Cleopatra�s Perfume (9 page)

According to the legend, Cleopatra was wearing the perfume when Octavian’s men tried to murder her. As the priest predicted, her body disappeared, never to be seen again. Some say she escaped to Greece, others to Turkey, where she lived the life of a common whore rather than return to Egypt and be killed. What happened to the perfume is uncertain. Did the priest destroy it? Or hide it?

According to Ramzi, the mystical power of the perfume was whispered about in the most elite circles throughout the centuries, from the Byzantine empire to the palazzo of the de Medicis to the court of Versailles to Napoleon. How did the perfume survive? I wanted to know. The perfume box was of calcite, he said, sealed by the natural changes in temperature and moisture over the years,
causing the salts to crystallize around the lid and form a hard, protective incrustation, thereby preserving the perfume. Every hundred years or so, the perfume would resurface somewhere in the world, only to go underground again.

Thorndike was obsessed with the legend of Cleopatra’s perfume and spent his fortune following its trail to a monastery in the mountains of southern Italy, where a secret sect of monks recreated the perfume by following the ancient formula carved on the alabaster box and using the essential oils still fragrant in the container, including a godlike plant named cyperian grown only in the Himalayas.

To secure the perfume for himself, Thorndike bewitched a local girl and enticed her with marriage to help him steal the fragrance from the monastery. With the scent in his possession and determined to pilfer more ancient antiquities, he traveled with his new bride deep into the Egyptian desert. He bade the young woman to wear the perfume for her safety. She found the scent too strong for her liking and refused. Soon after, she fell victim to a savage attack on their camp by feuding tribesmen and was killed. The British occultist was devastated by her death. He was convinced her life would have been saved had she been wearing Cleopatra’s perfume.

I must pause here, dear reader, to get my bearings and prepare for landing. I feel great pressure in my ears, though the rollings of the aircraft have subsided. Raindrops and hail still strike my window, the insistent tapping keeping in rhythm with the steady strokes of my pen. I will arrive at our destination soon. Stockholm. There I will begin the final phase of my journey to Berlin where I shall fulfill my destiny.

Before I do, I must finish recounting to you the story of the perfume. I’ve no doubt you have the urge to toss the diary across the room, cursing, ranting. You feel cheated, deceived, made a fool of, believing you’ve invested your time in reading a spicy novel, not a real diary, but I assure you it’s
all
true.

I, too, questioned the validity of such wild imaginings until I recalled what Lord Marlowe told me about the Egyptian Book of the Dead, how the ancient papyrus purported that the priests of the Fourth Dynasty, more than two thousand years
before
Cleopatra’s reign, underwent a mystic ritual transforming them into gods. They would lie for three days and three nights in the pyramid while their
ka,
soul, left their bodies and traveled unseen through the spheres of space. Was it possible the story of Cleopatra’s perfume was true? I still wasn’t convinced.

When I expounded upon my knowledge of Egyptology to Ramzi, he grinned, his dark eyes teasing me, but he wouldn’t recant his tale. Instead, he claimed one such priest, fearing his body would be violated while in the trance, formulated a perfume that would transport his human form as well as his mind through space. It was widely assumed the Egyptians were in possession of secret chemical formulas to embalm mummies, he said in an attempt to beguile me and gain my confidence. Why not a secret compound for a perfume that promised a form of immortality?

I shivered. The words of the fortune-teller echoed in my mind.
“You will meet a man within a fortnight and his fire will peel the skin from your bones, making you lose all control. With him you will find immortality.”

I pray you’re still with me, dear reader, for the most extraordinary part of my story is yet to be revealed. First, touch the pages
with your fingertips, then put them to your nostrils and inhale. Yes, breathe in deeply the perfume I smeared onto the pages to seduce your spirit so you will believe me, though I dare not waste too much of its magic essence.

You can make more perfume,
you say. No, the secret is lost. Thorndike, angry and grieving, broke off the piece of stone holding the final ingredient for immortality inscribed in the hieroglyphics on the alabaster box and smashed it to dust, thereby robbing the world of its power. He buried the box of perfume in the sacred tomb of the ancients along with the body of his wife, then he returned to England. He wrote about his experiences in Egypt and Cleopatra’s perfume and published his story privately for members of his occult society before dying a penniless and broken man. But the legend endured.

