I slip off the horse without a word. Six hundred people who have never known hunger stand still, breathless in the face of my nakedness. The music begins and I bend over backward, a silver-skinned diva in the jasmine night.
* * *
At the threshold of my room, Edouard appears absolutely delighted. He holds out his hand and I slip a gloved arm through his. “Ready?” he asks.
“I should think that my performance merits at least one compliment,” I say, as we journey down the thickly carpeted hallway. “Did you admire my horsemanship?”
“I admired more than that; you were stunning. Breathtaking. More regal than Godiva herself.”
“And this dress?” I prod.
“I am the person who bought it for you,” he reminds me. And then adds, “No woman in Paris—on earth—could hope to look more lovely in lavender. And those pearls . . .” He puts his hand over his heart.
“You are looking handsome yourself.” And it is true. In his formalwear his appearance is dashing.
“I know.”
“Rascal.”
We descend the stairs to join the Rothschilds’ party and he leans in to whisper instructions to me. “Everyone who matters is here. Don’t speak at length with anyone who appears drunk, in particular the German ambassador, an unpleasant man called von Schoen.”
At the bottom of the stairs a butler escorts us into a mirror-lined ballroom illuminated by dozens of chandeliers. And beneath them, on the polished wooden dance floor, hundreds of people are laughing and chatting.
“And be careful of Lady Brochard. That’s her, near the window.” He inclines his head slightly to indicate a plump woman in a burgundy dress. “She’s known for her sweetness and for passing on malicious gossip. But Lady Saint-Amour is a gem.” I follow his gaze to a slender woman with auburn hair. “And all of the Barton sisters are delightful. Although I haven’t spotted them yet.”
“Is there anyone you don’t know?”
“In Paris? Not really.”
Over the sounds of tinkling glasses and conversation are the high, sweet notes of a string quartet. We move through the room and I catch snippets as we walk. Women talking of horses and furs. Men concerned that the price of food is rising. Is this a good time to invest in wheat? What about corn? A dark-haired man meets my gaze and we both smile. Who could possibly care about wheat on a night as elegant and promising as this?
The string quartet is playing something slow. Edouard disappears and the dark-haired man asks me to dance. Henri de Marguerie. His suit is immaculate and the band on his wrist reads Rolex. It looks to be a tiny clock of some sort. “It’s a wristwatch,” he says when he catches me staring.
“I’ve never seen one,” I confess.
“Soldiers use them. In a few years, everyone will have one.”
“You’re military?” I imagine his uniform: army, air force, navy? He would be dashing in anything.
“I was a pilot. You were magnificent tonight,” he says, and I allow him to continue complimenting me as we cross the dance floor. An orchestra replaces the string quartet and the new musicians strike up a waltz. He tells me about his family in London. I tell him about my time in Bombay. Then the musicians abandon Johann Strauss and begin playing a more scandalizing tune; I learned the accompanying dance my first week in Paris. The handsome aviator raises his eyebrows at me, asking if I’m willing to accept his invitation.
The floor clears and his chest presses against mine. I give him my hand and he stretches it out in front of me. “Ready?” he asks. I can smell the faint trace of soap on his skin and the musky scent of cologne on his shirt. In front of the baron’s six hundred guests we begin the tango, stepping on half notes, dipping on counts three and four. He’s a wonderful dancer, my aviator. I imagine he is equally graceful when he is dancing horizontally.
When our dance is complete the entire room erupts into applause. We make our way to Edouard and I tell him that henceforth all future engagements must come with dashing aviators. The man laughs. So does Edouard, as a blonde slips her slender arm through his in a proprietary way.
“Well done,” she says to me, though I can’t decide whether she’s sincere or mocking me. Her hair is swept up into a pile of loose curls. She begins to steer Edouard away and I study the way she walks, how she holds her long cigarette between her forefinger and thumb.
As the evening progresses, half a dozen men ask me to dance. When the musicians begin their last piece, however, it’s the aviator who returns. “May I have the pleasure of escorting you to your room?” he asks.
I search for Edouard and his sophisticated blonde, but they’re nowhere to be seen. I notice that other couples are retiring for the night. “Yes,” I say.
He walks me to the stairs. The thick red carpet feels like velvet underfoot; it’s nearly black beneath the low light of the chandeliers.
“You’re quite the dancer,” I tell him. “So gentle yet so strong.”
