by Jina Bacarr
I have blond hair, I said, why not me? Because you’re a nice Jewish girl from an orthodox family, she said, and nice Jewish girls get married and have babies. I want to have babies, Mama, I said, but first I wanted to taste life, explore the world, fall in love. How could I tell her this grand curiosity overflowed in me like waves of pleasure I couldn’t stop, a kind of eroticism that was like an electric current in my body attracting men to me, and me to a state of passion I could never satisfy? I couldn’t tell her that. She’d never understand, but now you understand, dear reader, my earlier entry about Mama and me. Now it is all so clear.
When I got a job dancing in the chorus and stayed out all night, every night, Mama locked me in my room and forbade me to return to the nightclub. So I ran away from Brooklyn and stopped being a nice Jewish girl. I got a job with a girlie show heading to Berlin. I danced, drank alcohol, used cocaine and made love to men. When I met Lord Marlowe, he took the wild girl that I was and showed her the meaning of life, art, music and the erotic world of submission. He didn’t care about my background, where I came from. I was Lady Eve Marlowe in his society circle that included artists, explorers and intellectuals, but not to my mother back in Brooklyn.
To my mother I was dead.
She sat shiva for me, the traditional seven days of mourning, staying at home and sitting on low stools, praying, and no matter what I did, I was dead to her from then on and she would never speak to me again. I had to accept that. And I did. I buried Esther Jakobs as my mother had, determined never to resurrect her.
So you can see, dear reader, why I was mortified at my behavior when I allowed the young Jewish girl in Port Said to go to what I’m certain was imminent death. Like a modern Judas, I turned my cheek as I’ve done for so many years and denied my heritage. Only one person knows the truth about me.
Maxi.
I must stay on the alert when I meet with her, since it is impossible to know friend from foe. Berlin is a city where it is difficult to tell heroism and treachery apart. A warm musing overcomes my soul, a letting go of the tears of tension built up inside me while I waited for her call. How far we two old friends have come from our days in long leather coats, opaque stockings and soft cloche hats, frolicking through the Berlin erotic culture of dark fantasy games and every deviant practice imaginable. Maxi discovered I’m Jewish when, on a whim, I visited the Fasanenstrasse Synagogue in Berlin (closed years later and burned during Kristallnacht), one last tug at where I’d come from urging me to go inside and learn more about my background, the traditions I shunned, my family. But they were no longer my family and I’ve never mentioned them again until now.
Since then I’ve labored to free myself of my mania for cocaine and sexual excesses, though not without undergoing a transformation of sorts. Determination not to fail at my mission drives me to go beyond my normal strength. I must propel the remainder of my story forward with immediate action since I have but a scant few days to finish my diary. These next pages reflect a time when everyone was on the move, incident piles upon incident until you are breathless; more happens in these remaining pages than I dare dreamed I would live in several lifetimes. A tale of eroticism, suspense and the degradation of my moral character to a place I swear I shall never go again.
I imagine you’ve flipped through these pages quickly, skimming madly while you down black coffee, and smoke another cigarette, eager to discover the secret of Cleopatra’s perfume. No, I haven’t forgotten that I left you on the edge of your seat, dear reader, stunned, wondering, dreaming, disbelieving that I disappeared when I was about to drink the poisoned tea. Yes, poisoned. It’s the only possible explanation why I disappeared. Something odorless, transparent with a sweet taste. I have since come to the conclusion Laila mixed antimony in the form of tartar emetic into my tea. I imagine the Muslim woman would have the chemical available to her since it’s used as a mordant or adhesive substance for binding gold leaf to a surface, an art I’ve no doubt she practiced to enhance the appearance of the ancient artifacts I saw displayed in her home.
I shudder to believe what she planned to do with my body. Most likely she would arrange to have my death ruled a suicide, a distressed Englishwoman ending her life over the murder of her Egyptian lover. But that’s not of import here. Instead, I shall take you back to Cairo, to that precise moment when I disappeared.
