THE FUTURE WORLD PRESIDENT’S
FIRST TRUE LOVE
A novel in the here and now.
By JJ Alexander
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EUTOPIA
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1
Sure, okay, he was gorgeous enough to catch any girl’s eye, with that curly black
hair, broad shoulders and those deep, dark eyes. He sure caught Ariel’s as he came
across the dance floor, sidestepping a swinging arm, shimmying a gap between two
wild-haired women, gliding around an unraveling knot of clumsy, foot-stomping
students. He found a space at the bar and leaned over, a hundred-Euro note in a
sculpted hand.
So okay, he was hot, and she was young and beautiful and all that, but that doesn’t
explain what happened next in this club swirling with hot, young, beautiful people, for
when their eyes met something amazing happened, a honey thunderbolt of delicious
connection, then a warm shiver right through her body. She saw – no, felt – it go
through him too. He lost his cool and gaped at her as everything, the pulse of the music,
the rhythmic lights, the hubbub of voices, everything else ebbed away. A smile came to
his eyes in the quiet, and she felt it in her own.
Then the barman moved between them, and the world came throbbing back.
This is it! Love at first sight. This is what they mean. The myth is confirmed! She took a
shaky breath and then a sip of her juice, willing the barman to hurry up. But he stayed
rooted, legs spread wide, leaning forward and yakking away to the beautiful boy,
ignoring the waving hands to his left and right. So Ariel’s flustered mind had
opportunity to interfere and over-analyze everything, as usual.
No, just chemistry, that’s all. Genetic compatibility. Biology. Animal instinct. Maybe five
years ago I dreamed about this, but now I know–
His head bobbed up over the barman’s shoulder. A flash of eyes and he ducked back
again. Her heart actually fluttered. Animal reaction, that’s all, her mind went on and on.
A spike in blood pressure, reacting to the oxytocin, dopamine, adrenaline … oh, shut up already.
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She giggled, giddy as an idiot, then had to freeze and compose herself as the barman
jumped aside, leaving her once again in the light of his dark face. This time no smile.
They hung loose, chill, breathless.
A hand dropped onto his shoulder from somewhere out there and he broke away. A
psycho-ugly rat-faced guy, who glanced over and caught Ariel’s shock and horror. His
face hardened. She looked quickly down into her drink, and when she peeked up again,
they were both gone.
She hopped off the bar-stool, craning her neck. Then she realized that people along
the opposite bar were staring at her. A gangly boy, leaning sideways and leering
drunkenly, a couple of sleek, pouting teenage girls, their chic style identical and their
mouths tight blossoms of envy. Two older guys in who-cares leather jackets, watching
with frank amusement. They saw the whole thing! In a flush of sheer embarrassment she
plonked back onto her barstool, swinging her long dark hair forward to hide her face.
After a few seconds she looked out again. All gone back to their business, show’s
over. All except one strange-looking man, a cruel face carved with lines of suffering,
pain, loss < she shivered again, cold this time, spider up the spine. He sat alone at the
far curve of the ovoid bar and stared at her, unblinking, a stray shaft of red light – it
must be – worming in his shadowed eyes. She frowned but still he stared, so she stood
and walked away.
Where was Noodle? Her best friend, last seen grinding away on the dance floor with
a very tall and sexy black guy. Ariel searched for her and, of course, for Thunderbolt,
drifting past the alcoves and dark recesses, circling the dancers. In the far depths of the
club she saw a raised level, an off-set room with walls of white Roman pillars. A subtle
blue-neon sign glowed above the arched entrance: VIP. Two bouncers in dark suits
reinforced it. Out of bounds for mere mortals like Ariel.
She drifted closer, and saw between the pillars, at last, her Thunderbolt-boy, her
beautiful boy, sitting at a low marble table with a gang of guys in very trendy,
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expensive-looking clothes. He looked distracted, not joining in their raucous talk,
stealing occasional glances out into the club.
He’s looking for me, too. Hasn’t noticed me here, watching him. Let’s see if he feels it. She
settled back against the wall. The nearest bouncer gave her a contemptuous glance.
