Mata Hari's Last Dance

by Michelle Moran

“Did you say a woman taught you to dance like that?” Edouard asks the moment we are alone. “Mona Devi?”

  “Mahadevi,” I say, irritated that he’s mangled her name. “She danced at the elegant parties I attended in Java. She wore silver bangles and sheer yellow veils. She owned rubies and sapphires as big as my thumb.” I leave out other details: that I was the hostess of those parties, not a guest. And that my husband forbade me to learn the magic of her dances. That she promised me “with every new sun comes new chances, a new day to reinvent yourself.” That she was the first to call me Mata Hari, “Eye of the Dawn.”

  “Who is that man I was talking to?”

  “In the uniform? No one.”

  “He has to be someone.”

  “An Italian officer, judging from his costume.”

  “Ah. A poor mortal like yourself.”

  Edouard looks genuinely astonished. “Are you quoting Petrarch’s Lives?”

  “My father read it to me. When I was a child, he’d quiz me on the names of the ancient Romans. Greeks as well. The gods they worshipped, the temples they built.” Sometimes, instead of reading, he would tell stories from his childhood. How, when he was a boy, he was asked to pose as King William’s horse guard in a portrait painted for the Royal Gallery.

  Guimet laughs loudly at something one of his guests has said. Edouard’s hand drops from my elbow. “He was impressed with you tonight.” He pauses. “And I’m sure last night as well.”

  I don’t deny it. We are both adults. He said he wants no secrets between us.

  “I’m going to find you a better place to live. To maintain his belief in you, you’ll need an apartment that he can visit.”

  I am a child in an instant. “Can I have a bathroom, and running water, and a balcony that looks out over the city?”

  “All of that and more. But first, I believe I have secured another engagement for you. Have you heard of the Rothschilds?”

  Have I heard of them? Of course I have. They’re as rich as kings.

  Chapter 3

  Everything I Hoped For

  Close your eyes and I’ll transport you to a temple called Borobudur,” I whisper in Guimet’s ear as we lounge in his bed and listen to the rain. I’ve convinced him that I conceived my sacred dances at this sanctuary and offered them to the faithful, but this isn’t true. I did visit the holy place once, on a morning as warm and fragrant as this March morning is damp and chill. Sofie, my only friend and the wife of one of my husband’s subordinates, arranged the outing. We made the trip without the men, accompanied by my servant, an Indian woman named Laksari.

  Guimet closes his eyes and I paint him a picture with words. Gone is the mahogany four-poster bed. Now, we are traveling in a rickety andong. I am pressed between Laksari and Sofie. We pass by roadside stalls where the scents of fresh fruit and cardamom waft heavily in the air. Bananas hang in bunches from the tops of bamboo huts and signs promise Freshly Picked and Ripe—I know this because Laksari is translating as we pass them by. There is absolutely nothing of Leeuwarden here. In Yogyakarta one can see reflections of The Netherlands in the way the officers’ wives dress, in the foods offered in the market—but this is a world of its own. We pass through a river valley with thatched-roofed houses on stilts. The houses climb up the tiered slopes and sweep down into rice paddies.

  “They allow ducks to eat the rice?” I ask, watching the emerald-throated birds bob and nibble.

  “The ducks do not eat the rice,” Laksari corrects me. “They eat the insects that hurt the rice.”

  We wind along palm-fringed roads and listen to women singing in the fields while men at the warungs—tiny shops—call out to us to buy fresh coconuts. The andong takes us through a small grove of heavenly smelling pine to where bamboo houses nestle against the hills. They are covered by twisted magenta garlands. Laksari tells me the funnel-shaped flowers are called ipomoea.

  When the andong driver announces, “Nearly there, my ladies,” we are transported back in time. Before our eyes an ancient temple rises from the jungle floor, partially obscured by abundant flora and twisting vines. Dutch soldiers work in complete silence, laboring to clear off the lush vegetation; it appears as if the verdure wishes to reclaim the terraces that rise, one above another, as the temple ascends to the sky. I breathe deeply and believe I am inhaling the wisdom of a thousand years.

