Cleopatra�s Perfume (42 page)

As you may have guessed, I dally in my departure, for I have no doubt if you’re reading this, I did not return from my meeting with the SS officer. I shan’t go into the depths of what that means. Most likely, I’m languishing in the prison I mentioned earlier. I won’t survive more than a few days in there without the perfume, for I have no doubt they will torture me but not kill me until they get what they want from me. They won’t. Not even if they pull out my toenails, shave my head and burn me with cigarettes.

But I don’t wish you to leave with a bitter and vivid taste of what has happened to me; no, remember me as I have written it all down. Though I am gone, I pray my story will intoxicate you, make you smile, laugh, cry, and reach for the secret place moist and sweet smelling that gives you pleasure. All I ask of you…rather, I implore you, is to return this diary to Mrs. Wills of London, Mayfair, along with the invitation I mentioned. She’s a collector of such unusual items and will enjoy it.

Alas, dear reader, I have no regrets about the journey I have taken. It would be difficult for
any
woman not to fall under the spell of Cleopatra’s perfume, the fascination of a legend so dynamic, controversial, mystical, intense, adventurous, so rich in history and eroticism, its promise of immortality the perfect aphrodisiac. Need I say more? I imagine you shall partake of the perfume once you close the diary. I envy you that first moment when the unguent melts between your palms and the aromatic smell of spices and florals overwhelms you. Your life shall never be the same.

And so I go to meet my fate.

With love, with hope,

I sign this V for victory,

Lady Eve Marlowe

April 29, 1941

Berlin

April 29, 1941

T
he ringing of the telephone—persistent, demanding, screaming for his attention—jangled his raw nerves within moments after Chuck Dawn closed the diary. He didn’t answer it. He couldn’t. He felt drained, exhausted, yet somehow exhilarated, as if he’d undergone a transformation of spirit, a reawakening of his soul. Now he knew why he was drawn to the physical vibrancy she exuded in her walk, the way she stripped off her clothes in front of him and the SS officer at the lake, or leaned over and tempted him to pull on the perfectly round blue beads in her anus at the Cleopatra Club. Even then, he had been intrigued by her mysterious promise, her genuine poise and surety about who she was, a confident curiosity about her possessing him that led him on a journey he had undertaken against his will.
What impressed him most was the unbreakable iron rod of obsession she wrote about in her diary—for her late husband, the Egyptian, and God help him, for him.

And he had lost her, well, hadn’t he? All this nonsense about Cleopatra’s perfume couldn’t be more than a deception to keep the Gestapo offtrack, a clever British-intelligence trick, and
he,
an officer in the RAF, had fallen under her spell while reading the diary, for he
did
believe, he
did
imagine her surviving the threats on her life.

Or, he preferred not to believe but must consider, was the diary a meditation about the relationship between the power of the mind and the unproven mystical effects of Cleopatra’s perfume?

He inhaled, sniffing, and he swore he could smell the scent of this female animal who had invaded his being with her intriguing arcs of vulnerability, sensuality and downright baseness. He ran his hands over the red silk-bound cover, different emotions racing though him. Amazement. Desire. More amazement, then even more desire. Was Eve Marlowe alive?
Did
she disappear when the SS officer shot her? Had she landed somewhere out of his sight, shaken but unhurt? That explained why he hadn’t found any trace of her. Was she wandering around the countryside, naked and cold, dazed and uncertain what to do next? If so, he couldn’t leave without her. No matter how dangerous, how foolhardy, he must stay here in Berlin, find her and tell her he understood. Understood everything…

The phone stopped ringing. Chuck tried to tell himself it was the front desk calling her about her luggage. A nervous clerk, they all were these days, afraid if they voiced their opinion of the
grim undertow sucking the life of their culture they, too, would find themselves incarcerated. Or was it someone else? Would the Muslim woman called Laila be so daring as to call Eve’s room?

