Cleopatra�s Perfume (19 page)

You would think such a scalding need would burn itself out quickly and so it should have. But the stifling desert heat, exotic liaisons and political upheaval, and the newness of it all did much to fan my fires. Yes, I know I was weak, silly, foolish in my pursuit of
la vie bohème,
but Ramzi had such a way about him, teasing me with his finger under my nose, the spicy scent of Cleopatra’s perfume enticing me, making me draw in my breath along with the heady flakes of the stimulant. Yes, dear reader, cocaine. I ignored the burning sensation stinging the delicate inner chambers of my nostrils. I did the drug once, twice, then again, and stupidly thought I wasn’t hooked. But I was. I developed an icy allure toward everyone who saw me in the club, lavishing all my attention on Ramzi. I believed the magic and the sex would never end.

My obsession with Ramzi was so strong I lost control of my morals, my common sense and my pride. I didn’t see the Cleopatra Club for what it was: a place where sexual deviants came to shut out the world that shunned them and where drugs were the conduit for their journey. I realize in the end I understood Ramzi little better than I understood Cairo with its myths and ancient secrets. From a distance, the city was exotic, mysterious, sensual. Look deeper, dear reader, and you will see it as I did, filled with squalor, disease. It was a place that lured me to explore it, tricked me, corrupted me, then instead of destroying me with the unexpected, gave me the opportunity to redeem myself. I believe I never would have
had the courage to undertake this mission had I not been forced to see myself as a sexual degenerate living two lives and sucked into the hypnotic spell of the Near East. I cannot say any more, considering the fact the success of my mission requires it must be done in secrecy. All that matters is I came to Cairo with Lord Marlowe as a young girl to reinvent who I was; I returned as a woman suffering a great loss, only to discover I didn’t like what I had become: a slave to depraved sexual obsession.

Those thoughts magnify themselves in my mind after my horrific experience aboard the Danish trawler with the inhuman Nazi officer. I feel older than my thirty-one years, my heart cold, my body sexless. If I could have known in Cairo what grim circumstances awaited me, would I have abandoned my obsession with Ramzi? Or was his hold on me too strong for me to fight? Did it have to end the way it did between us with jealousy and mistrust devouring our grand passion? It is that notion that gives me the most trouble when I try to assuage the guilt riding in me regarding the fate of my Egyptian.

My hands are sweaty, my pulse is racing. I’ve gone ahead of myself. I won’t speak of what happened to Ramzi so as not to spoil the story for you. It will play out as it happened and you can make your own decision as to whether or not justice was served. The effort I am making not to pass judgment on my Egyptian for his sins has been very difficult for me. He was a good man in many ways, and in others, I shall only say he reignited a part of my personality I tried so hard to eradicate from my life and I can’t forgive him for that.

So there it is and now you know. I was an addict. It’s no excuse for why I did the outrageous things I did while languishing at the
Cleopatra Club, why I participated in a level of debauchery no sane woman would dare try, but I did. If you can bear with me, dear reader, I will attempt to recreate for you in the next pages a memorable night at the Cleopatra Club. I will show you what most customers never saw, things only whispered about in back alleys, secrets to stimulate, to dazzle the eye. What went on in the private room we called the Cobra Room.

Satan’s playground.

You will come with me, won’t you?

I
magine walking up the stairs to the entrance of the Cleopatra Club, the curling dust from the street clinging to your white dinner jacket or the train of your long black gown, the stifling heat making you wet under the arms, the earthy smell mixing with a heady perfume in the air. You stop, think. Or is it the anticipation of what you will find here making you sweat?

Smiling, you approach the tall Moors at the main door, the faux-gold gilding on the portal contrasting deeply with their coffee skin, they bow in recognition, bid you enter. You let out the breath you’ve been holding, see a crowd gathering around the roulette wheel, but you ignore the call of
faites vos jeux.
Place your bets. Red or black is not your color tonight. Tonight you want blond or redhead, or maybe brunette.