Inhale and dream. What you are about to read is true. Believe.
A reverie of scent devoured me, a continuous secret aroma of spice, jasmine, rose, cinnamon, cloves, spikenard and something I’ve never been able to identify, but an aroma so intense with its euphoric effect I didn’t care if I couldn’t see, hear, taste or touch. The aroma was so overpowering I abandoned myself completely to the pleasure of smell without the malady of fear, worry or apprehension spoiling my feast. The perfume devoured my other senses completely, though I was surrounded by an intense, bright light, not darkness, as I would have expected, but a brilliance devoid of nature’s palette, with a finality to it that wavered and moved and shimmied in front of my eyes like a mirror melting and re-forming.
I rushed into the light. As if I passed through a portal not of my own world, but a dimension that pulled me away from danger by means of scent and sweet odors that gave me pleasure, transparent heady smells pulling me, grabbing me, trying to save me from danger. All this happened to me in an instant, this emotional drama, as if I was lost in a labyrinth of time and space and helpless to guide my way, but I held on, knowing this was the magic of the perfume, as if the essence of the scent heated up and exhaled and propelled me into—
I hit the ground so hard that I lost all my breath and felt a sharp pain in my side. I thought I had broken my ribs, but I suffered no physical effects from my journey through what I can only describe as a mystical door that allowed me to escape, like an animal fleeing danger. (I realized the pain in my side alerted me that my senses were returning.) I stumbled to my feet, trying to clear the din of hammering in my head, when a myriad of orange, red, earthy browns, then a spot of yellow came into focus. Nearby I saw a metalworker pounding on a silver plate, molding it into shape. I knew where I was. Khan Al-Khalili. The strange warren of narrow alleyways lined with numerous shops where Lord Marlowe and I enjoyed browsing for jewelry embedded with the glorious blue color of lapis lazuli and set in gold. My sudden appearance in the bazaar had attracted a small crowd, men in flowing robes chattering, curious boys, women in black veils not daring to come any closer. No tourists in sight, a convenient accident for me, lest I be forced to explain how I seemed to evolve into a flesh-and-blood female out of the yellow dust swirling about the Old City.
I mumbled I was unhurt in what little Arabic I knew and left the shopkeepers babbling, a tale to be spun over and over again about the blond Englishwoman in white who appeared like a magical genie in search of a lamp. A musty smell drew me down another alleyway and I discovered silk and cotton merchants engaged in heated bargaining with each other.
Not wanting to draw their attention, I made a sharp turn down a pathway that turned out to be a dead-end lane. The rich odor of spices, especially sandalwood, hit my nostrils. Believing I was again in danger, I stopped, expecting to feel tremors. Nothing. A shiver of relief settled over me. I had ventured into the area of the suq or market selling spices. In that moment, the cruelty of possessing the perfume revealed itself to me, the smell of spice now a permanent stain upon my mental soul. Frustration etched lines upon my face like fine threads, settling like a permanent wrinkle between my eyes. I had to leave Cairo. I couldn’t continue this game of seeking, waiting, wondering if every time a pungent aroma aroused my senses I faced danger.
My gut retched with a newfound fear. Laila. Most likely she was wondering how I escaped with the Moorish servant standing guard at the only exit. A puzzle no doubt she would soon solve. I imagined the Muslim woman thinking, planning, pushing out thoughts of anything else but the perfume from her mind. No doubt my disappearance convinced her the magic of the perfume was no fa
nciful tale of mysticism. She tried to murder me once. I had no doubt she would scheme to finish the deed.
That thought, dear reader, raced through my mind as I sought out a gharry to take me back to Shepheard’s Hotel, packed my luggage (I placed the container with Cleopatra’s perfume in my vanity case and kept it with me at all times) and left Cairo on the next flight back to London. Yes, I admit I used my influence as Lady Marlowe to book passage. A minor sin, at best, considering my life was in danger. And Chuck. I couldn’t stop thinking about the American flier pacing about in that sordid cell, his wings clipped and his conscience convincing him he’d been betrayed by a woman with a title but no morals.
