I remembered Marilyn Monroe’s early years on the fringes of prostitution. I had shaken hands with the great Fritz Lang and with the crew of the Starship Enterprise, but this stony-faced beach whore would be my real contact with the international film industry. Perhaps she had appeared in TV commercials advertising dog food or a valet-parking service.

I looked up from her breast. Dick was ready for me to make the first move. Since our arrival at Rio airport he had scarcely taken his eyes from the women who strolled along the sidewalks of this extravagant city, but I knew that the idea of sex always excited him more than the event. He needed me to complete the circuit of desire and fulfilment. For years I assumed that he and Miriam had been lovers at Cambridge, a suspicion she had always denied but Dick had subtly encouraged.

Carmen was flicking at her shoulder strap, like a bored guitarist trying to think of a tune. Fortunata primly smoothed her skirt with the broad hands of a docile child.

“Where do you stay?” I asked. “Here in Copacabana?”

“We go to our apartment.” Carmen pointed to a nearby side street. “You have American dollars? One hour, two hours…”

“Dick? Money for time? Shall we go?”

“Of course. Money is the original digital clock…”

We left the Luxor and set off through the crowds in the Avenida Atlantica, past the beggars and jewellery salesmen, the nightclub touts with their waiting taxis. Carmen led the way on her long legs. She stepped into the traffic when we reached the side street, avoiding the hundreds of pimps standing on the pavement, each with his woman. Prostitution powered Rio, provided its engine. When I first walked down this side street on the evening of our arrival I had been struck by the charm of these countless couples talking amiably on the wide pavements, a tribute to the marital bliss of this benign city. But the husbands were touting their wives’ wares, like so many bales of cloth. Freelancers and festival hunters such as Fortunata and Carmen had to run the hazards of the traffic-filled roads.

We dodged through the passing limousines and entered the lobby of a huge block of low-rent apartments. Beside the annunciator buttons hundreds of mail slots ranged like all the addresses in hell. A minute elevator carried us to an upper floor where a low-ceilinged corridor ran forever into the gloom past dozens of doors. The perspiring tenants lounged outside their cramped apartments. Children played under the dim light, and a damp corridor life survived like fungi in a cavern. Men in vests and undershorts leaned against the walls, mothers dressed their daughters’ hair, old women worked at trestle tables.

At the door of her apartment Carmen turned, hand on key, and peered at me. During the short walk from the hotel she had forgotten my face. She waited for a curious old man to drift away.