Cleopatra�s Perfume (23 page)

From that moment on, I felt unable to continue my charade with Ramzi, fucking him, him fucking me. Yet I was no longer willing to deprive myself of pleasure because this man didn’t have the ability to take the place of my late husband. I would find another love, be they male or female, and assuage this deepening pain, conquer it, for only then would I be whole again.

As quiet as a fading sigh, I pulled up my trousers and crept back
up the narrow stairway, the sweet smell of my indiscretion leaving an aromatic trail behind me. All the while, I was planning,
planning.
Let Ramzi play out his drama, fuck his way to impotence, for I had seen him as he really was, a man without the capacity to love, filled with greed and void of a conscience. He was making a fool out of me, flaunting his indiscretion with Maxi while I was supposed to see him as being above suspicion. I tossed that sentiment away as easily as if it were the centuries-old dust from the crypt I wiped off my shoes. I no longer believed in his ideologies.

Remembering the very thing that brought us together, the alabaster smoothness of Cleopatra sitting atop the ancient box of perfume, her scent, her seduction of men, I knew exactly what I had to do. I would show Ramzi I was no longer obsessed with feeding my dream. The deep nightmare of trying to assuage my loneliness with his cock had depleted my soul of its spirit, but that was no more. I would again feel the fever, the burn, and recover the elusive romantic in me in such a way no one could stop me.

Two
could play this game, dear reader.

But I assure you, only
one
would win.

I
had been in Cairo for weeks, doing my best to avoid the realization the world was on the verge of total war. I had not believed everything would explode on a late August night in 1939, but I knew a change was coming…an unexpected change. What had begun as a wild adventure of scent, pleasure and submission was about to turn into something more salacious, more deadly, and I couldn’t stop it, as I couldn’t stop Hitler from racing toward his mad scheme of world domination.

His target was Poland. Mine was Ramzi.

The Führer was only hours away from raping and pillaging the defenseless country. I was minutes away from executing a night of scandal, whispered renditions of which would be told over and over again on the backstreets of Cairo, in the bazaar, hotel bars, anywhere people leaned forward with curiosity to hear about the night Cleopatra danced nude.

Midnight. Hot, steamy. The night was filled with impulses, some enticing and warm, some sinister. The outcome of this night had
been shaped by my own needs and contained elements I would later discover were more mystical than mysterious. Perspiring under the heavy cotton of my black abaya, I hovered in the corner of the Cleopatra Club, observing. The Cobra Room was open for pleasure. I watched the dancers strutting around, their nude breasts with hard pointy brown nipples bouncing up and down, wisps of blue voile slung low over their hips billowing on trails of smoke from the lit cigarettes of club patrons, the dancers’ high-heeled, silver ankle-strapped shoes tapping out a steady rhythm to Josette’s jazzy piano solo. After the next chorus, I always made my entrance in a tight gold-lamé gown with the back cut so low admirers could fixate on the two dimples of my arse to soothe their boredom.

Not tonight. Tonight I would shed my outer skin and appear as the queen of the Nile.

Shimmering in gold paint.

And nothing else.

I would dance nude.

A golden skullcap and nose veil with strands of perfect pearls hanging from it hid my white-blond hair.

Was such a performance a fanciful poke in the kohled eye of the Egyptian queen or homage to her feminine wiles? I couldn’t decide. Both appealed to me. I don’t know what propelled me into the heart of darkness that night, perhaps it was the burden of expectation I’d placed upon Ramzi, desiring him to take the place of my late husband, my own tortured needs searing my soul. Whatever it was, in the short time I’d been in Egypt, I’d lost the artistry I had acquired as a submissive, my skin bubbling up when I heard the crack of the whip, my mind and body playing with power with the man I
loved, knowing he wouldn’t abuse that power, my entire body in an aroused state, him pinching my nipples, slapping my buttocks, and because I was in such a heightened state of arousal, I felt only pleasure, not pain. I was his goddess come to life, not a naked woman in a grainy photograph or a cold marble statue with a seductive smile. I gave back to him as much as he gave to me.

I had believed I recreated the relationship I had with my late husband with Ramzi; but instead of living my fantasy, I succumbed to his outrageous decadence and constant demands. I wouldn’t realize my opportunity to the road of redemption until I slid deeper into the hell I’d created. In my mind I was the ultimate temptress, my undulating dance of Cleopatra precipitating an irrational stir in the minds of all who watched me perform that night.