Over the next tumultuous months, I went about the business of trying to secure Chuck’s release, but I made the mistake of believing that Laila couldn’t touch me in my pampered world of Mayfair. I know now she was capable of doing anything, anything to seek her revenge upon me and steal the perfume.
Think about it, dear reader, how far would you go to control the power of Cleopatra’s perfume?
17
London
September 27, 1939
W hen I returned to London that autumn, a most peculiar manifestation made itself known to me. Mrs. Wills had taken up knitting. I found it rather odd that a woman of her strong backbone, a woman who never showed her emotions, fidgeted with needles and yarn, muttering to herself knit one, pearl two while we went over the household budget, praying we wouldn’t face food shortages. It was her conviction we’d all die of hunger if the government didn’t increase home food production since imports had been drastically cut, which would be most unpleasant, she said, considering how a gent she had worked for had his digestive system ruined by a starvation diet of turnips when he was taken prisoner in the Great War.
I held the cotton yarn in the patriotic color of Royal Air Force blue between my outstretched hands, nodded and promptly pushed any thought of turnips out of my mind. Upon hearing the word pearl my anal muscles went into lovely contractions at the memory of the American flier pulling the pearl beads out of the tight hole around my buttocks. An unapologetic smile escaped my lips, knowing I could enjoy a clitoral orgasm thinking about Chuck Dawn, but this was also most pleasurable, the little demon of perversity in me going over the scene at the Cleopatra Club again and again, every time I thought about it making me wet.
I wiggled in my seat and the scent of Cleopatra’s perfume wafted around me, keeping me safe behind its mystery. Every morning I dabbed a bit between my thighs, the final touch to my dressing, a lingering illusion to what I had experienced, yet knowing I had to adapt my soul anew, accept a new reality and carry on.
Be assured, dear reader, I didn’t give up my relentless trips to the Foreign Office to ask for help in getting Chuck released from that prison in Cairo. A top civil servant who was a friend of Lord Marlowe, Sir_____, assured me he’d look into the matter. He hinted he was aware of what happened to me in Cairo (he was kept apprised of my whereabouts as he had promised Lord Marlowe) and requested I not go abroad without informing him of my plans. I agreed, having no such plans. He was my only recourse to help the American. No matter what Chuck Dawn thought of me, I couldn’t bear to see him unjustly accused of a crime when he was trying to save my life.
I shan’t keep you in suspense since so much of my tale is still forthcoming, but I’m pleased to report the Foreign Office arranged a covert operation for the escape of the American flier with the British Secret Intelligence Services, SIS, along with the help of a Czech double agent working for the British government. Chuck would never know the Foreign Office was involved nor what part I played in his release. I understood and agreed to remain silent about my involvement, though I see no reason not to mention it here. Chuck Dawn was free, headed back to America, I assumed, away from danger, and for that I was forever grateful. I would miss his innate mix of humor and intensity. He had a certain sense of himself. He knew who he was and I found that damnably irresistible. But I was determined to put my adventures in Cairo behind me and resume being Lady Eve Marlowe. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t think about the American, did it?
I imagine even the unflappable Mrs. Wills might find my daydream disturbing, eager as she was to inquire about my journey to Egypt with the excitement and virgin expectation of a woman who experienced (I imagined though I didn’t know for certain) an orgasm like the ocean rolling into the shore at incoming tide, strong and forceful at sea but gentle and serene at the end. She fit in quite well with the threat of wartime clothes rationing hanging over us in her crisp grays and browns, perfect hemlines and sensible shoes, and she had an odd sense of humor.
“I posted a letter to The Times complaining about how difficult it is to obtain decent toilet paper since the war began,” she enjoyed telling everyone from the postman to the cook. “And would you believe I received an answer back saying they’d take up the matter with Hitler personally?”
