animal grabbed Lady Palmer’s feathered hat between his teeth, pulling it off her head.
“My hat!” she yelled, her voice panicked.
I wanted to laugh, but didn’t. She was lucky the camel didn’t bite her ear.
“Lady Marlowe,” she begged, “you must retrieve my hat from that dirty creature! It’s a Bond Street original.”
Shaking my head, I said, “By all means, Lady Palmer.”
Racing down the narrow street after the camel, Lady Palmer’s hat between his teeth, the tassels on his saddle waving in the wind, I chased him down one winding lane then another, until I found myself in a seedier section of the city.
An area I knew all too well.
Across the street I saw the Bar Supplice, boarded up and deserted. My heart pounding, my lips moved without speaking in a silent prayer, recounting the mysterious awakening I discovered within those cavelike walls. The beauty, the sensual illumination, all still lived within me. Within seconds, that feeling dissipated. I sensed a tragic quality about it now, a world created for stimulation that continued to haunt me though its magic ceased when Ramzi left.
I barely noticed the camel had dropped the feathered hat until a young woman picked it up and handed it to me. Without glancing at her, I said, “Thank you. Lady Palmer will be most pleased.”
I opened my purse to give her two piastres, when she blurted out, “You’re British!”
Turning to look at her, I said, “Yes, I’m Lady Marlowe.”
“You must help me get to England,” she said, her accent foreign, “before it’s too late.” She rushed her words, as if every moment was precious.
I stood back, not wanting to get involved. “Too late for what? Who are you?”
She said her name quickly, but my ears picked up a German name, Jewish, if I wasn’t mistaken. That disturbed me for reasons I shall not explain. She grabbed my arm and begged me for help. I pulled away from her. She was a young girl, no more than eighteen, her slender form appealing but her body fragrant with the smell of fear. She was dressed in a shapeless brown-checked suit cut with a sophistication that didn’t fit her.
Eyes brimming with tears, she went on to explain how Germany’s new racial laws threatened Jews and how things had only gotten worse since Kristallnacht, when gangs of Nazis and their supporters roamed through Jewish neighborhoods breaking windows, burning synagogues and looting. Since then, no one would take in the Jews fleeing the Nazi state. No one. Both England and America had refused her entry, so she boarded the Italian ship Conte Rosso to escape persecution from Hitler’s Reich. Without a visa only one place would take her.
“Where?” I asked, more out of politeness than curiosity.
“Shanghai,” she said.
“Lovely city. Do be sure to make the rounds at the Cathay during the cocktail hour,” I said, mentioning the Chinese outpost famed for its watering hole for wealthy visitors. I rambled on about the interesting members of the literati I often found lingering at the bar. I paid no attention to the blank look on her face. I merely wanted to get rid of her. A stronger urge pulled at me as I continued to stare at the Bar Supplice and I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. Istill ached for Ramzi’s arms around me, his sensuous voice spinning tales. Lies, but I didn’t care.
Meanwhile, the Jewish girl rambled on, begging me to help her. I tried to ignore her. What did her problems matter to me? Surely it couldn’t be as bad as all that in Germany. Not too long ago I’d traveled to Berlin with Lord Marlowe to attend a photography show at a gallery for my friend Maxi von Brandt. We knew each other from the old days when we both worked the cabarets, me as a dancer, her as a photographer, chatting up strangers on the telephones at each table and drinking in the pleasure palaces of Berlin. Haus Vaterland and the Resi. Fun days, filled with all the wildness and proclivity and sexual abandon of the Weimar
“My hat!” she yelled, her voice panicked.
I wanted to laugh, but didn’t. She was lucky the camel didn’t bite her ear.
“Lady Marlowe,” she begged, “you must retrieve my hat from that dirty creature! It’s a Bond Street original.”
Shaking my head, I said, “By all means, Lady Palmer.”
Racing down the narrow street after the camel, Lady Palmer’s hat between his teeth, the tassels on his saddle waving in the wind, I chased him down one winding lane then another, until I found myself in a seedier section of the city.
An area I knew all too well.
Across the street I saw the Bar Supplice, boarded up and deserted. My heart pounding, my lips moved without speaking in a silent prayer, recounting the mysterious awakening I discovered within those cavelike walls. The beauty, the sensual illumination, all still lived within me. Within seconds, that feeling dissipated. I sensed a tragic quality about it now, a world created for stimulation that continued to haunt me though its magic ceased when Ramzi left.
I barely noticed the camel had dropped the feathered hat until a young woman picked it up and handed it to me. Without glancing at her, I said, “Thank you. Lady Palmer will be most pleased.”
I opened my purse to give her two piastres, when she blurted out, “You’re British!”
Turning to look at her, I said, “Yes, I’m Lady Marlowe.”
“You must help me get to England,” she said, her accent foreign, “before it’s too late.” She rushed her words, as if every moment was precious.
I stood back, not wanting to get involved. “Too late for what? Who are you?”
She said her name quickly, but my ears picked up a German name, Jewish, if I wasn’t mistaken. That disturbed me for reasons I shall not explain. She grabbed my arm and begged me for help. I pulled away from her. She was a young girl, no more than eighteen, her slender form appealing but her body fragrant with the smell of fear. She was dressed in a shapeless brown-checked suit cut with a sophistication that didn’t fit her.
Eyes brimming with tears, she went on to explain how Germany’s new racial laws threatened Jews and how things had only gotten worse since Kristallnacht, when gangs of Nazis and their supporters roamed through Jewish neighborhoods breaking windows, burning synagogues and looting. Since then, no one would take in the Jews fleeing the Nazi state. No one. Both England and America had refused her entry, so she boarded the Italian ship Conte Rosso to escape persecution from Hitler’s Reich. Without a visa only one place would take her.
“Where?” I asked, more out of politeness than curiosity.
“Shanghai,” she said.
“Lovely city. Do be sure to make the rounds at the Cathay during the cocktail hour,” I said, mentioning the Chinese outpost famed for its watering hole for wealthy visitors. I rambled on about the interesting members of the literati I often found lingering at the bar. I paid no attention to the blank look on her face. I merely wanted to get rid of her. A stronger urge pulled at me as I continued to stare at the Bar Supplice and I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. Istill ached for Ramzi’s arms around me, his sensuous voice spinning tales. Lies, but I didn’t care.
Meanwhile, the Jewish girl rambled on, begging me to help her. I tried to ignore her. What did her problems matter to me? Surely it couldn’t be as bad as all that in Germany. Not too long ago I’d traveled to Berlin with Lord Marlowe to attend a photography show at a gallery for my friend Maxi von Brandt. We knew each other from the old days when we both worked the cabarets, me as a dancer, her as a photographer, chatting up strangers on the telephones at each table and drinking in the pleasure palaces of Berlin. Haus Vaterland and the Resi. Fun days, filled with all the wildness and proclivity and sexual abandon of the Weimar
Similar Books
