Cleopatra�s Perfume (32 page)

“When?” I asked, anxious.

He shrugged. “Who knows? The war has changed everything.”

I couldn’t believe it. Ramzi was dead. Chuck taken away to prison. I felt overwhelmingly exhausted, the fatigue going deep down inside me. Two men’s lives altered because of me. And Cleopatra’s perfume.

A strange, mysterious war raged within me. Torn, asking questions, unresolved. If I had applied the perfume, would it have saved me
if
Ramzi pulled the trigger? Or was I an intoxicated fool who believed only what I wished to believe to fuel my sexual desires?

And what about Ramzi? He had been a sophisticate with a variety of gifts, many sexual, but without any single outstanding talent. He had been a romantic though I swore he’d possessed no scruples, a man with an ego but not the strength to stand on his own without
Laila, a decadent if you will by his own desire due to his lack of ambition for anything in life.

All these thoughts raced through my mind as I freshened up and discarded my clothes covered with blood, along with sand and sweat and sex. (The police had insisted the management of the hotel move me to a different suite.) An uncanny instinct of what was to come made me retrieve the perfume from its hiding place in my steamer trunk and rub a small amount of the unguent between my palms. Within seconds the spicy, soothing scent wafted in the air. I breathed in the familiar smell wrapping itself around me like a formfitting dressing gown. In some places, like my breasts, it caressed me like silk; in others, like my pussy, it hugged me like velvet. The sensual feeling drew me back to the first time I smelled the perfume: Ramzi smoking his chibouk, watching as Mahmoud inserted his fingers into my innermost secret places, twisting his black-skinned digit inside me with the knowledge and skill of a master though he was indeed a slave. And now they were both dead.

My shoulders shook, then my whole body convulsed, as if my distress had reached the breaking point. The realization of never seeing them again, knowing the look, the touch, the strange pleasures they evoked in me filled me with a deep sadness for two lives that, though debauched and deceiving, should never have ended because of my folly.

The heaviness that followed hit me full force, making me stumble, my insides retch, my breathing erratic. A terrible sense of loss then fear. Not to mention a horrific headache pushing down on my brain and making it unresponsive to the smallest action, even putting on my clothes.

I sat nude in the room. Shaken. Desperate to move forward, to
do something from going mad, I grabbed the white powder left in the vial, craving the quick energy lift as well as the euphoria it promised, cut it on a small hand mirror with the edge of a playing card and sniffed it up my nose. Then, still nude, I sat down on the small round stool at the foot of my bed and smoked a cigarette.

Was the perfume more of a curse than magic? I wondered. A cruel twist of fate for any woman who dared to look for the promise of immortality in its grasp? I inhaled then blew out the smoke, waiting for the magic of the drug to dispel my headache as well as my fears. Would a third man die because of its power?

I was determined to prevent that from happening.

No one would listen to me. I went to the British embassy (I tried them first since Chuck was employed by a company based in the United Kingdom) and received nothing more than a perfunctory but polite “We’ll look into the matter when time allows, Lady Marlowe. We’re at war.” I fared worse at the American consulate, where the diplomats were more concerned with explaining to the local press why the United States government was determined to debate Hitler’s takeover of Poland by committee, and less concerned about the fate of one of their citizens.

I also discovered that a mad Englishwoman trying to save her lover garnered no respect, but rather disdain from both diplomatic services. On the other hand, the Egyptian authorities were more apt to look the other way after I slipped the police captain a sizable amount of British pounds sterling (they may hate us, but not our money) when I asked to visit the American in prison, even though Chuck didn’t want to see me.

I refused to leave until he agreed to speak to me. A disinterested guard escorted me to his prison cell barely large enough to hold a cot. A chamber pot sat under the bed, the walls smooth and empty of human history or emotion. A small lightbulb hung from the ceiling, a high window above eye level tormenting the prisoner, knowing he couldn’t see the cool dawn breaking or the blistering sun descending. The American stood facing the heavy iron cell door, refusing to look at me, touch me. I felt shattered inside, broken, tired. I was being punished for something I didn’t understand, the summer softness we’d had in the desert now cold and dark. Our conversation was short and hurtful, like the opening night of a very bad play.