Putting the woman out of his mind, he flipped through the pages of Eve’s diary, each entry looking back on her life—particularly her wildly erotic descriptions of sex with various lovers, including himself, he noted with an ache in his groin—promising to deliver to the reader a ripened version of nirvana. He saw fervor, frenzy, delirium. And addiction. Her story could have belonged to that of a film-screen actress, her sumptuous poisonous lifestyle, explosive actions, and piled-up obsessions with men and drugs leading to a breakdown, then derailment and near devastation. Yet she rid herself of the toxins and had been willing to sacrifice her life to help win this war.

Eve. The scent emitting from the diary, both hers and the perfume, brought back to him in startling clarity the memory of holding her close to him, the feel of her firm breasts against his chest, pressing her tight against him so he could imagine all the wondrous possibilities of her body. He’d been around long enough to know when a woman was on the level. And she was. It wasn’t only her powerful erotic allure, that shimmering white-blond hair or voluptuous body. It was that indescribable quality about her that made her the embodiment of all women. He would no longer dismiss her as a selfish, pampered lady of the realm, not after reading her story. Not after living with her the extraordinary journey from Cairo to London and now Berlin. He had been swept away by her honesty, her observational skills, a sensual solemnity that gave him a sense that he
was inside her mind. As her narrative unfolded within the pages of the diary, he rarely thought about the story having an overarching consciousness, so caught up was he in her fearless journey, yet at times there was a rough, could-this-really-happen rawness to the diary, making him shake his head at the vitality of her imagination, as well as her sexual exploits. Yet one thing scrambled his mind, playing fast and loose with his perception of reality: the perfume. Was it as powerful as Eve professed it to be? Would it save
him
from a violent death if he were captured?

Why not find out? Though he could imagine what the Gestapo would think if he was caught and he smelled like a whorehouse. Wait, he had a better idea. Even the secret police would understand a soldier carrying a woman’s personal item bearing her fragrance. He stuffed the diary inside his uniform jacket, knowing he was taking a chance by doing so, but he couldn’t leave it here. Then he searched through her steamer trunk and found what he was looking for: a silk stocking. Next he located the perfume, a solid unguent nestled in a plain box. In his mind he saw the perfume box as Eve had described it in her diary, its smooth lines fresh and evocative, the pointy breasts of the young queen Cleopatra beckoning him to open her treasure, as if she offered him her own honeyed essence to secure his fate.

He rubbed a small amount between his palms, allowed it to warm, then smeared the luxurious scent on his hands, his neck, and slipped the stocking anointed with the perfume with the rubbing of his fingers into his side jacket pocket. He was about to slide the box of perfume into his other pocket when—

“Give me the perfume.”

A woman’s voice. Sultry, demanding. He knew without turning around it wasn’t Eve. He didn’t move.

“I said,
give me the perfume.
Don’t you understand English?”

“I understand.” Chuck kept in the night shadows invading the room. He’d been reading for hours but had been careful to close the blackout curtain, lest he invite a knock on the door by irate hotel management. He hadn’t heard the foyer door to the bedroom open, the swish of the silk dress, long earrings dangling on her shoulders. Laila. He remembered her from that night at the Cleopatra Club when he took a poke at the Egyptian. Then it hit him. He was wearing an SS officer’s uniform. She didn’t recognize him.

“What are you waiting for?” she demanded. “You had your orders and I expected you to carry them out.”

“Ja?”
Chuck said, waiting for her to reveal her game.

“You were supposed to seduce the American woman, take her for a swim in the lake, then murder her.” Her voice was high-pitched, intense. “She stole an important artifact that belongs to the Reich.”

Chuck understood her game. Most likely, Eve feared being interrogated by the political police more than being without the perfume for an afternoon tryst. By going for a swim in the lake, the perfume would wash off her skin, making her vulnerable to the German officer’s swift blade to her breast or his hands around her throat.

He watched Laila with curiosity but also with slight humor. The joke was on the Muslim woman. The SS officer showed no
interest in feminine charms, but his penchant for killing had made him the ideal candidate to do the job.

Chuck gritted his teeth. If he hadn’t spotted Eve in the hotel lobby, she’d be dead. That thought pained him more than he would admit. But he hadn’t forgotten her mission. He bet it had something to do with the invitation she mentioned to him at the lake and also in the diary. He imagined it contained a message encrypted in code. He owed it to her to get it back to London and into the right hands at the Foreign Office.