As she watched, she began to get a feeling that she knew him from somewhere. Like,
he’d been at her school before he grew up and became gorgeous? Or maybe a rock star,
something like that? Almost all the guys in his group had distinct hairstyles, expensive
do’s from top salons. Except for poor Rat-face, short-back-and-sides. Next to him sat an
angular, dark-skinned boy with dreadlocks, then a shiny skinhead, then a gleaming
flow of shoulder-length locks. Interns at a fashion house? She was pleased that
Thunderbolt’s style seemed the least self-conscious, curls so natural it could well be the
most expensive of the lot. Oh, I hope not. She realized that others in the group were also
vaguely familiar to her, especially Rat-face. So, celebrities? It was frustrating. She needed
Noodle’s help here as an expert in such things.
She slipped out her phone, switched to camera and held it between the pillars. The
light in the VIP lounge was brighter than the rest of the club but the screen image was
still murky and grainy. She found Thunderbolt, zoomed to the max and clicked. A wall-
spot shone directly above him and he kept his head still, gazing out into the club, so the
photo came out a disembodied head on a platter of dark. She attached it to a text:
Noods wru? Who is this guy? Why I know him?
and sent it. Within seconds a reply:
Wait coming.
‘Thanks, Ariel. You saved me.’ Noodle had two bright red spots on her cheeks, and
her long blonde hair had been mussed around by the wind. She looked radiant. ‘Bastard
asked me to come outside with him, and we kissed, then he starts, like, ‚I love you, I
love you,' with his hand on my tit! I mean, we’d only just met.’
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‘Where is he?’
‘Following me. Then his whole tragic life story, how they’re going to deport him back
to < Djibouti or, or Timbuktu or whatever godforsaken hole unless some dumb
German cow like me marries him, which sort of put the whole ‚I love you' thing in
perspective, right? Wow!’ She stared between the pillars, eyes shining. ‘He’s even cuter
in real life. Why are you taking photos of football stars?’
‘Footba–?‘
‘His name’s Juan Baptista. Don’t you know? He’s everywhere. Bayern Munich just
bought him for zillions. The other guys are also Bayern. He’s, um third, I think?
Munich’s hottest young eligible bachelors? Tease magazine?’
‘Third hottest, youngest or most eligible?’
‘Eligible is eligible, no?’ Noodle giggled, and then groaned without pausing for
breath. ‘Look. The Djibouti Desperado.’ The tall black guy was wandering among the
scattering of tables between the VIP lounge and the rest of the club, looking lost. ‘It
seems I got the most eligible. You know what they say?’ She pointed to Thunderbolt.
‘It’s tough at the top <’
Ariel finished the sentence, at Desperado. ‘< but really crowded at the bottom.’ And
in a twinkle of laughter and disco-light Noodle was gone.
No matter how intensely she watched him, he still didn’t sense it. Here. I’m right here.
Juan. Juuu-aaan. Juan! Baptista. Juan Baptista. Nothing. She sighed, getting bored now.
The bouncer gave her another look. Damn it. Juan! You’re supposed to get a strange feeling
that someone is watching you, then you look over and we connect, like magic.
She took a few more pictures, just for something to do. She saw in the screen that the
footballers had fallen quiet. She looked up. A door at the back had opened, and an
astonishing girl was making a grand entrance. Petit, with huge breasts and a perfect,
hour-glass waist. A mane of big hair – definitely a wig – and a dress so weird, tight and
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slutty it must come from some haute couture collection. Her face was difficult to see
under the make-up and all that hair, but she looked Asian and very young.
The footballers applauded. But not Juan, thank God. She took a few more pictures
without really thinking about it. The Doll striking a pose before the boys, arms raised to
accentuate the impossible breasts, one foot forward. The Doll leaning over to kiss Rat-
Face, her breasts bulging out. Juan staring at them. Slut! She stabbed her thumb down.
The next photo appeared and she gasped. Rat-face, glaring straight at her.
She looked up. He was already through the pillars and upon her. With frightening
speed he reached out and grabbed the phone. She closed her fingers around it. He took
her index finger and bent it back.
‘What are you doing?’ she squeaked.
