Cleopatra�s Perfume (12 page)

I sensed something more than familial interest between them, especially the way Laila put her hand on his arm at frequent intervals, as if she possessed an unfulfilled longing, but I chose to ignore it.
He’s mine,
my eyes told her. I was so occupied with staking my claim, I wasn’t prepared when Ramzi explained why he’d returned to Port Said.

“I closed the Bar Supplice,” he said, spooning apricot sherbet into his mouth. I couldn’t take my eyes off how he licked the icy confection off the spoon with his tongue, lingering, tasting.

“I know.” I didn’t offer any additional explanation and he didn’t ask.

“I’m opening a new club in Cairo,” he said, pushing his dessert away from him, then lighting up a cigarette.

“Oh?” So that’s where my money went.

“It’s called the Cleopatra Club. We’ll have the finest entertainment in the city with performers from Paris.” He leaned over then rubbed my shoulder and the back of my neck. “And a private room for forbidden pleasures.”

“Sounds intriguing.” I suppressed a shiver.

“I was hoping you’d accompany me back to Cairo to assist me at the grand opening.”

I sipped my wine. I wasn’t fooled. Having a member of the British peerage attend his club opening would boost his standing in a city where colonial rule dictated the mores of society.

“I’m sorry, Ramzi. It’s out of the question. I’ve already booked passage to Bombay—”

He leaned closer, his raw scent unnerving me. “I can’t convince you to change your plans?”

“No.” I wanted him to think I was still angry over his sudden departure and all his sly tricks weren’t going to change my mind.

“Let
me
try, Lady Marlowe.” Laila reached into a slim case she had propped up alongside her chair and pulled out an official-looking document. She handed it to me.

Without glancing at it, I asked, “What’s this?”

“Fifty percent ownership in the Cleopatra Club.” She waited for my response.

“Laila—” Ramzi protested.

“Calm down, little brother, I know what I’m doing.” She continued in a nonchalant but firm voice. “You will be an equal partner in the Cleopatra Club with all the advantages—” she nodded toward Ramzi, who took my hand and again rubbed the soft skin on my
palm, breaking down my defenses “—expected from such an agreement. All you have to do is deposit the required funds in a Cairo bank as collateral.”

“What about the money I already gave Ramzi?” I asked, my tone polite but curious.

Laila glared at her brother. He answered quickly, “I used those funds for expenses to set up the club.”

“Then this money is for…?” I left the question dangling in the air.

“Day-to-day expenses to run the club should you get bored and return to England, or,” she said lightly, “if anything happens to you.”

“I don’t plan on either event taking place.” I waved my wrist smelling of the perfume under Ramzi’s nose. He kissed the inside of my wrist and smiled.

“Still, I…I mean,
we
need some insurance. A deposit of—” She mentioned a figure that would make most women doubt the extent of Ramzi’s charm was worth that much, but for me to release such an amount of money required no more than a quick conversation with the local representative of my London bank.

“Make it fifty-one percent,” I said, “and you have a deal.”

Laila looked at Ramzi, he nodded, then she asked the waiter to bring her a pen and ink. She changed the percentage on the document and handed it to me. “Your signature, please, Lady Marlowe.”

Smiling, I signed it. Foolish or not, all I cared about was having Ramzi in my life. Whatever fears I had about going into business with them didn’t compare to the joy racing through me, the sensations making me breathless from the idea of excess pleasure never interrupted, never ceasing to flow through my veins. It was mad
dening, intoxicating, and my imagination knew no limitation. No impasse in the pursuit of these pleasures.

Ramzi said, “We leave for Cairo in the morning.”

“And tonight?” I asked, pressing my breasts together to emphasize their fullness. My nipples pushed through the silk, hard and taut.

The Egyptian smiled, then blew smoke rings down my cleavage. “Come, Mahmoud is waiting for us.”

On a train to Berlin

April 12, 1941

C
airo. The word conjures up a land of mystery and eroticism. The human-headed lion Sphinx, King Tutankhamen’s tomb, the Great Pyramid of Giza. But the city I knew was alive, breathing. A platter of humanity touching elbows but not lives, the melodic sounds, pungent smells mixing in a passionate elixir that overwhelmed me. I’ve heard it said Cairo is the end of the West and the beginning of the East with the al-Muski as the dividing line, both cosmopolitan and ancient, the winding streets allowing one a leisurely stroll while gawking at the sidewalk merchants in the famous bazaar.

