Cleopatra�s Perfume

by Jina Bacarr

  The tension between us increased, the Egyptian’s anger apparent, his whim for revenge but half finished, as if death leered over his shoulder, waiting to claim its next victim. I dared to step backward, loosening the sand clinging to my white pumps. It settled like fine powder onto the carpet, reminding me I was high on the intoxicant.

  “Damn you and your beauty,” he yelled. “I am cursed because of you. But I cannot live without you.”

  He staggered back and forth, waving the gun at me, a glazed look in his eyes erupting into a hellfire of hatred, inhuman, mad, drug induced. I panicked, knowing he could lose control of his emotions and death would be imminent—

  Wait. I must find courage, will myself into action. I would make a stand. Daring, provocative, somewhat irrational.

  I threw my head back and laughed. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Ramzi?”

  He seemed puzzled that his threat didn’t frighten me. “Nothing you say will stop me from doing what I must.”

  “Cleopatra’s perfume. You can’t kill me, remember?”

  A lie, I admit. I experienced none of the tremors and scrambling of my senses when faced with the immediate danger of his threat. It must have been the cocaine working on my neurotic mind, imbibing my brain with the willingness to believe in the fantasy of the perfume in an effort to save my life. All I knew was I had to keep him talking, anything to defuse the tense situation between us.

  His face registered shock, as if he’d forgotten about his insane plot to ensnare me with the legend of the perfume. Then he recovered and sniffed me all over. “All I smell upon you is the scent of a man, not perfume.” He aimed his pistol at me. “Nothing must stop me from killing you.”

  I fought down the agonizing fear crawling all over me like black scorpions in the desert. How could I have hoped to fool him? I’ve not applied the perfume since I left, more than a day ago.

  “Then you do believe if I wore the perfume you couldn’t kill me?” I challenged him, hoping my plan would work. I wasn’t yet convinced in the power of the perfume, but imagine the fear overwhelming me and you’ll understand why I did what I did.

  My words took him by surprise. “You’re a foolish woman. The perfume is worthless, a silly story to entrap you, a rich Englishwoman, and secure vast amounts of money from you.”

  “You’re wrong, Ramzi. It does work.”

  “What?”

  “I will prove it to you. Allow me to apply the perfume, then shoot me.” My scheme was daring but I had no other choice. “If I die you’ll be rid of me and the Cleopatra Club will be yours—”

  He spit on the carpet, his saliva thick with hate. “I don’t want the club. It’s you I want, close to me, my hands touching you, my cock probing you…”

  I refused to listen to him. I didn’t believe him. “But if I don’t die, you will promise me you won’t prevent me from leaving Cairo.”

  “No. It is written you are mine.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Then why were you fucking Maxi?”

  “Laila wanted me to find out what the girl knew about the Nazi plans to invade Poland and if Goering intends to secure Polish art treasures.” He snickered. “My stepsister is a fanatical woman, obsessed with controlling me and Egyptian antiquities. I never wanted to fuck Maxi.”

  I lost my courage upon hearing this. “Maxi knew about the German invasion?”

  He shrugged. “If she did, she kept it to herself. The German bitch revealed nothing to me. She wanted sex and I performed my duty.” He cursed under his breath, then looked at me with such desire I found it impossible to understand the complexity of his mental makeup. “But with you as my obedient slave, my English rose, I found a passion I have never known. I can never let you go, even in death.”

  What did he mean by that? Did he intend to mummify my body then grind up my remains to use as an aphrodisiac? Dizziness made me stagger, his words destroying any dormant obsession I had for him, as I knew it would. I did care for the Egyptian once, I realized, though I had let my jealousy override my feelings for him. But while our relationship was wild and erotic, it lacked that innermost depth of trust and understanding I had with my late husband. Over the past twenty-four hours, I had tasted a renewal of such feelings with the American flier, making me hunger for him. Still, I couldn’t believe a man such as Ramzi could love me. He was a fascinating, seductive creature who used his wiles to do his sister’s bidding. Nothing more.

  I put my hand to my forehead, the fatigue of the past events overcoming me. I was tired, hungry, and facing the crash of the intoxicant. Ramzi took the moment as a show of weakness and grabbed me around the waist, holding me close to him, whispering endearments in Arabic in my ear. The sickening-sweet smell of hashish overwhelmed me, making me gag. He touched my breasts, rubbing my nipples through my blouse, reaching up underneath my brassiere, grabbing my soft flesh.

  “No, Ramzi, stop!” I cried out, my voice pleading. A strange feeling of arousal came over me, disturbing me more than I expected. What was wrong with me? I stiffened when I felt the cold kiss of steel against my back, chilling me as he pressed the Luger into my ribs. This man was threatening to kill me if I didn’t do his bidding and my body responded like that of a common street prostitute?

  “I can’t stop,” he yelled. “I must have you!”

  “Let her go.”

  The command was direct, simple. I dared not turn around lest Ramzi fire the pistol and kill me instantly, but I knew who it was.

