Cleopatra�s Perfume (30 page)

Early morning. The desert sky was a pale blue and for a moment when I gazed out over the straight road leading back to Cairo I marveled how bare and pristine the landscape appeared. I could almost imagine we were time travelers and had escaped back to the reign of the pharaohs. But that was fantasy, brought on I’m certain by my sniffing the white powder when I awoke before my American. (I must digress, dear reader, and mention I most likely didn’t close my eyes the entire night while under the drug’s influence.) I lived by the credo that cocaine enhanced my sexuality when in reality it diminished my acceptance of myself in this new skin. It is like a fine piece of crystal formed by dreams, but when you drop it, it shatters. So I kept using, charmed with this multiplicity of self that remained fluid enough to accept a compliment without experiencing paranoia when Chuck told me how beautiful I looked in the morning. I smiled, pleased with myself for having achieved some semblance of normalcy I could live with, as is the case with most addicts when using the drug on a daily basis becomes routine and they cannot differentiate between the imagined and the actual.

Hungry, thirsty, we set out on foot through the desert, noting the flocks of desert larks rising and flying downwind, looking for food. Surprising, since little grows here. I perceived the day bloomed cooler than I expected, commenting to Chuck maybe it had something to do with the lilac horizon and blue sky. The heat had yet to make an appearance. I suppose my mind was in desperate need of hope while my body thirsted for water, so I offer no excuse when I yanked off my shoes and ran toward what I perceived to be a green oasis in the foreground with a small lake surrounded by swaying
palms. Weary, weak from hunger, I stumbled on the flat seabed, not realizing what I saw was the reflection of the sky on a heavy layer of heated air lying along the ground. Chuck ran after me and picked me up, holding me in his arms.

“Your oasis is a camel caravan,” he said, the heat from his body making me sweat. I shivered. “About a hundred yards from here.”

“Camels?” I squeaked, my voice dry, though I attempted a smile. “At least they don’t run out of gas.”

I experienced a rotating seasickness riding astride the camel, swaying back and forth in the saddle, trying to adjust to the animal’s gait. I noticed Chuck’s amused glances in my direction, though I wondered why
he
was so adept at riding such a creature. He admitted he’d hung around circuses when he was a boy then later doing flying stunts, and mastered the art of riding a camel. He looked regal mounted astride the animal, a lord of the desert, though he wasn’t dressed with his head hidden beneath a turban and his body smothered in flowing robes like the white-robed camel driver at the lead.

I leaned forward, attracted to the American flier by a constant magnetism I felt pulling at me, a seduction charged with a responsiveness I wasn’t ashamed of showing to him. If he noticed, he didn’t reveal it. He kept his face hidden under his brimmed felt fedora, though he turned around several times to observe the guide walking in front of me and leading my camel, a quiet man who shrugged his shoulders and ordered his sons to dismount and give us their camels when he found us wandering in the desert. I imagine wayward tourists were a common sight to this Bedouin tribesman since we weren’t far from Cairo.

Sitting up high on the hump of the camel, I had to adjust to the rocking motion so much a part of desert trekking, the animal burping and belching and giving off the putrid smell of moldy rags, though it wasn’t all unpleasant lolloping through the desert on the back of such a beast. The camel walked slowly, my inner thighs rubbing against the worn leather saddle and sparking sensations that reminded me of Chuck rubbing my nub with his thumb, my pleasure rekindling with each rocking motion. Combine this with the deadening effect of the sand sucking up all the sound around me and you’ll understand why I found myself in a sexually meditative state, my sore arse reminding me of the pleasant stings of Chuck’s hand against my bare buttocks, then his fingers straying down between my legs, stirring an incessant fire into an even brighter flame.

Alas, dear reader, it was the last time I would have such an opportunity to lose myself in my quest for pleasure.

On the outskirts of Cairo, my eyes looking everywhere at once, I sensed a feeling I couldn’t put into words. Isolation, unprotected. Chuck did, too, though neither of us spoke about it, but I saw it in his eyes. Dark, fearful, apprehensive. On the road we saw a line of lorries (British military trucks, I’m certain) hurrying away from the city, but where? The traffic raised up clouds of yellow sand, showering us with grit, traveling as Arabs had done since Cleopatra’s time astride our sturdy camels with their thick, heavy lips and languishing eyes.