She had a streak of independence I admired, and she was too much of an intelligent companion to make the kind of boring ceremonious secretary currently in vogue. Instead of taking over the jobs men had been doing like many British women (carrying mail, welding, driving buses), I convinced her I needed her here with me in London. She agreed to help me manage my affairs from my Mayfair town home as long as she could continue her war work with the Women’s Voluntary Services (she headed up a knitting group to knit socks for the soldiers). She kept my records in order, what with all the changes in rules and regulations since the war began. Like many of the great British country houses, our manor house at Glynwyck had been requisitioned for the temporary quartering of troops (I can imagine Lord Marlowe’s reaction at discovering his faithful groundskeeper, Smitty, considered it his duty to sweep up machine-gun bullets off his perfect lawn after each dogfight), which I gladly helped arrange, though I made certain the soundproof “playrooms” where Lord Marlowe’s father kept his spanking bench, whips and other items of submission were padded and locked and deemed off limits to everyone.
And speaking of erotic games…
Coventry
December 30, 1939
I made a trip to Coventry that Christmas of 1939, taking Mrs. Wills with me, which brought a blush to her cheeks and a not-so-subtle clearing of her throat. She had rarely been to our hideaway, a two-hour drive by motorcar north of London. Limestone yellow walls and a slate roof. Eight-paned windows, which I adored, and a charming entrance hall. A large sitting room, vast kitchen, two bedrooms with a bathroom and a well-planned separate bedroom with a bathroom over the billiard room. I could see a garden of flowering shrubs from the main bedroom, though during the winter months, a misty fog hung upon the foliage instead of graceful petals.
On her tour of the cottage, Mrs. Wills ignored the upstairs playroom, though she knew about his lordship’s proclivity for erotic games and had been secretly pleased (or so I’d been informed by Lord Marlowe) when he married me and found a willing playmate for his interests. His first wife, I’ve been told, was a beautiful girl with a quiet spirit and a good heart, but not interested in his amatory quests. After she died, many women caught his lordship’s eye over the years, but none possessed the hunger for knowledge, as well as his games of submission, as I did, and he relished that.
I wanted so very much that December to recapture our early days in Coventry, its tempo upbeat, its atmosphere warm and of the hearth, its landscape blooming, whether it be floral or the manufacturing and assembly plants on the outskirts of the city.
Riding my bicycle down the cobblestone streets in the sunny, chilly cold brought back those sepia-fringed memories, down Pepper Lane toward Saint Michael’s, then turning off onto a small street and heading toward the Free Library, where I took my wonder at all the places in the world I’d seen with Lord Marlowe at my side and devoured tome after tome of knowledge to add to my firsthand experiences. I also visited the Church Bookshop on Earl Street where I had purchased the first edition for my husband the day of his motorcar accident (a so
ulful rhythm rooted in my soul played over and over in my mind, then I forced myself to go on and rise out of my despondency) and the numerous billiard saloons his lordship frequented, as well as his favorite pub on Paynes Lane, the Binley Oak, where I toasted him with a “glass and forty,” as they called it back in the time before the Great War.
I couldn’t forgo sneaking an afternoon at the Globe Cinema on Primrose Hill Street, where we would snuggle in the back row like university students, his lordship’s hands squeezing my knee or pinching my nipple in the darkened theater. I was at peace here in Coventry, the war seemed so far away in this little town where Lady Godiva rode naked through the city in exchange for her husband lowering taxes on the townspeople. (There’s talk of erecting a statue to the beautiful heroine.) Nothing could happen here…
My thoughts ramble, remembering that sober visit to the countryside (I refrained from using cocaine, so you see, dear reader, the strength to stop was there, but not the will when I was in London). I enjoyed my stay at our hideaway, checking out the cottage, though I use the word with license since it was a spacious and grand house with a staircase with a balustrade composed of carved panels instead of balusters, the forceful reliefs consisting of gents and ladies in various sexual poses. (I shall leave it to your imagination as to what licentious poses.) Our upstairs playroom containing our “toys” was equipped with spy holes or “squints” concealed behind two great carnival masks from Venice through which his lordship could observe me.