  Chuck.

  I imagine he heard us arguing outside the door in the hallway and I’ll always be grateful to the American flier for his impatience at not finding me in the lobby and demanding the front desk clerk tell him my suite number. His quick actions saved me.

  The Egyptian shoved me aside. I stumbled and fell, landing on the carpet, my body hitting hard, my cheek scraping against the coarse floor rug. The sharp sting made my face feel as if it was on fire. A dizzying effect kept me from moving, but as I looked up, I saw the Egyptian aim his pistol at Chuck.

  “Get out of here!” Ramzi yelled.

  Chuck didn’t back down. “I believe you’re the intruder.”

  “You arrogant bastard.” Ramzi laughed. “British, American, whatever you are, you’ve been masters here too long. The war has started and soon the German army will take Cairo. Then it will be our turn to rule. Until then—”

  I screamed as a shot rang out.

  It pains me to recall what happened next, dear reader. The horror still lives with me, torturing my mind with the acuteness of having been a witness to it all yet knowing I couldn’t stop what was inevitable, my imagination breathing life into each detail so the memory grows sharper not duller. Ramzi aimed at Chuck, but the American got off the first shot, striking the Egyptian in the chest.

  “Ramzi!” I turned to the American, not believing. “You shot him.”

  “I had no choice—” Chuck offered no apology for his action and I expected none. I was grateful to him for saving my life, but that didn’t stop me from falling to my knees beside the Egyptian. I can still see him slumped on the floor, a pool of blood forming around his prone body, his arrogance as well as his evocative manliness, sensual voice, elusive touch, all ebbing from him. The scene was filled with groans, cries, my body racked with sobs. It was a drama of self-pity and repentance. I had used him for my own pleasure, but he, not I, had paid the price. I imagine you accuse me of the same duplicity I accused Ramzi of possessing, paying homage to a man who would have killed me if he could, who deceived me from the beginning, yet I had found pleasure in his arms and something else. I believe Ramzi did love me in his own way.

  “It wasn’t supposed to end this way,” the Egyptian sputtered, blood oozing out of the side of his mouth.

  “Don’t talk, Ramzi. We’ll get help.”

  He shook his head. “Adieu, my English rose…”

  He stared at me, his eyes clear not dark, as if he could see me, but his chest was still. I almost believed he was holding his breat
h, the perfume of our sensual pleasures filling his lungs, his suffering bearing the memory of that perfume, the fragrance keeping him alive for a while longer.

  “Ramzi,” I cried, pulling on his robe. “Ramzi!”

  “He’s dead, Eve.” Chuck pulled me to my feet, holding me close to him. He hadn’t spoken when I tried to help the man he had shot, as if he understood something was at play here he wasn’t privy to and he respected that. “I’ve got to get you out of here.”

  “No, I can handle the police.” I looked down at the Egyptian, his native garb swirled around him like wild brushstrokes on the canvas of a madman. Yet even in death, his handsome features struck me as alive, revealing a man who knew his life would end because of a woman. “It’s you who must leave. Go. Quickly.”

  I opened the door to the hallway and it was as if a pack of savage animals descended upon us, crushing any opportunity of escape for Chuck. The sound of the gunshot had turned an already charged atmosphere in the hotel into chaos.

  Curiosity about where the shot came from.

  Fear.

  Need to expose the perpetrator. Arrest him.

  If only I could change what happened in those next few moments, help Chuck escape through the crowd of peeping hotel guests, brash British officers, Nubian security guards and arrogant Egyptian police. Crowding into my suite, seeing Ramzi’s body on the floor, women screaming, men yelling, someone grabbing Chuck, taking his gun, holding me back, writing down my statement. Keeping me away from the American flier. Why? I cried. Why won’t they listen to me?

  No one will believe it was self-defense.

  “Are you hurt, Lady Marlowe?” the Egyptian police captain asked.

  I shook my head, though bright red blood stained my blouse, my trousers, my shoes.

  “What did he call you?” Chuck demanded, his curiosity piqued.

  “I’m known as Lady Eve Marlowe.”

  “The desk clerk never said—”

  “It’s not important who I am, Chuck. What’s important is what we have together. I swear I’ll get you out of this mess.”

  “Yeah, sure, Lady Marlowe. I bet you make a habit of cleaning up all your indiscretions before you go on to the next one.”

  “Chuck, listen to me, please! I have money—”

  “You can’t buy everything you want. Especially me.”

  He looked away. Dismissing me. Why wouldn’t he accept the fact my title and privilege were all I had to help him?

  “Are you that much of a fool not to realize the Egyptians hate us?” I rambled on, my breath coming fast, my words faster. “They don’t want to believe your story of self-defense. You won’t get a fair trial.”

  “Enough talk, madame.” The surly man in the official uniform of the Egyptian police gestured to his two underlings to handcuff the American and take him away. Then he turned to me, his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes flashing, his brown face pale and angry, confirming my fears. “There will be a hearing first, of course.”

  “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.