This is how it went:

Why did you come here, Eve? Oh, excuse me, I forgot, Lady Marlowe.

Can’t you understand I want to help you? You saved my life.

So you can fuck the next guy and ruin his life? Hell, why not. All you royal dames want is a tiara on your head and a stiff dick in your pussy.

What’s wrong with you, Chuck? Your ego can’t take being involved with a woman like me?

Who are you anyway, but a rich dame who uses men. I’ve met women like you before. You kill a man’s soul with your eyes, your walk, your voluptuous body pressed against him.

Speaking from experience?

That’s none of your business, Lady Marlowe. Now, get out of here.

When I returned to Shepheard’s, I didn’t want to be alone, to go over the scene again and again in my mind, my emotions imprisoned in a box of chaos, the lid so tightly locked I refused to let them go
and overwhelm me. Still, my eyes didn’t focus. I spoke either as if I were in a trance or so fast I couldn’t stop. The intoxicant I’d inhaled propelled me forward with new energy, new purpose.

I wandered aimlessly through the hotel, stopping every British officer I saw with pips or stars on his shoulder, hoping to solicit his help with my cause; or engaging anyone I heard speaking with an American accent, trying to find counsel for Chuck as well as someone who wouldn’t sneer and avoid my eyes when they realized I was
that British woman.

I even dared to venture toward the men-only bar at the back of the hotel before I was politely ushered out with a slight bow and a firm nudge at the elbow. I was at a loss as to what to do next, but I had to act. Fast. I didn’t have much time. According to Egyptian law, in a criminal case where the accused was charged with murder, the defendant would be brought before a magistrate and formally charged within forty-eight hours or released. He had the right to post bail and be defended by legal counsel.

But in Chuck’s case, something was wrong. When I called upon my contact at the bank asking for help in securing a local barrister, the bank officer informed me he couldn’t be of assistance. I offered him a substantial amount of money to help me, but he accused me of trying to bribe him. The war had turned everything upside down, he insisted, and the old rules no longer applied. From what I could gather from our conversation, the Egyptian intellectuals who governed by totalitarian rule decided the American was an activist alleged to be involved in a scheme subverting national security in a time of war. I secretly suspected they intended to use Chuck Dawn as a pawn to override the British laws and Napoleonic Code that
dominated the court system. I was well versed in their tactics. Over the years we spent visiting Egypt, Lord Marlowe and I made a foursome for bridge with a local British barrister and his wife; the stoic but gregarious gentleman often complained about the theatricality of the court sessions, with sentences appearing preordained. I remember being fascinated as well as appalled by the fact the judge often acted as the prosecutor, grilling the poor suspect while hurling outrageous insults at the defending counsel.

I imagined the local authorities decided to use Great Britain’s declaration of war against Hitler to wage a patriotic revolt against colonial rule and handle this case
their
way. Yet I found that conjecture suspect, considering neither Ramzi nor his family was well connected and powerful in local government or business. I didn’t discover until later how wrong I was.

What I
did
know was that if no one came forward to take on the defense of the American flier, he could be sentenced to be executed or spend the rest of his life in a penal institution.

Desperate, I had no choice but to turn to the one person in Cairo who could help me.

Laila.

“Get out of here!”
Laila screamed, her demeanor flustered, her face streaked as though she’d been crying, which affected me more than I had expected. Somehow it never occurred to me the Muslim woman possessed the ability to cry, only sand in her veins, irritants that scratched at her soul. “I don’t care what you told my servant, I want
nothing
to do with you.”

“I know how much Ramzi meant to you—”

“How could
you
understand what I’m feeling? He was all the family I had…”

I drew back, searching my own soul for the reason I had ventured here, not to the Cleopatra Club, but to the Old City where the elegant, crumbling houses were distinguished by projecting wooden balconies enclosed by delicate latticed screens covered by bougainvillea.