When the dragoman discovered the sacred tomb in the side of the mountain, Cleopatra’s perfume was among the artifacts he retrieved. Recognizing the hieroglyphics for “Cleopatra” on the box, he inquired discreetly among his contacts about the existence of such a perfume. Slowly, he uncovered the story of its power and entreated his friend Ramzi to find a buyer for the perfume.

“Why didn’t he keep it for himself?” I inquired.

Ramzi shrugged. “Like so many of my people, he’s superstitious about keeping artifacts looted from the tombs. So he sells them.”

“Then there is no expedition to the Valley of the Queens?” I asked him, my body cooling from the slow release of my passion, so involved was I listening to his story.

He gave me a charming smile. “No. I sell the perfume—” He gestured with his hands. “I receive a commission. It’s all business.”

“
All
business?” I had to ask, licking my lips with my tongue.

He inhaled deeply, then lifted my chin. My face was so close to his I could feel the warmth of his breath on my lips. “No.
You
are pleasure.”

“Then fuck me. Now.”

“You tempt me, my English lady. You possess the famed beauty of an
ikbal,
harem favorite, and looking at you, holding you, sets my blood on fire. You make me lose my self-restraint. I want to strip you naked and run my hands all over your body.” He clenched his fists in frustration. “I act crazy when I’m with you, like when I reach
kayf,
the ecstasy that grips me when I smoke hashish.” He paused. “No, before I can find pleasure in your arms, we must first agree on a price for the perfume.”

“I’m interested in
you,
Ramzi, not the perfume.” I refused to allow him to control me with his fabricated tale.

Talking to me softly, he ran his fingers across my check. “Don’t dismiss the power of the perfume as quickly as if it were sand falling through your fingers,” he said. “You’re a beautiful woman and Port Said is a dangerous place for beautiful women.” His lips brushed the nape of my neck. “I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”

His words chilled me, but I refused to show fear. Still defiant, I said, “What proof do I have the perfume would protect me from a violent death?”

In a low whisper, he said, “I will show you.”

I tried to hold my head up, but the dizzying effect of the perfume dulled my senses and dragged me down like a heavy weight. Fear beamed in my eyes and my pulse raced out of control when I saw Ramzi pull the dagger from his belt, the point curving away from him. His hand raised. But it was his eyes that captured my fear more than the blade he pointed at me.
His eyes.
Passion, madness. I
saw it all, the words screaming in my head.
He intends to kill me. Fool, what had I done? Allowed this man to take me on a journey of erotic pleasure, then murder me.
Why,
why? He can’t believe the perfume holds a mystic power to protect its wearer. He can’t. That’s insane. Too incredible to be true.

Pulling on the restraints, kicking my feet out wildly, I tried to escape what I knew was certain death, not a subliminal fantasy. Sweat poured down my body, from my armpits to my belly, my thighs, making it difficult for Mahmoud to grab my legs. He circled my ankles with his large hands and held my legs together. I twisted my torso to and fro, but I couldn’t free myself. Frustrated, I screamed, again and again. Sweat dripped into my eyes.
I can’t see, can’t see.
My breathing was erratic, my body trembled.

“Ramzi, please,
no!
”

“Don’t be afraid, fair lady, the darkness will not last—”

I tried to scream again, but the smothering acrid scent of the perfume overwhelmed me. Spicy, erotic. Making my head spin and spin. My body went numb, I couldn’t feel the restraints, I tried to speak but couldn’t, my lips were dry, my throat hoarse. I had no taste in my mouth, not even the salty taste of my own sweat dripping over my lips. My senses were depleted, gone, all except—

Smell.

The sumptuous, spicy scent filled my nostrils, the air around me, seeping into my pores—this wildly erotic invisible perfume. Groggy, I forced my eyes open. Suspended above me was the dagger, the curving point aimed at my throat. A split fraction of time left before he plunged the knife into me.

I
’m cold. Violently cold. Teeth chattering, shoulders shaking, damn, I can’t
feel
anything. My fingers, toes, all numb. Am I dead?