‘Give it,’ he grunted. ‘Give it to me or I’ll break your finger.’
‘No!’ She was angry now, and held on hard. ‘It’s mine!’
‘Frank, what’s going on?’ Juan the Thunderbolt had swept to the rescue, a restraining
hand on Rat-face’s arm. He spoke English, Ariel noticed with surprise, with a lovely
Cockney twang. ‘What are you doing, mate?’
‘Fucking paparazzi.’ Rat-face switched to English to reply, in a whiny French accent.
‘Taking pictures of my birthday present. I’m gonna smash her fucking paparazzi
camera.’
‘I’m NOT paparazzi!’ Ariel pulled free and kicked Rat-face as hard as she could. His
eyes bulged in astonishment. Then he squealed, fell to the floor and rolled around
clutching his knee, his mouth a wide O of agony.
‘Oh come on, you baby.’ Ariel brushed her hair back from her face and slipped her
phone back into her pocket.
‘Are you paparazzi? Were you following me?’ Juan looked sick. His eyes held hers,
pleading.
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‘No! I took a picture of you to send to my friend, because I recognized you from
somewhere, I promise.’ She was babbling. ‘Look, look here.’ She took out the phone
again, stumbled her thumb for a while – for a moment of freak-out she couldn’t even
remember how – then showed him the text. ‘See? How could I be paparazzi? I didn’t
even know who you were. In English this means, who is this guy? How do I know him?
See, the picture? Here, read.’
He read it, leaning close to her, even though she was holding the phone at arm’s
length. A couple of inches taller, just right. His scent was nice, clean man-smell, the
subtlest hint of expensive aftershave. She brought the phone in closer. It took him a long
time to read the text, or maybe just a few seconds.
‘Well, that’s alright then,’ he murmured into her ear. ‘So what < happened at the
bar, that wasn’t because I’m famous? It was < you know, natural?’
‘Yes,’ she breathed back. ‘I don’t even like football. It’s boring. You’re nobody to me.’
A hint of challenge as she glanced up. He smiled back.
A low, plaintive moan came from below.
‘Frankie? Mate? Relax, she’s cool. But the real paparazzi might see you lying around
like that, so get up.‘
In a flash Frank was on his feet. Ariel reached out a hand to him, but with a glare he
whirled and stomped back to the VIP lounge. The Doll was sprawled out on a couch,
batting her false eyelashes at the boys. Frank took her arm rather roughly, lifted her up
and led her off to the door at the back.
‘Who’s she?’
‘Some hooker. Birthday present from his agent.’
‘Really? That’s awful.’
And he shrugged. It was a gesture she would later remember, although it meant little
to her at the time, being all caught up in his scent and his shoulders and his hair and
those deep, dark eyes. Her mind had an inkling, a premonition, and could have spoken
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up and warned her that before her lay a world where flesh was bought and sold, where
bodies and their talents were valued only in money, but her mind stood no chance.
When he held out his hand to lead her into the VIP lounge, she took it without
hesitation.
Behind her, the strange man with the cruel face was now seated at a table in a dark
corner, a faint red glow still worming in his eyes.
He watched her enter Juan Baptista’s world, and he smiled.
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2
Not only the pillars separated us from them, there were two marble steps as well, so
Ariel was lifted above the rest of the club. Not much, but enough to feel, if not very, at
least more important. She let go his hand, looked out and saw that most of the people at
the tables were turned towards them. She laughed, ‘It’s a stage.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. I said–‘
‘Yeah,’ he smiled. ‘All part of the ego trip. That’s why I came down to get a drink at
the bar. Sometimes I just want to, you know <’
‘Be ordinary?’
‘Yeah, I’m just a guy, you know? Frank bent my ear, he said some nutter’s gonna stab
me or something, but my Dad was just a hotel porter, so all this <’ He gestured around.
The other boys were all standing up, gathering their jackets. ‘Listen, we’re going to
another club. Please come.’
‘I, um. My friend <’
‘Oh, friend, a, a boyfriend?’
‘No. She. The text?’ She waved the phone.
‘Oh, okay. Where is she?’