Not this house, as if no flower could bloom here. A Moorish servant had turned me away, saying his mistress didn’t like being disturbed during her prayers. When I presented my card to him and said it was urgent I speak to Mademoiselle Al-Rashid about her brother, he changed his mind and bade me enter. He ushered me past the door covered with intricate ironwork and the raised seating area known as a
liwan
enclosed by an attractive arch and toward the adjoining harem area, where tradition dictated the mistress of the house received women visitors.

Though the wooden latticed screens constructed in an intricate design allowed for the maximum circulation of air, the atmosphere was stale. The mood somber. Yet I had seen a glimpse of opulence when I glanced at the two-story reception room lit by high windows and fanned by cool breezes through a shaft rising to the roof of the house—ceilings edged in gold, brightly colored mosaics on the walls, gold-and silver-leaf artifacts stylishly displayed, shiny blue-and-white glazed Turkish-tiled floors. The Egyptian woman surrounded herself with luxury but kept it hidden. I realized how much we were alike, how our lives were an illuminating parallel, how we created tension within the prison walls of our objective existence. We were both prisoners of our worlds and because of that, we both lost a man we loved.

“Nothing I say will bring Ramzi back.” I remained standing, watching her stare through the latticed screen into the tranquil inner court. What was she thinking?

“Then why did you come here?” Her voice was accusing yet curious. “And why do you torture me by wearing the perfume, knowing it was Ramzi who anointed you with it?”

“You
must
listen to me, Laila. Don’t let your deep sorrow take the life of another man,” I said, “a man who was defending me.” I shuddered. My life didn’t matter, though I wore the perfume as a precaution. Or to give me courage? I knew only I had to save the life of an innocent man whose only sin was being caught up in my mad obsession.

A peculiar silence filled the room. As if Laila was waiting for me to say more. I kept my thoughts to myself.

“Ramzi was a spoiled, arrogant man whose magnificence captivated every woman he met.” She paused. “Even me. When we were children living in a hut made of scavenged wood on a rooftop, we would pretend the battered old couch we slept upon belonged to a rich pasha. But nothing we imagined could make it so. Heat. Rain. Insects. No toilet. We survived by selling junk. At night, we could see the sky ablaze with stars. When Ramzi’s hands found my budding young breasts and fondled me as boys do, I knew I must resist him. Not because I feared breaking Islamic law, but because I knew his overwhelming beauty would get us out of the slums.” She looked around her, smiling. “And so it has.”

“Did Ramzi give you
everything
you want, Laila?”

She looked at me with caution. “What are you offering me?”

“I’ll sign over the Cleopatra Club to you if you help me free the
American.” I paused, took a deep breath. “If not, I’ll close down the club. Permanently.”

“What you ask for, Lady Marlowe, is impossible. The Egyptian legal code regarding a criminal case is complex,” she said, as if she already knew the outcome of the American flier’s trial. “The court has the choice to enforce the law as it is written, ignore the law out of compassion or—” she lit a cigarette, inhaled, then blew out the smoke in my direction “—they will follow the lead of the superiors who guide them and enforce a parody of the law.”

“And without saying a word, you would allow the American flier to be convicted on a politician’s whim,” I yelled, raising my voice. “He’s innocent of any crime.
You’re
the guilty one, Laila. You knew by telling your stepbrother about Mahmoud pleasuring me, he would be forced by some obscure tribal law to murder the Nubian and take his revenge upon me as well.”

“You can’t prove it, Lady Marlowe.”

“No, but you’ll try to cover up your mistake by allowing Chuck Dawn to be executed without a fair trial.” I paused, choosing my next words with care. “I believe what you fear most is the enemy within yourself. You can’t escape guilt for Ramzi’s death since it is inside you.”

Her eyes narrowed into dark slits and I knew I was right about her planning to use her influence with the Egyptian officials to lay that guilt upon the American in a court of law. I didn’t know then I was her next victim.

“I won’t bother you again, Laila,” I said. “Instead, I’ll leave you to the torment of your own conscience.”

I turned my back to her, my nerves bristling, the heat of my
words stepping up the spiciness of the perfume hitting my nostrils like small flames exploding up my nasal passages.