  “I am sure you know Borobudur was built by the Shailendra dynasty. And that it took eighty years of labor to build,” I say to Guimet, tracing my finger over his chest.

  In my memory, Sofie, Laksari, and I walk to the base of the holy place and I touch the wall. It is made of basalt. On the first level, inside, are friezes illustrating the stages of life.

  We go inside and the temperature drops. It is cool and the air smells of soil, of the earth itself. Sofie points to images depicting Greed, Ignorance, Envy. According to Buddhists, she says, you reach enlightenment by overcoming desire. If you are a slave to earthly desires, you will never achieve Nirvana, the ultimate ­enlightenment . . . heaven, I suppose.

  Slowly, we make our way to the top of Borobudur, an ascent that elevates us, delivers us so close to the heavens that you can view volcanoes jutting through the forest canopy.

  At the topmost level of the pyramid we discover the meditating stone Buddhas. They are sitting in quiet bliss, feet crossed one over the other, palms outward, contemplating the world from inside stone bells. At first glance they look identical; closer inspection reveals subtle differences in the placement of their hands. In the very center rests the largest bell pointing toward Nirvana.

  “Ah. Nirvana,” says Guimet, startling me back into the present. He cups my breast and jiggles it in his hand.

  * * *

  I search the papers later that morning and I find my review under the headline SACRED DANCES OF BRAHMANISM I read it as quickly as I can, holding my breath.

  “This is different from any dancing I have seen in Paris,” said M. Mollier, who spoke to the director of the Guimet Museum, an establishment devoted to art pertaining to religions of the extreme East, and where lectures are given to students twice a week.

  Different from anything he has seen.

  The article continues:

  “The dance begins in slow rhythms and gradually becomes highly impassioned. The costume is purely Indian, disclosing the skin, which is profusely ornamented with jewels and slender gold chains. The feet are bare, and in her improvisations derived from the ‘Mantras,’ or sacrificial incantations, she often works herself up to a pitch of excitement and frenzy that may be more readily imagined than described. The dance symbolic of worship to the three deities of Brahmanism, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, are intensely emotional . . .”

  I skim to the end:

  “The Brahman dances present the most original novelty of the Parisian season.”

  I feel pure exhilaration.

  * * *

  Edouard has taken me to a building on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, a fashionable street in the eighth arrondissement. We are standing on the threshold of my new apartment, yet he refuses to open the door. First he asks me if I know that Saint-Honoré is the patron saint of bakers. Now he delays further by asking me to imagine what’s inside.

  “A room,” I say, too excited and impatient for games.

  “Very clever. What manner of rooms?”

  “I don’t know—oh, Edouard, please, open the door!”

  Inside is absolutely everything I’ve ever hoped for: parquet flooring, heavy cedar-wood beams, chandeliers with crystals, a bathroom with running water, and a balcony overlooking Paris. I hug him; he has given me everything I asked for. I run my hands over the satin chairs and breathe in the scent of the fresh-cut yellow roses in crystal vases. I have read that yellow roses are symbolic for “new beginnings.” I hope this is true. I absorb my good fortune. It’s obvious the furniture choices are his:
heavy masculine pieces in mahogany and glass. Large gilt-framed paintings. Persian carpets.

  “I love everything,” I tell him, as I spy a telephone. My own telephone!

  “It is a luxury you will need, I am sure. The two of you will have all the time in the world to become better acquainted later this evening. You may want to join the Telephone Subscribers’ Association. But this afternoon we must go shopping.” When he sees my expression of surprise, he searches for the right words before admitting, “You require a wardrobe. A proper wardrobe.”

  I am not insulted by the implications. I am thrilled to be considered a courtesan—I have read of mistresses to barons and princes who live in splendor like this.

  “Money for emergencies,” he says. He reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a purse. “Before we leave, let’s find a safe place for it.”

  It holds one hundred francs. My God, it’s enough to live for two months.