I always get pleasant chills remembering such walks in the bazaar with my late husband, the exotic music playing without stopping, the soothing scent of sandalwood and cumin drifting on the air, tasting the saltiness of a purple olive I grabbed from a pushcart and
popped into my mouth. I smile, seeing in that compartment of my mind that never tires of rewinding the film, Lord Marlowe pinching my arse and commenting how much he envied the olive. He always insisted the best items could be found in the side streets and cracks in the wall of the Khan Al-Khalili. We decorated the playroom in our hideaway cottage in Coventry with the rugs, mosaics, curios, antiques and rare manuscripts we purchased there. You could buy almost anything in the narrow alleys lined with tiny shops open to the street, including sweets
and
women.

I often smiled in amusement at the sailors who couldn’t wait to hand over their pay to the hawkers in their English-cut suits and red tarbooshes resembling upside-down flowerpots. I didn’t understand then their urgent need.

I do now.

Looking at Ramzi, I ached, burned, itched, my skin charged with impulses I couldn’t control, my hunger making my mouth dry, wetness staining the silk hugging my mound. I couldn’t wait to be with him, grab his hand, squeeze it, then lay my head upon his broad shoulder. When he was with me, I found myself affecting a certain way of breathing, talking, walking, which dispelled my loneliness and transported me to another plane. How can I explain to you how he dazzled my eye, blinding me to the game he played?

Yes,
yes,
I know I was foolish, but it was ecstasy, a profound joy I carried deep inside that filled me. Each time we indulged in a sexual game, an erotic fantasy of submission and control, I found more and more pleasure, crying out with abandon, as if each orgasm erupting within me exploded inside a huge bell, reverberating over and over like a musical sound echoing far beyond the first note. Chilling me,
stunning me…never ceasing. At first, I believed my body could endure no more…No, that wasn’t quite right, I
begged
him for more. And he proceeded to take me again and again.

So you can understand why, after he returned to Port Said, I wasted no time in boarding a train for Cairo and advising my personal secretary and traveling companion, Mrs. Wills, of my change of plans. That created another frantic telegram from the woman, questioning my decision.

I had to smile. Dear Mrs. Wills. So proper and to the point she was, yet sex was as foreign to her as abstinence was to me. From what Lord Marlowe confided to me about her background, I assumed there’d never been a
Mr.
Wills. No doubt she adopted the married name to add an air of respectability to her letter of referral. She’d been a companion to a dowager duchess, he said, a titled Englishwoman reputed to have had her share of illicit affairs, so she was well acquainted with the responsibilities of a position which was neither servant nor friend.
Be aware of everything going on,
the job required,
but pretend to know nothing.

I questioned my decision in advising her I needed her to remain in London to look after my affairs rather than here in Cairo. I preferred her company, much more than I did spending time with Ramzi’s sister, Laila. Educated in Paris, the woman lived in two worlds, leaning toward whichever suited her mood. She refused to wear the veil, smoked in public and spoke rapid Arabic with a fast and guttural repartee to anyone who challenged her choice of dress or personal habits. I had no intention of allowing her to interfere in my love affair with Ramzi, though I found her attention toward her brother unnerving when she laid her hands on him at the oddest
moments or insisted he fasten the choker of fake pearls she wore around her neck. Yes, fake. I know pearls and these were fakes.

I didn’t understand then the strange relationship between them, though curiosity made me ask Ramzi why she hovered over him as if he were a possession. He dismissed my comment, but he did confide to me Laila was a young girl when her father divorced her mother to marry a French widow with a small son. Ramzi. Under Egyptian law, his father had no legal obligation to explain his decision, but relatives shunned the couple because his new wife wasn’t Muslim. When Ramzi’s mother died, the father abandoned them and the extended family offered them no support, which explained why the two children lived on the edge in an Islamic society that valued such relationships above anything else.