You stop at the bar, laugh with the gentleman guzzling down a vodka tonic, ignore his bad manners when he asks you for a light then hits you up for a loan. You grab your martini and head for the back of the club. You look for the secret lift. You may have been
here before or perhaps you were tipped off by an audacious man in a red fez, or you overheard the hurried whispers between the beady-lipped officers’ wives you played bridge with today. You know what you’re looking for. You approach the lift. Your pulse races, your heart jumps in your chest. You see a beautiful, pale-skinned girl with a scaly green-and-gray snake wiggling up and down her scantily clad body. She is wearing nothing but low-slung transparent pajama trousers the color of amethyst nipped in at the ankle and a short black bolero jacket. The serpent coils around her nude breasts, its forked tongue hovering dangerously close to her big brown nipples, then slithers down between her legs.

The signal.

The Cobra Room is open for business.

You take the lift up to the top floor, ready to taste the nude delights awaiting you there, depending upon your sexual preference. Many ladies who frequent the club experience an erotic thrill by hanging upside down over a long sleek table and allowing a gentleman to fuck them while other men watch. Male clubbers rarely turn down the opportunity to suckle the breasts of pretty girls and examine their nubile bodies in a mock slave auction. A popular game with customers is based on an old favorite in Berlin clubs: choosing volunteers, usually female but not always, to be spanked by two lucky gentlemen wielding a round paddle in their hands. Here in Cairo they play the game with two holes cut out of the wood to brand each buttock with a C for Cleopatra Club. A memorable souvenir for the recipient and their friends to admire for days afterward.

The highlight of the evening is picking out the lucky participants, both male and female, to judge the “prettiest pussy contest.” Slender girls stand behind a second-tier curtain and expose their nude genitalia through the holes in the plum-purple velvet, opening their lower lips with their fingers so the judges can get a closer look. Needless to say, more than one monocle-wearing gent or lady, if she is so inclined, receive a new perspective on the color pink.

But nowhere in the club are things more interesting than at the corner table near the piano player, a light-skinned colored girl with nimble fingers, a pleasant voice and bouncy breasts. You can’t take your eyes off the beautiful blond Englishwoman wearing a cream-colored djellaba drinking brandy and snorting white powder, while her handsome consort smokes a chibouk filled with hashish, his face reflecting a mood you can only describe as ecstasy. You suspect underneath the hooded robe the woman is nude, which explains the wandering hands of the handsome Egyptian seated next to her. And on this night you’ve heard whispers among the guests the Englishwoman will dance nude. Watching her, you can’t contain your excitement. She allows the hood to drop off her head and her platinum hair sparkles under the lights with bits of gold braided through it. She shakes her shoulders, raises her chest, and you see the points of her hard nipples begging to be freed from the soft cloth. You imagine underneath, her bare breasts are very warm and damp with her sweat. The thought of cupping them in your hands makes you tense with an ache you yearn to satisfy before you leave the club.

You move closer, careful not to let her see you staring at her. It’s then you notice the spicy scent lingering upon her, drawing you in, making you want more of her, her perfume snaking around you like
a serpent ensnaring helpless prey. But you go willingly into her trap. In a room filled with tobacco smoke and the sweet scent of hashish, as well as the unpleasant odors peculiar to the arousal state of the club habitués, this aroma becomes almost magical. Not floral or exotic, but filled with whimsy and heat and mystical breezes.

You can’t stop staring at her, not even when she gets up from the table, looks around, her eyes glazed over with a drug-induced haze, then pulls the hood up over her head and scurries into a darkened corner. She didn’t see you. Good. You follow her, discreetly, of course, and watch her disappear through a small hidden door. You wait, mull over your options, decide you must see more. Bending over, you slide the door open, pause. Dim blue light greets you from an unknown source, showing you the way down a winding staircase. You put your foot on the first step, then the second, your feet making a scraping sound. You stop. No,
go on,
your curiosity demands. You continue, a coolness touches your face as you descend the stairs as if you’re reaching down into the ancient bowels of an old crypt.

