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She reached across the table and felt his chest through the linen of his clothing, through the silk that covered her fingers. Don't let him feel the bone. How surprised he looked. Her fingertips touched his nipple and she pinched it ever so slightly with her fourth finger and thumb. Why, he blushed like a vestal virgin. The blood was roaring in his face. She smiled.
He glanced around, at the two women opposite. But they went right on talking. "Simply super!"
"I bought this gown, you know, spent a fortune on it. I said, well, if I'm going to be here, and everyone's going ..."
"The opera." She laughed. "Going to the opera."
"Yes," he said, but he was still amazed at what she'd done. She emptied the pot into her cup and drank it. Then she picked up the little pitcher of milk and drank that too. She picked up the sugar and poured it into her mouth. Ah, she did not like that. She set it down, and then slipped her hand under the small table and squeezed his leg. He was ready for her! Ah, poor young boy, poor wide-eyed young boy.
She remembered that time when she and Antony had brought those young soldiers in the tent, and stripped them, before making a choice. That had been a lovely game. Until Ramses found out about it. Was there anything he hadn't accused her of in the end? But this one was powerfully amorous! He wanted her.
She rose from the table. She beckoned and went towards the doors.
Noise outside. The chariots. She did not care. If they didn't frighten all these people, surely they were something explainable. What she had to do now was find a place. He was right behind her, talking to her.
"Come," she said in English. "Come with me."
An alleyway; she led him back, stepping over the puddles. Shadowy here, and quieter. She turned around and slipped her arms under his. He bent to kiss her.
"Well, not here, right here!" he asked nervously. "Miss, I don't think ..."
"I say here," she whispered, kissing him and thrusting her hand into his clothes. Hot his skin, what she wanted. Hot and sweet smelling. And so ready he was, the young fawn. She lifted the skirts of the pink dress.
It was over too quickly; she shuddered as she held on to him, her body clamped to him, her arms wrapped around his neck. She heard him moan as he spilled into her. He was still for a moment, too still. The shudders were still passing through her; but she could not coax him anymore. He released her and leaned back against the wall, staring, as if he was ill.
"Wait, please, give me a moment," he said when she started to kiss him again.
She studied him for a few seconds. Very easy. Snap. Then she reached up, took a firm hold of his head with both her hands, and twisted it until his neck broke.
He stared off, the way the woman had stared off, and the way the man had also. Nothing in his eyes. Nothing. Then he slipped down the wall, his legs wide apart.
She studied him. There was that nagging sense of a mystery again, something to do with her. Something to do with what she'd just done.
She remembered that dim figure standing over her. Had it been a dream? "Rise, Cleopatra. I, Ramses, call you!"
Ah, no! Merely trying to remember caused a searing pain in her head. But the pain was not physical. Pain of the soul it was. She could hear women crying, women she had known. Women weeping. Saying her name to her. Cleopatra. Then someone covered her face with a sheer black cloth. Was the snake still alive? Strange it seemed to her that the snake should outlive her. She felt again the sting of the fangs in her breast.
She gave a dull little groan as she stood there, leaning against the wall, looking down at the dead boy. When had all that happened? Where? Who had she been?
Don't remember. "Modern times" await.
She bent over, and slipped the money out of the boy's coat. Lots and lots of money in a little leather book. She slipped it deep into her pocket. Other things here as well. A card with English writing and a tiny portrait of the boy, how remarkable. Very beautiful work. And then two small bits of stiff paper with AIDA written on them. And OPERA. They bore the same tiny drawing she had seen in the "magazine" of an Egyptian woman's head.
Surely these were worth taking as well. She threw away the dead man's picture. Slipping the little opera papers into her pocket also, she sang "Celeste Aida" again softly to herself as she stepped over the dead boy and walked out again into the noisy street.
Be not afraid. Do as they do. If they walk near the metal pathways, you must do this too.
But no sooner had she started off again than there came one of those shrill blasts from the iron chariots. She covered her ears, crying in spite of herself, and when she looked up another fine man was standing in her path.
"Can I help you, little lady? You're not lost down here, are you? You mustn't go about down here by the railway station with that money showing in your pocket like that."
"Railway station ..."
"Don't you have a handbag?"
"No," she said innocently. She allowed him to take her arm. "You help me?" she said, remembering the phrase Lord Rutherford had used a hundred times to her. "I can trust you?"
"Oh, of course!" he said. And he meant it. Another young one. With smooth, lovely skin!