Why am I explaining this to you, dear reader? I didn’t know then I was dealing with a woman with an obsession equal to my own, a woman who seemed to take perverse pleasure in watching Ramzi and me signaling to each other our need for sex, my tongue circling my red lips, his hand lingering on my backside, our hips pressing against each other. Afterward she’d become silent and withdrawn, though I noticed a seductive sway in her mannerisms toward me that made me uncomfortable. I sensed the ardent desire in the Egyptian girl’s luminous kohl-rimmed eyes to take what wasn’t hers, but I ignored it. I allowed my observations to slip away as easily as my clothes fell to my feet when I stripped for Ramzi.

Did I care? No. I existed in a state of constant sexual arousal, my senses burning up whatever rational thoughts dared to poke themselves inside my head, never realizing this would be my undoing and ultimately lead me to the dangerous journey I now undertake. I
indulged in every lascivious act Ramzi asked of me, ignoring the danger signs. You must understand the danger lay not in sexual depravation, but in an awakening that was to come much later.

For now, excitement raced through me aboard the afternoon train to Cairo, delicious sensations in my lower body tormenting me, making me wish I could reach under my skirt and brush my hard nub back and forth to release my tension. Instead, I stared out the train window, marveling at the small fields of bananas, fig trees, then speeding past shallow lakes, all the while thinking about hot nights in Ramzi’s arms, languid days dreaming about him, not a worry in my mind.

And Cleopatra’s perfume? I couldn’t deny its fragrant power increased my sensory awareness. I’d dabbed the unguent between my breasts and behind my knees then secreted the alabaster box away in my luggage before boarding the train to Cairo. Did I believe the story about its power of immortality? No. Seduction? Yes. I noticed the admiring stares in my direction through the black veil on the black torque hat I wore (I have a penchant for hats with veils), the diagonal, lined veil ending just above my lip. Numerous eyes peeled off the pure silk print frock and white bolero I wore as if they could see through to my nude-colored slip. This fascinating effect pleased me, made me revel in my sensual independence, though I was now over thirty. My figure was still firm and my breasts high, though I’d noticed tiny lines around my eyes and mouth. Not surprising to me. I’d lost my smile and that
je ne sais quoi
a younger woman possesses after the death of my husband, that special scent emitting from her when she passes a man. A fertile smell, the art of seduction oozing from her pores. Now I had it back, drenched in overt sensuality.
Was
it the perfume? I wondered.

Did I care?

Travelers packed the train to Cairo, locals as well as British, French, Algerians, even Germans crowded the aisles. I didn’t protest when Ramzi insisted we move to the open rear deck of the train and offered me a cigarette. Relaxing on a cane-back wooden chair, I puffed on the slim cigarette, thinking. I inhaled with a sense of wonder at my newfound discovery. Ramzi. I was aware of his closeness, his ability to feel my need to be alone with him without speaking it. He had suggested earlier we move to the club car, knowing I had no desire to remain in the compartment with Laila, playing solitaire and listening to Negro jazz on an old windup Victor phonograph. Lapsing between French and Arabic, she gave the Nubian orders where to pile the luggage before dismissing him to the second-class car. I saw how she looked at him, raising her chin, her breasts, as if to remind him he occupied a lower station in life. I doubted if the raven-haired temptress allowed him to get any closer to her than a wave of her hand. A distinct chill in the air prohibited any conversation between them. I found her behavior toward him disturbing, though blurring the lines between human behavior was not a matter of discourse on this trip. I had a more pressing matter in mind.

Ramzi couldn’t keep his hands off me.

Alone on the rear deck, we appeared to behave in a proper manner since only a swinging glass door separated us from the other passengers with curious eyes, looking for something, anything to relieve the boredom of a days-old newspaper or fleeing scenery.

What they couldn’t see was the tip of my wet tongue playing over my top lip, catching my veil in my mouth, while Ramzi put his hand
on my thigh, moving under my print frock then upward, over the smooth silk of my stocking then massaging the warm bare flesh above the sheer fabric. I chewed on the edge of my veil, squirming in my chair as he toyed with my garter, pulling on it until it snapped. I pretended to be shocked. He wouldn’t go any farther, would he? He smiled, then ran his fingers up and down my thigh, making me gasp.