She scanned the club, one hand shielding her eyes. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Call her again, tell her come with.’
She hunched over her phone and texted, then noticed a loose thread in the waistband
of her skinny jeans. And a seam by the knee unraveling. And a splash of brownish paint
on her sneaker. This is terrible. I’m so scruffy. ‘Juan? I’m not really dressed to go to–‘
‘You look fantastic. Name’s Johnny. Okay? What’s your name?’
‘Ariel.’
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‘Ariel.’ It caught in his throat. His hand twitched. Their eyes met and then glanced
away, met and glanced away, shiny stones skipping over the surface of a pool of deep
excitement. Then her phone thrilled in her hand and she dipped her head to read
Noodle’s reply.
‘She’s outside, being <’ Ariel shook her head and laughed.
‘What?’
‘She’s being <’ she searched for the English word, ‘um, wooed?’
‘Wooed?’
‘Never mind. She’ll meet us on the street. Look, your friends have already left.’
‘Yeah, let’s go.’
The door led to an alcove and then through heavy velvet drapes to a darkened room.
It was like stepping into another, long-past century. Wooden floors, Persian rugs,
swirling Paisley wallpaper, ornate wainscoting, a large framed mirror mottled orange
with age. Fabric lampshades cast a yellowish light over a cluster of leather armchairs at
the far end of the room, where a dark-haired woman in a long red dress was slowly
gyrating before an enormously fat man, his face in smoky shadow. In one hand he held
a bundle of money, the other was murky in his lap. Some sort of bizarre growly jazz
music was playing, barely audible above the thump-thump-thump coming through the
wall. Johnny grimaced at Ariel in mock-horror, took her hand and hurried her through
a further door, to a landing with a large semicircular desk and an elevator door, closed,
red-light numbers blinking to show where the other boys had gone. Alongside, another
door led to a steep enclosed stairway. It was too narrow for both of them, so he let go
her hand and went ahead, jostling down two stairs at a time, his hair flouncing. Ariel
followed, slower, step by step. There were ancient framed photographs down the left-
hand side, portraits, posed family groups, women with starched bodices and blank
faces, goateed men in long-tailed jackets, stiff in their dusty elegance. The last portrait
hung askew below a red light bulb, a girl child in a pinafore, her hands behind her back
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and her eyes fierce and solemn. She looked remarkably like Ariel at that age, the same
dark hair, the same intensity. Two words were scrawled in an archaic cursive in the
bottom corner. She stopped and peered closer: Rachel Edelstein.
‘Hullo, Rachel,’ she whispered. ‘I wonder what happened to you.’
Johnny swept open the door at the end of the stairs and Ariel felt the wind waft
through her hair, tugging her on. She hurried to catch up. It opened into a small
parking lot. A VIP parking lot, presided over by another big guy in a black suit, who
nodded approvingly and smiled at Ariel as she came through. It gleamed with luxury
cars, Mercs and BMW’s, Bentleys, a beautiful dark-blue Jag E-type, hulking black
SUV’s, a Ferrari in a child’s-toy bright yellow. The boys were dispersing to their cars,
laughing and shouting. Johnny waited for her with an arm held high. For a moment she
thought he was going to drape it over her shoulders, but then he beckoned and walked
on ahead.
She prayed that the Ferrari wasn’t his, but no, a new, black Mercedes. Nice. Classy,
expensive. But not flashy. It beeped and flashed as he pressed the remote. He opened the
passenger door for her, and she was pleased, despite herself.
The scent of new leather. The sheer beauty of the glossy consol, its space-ship reds
and blues. Aaaaah, she allowed herself a smile as he walked around the back of the car.
When I woke up this morning, I didn’t think the day would end like this. Then, as he opened
his door, It hasn’t ended yet. How are you going to get home, exactly? Do you trust him?
He settled in, fiddled the key into the lock, opened the cubby and traced a finger over
a row of CD’s. She had to speak up:
‘Um, Johnny? Where are we going? I don’t mean to < it’s just that, we took the, the
U-bahn, how do you call it, the, the Tube! So <’
He looked surprised. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll give you a lift.’
