Cleopatra's Perfume. Jina Bacarr

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      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.

      5

      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.”

      His words stung me. “Stop telling me lies. Stop it!” I reached out and beat on his bare chest with my fists. He grabbed my wrists and held them in a tight grip. I drew in my breath, relishing the pleasurable sensations his hold sparked in me. He knew it, too. Knew the effect his subtle game had on me and used it to his advantage.

      “You’re going to listen to me, my English lady, if I have to—to—”

      “Tie СКАЧАТЬ