Out of the dark, carrying me slung over his shoulder (I was rolled up in a conical Persian rug like a squiggly caterpillar), Mahmoud emerged. Half-naked, clad only in wide red silk trousers nipped in at the ankle with gold rings, I imagined his muscular body sweating under the hot spotlight. Inside the rug I wiggled, the musty smell making me sneeze. The Nubian stopped, slapped me on the buttocks, then swung me around. I imagined he laughed. I couldn’t hear much, if anything. Dizziness grabbed hold of me, the sounds inside the thick rug muffled, but I sensed the curiosity, the whispers, the anticipation as the crowd stood back, waiting. All they could see were my feet adorned in strappy flat sandals in burnished gold hanging out of the end of the rug as he twirled me around. The rest of me was hidden from their sight.

Not for long.

I pulled in my breath when I felt Mahmoud slide me down off his shoulder and lay me down on the floor in the center of the Cobra Room. I forced the dizziness from my brain as the rhythmic cacophony of piano notes stirred my blood to unleash the primitive beat pulsing in my soul. With a snap of his wrists, Mahmoud unrolled the rug, exposing my nude body from its self-imposed cocoon of centuries-old Arabic fibers coated with flakes of gold paint from my skin. Like a lotus unfurling, I stood up slowly, stretching, pulling my muscles, raising my arms up high over my head like the sacred flower at dawn, Cleopatra’s ruby-and-pearl ring catching the eye of the spotlight, my body reveling in performing the erotic dance I had made famous years ago in Berlin when I danced nude covered in gold paint. Then, I was in a state of recklessness, eager to prove my wildness, make a name for myself. Now, I wanted my revenge on Ramzi and his infidelity, an ugly emotion at best, but a real one.

I grabbed a sheath of shocking blue feathers from atop the piano, fluttering them wildly, then pranced across the room, dipping my fingers into champagne glasses, letting the golden liquid drip down over my breasts, my belly, drizzling like honey over my nude pubic area, and down the insides of my thighs, but it couldn’t quench my thirst. A different state possessed me, an extraordinary sense of discord, a distortion of all that I was then.

My mood shifted, brought on by the knowledge that I was not the same young girl. I was Lady Eve Marlowe, but there was no turning back. I wanted to run from the spotlight, wrap myself up in the widow’s gray I had refused to don, forget this crazy idea of
seeking retribution against a man I thought I loved. I was hurt, but I realized hurting him wasn’t the answer.

I had been careful not to arouse his suspicions earlier, promising him I would receive him later at my hotel. I had no intention of seeing him or Maxi. After tonight, I would no longer come to the club. The rapture of shocking the crowd gave me no pleasure. Tonight I danced without form, my frenzy building, tossing my head with fury, bitterness. My muscles stiff, as if I’d turned into stone.

I squeezed my eyes tight not to allow tears to slide down my golden cheeks and streak them like kittens’ claws. I knew why. Why hadn’t I seen it before? Thrown away this insanity before it went too far? I knew the answer. We all embrace secrets, keep them hidden inside us. I had performed my dance nude the night I met Lord Marlowe in Berlin at Cabaret Montmartre, a wicked, raucous establishment where customers concealed their identities behind a black or white half mask. I remember how his eyes riveted to every part of my body, from my bare breasts down to my shaved pubic mound, peeking around to my firm buttocks and down my thighs to my slender calves. I shivered that night when I realized my skin burned under his gaze—

I stopped my dance with an abrupt movement. No one dared breathe. The moment hung suspended. I shivered again tonight when I realized
another
pair of eyes watched me with that same intensity.

Ramzi?

No. Someone else. I saw him edge closer to where I danced, but I couldn’t see him distinctly. Tall, manly, how I knew that I don’t know, not suave like Ramzi, but raw and untamed. I smelled him as surely as I smelled the spicy aroma emitting from my armpits and
between my legs where I had applied Cleopatra’s perfume. Why did this man affect me so? It became clear to me. I wanted to relive that night when I first met his lordship, if only for a little while, then I would leave Cairo. Yes, dear reader, I had changed my mind about staying here. Remember, at this time in my life I was wildly extravagant, rebellious and indifferent to criticism from
anyone.
I would run from here, travel to Paris or Rome, someplace, anywhere to experience an interchange of laughter, sun, wind, caresses, for I know now a woman who clings to a man who doesn’t love her is a fool. And I was no fool. Ramzi was the fool, taking advantage of what he believed was my obsession with him. Like most men of his type, suave, ambitious, somewhat narcissistic, he believed all women were his playground, even my friend. It was Maxi’s betrayal I didn’t understand and didn’t know if I ever would.