‘Okay. So you’ll take us home?’
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‘Yes, of course. Whenever you want.’ She realized that he was as nervous as she was,
every action, every word he spoke – and even the music he chose - a window open
wide to her judgment. He bit his lip and turned his focus back to the CD’s. She wanted
to help, just pick any one at random, get on with it already. But part of her also enjoyed
watching him squirm a little bit, and she was curious about his taste in music. Not to be
cruel and judgmental or anything, but if it’s big-dick rap or metal, I’m getting out right now. In
the end he pleased her again, choosing Seal, early nineties. Cool over trendy. Nice. Even if
a bit obviously sexy. She relaxed and settled back into her seat.
The parking garage opened out into a side-alley and he braked, put the gear into
neutral and took his wallet out of his leather jacket. The card had only one word – Oh! –
over tiny print. He activated the GPS on the consol and typed in the address, then slid
into drive and purred up to Leopold Street.
‘There she is. The blonde, standing next to that tall guy? Just past the-’
‘Yeah, I see her.’ He angled across the traffic and pulled up into an empty space just
beyond Noodle. She was standing with her head down, lost in the screen of her phone.
Despite her body language, Desperado continued to hover at her shoulder, his teeth
bright in his face as he talked.
Ariel rolled down her window. ‘Noooooods? Over here.’
She looked up with a quick smile and strode over, Desperado close behind. Johnny
unlocked her door with a flick of a switch and she opened it and slipped into the back
seat. As Desperado reached out to take the door and follow her into the car, she leaned
over and whispered urgently to Johnny, ‘Go go go! ’
He took off without hesitation, the back door swinging and slamming shut with the
impetus. Ariel saw Desperado in the side mirror, his hand still outstretched and one
foot suspended in the air, staring after them. Johnny looked in the rear-view mirror and
laughed. Then he glanced over at Ariel, sensing, perhaps, her twinge of dislike, the first
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sour note of the evening. One song faded on the CD and another, with a thrum of bass,
began.
‘ Gott sei dank! ’ Noodle stretched out in the back seat. ‘I thought I’d never get rid of
him!’
‘Sorry,’ said Johnny. ‘Sorry, I don’t speak much German yet. What you say?’
‘She hardly speaks any English. She–‘
‘Ariel be us < was ist Ubersetzer? ’
‘Translator. She says I must translate for her.’
‘Yeah, come to think of it, why’s your English so brilliant?’
‘I want to study languages at university. They’re a big obstacle in the EU, so I think–‘
‘Hang on. You want to? How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘What, you still at school?’
‘Yes. Final year.’
‘Shit. Management said we must never touch school kids. The tabloids go crazy.’
‘So who is touching?’
‘Ahaha. Quite. But just being in my car is enough for them, bloody vultures. To
in sin uate. Hey,’ he looked in the rear-view mirror again, as the GPS told him, in
English, to turn left at the next intersection. ‘We haven’t been introduced.’
‘This is Noodle, my best friend.’
‘Wazzup. Noodle?’ He swung left. ‘Your parents call you that?’
‘No,’ answered Ariel. ‘Her real name is Heidi. She hates it because it sounds like <
you know <‘
‘Yeah, the pigtails. I get it. The yodeling.’
Ariel laughed. ‘Noods? This is–‘
‘Juan Baptista.’ Noodle read from her phone. ‘Brilliant attacking midfielder, recently
transferred from West Ham to Bayern Munich for eighteen million Euros! Earns a
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weekly salary of <’ she whistled. ‘Horny monkey! If he wants to attack your midfield,
Ariel, I’d let him.’
‘Yeah yeah. Call me Johnny.’
‘Promising teenager in the junior leagues, much talked-about,’ continued Noodle.
‘Selected for the England squad in the last European Championship, but injured his
knee. His favorite color is red. Favorite movie is Braveheart. He drives a <’ she paused,
frowned and looked around at her surroundings. ‘No, no he doesn’t. Stupid internet.’
‘Any juicy stuff?’ asked Ariel.
‘Just a minute.’ Noodle scrolled. ‘Um < here we go. Girlfr