When you reach the bottom, you see her. Naked. Her glorious body facing away from you and poised over a carved stone sarcophagus as if it’s a spanking bench. She’s holding on to the upturned cornices, her legs spread, her hair glowing blue under the eerie lighting. You hear a
snap.
You draw backward, take in a sharp breath, but you can’t take your eyes off the nude girl, her buttocks shaking as a tall Nubian, his skin so dark all you see is the flash of the thin whip in his hand striking her backside. She flinches, but doesn’t cry out. Is she gagged? No. Why then does she remain silent? Is she drugged? Yes. You saw her inhaling what you believe is cocaine.

You advance to take the whip away from the Negro, protect
her, but a more inquisitive side of you hesitates, a darker side you dare not show to anyone pushes through your civilized veneer, daring you to remain silent and watch. Panting, you wait to see if she is a natural submissive, a creature so inclined to allow her exquisite body to receive the whip that when she hears the air rush, she pushes out her rear again and again to meet it as the leather explodes against her skin, sending red-hot sensations through her, making her writhe and twist her body. Not in pain, as stoic members of polite society would describe it, but as if she’s on a journey into a world of dark pleasure that leaves a tingling aftertaste and a red glow signifying her badge of courage. It’s then you realize the mingled scents of her perfume and musky sweat are stronger here, as if with each blow the aroma oozes from her skin and fills the hidden room with the provocative and spicy scent.

She turns her head around, almost as if she knows you’re watching her. Her lips are soft and puffy from biting down on them, but no one can mistake the distant but happy expression on her face. The ache in your groin rises to such a fever pitch you tremble with an uncontrollable urgency. You can’t stay here another moment and watch her exhibiting such pleasure without giving away your presence.

You return to the private room upstairs, look around, no one saw you leave, you’re quite sure of that, then you hear the Egyptian you saw earlier making an announcement.

The evening’s pleasures need a new volunteer,
he says, his eyes as dark as the devil’s soul searching the faces of the eager onlookers.

You shift your weight, thinking, anything to relieve the pressure in your groin. Should you? Could you? Why not? No one will believe
your wild stories when you return home, the sensual splendors you’ve seen and experienced firsthand, accusing you of concocting exaggerated travelers’ tales.

You make your decision. Let them think what they want.
You
know the truth.

You walk forward, smile, then disrobe, anticipating the divine pleasure about to be laid upon your quivering buttocks.

Ramzi and I ruled over this underworld paradise, and although you may accuse me of being a creative harvester of memory, I assure you, the details, the facts, the sexual games, all happened as I’ve written them down. I wish I’d had the foresight to save the reel of film a European director shot at the club one night so I could prove it to you, but like the whereabouts of the tomb of Cleopatra, I fear the reel of film is lost. You may not have realized, dear reader, that Cairo was a mecca of filmmaking before the war started. I even had a small part as a high-society girl in the first talking moving picture made in Egypt. I joked with the director about typecasting me as a rich girl, though secretly I wondered what he would say if he knew I was playing a role within a role.

Night after night, the action at the Cleopatra Club never stopped. It was an erotic amalgam of cabaret and brothel, a place where the ultraintellectual, aristocratic clique of Europeans could indulge in the perversion of their choice. While in the infancy of my orgiastic journey, I welcomed the onslaught of one orgasm after another, leaving me breathless, sore, nullifying my senses. Then something I never could have foreseen happened to me. My anticipation for sex wasn’t driving me for release as it once had. When Ramzi
touched me, my body went forward in the throes of ecstasy with the same mechanics as if I were winding up the gramophone, the needle falling into well-worn grooves on my body, the melody never changing, the scratchy sounds taunting my nerves. I existed at the farthest ends of a pendulum, craving sexual pleasure as well as bemoaning the redundancy of it. I’d sit alone at the bar, my spirit in desperate straits, shouting orders in a caustic manner, uncompromising with the staff, and I was often combative with Ramzi.

I turned to Mahmoud to relieve my sexual urges, encouraging him to take the whip to my pleasure-starved body in the privacy of the hidden storage room I discovered down in what I believe was a burial crypt. Did I harbor some macabre feeling that offering up my naked body to the kiss of fire rekindled embers vanquished on that autumn night when I lost Lord Marlowe? I don’t know.