  * * *

  As we drive together down the Rue du Faubourg Saint-­Honoré, he explains what I can expect from the Rothschild’s event. They have planned a party for more than six hundred guests, and Madam Rothschild has requested that I perform something from the classics.

  “Tristan and Isolde,” he suggests.

  “Lady Godiva,” I counter. Her story was a favorite when I was a child. My father knew I loved the tale and only told it late at night when my brothers were in bed. “Tell her I absolutely must have a horse. That is a requirement. A white horse,” I add.

  “Do you ride?”

  “Of course. Would I ask for a horse if I couldn’t ride? My father taught me.” Before he disappeared, leaving bills and empty cupboards to remember him by.

  Edouard is nodding. “A white horse, nonnegotiable.”

  I glance out the window and watch the women walking along the Champs-Élysées. They are breathtaking, wearing dresses of such rich fabrics that Marie Antoinette would be envious. I imagine myself in a metallic brocade with lace. I add delicate sleeves and a high black belt to accentuate my waist, and improve the whole ensemble by including pearls around my neck.

  “Everyone who sees you must remember you,” says Edouard. “That is our goal. This requires strategy; none of your dresses are to be repeated. The same rule applies to your performances.”

  Edouard stops the car in front of an exclusive-looking women’s boutique. I’ve never been inside such an expensive shop. The moment we step out of the car a man in a black suit takes Edouard’s keys.

  “You’re giving your car to a stranger?” I ask, astonished at his lack of concern.

  “The man’s a valet, M’greet. It’s his job to watch cars.”

  I blush and say, “Of course.” But as we walk away I keep turning around.

  * * *

  Inside Le Bon Marché the air is lightly perfumed—lavender and vanilla, I think. And suddenly it’s my thirteenth birthday again and my father has taken me to the finest dress shop in Leeuwarden. Find her a dress that’s fit for the queen, he says, and the shop girl is more than happy to oblige. But here, in this shop, there are so many exquisite items to look at that I feel slightly overwhelmed. I linger by the front window, where there are rows of shawls. Each looks as soft and rich as butter. I delicately brush them with my fingertips, and feel intoxicated.

  “Choose,” Edouard tells me, gesturing expansively. “You need four or five ensembles for this engagement, minimum.” Then he sighs, and says almost to himself, “A Rothschild event waxes on for days.”

  I try on a dozen different dresses, hats, cashmere shawls. I am one of the women on the Champs-Élysées. I hold up a gleaming string of pearls. “These?” I ask, although he has said nothing about my lack of jewels. “Every woman needs pearls.”

  Edouard nods his approval and the shopkeeper asks, “Would madam like to try this matching bracelet?”

  * * *

  That evening I don’t go back to Montmartre. I return directly to my elegant apartment on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. I unlock my new life and stand on my private balcony to gaze out over Paris while I wait for Guimet to arrive. The air is chilly and the sun is setting but I have wrapped myself in cashmere and I feel deliciously warm and safe. I will leave my old possessions in that miserable rented room. They belong to the past. I have no desire to claim them.

  Chapter 4

  Looking for Fame

  I have lived in Paris for more than a year, yet in all that time I never realized that a few minutes of travel could take me from Notre Dame to Baron Henri de Rothschild’s château. It’s the most beautiful building I’ve ever seen, hidden from the road by a thick bed of trees and protected from outsiders by a great stone wall. Edouard’s car pulls into the circular drive and I see reporters crowding the columned steps of the estate.

  “Are they here for me?”

  “They’re certainly not waiting to hear my opinion on international law,” Edouard says drily.

  I bite my lower lip.

  He places his palm on my knee. “You’ll be fine.” He steps out and opens my door; then the barrage of questions begins.

  “Is it true that you were born on the Malabar Coast?”

  “Yes,” I say, before I’m even out of the car. “In the city of Jaffnapatam.”

  “Is this how you spell it?” A reporter thrusts a notebook under my nose. He’s wearing a card that says Press in the hatband of his fedora.

  “Exactly.”