Our small caravan passed through narrow, uneven lanes crowded with donkeys, carts, peddlers, women in trailing black veils with children hanging on to them, until we came to the modern road and
the wide terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel. Facing the street, tourists sat and enjoyed afternoon tea and watched the passing parade of beggars and dragomen, all vying to sell the unwary visitor trinkets, silks and beads.

Not today. The terrace was nearly empty.

Again, a strange chill wiggled down my spine. I wasn’t sure why seeing the empty terrace disturbed me. I didn’t want to think about what that meant. Chuck insisted on giving the camel driver a generous amount of piastres for baksheesh, then assured me he would meet me in the lobby in an hour after he checked in at the airfield. He had no idea how he was going to explain his absence and I feared he may have lost his position as a mail pilot because of me. I couldn’t allow that to happen even if it meant I would be involved in a scandal. I was determined to ring up one of Lord Marlowe’s old cronies with connections to Imperial Airways and straighten out any problems he encountered.

I rushed into the hotel past the huge Egyptian columns in the lobby, anxious to go to my suite to freshen up, but first I approached the front desk. I found it impossible to engage anyone’s attention about sending someone after the disabled motorcar. The entire hotel swarmed with British officers stomping around in suede boots, flaunting their authority with their fly whisks and swagger sticks, their incessant chatter setting my nerves on edge.

Damn fool, that Chamberlain.

Hitler won’t stop with Poland.

We’re in it now, old boy.

Amid the brio, I detected the strong smell of Turkish coffee and pungent cigarettes. A male bastion at best, but where were all the
tourists? The pretty girls flirting with the laid-back British officers? The portly Americans and their bored wives calling for waiters at every opportunity? The Egyptian merchants in their flowing robes and red tarbooshes scurrying from meeting to meeting. Even the small band playing droll, uninspired music was idle.

Had the world gone mad? Fled the city on the wings of rumors?

The answer to my question came from an unexpected source.

“Haven’t you heard, Lady Marlowe?”

I turned to see Lady Palmer racing through the lobby, luggage and daughter, Flavia, in tow. Her pinched cheeks and sunken eyes told me a dark cloud had descended upon her perfect sunny world of tea parties, midafternoon conversation on the terrace over
café arabe
and pristine manners. She was obviously in a hurry and urged her daughter to proceed without her, but that didn’t stop her from engaging in a most profound ritual sacred to women of her class. Snooping.

“No, Lady Palmer, I’ve only just returned to the hotel.”

“But I saw you driving out to the Pyramids yesterday with that handsome gentleman…” She let her words hang in the air, her curiosity so piqued I swear she was on the verge of an orgasm.

“He’s an American flier.” I gave her a quick retort and refused to give in to her meddling. I continued trying to get the desk clerk’s attention, but to no avail. He hadn’t stopped talking on the telephone since I approached the front desk. Lady Palmer rambled on about how if the Americans ignored what was happening in Europe, they’d be next, but I paid her scant attention. I had no time for the niceties of smart society. Chuck said he would meet me here in less than an hour. I was exhausted, disheveled and emotionally drained.
I wanted to clean up and change my clothes. I prayed the woman would leave me alone.

“Then you haven’t heard the terrible news?” she asked.

“No. My motorcar ran out of petrol and I spent the night in the desert.”

“With the American?” she asked, gawking, then waited intently for my answer with more than a hint of jealousy and envy, as if to admit I had spent the night with a gentleman would make her swoon.

“Yes,” I answered bluntly. “
With
the American. He’s quite charming and—”

“My dear, I’m sure you behaved with propriety, and if you didn’t, well, it’s none of my business,” she interrupted. She blinked, then blinked again, and with an audacity that made me realize something so important had taken place it had loosened her tongue as well as her girdle when she said, “While you and your American were engaged in a romantic desert interlude, our ambassador to Germany delivered an ultimatum from the British government to Hitler that hostilities toward Poland must be stopped or—”

“I don’t want to hear any more,” I said, my voice hoarse from the sand and grit in my throat. I turned my back to her, my sense of preserving some semblance of normalcy heightened, my fear of weakness descending upon me, as if by ignoring what I don’t want to hear, it didn’t exist. For a few brief seconds, I clung to the world I knew, the emotions, desire, lust, sex, restraint, power, hunger, tears and the intensity of the perfume that ignited my soul. I sensed they’d all be gone if what I feared was true.

