’

‘Yea, he’s my boss too.’ Washington Brown examined his immaculate nails. ‘And he screws me, so I reckoned he was prob’ly screwing you as well.’

‘No.’

There was a sticky silence. She could tell he didn’t believe her.

‘You read this book
Revolutionary Suicide
?’ he finally asked her, rifling in his briefcase and shoving at her a hardback book bearing a photograph of a handsome light
skinned black man called Huey Newton.

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘Yeah, I’m afraid not, too. I’m afraid not I didn’t read it fifteen years ago, when it might have done me some good.’ He sulked. ‘Happen I might not have
ended up here in this shithole, getting dumped on by Whitey in his wisdom.’

She didn’t know what to say. Finally she opened her mouth, and put her foot in it. ‘I did admire Angela Davis, though. For keeping her own name, as much as anything. Imagine
answering to Angela Davis, when all your friends were going back to their roots and changing their names to Shotzome Burundi!’ Her laughter was too loud, amplified by her nerves. He looked at
her with blank scorn. ‘Apparently Chaka Khan’s real name is Yvette Williams,’ she finished lamely.

‘Oh, Washington!’ The youngest lawyer put his head around the boardroom door. ‘We’re ready for you now!’

‘Revolutionary suicide,’ muttered Washington Brown, shambling to his feet. ‘How about a bit of revolutionary assassination?’

‘Do you mind if I call you Boy?’ said Tobias Pope to the beautiful young black man who stood naked before him.

‘Sir, for what you’re paying you can call me girl. That goes for my brother too.’

Pope looked across the room to where the brother stood fastidiously hanging up a white suit. ‘Identical twin?’

‘Yes, but without a hard on. He was a minute earlier, so I’m an inch bigger. Fair do’s.’

Pope laughed and slapped the man on the back.

‘Gad, I like the African! Tell me, how long before you kick the stinking boring Dutch out?’

The man’s face went stiff. ‘I have no interest in politics.’

‘I understand. But not a day too soon, eh?’

‘Business will always be good for me, sir.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’ Pope cast a professional eye over the man.

‘And the lady, sir?’

‘Lady?’

‘The lady I am here to visit.’

‘Oh
that
lady!’

A prim expression sat strangely on a six-foot-two naked black body.

‘I am sure she
is
a lady. And a beautiful lady at that.’

‘She’s a girl, a pretty girl. Nice, too, and smart. English. You like the English?’

‘A great people,’ said the man solemnly. His brother crossed the room to join them, flashing a shy smile and a huge penis. ‘You can call him Boy too, if you want.’

Pope laughed. ‘OK, Boys One and Two. Follow me.’

Susan Street lay spreadeagled on the bed. She had tied one on and been tied up by an obliging aide of Pope’s. She had drunk so many Bellinis at dinner she’d lost count. Now she
blinked rapidly. ‘Oh, hello, Mr Pope. And hello you, too, whoever you are. You know it’s just like they say, I’m seeing double. There’s two big—’

‘Silence, imbecile. No, you are not seeing double, though that’s a miracle considering the amount of that disgusting orange concoction you put away over dinner. Meet Boy One and Boy
Two.’

‘Oh, hello.’

‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, miss.’ Boy One walked around the bed. ‘But what is this? You are bound?’

‘Don’t you approve?’ asked Pope from the doorway.

‘But no. How is the lady to express her sexuality when so restricted?’

Pope sniggered. ‘You’ve got women’s lib here too, eh? You poor bastards. On top of everything else!’

‘It is not enhancing of a woman’s natural beauty, these . . .
fetters
.’

‘I get the message.’ Pope strode over to the bed and untied her swiftly. ‘I thought you might appreciate the irony, but obviously that only grows on three square meals a day
and adult suffrage. OK, do your worst, both of you. Don’t forget your tackle.’

‘What would the lady wish?’

‘The lady’s not footing the bill,
I
am. And I wish both of you, with the lady, one after another.’

The first man said a few cryptic foreign words to his brother and they both looked slyly from Pope to Susan. Together they moved towards the bed, fitting short white condoms over long black
penises. They reminded her of the magic wands of childhood, the black length and the white tip. Magic wands, indeed! She giggled and close her eyes.

They lay down beside her. Four hands stroked her head, her face, her breasts, stomach, thighs; it was like being with an octopus who had learned its strokes at Madame Claude’s. She was
coaxed like modelling clay and rolled over on top of the silent twin.

‘Get up,’ said his brother. ‘Kneel over him.’

She straightened dizzily over his groin; his brother gripped the huge erect penis and probed her with it. She winced.

‘It’s OK. Relax.’ He moved his brother’s cock exploratively over her whole genitalia; she pushed reflexively back and then with one long, smooth, silent whoosh! like a
firework leaving a milk bottle and slipping up into infinity, he was inside her – all the way up to her ribcage, it felt like.

‘Stiff upper lip, girl!’ commanded Pope. He was sitting on the bed beside them with his arms folded, looking very pleased with himself.

‘Sure you don’t want to change places?’ she quipped.

‘I wouldn’t trust myself not to fall head over heels in love with both of these fine fellows. Now stop talking and get going. Good God, girl.’

She moved on top of the twin, gingerly and with some trepidation. She had never been comfortable this way, and his bigness left her very little room to manoeuvre. She closed her eyes and rotated
her hips and was beginning to feel the stirrings of something when the twin spoke in brief and rapid African.

‘Excuse me a minute, sir,’ said his brother. ‘He’s not used to this position. He’s got to stop or he’ll come.’

Tobias Pope clapped his hand to his head. ‘Where, oh where, is a race which lives up to its advance publicity in bed? OK, take a break.’ He was already on the phone. ‘I want
Krug, apple pie, and I want it pronto, Tonto.’

‘Working for the Yankee dollar,’ the talking twin whispered in her ear.

Susan laughed weakly. ‘Do you come here often?’

‘This is the first time I’ve had the pleasure to come to this particular suite. But generally, I’ve been in more hotel rooms than the Gideon Bible.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Warren.’

‘I bet it’s not.’

‘It will do. You couldn’t pronounce the name I was given.’

‘Sorry to break up the
tête à tête,
children,’ called Tobias Pope as a knock came at the door. ‘But here’s the chuck wagon.’

A trolley bearing half a dozen bottles of Krug on ice and a huge apple pie on a silver salver was pushed into the room by an elderly black man. Susan and the silent twin still crouched on the
bed, looking like a particularly advanced Allen Jones coffee table. Without a glance at them he wheeled the trolley to the bed and stood looking at his feet.

Pope pushed some coinage carelessly into his hand and he left the room, still looking at the ground. Susan felt her face burn with non-specific shame.

‘OK, break,’ Pope ordered.

Warren lifted Susan slowly and expertly off his brother and sat her on the bed. His brother sat up and began to rub her shoulders.

‘Thanks, that’s just what I need.’

He flashed her a brilliant smile.