  I get out and a second reporter maneuvers through the crowd. He is wearing a bright yellow bow tie. “So tell me, Mata Hari, what is required of a temple dancer?”

  “The most sacred festivals require the ability to charm snakes,” I say. “It is dangerous work. My mother—”

  “What makes you different from Isadora Duncan?” someone else shouts.

  Edouard pushes several reporters out of the way and we climb the steps of the château. At the front door he turns to the crowd: “As she’s said, her mother danced at Kanda Swany, and yes, she died giving birth in a temple. Now if you’ll excuse us, she has a dance to perform.”

  “Tell me about India,” Bowtie persists, and the crowd of men surge, pushing us against the door. “When will you be returning?”

  “Never,” I say. “France is my home now.”

  A dozen pens begin to write.

  “Now if you’ll excuse us.”

  A butler opens the heavy oak doors as if on cue and Edouard ushers me inside.

  “Can you believe that mob?” I whisper. “Those reporters would have followed us inside if you hadn’t blocked them.”

  “Yes, they’re a real pain in the ass. Isadora Duncan?” he asks, in a tone of disgust. “That woman clomps about wrapped in blankets. She’s as seductive as a nun. There’s no comparison between the two of you.”

  As the butler ushers us down the hall I keep looking out the windows to see if they’re waiting for me.

  “Stop that,” Edouard says. “You’ll only encourage them.”

  “Isn’t that what we want?” They’ve all gone away. All except Bowtie, who’s trying to push through the hedges so that he can see through the glass. I walk closer to the windows, hoping he’ll catch a glimpse of me.

  “Yes.” Edouard guides me away with his arm. “But not here. The Rothschilds are private people,” he whispers.

  What kind of private people, I wonder, host an event for six hundred guests?

  I don’t have to wonder for long. We meet them in the salon, decorated in loud pink brocade chairs and heavy silver mirrors. Baron Henri de Rothschild is short and fat: He makes me think of a little toad. I have heard that he is a playwright, that he uses a pen name. I tower over him as I execute a well-practiced curtsy, allowing him a quick glimpse of breasts. His bejeweled wife, Mathilde, frowns.

  “So. We have heard that you were born on the Malabar Coast,” Rothschild says, offering me
a seat.

  “Yes. My mother danced at Kanda Swany. And now I am honored to dance for you.”

  “I understand you will deliver something different from your performance at the library?” He sounds disappointed, but his wife looks relieved.

  Edouard catches my eye; he told me that the baron begged for a repeat of the temple dance. But his look says, we never repeat performances.

  “Tonight,” I tell him, “I will give you Lady Godiva. A noblewoman who defied her husband while clothed by her long, lovely hair.” When the baron’s wife gasps, I add, “She was bold, acting for the welfare of the poor.”

  “I believe those who did not merit an invitation to tonight’s event will deeply regret their absence,” Edouard says quickly. “This evening we will bear witness to a once-in-a-lifetime performance.”

  “Indeed!” The baron’s pleasure is evident. He summons a servant and tells him to show us to our rooms. “Mata Hari must rest and prepare.”

  The room is spectacular and the view of the lake calms my nerves. I sink into the cloud of expensive linens on the bed. I wonder what Bowtie is writing about me. I close my eyes for only a moment before a sharp knock on the door disturbs my peace.

  Outside, the baron is smiling. He is so fat that the exertion of climbing his own stairs has left sweat on his brow. But his eyes are beautiful and his taste—the cut of his suit, the soft leather of his shoes—is impeccable. I invite him inside and he notes that I’ve unpacked.

  “I hope the accommodations are to your liking?”

  “This room is wonderful,” I say.

  “Occasionally my foreign guests find these suites too large. Too lonely.”

  “It’s very big,” I say, understanding him perfectly. “Yet how can I be lonely now that you are with me?”

  * * *

  Under the full moon I arrive in the jasmine-scented garden on a white horse, covered only by my hair and a translucent veil.

  “Is she wearing anything?” a woman whispers. “Anything at all?”

  “I think she’s naked!”