Frantic, I open my eyes, my lashes heavy as if they’re frozen together. Amber light illuminates the red stone walls surrounding me. I see faint traces of figures painted onto the walls, a high priest wearing a panther skin and offering what I believe is an ankh, the symbol of life, to a pharaoh. Women in sweeping robes doing each other’s hair, the twist and turn of their long tresses etched with precise detail.

I keep staring at the walls. They seem to be moving closer…closer together. A sense of confinement overtakes me, but it’s not threatening, as if the painted figures protect me on my journey to—to—where? Where am I? The last thing I remember is—

Ramzi. The dagger. No, no, no. I must be dead.

Or is it—

Cleopatra’s perfume? Oh, God, does such a thing exist?

I don’t believe it.

I touch my cheek and the large ruby-and-pearl ring Ramzi gave me slides on my forefinger. Before I can lower my hand, a mist of crystalline sand spins around my bare breasts, teasing me, nipping them like icy fingers, then diving into the valley between my thighs, licking me. I move my hips, expecting to feel a slow burn rising within me. Nothing. The persistent sand swirls around me in a serpentine pattern, as if it’s weaving a protective cocoon. I raise my arms, touch the walls. No, they’re not walls. I’m lying in a giant sarcophagus similar to the polished stone sarcophagus of Pharaoh Cheops in the Great Pyramid. According to the ancients, the pyramid has a physical effect on living things. Can it also prolong life?

I relax. If so, then the legend
is
true.

Sand settles on top of my breasts, my belly, my legs, like a finely woven blanket…my feet getting warmer…then my fingers…I feel sleepy…exhausted. Somehow I know the danger is over.

The fear subsiding, I close my eyes and join the sleep of the pharaohs.

Do you believe such a thing happened, dear reader? I did. Drugged, overwrought, exhausted from sex, I fell prey to a scheme designed to make me believe I had escaped death by the magic of Cleopatra’s perfume. I
wanted
to believe it, so enamored was I by Ramzi, my hunger for him turning into an obsession. I didn’t see that then. I was living a madcap adventure, wrapped up in self-absorption and floating on the high that comes with the rush of romance, so please allow me my fondness in writing this next part of the diary like a dime novel, although I must warn you, the cast of characters is about to change. First, I imagine you’re curious to know what happened when I woke up in my hotel room, my nude
body wrapped in a white satin coverlet, a sweetmeat poised between my lips, the honey taste of the sugary confection evoking a pleasant sensation in me.
Very
curious, I imagine.

“Good morning, my beautiful English lady.”

Ramzi. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, trying to bring his handsome face into focus. Grinning at me with nary a line of worry etched upon his features, he waited for me to speak. I looked at him with questions in my eyes, knowing my expression betrayed my confusion. Smiling, he fed me the candied delicacy, his fingers lingering on my lips. I licked them. They tasted sweet.

“What happened? I—I…” I touched my cheeks, my forehead. Cool, but my head throbbed with a persistent ache that made me wince.

Without hesitation, he said, “The perfume’s power saved you from the blade of my dagger.”

“No,
no,
I don’t believe it.” I tossed my head about on the fluffy pillow, trying to shake off that idea. Why did I allow myself to fall victim to such an irrational impulse? I knew the answer. The drug he put into my tea had done its work. Exploited, enslaved by this man, I’d offered no resistance when he and his bodyguard transported my unconscious body to a secret crypt and laid me in a sarcophagus brought here from Cairo or Luxor. No other explanation made sense.

Grabbing me, he shook me, his frustration apparent. “Why won’t you believe in the power of the perfume to protect you from danger?”

“What danger?” I said, naive innocence coloring my voice. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”

His emotions spent, his handsome features relaxed, he appeared
young, innocent, but the devilish lift of his black eyebrows made him look fierce, determined. I sensed an underlying edge in his voice when he said, “Passion can make a man do strange things to capture the affections of a beautiful woman.”

“Like this elaborate scheme?”

His dark eyes narrowed. He spoke slowly, enunciating each word to make certain I understood. “I admit I tried to trick you with the tale about finding the tomb of the Egyptian queen, but the story of Cleopatra’s perfume is true.”