A surge of power overtook me, releasing me from this shadow self I had created where I could hide. I didn’t wish to hide any longer. I wanted to live. To seduce and be seduced. To wrap the image of this stranger who attracted my attention in passionate movements, indulge in frantic desire. I swayed my hips back and forth in a provocative rhythm in different variations, allowing everyone an interesting view of my golden buttocks, shaking them so they quivered, men leaning forward, women peering over their shoulders, all of them moving with me in ecstasy. I danced in such a frenzy even the walls seemed to become pliable and swayed with me like fun-house mirrors distorting everything as I whirled past them. Two female dancers tossed jasmine petals into the air, which fell on my nude body like lucent raindrops, landing on top of my golden skullcap and crusting my hard nipples with golden dots. I contin
ued moving my hips in an undulating rhythm, my spirit in a deep state of arousal, the evocative tango music cooing in my ear.

I saw the stranger again, the desire, the excitement in his eyes. The split second he took to reach out to try to grab me was the time I needed to see him clearly. Sandy-brown hair, skin tanned by the sun not the gods, an irresistible streak of maleness riding down the side of his jaw in the way he moved his mouth.

I turned slightly, my rear to him, and the way he looked at my nude golden buttocks made me more than uncomfortable. Aroused. Hungry, as if he’d already stretched my anal hole, penetrating me, and he wanted to do it all over again. His hard gaze made me squeeze my legs together and push as a pleasant feeling set off a contraction I couldn’t stop. I turned away from him, not wanting him to see the expression on my face, for I couldn’t hide the sensation racing through me, my pussy opening and closing on its own, yearning for someone to stroke it, enter it, its nakedness glittering with faux gold in a sea of matte silks and white dinner jackets and dark robes. Earlier I would have settled for a slender feminine finger to sweep across my clit and make it burn, her tender sighs evoking a gentle passion in me. That flame no longer burned, suffocated by a restless autumn wind stirring my embers. I wanted a man to entice my hungry libido, dear reader,
this
man.

Who was he? Not British. His swagger demanded attention not coming from breeding but something else. Most likely, he was an American adventurer. Because I was a dancer, I knew the body hungered to find its rhythm in the way of moving. His languid stride was most revealing to me. This man took his time, observing everything, everyone with his sexual soul, including me. No wonder I
couldn’t take my eyes off him, his presence was so intense. With my deepening anxieties, my addiction to sex and drugs, and my obsession with Ramzi over, I was ripe for the scent of a new man. More than ever I needed a torrid love affair.

I had no idea Ramzi also sensed my restlessness. I saw him enter the private room, Maxi at his side. Laila was behind them. They sat down at our regular table and a waiter in a red fez and white dinner jacket and black bow tie brought them cocktails. I could see them whispering to each other, Maxi laughing, Laila staring, Ramzi smoking his chibouk. Smiling and with my fingers linked behind my head, I sashayed over in their direction, but danced by them and continued my performance near the stranger who’d captured my attention. I’d give him—and everyone in the room—a climax to my dance they’d never forget.

I signaled to the maître d’ to have the lights turned down. Within seconds the private room was transformed into a dark atmospheric display of overheated bodies covered by shadows. I stood alone under the hot white heat of the intense spotlight, my left hand spiraling upward, my right cupping my bare breasts. I can imagine how I looked. Nude body, my features contorted in lust, a red scarlet streak across my lips, heavily lined eyes visible above the sheer gold nose veil, pure white pearl beads flapping about my face and hitting my upturned chin shiny with sweat. I was high on cocaine, which I’m certain produced that incredible wildness in me that night, dear reader, for to believe I engaged in such madness without the drug would make me see myself as a lower creature devoid of morals than I could bear to reveal to you. What I
can
say without hesitating is that I no longer had any compelling interest in Ramzi’s sexual antics,
nor was I entranced by his dark looks and sophisticated personality. A new man was on my horizon, a man I sensed would tame my erotic mania, and that was precisely what I needed.