“I can’t give you the perfume, Laila.” Chuck’s voice was blunt and to the point.

“Who
are
you?” She walked slowly, carefully, toward him.

“The man you sent to prison for a crime that was self-defense.”

“The
American.
” The expression on her face let him know that she wasn’t backing down. “What are you doing here? Where’s the SS officer?”

“At the bottom of the lake.”

“Where is Lady Marlowe?” she demanded. “And don’t give me any story about her being an American tourist. I’ve had her followed for days. She’s involved in some scheme and I want to know what it is.”

He asked, “Since when were you in charge of Hitler’s personal bodyguards?”

She smiled. “Since Herr Goering is interested in acquiring a most unusual perfume box belonging to Cleopatra.”

“I don’t imagine you mentioned the power of the perfume to him?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“Your scheme didn’t work, Laila. Eve is safe and out of Berlin.” It was a lie, but he had to get out of here. He couldn’t waste any more time on this woman and her jealousies. “I’ll be leaving—”

She pulled a gun out of her handbag. A Luger. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”

“You’ll have a hard time explaining why you shot an SS officer.”

“Not when they look under your left arm and don’t find the SS tattoo showing your blood type.”

Chuck countered with, “I wonder what Goering would say if he knew you’ve been selling him phony antiquities?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she insisted. “The provenance on every item I represent has been authenticated by a reputable source.”

“A source who has been well paid, I imagine. But then again, I don’t believe it would be difficult to put one over on these Nazis. You toss a phony story at them, knowing a lot of knowledge about a piece colors the way they’ll look at the item, and they see what they want to see.”

“You’ve got quite an active imagination, Mr.—”

“Dawn. Chuck Dawn. I’m an American reporter with a New York City newspaper. I’d hate to think what would happen to you if your name appeared in my column as a traitor to the Reich.”

“I don’t believe you, Mr. Dawn. This hotel is swarming with foreign newspapermen. You wouldn’t be wearing that SS uniform if you were under the protection of the American government. You murdered that Nazi for a reason. You’re hiding something.”

“We both have something to hide, Laila. Remember that. If I’m
arrested trying to leave Berlin, I won’t hesitate to spill your game to the Gestapo. I hear the Nazis have a most interesting way to deal with traitors. They hang them from a meat hook with a piano wire around their neck.”

Laila cocked the trigger on the pistol and pointed it at him. “I’m warning you—”

Rrring…

Laila grabbed the phone, but she didn’t lower the gun. “Yes?” she said in English, keeping her eyes on Chuck and her aim steady. “No, this isn’t Eve, Maxi, it’s Laila. Don’t hang up. I want to talk to you.” Pause. “Maxi,
Maxi?
” She slammed down the phone. “Silly girl. If she talks, she’ll end up like her father, tortured and left to die in a labor camp.” She pointed the gun at the American. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’ve no doubt the British Secret Intelligence Services sent you both here. Where is this woman who calls herself Eve Charles?”

“Like I told you, Laila, she’s on her way back to London. I made sure of that before I came here to collect her things.”

“The woman I knew as Lady Marlowe wouldn’t leave the perfume behind.” Laila shook her head. “She’s here in Berlin and I intend to find her.”

Eve appeared without warning.

Footsteps. Heavy, as if she was wearing men’s boots, breathing erratically. Chuck saw her before the Muslim woman did. Standing behind her, her eyes on him silently saying she was grateful to see him. Her beautiful face determined, character and fire etched in the high cheekbones, full lips. Where did she come
from? His rational mind told him she’d found her way back to the city after commandeering clothes. From a farmer’s wife, he guessed, by the looks of her in the shapeless blue dress, rolled cotton stockings and heavy brown boots covered with dried mud. The irrational side of him wanted to believe the perfume had made her appear in that instant. An image born of legend, of scent, made more beautiful by her courage. Seeing her cast a never-failing spell over him, her perfume sweeping over him with an arousing spiciness, the powerful nature of the essence filling the room with its alluring aroma.