She shook me by the shoulders and turned me around to face her as I would have to face myself. “You must listen to me, Lady Marlowe.”

“I can’t.” I shook my head, knowing what she was going to say.

“But you
must,
my dear. Britain has declared war on Germany!”

I can’t remember the exact sequence of events after that. Frantic, I finally secured my room key from a hassled desk clerk and fought my way through the disorderly populace filling the lobby, when a familiar dark-haired, light-skinned girl caught my attention. Josette La Fleur. She waved at me, making an effort to get through the crowd.

“Did you hear what’s happened, Lady Marlowe?”

“Yes, Josette. I can’t believe it. War.”

“France also declared war on Germany an hour ago.” She looked at me with tears in her eyes. “You must forgive me,
madame,
but I’m leaving Cairo. I must return to Paris.”

“You don’t think the Germans would—”

She shook her head back and forth. “No, no, the Nazis will
never
get to France. The Maginot Line is too strong for them to cross with their panzer divisions and artillery.”

I know now she was wrong—the Nazis would march down the Champs-Élysées come the following June—as we all were about so many things. But I must continue…

“Have you seen Ramzi?” I don’t know why I asked, but I did. My argument with him didn’t seem important in view of what was happening.

“No, he didn’t show up at the club last night.”

Strange. That concerned me. A prickly feeling came over me, but I ignored it. If only I hadn’t…

“It’s just as well,” I said. “With war declared, we’ll be closing the Cleopatra Club.”

Josette frowned. “That’s not what Laila is telling the staff.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, perturbed she would act in such a manner without consulting me.

“She insists Cairo will need such a place with more and more British pouring into the area. The Germans wouldn’t dare bomb us, she said, since Cairo is considered a holy city.”

“I don’t care about the Germans. I
do
care about the people working for me, Josette, including you.” I intended to relinquish my financial interest in the Cleopatra Club as soon as I returned to London no matter what it cost me, but I couldn’t leave the staff to fend for themselves. I would make arrangements for them to find work.

“Please understand, Lady Marlowe, I cannot stay. France needs all of us to be strong now. We are
all
daughters of France, no matter where we come from.”

“What are you saying, Josette?” I asked, not understanding.

She looked at me without flinching. “I have made my choice and I’m willing to sacrifice. I will fight to keep France free for
all
men.”

What strange words. I looked at the French girl, her eyes shining with something lacking in mine. Patriotism. Here we were at war and all I could think about was my own problems. She thought about her country, her people. How selfish I was.

“I admire your strength, Josette,” I said, meaning it. “Perhaps someday our paths will cross again.”

“I hope so, Lady Marlowe.” She kissed me on both cheeks.
“Au revoir.”

Then she was gone, lost in the crowd. I couldn’t let her words upset me. Chuck would have heard the news and would be here soon. I prayed he would be able to add me as a passenger to his flight,
if
he had a position, and I saw no reason why they’d sack an experienced pilot now. I wanted to get out of Cairo as soon as possible.

All this flowed through my mind, along with the sensual moments we shared, as I took the lift up to my floor then walked quickly toward my suite. I opened the door to my room and closed it behind me. I stood for a moment in the tiny foyer, trying to catch my breath, to take in everything that had happened since my motorcar trip out to see the Pyramids, when I heard:

“I’ve been waiting for you, my English rose.”

I
was terrified. Ramzi sat in the high-back wing chair in the corner of my bedroom suite pointing a pistol at me. A Luger. I imagine Laila secured it from her Nazi friend.

“How did you get in here?” I demanded, noting he kept the gun trained on me as I closed the wooden slats, preventing the heat of the day from eavesdropping on us through the white latticed shutters. I refused to back down, show weakness, though in retrospect I recall what happened that morning with the added elements of time making it glow with the rich sepia tones of a spicy pulp novel, my subconscious memory adding the vivid details.