“As are you, my little mouse.”
“Is that what you think I am?”
“Yes, and you should be careful before I pounce!”
He chases me up the stairs, pretending to be a tiger. And when we fall into bed together, I’m not even thinking about Edouard’s blonde.
* * *
The next morning Edouard appears in my room without knocking, before I’ve had the opportunity to change from my dressing gown. “Pack your things,” he says. “Quickly.”
“We’re leaving? I thought we were staying until—”
“The baron wants you to dance again tonight. But Mata Hari never repeats herself. You must always leave them wanting more, M’greet.”
“You can’t tell him no?” I’m imagining the Rothschilds’ other guests, already downstairs and chatting to one another over orange juice and champagne. I’m looking forward to seeing my aviator again.
“This is the baron. He is relentless.” He looks around my room, at all of my belongings—some hanging, some on the backs of chairs, some delicate pieces on the floor where they were discarded in haste. He sighs. “I’ll come back for you in an hour. Be ready.”
Edouard returns exactly when promised. He lifts my two cases and when I begin to protest, he shakes his head. “We’re using the servants’ stairs,” he says.
A small thrill passes through me as I follow him into a stairwell reserved for the household staff. A butler on his way to the second floor scowls at us, but I borrow the tone of Edouard’s blonde and say, “We’re on our way to attend to Lady Brochard,” and immediately he looks abashed and lets us pass.
Outside, the reporters are gone and Edouard’s car is waiting. He starts the car and as we drive away I feel as light as a child; Edouard looks like a giddy schoolboy.
“You’d make a fine spy, M’greet,” he says.
The car smells of freshly polished leather and smoke. The blonde must have been in my seat last night. We drive down the Rue du Cloître, passing under the shadow of Notre Dame. There are more cars on the road than carriages. I wonder if it’s the same now in Leeuwarden. “Do people have more money to spend or are cars getting cheaper?”
Edouard frowns. “I suppose they’re getting cheaper.”
“How much do they cost?”
“Close to fifteen thousand francs.”
The baron paid me twice that for Lady Godiva. I look at one of the rings that Guimet gave me and think that perhaps I will buy myself a car. We fall into silence. Finally, I ask, “So how was your night?”
He looks at me sidelong. “Excellent. Yours?”
I take one of the cigarettes the aviator gave me and light it the way Edouard’s blonde did, tilting my head back and letting the smoke out, slowly, sensuously, as I practiced in the mirror. “Wonderful.”
He grabs the cigarette from my mouth. “Jesus Christ, what are you doing?” He flings it out the window and I’
m shocked. “That’s a nasty habit.”
“Your blonde smokes!”
“Who?”
“The girl you left with last night.”
“She smokes? Well, notice who’s in the car with me. I don’t live with her.”
“You don’t live with me either!”
We both brood for several long minutes. Edouard is the one to break the silence. “I have another engagement lined up for you,” he says. “But this isn’t like our previous arrangements. There will only be women in this audience.”
“Wives want to see me perform?”
This makes him laugh. “I highly doubt it. You will be dancing for Comtesse de Loynes.” He waits several moments before realizing I haven’t heard of her. “Her literary salon is the most famous in Paris. She is in her sixties now; in her youth she had love affairs with half a dozen famous men, but she’s not truly interested in the male of the species. If your desire is to gain social prominence and recognition, Jeanne de Loynes can offer both to you on a platter. Her connections in this city are unsurpassed.”
I think of the reporters who followed us to the Rothschilds’: What would they write if they knew I was engaged to perform nude for a group of women? They’d be trampling bushes to cover the story. “Is it already confirmed?”
“Awaiting your approval.”
“Yes,” I say swiftly. “Of course. Tell her yes.”
Chapter 5
Glistens Like Water
So this is the famous Mata Hari,” Comtesse de Loynes says a few days later.
I have become an “overnight” sensation. Le Petit Parisien declares that I’m “the best-kept secret in France.” Le Figaro calls my performance for the Rothschilds “astounding.”
“Comtesse, it is a pleasure to meet you.” I hold out my hand so she can see the rings Guimet has gifted me and she squeezes my fingers, inspecting each one. Nothing about the Comtesse de Loynes is what I imagined. I had thought she would be tall and sophisticated—an older version of Edouard’s smoking blonde. But she’s petite and a bit plump, with a head of unruly still-brown curls. She reminds me of the American actress, Maude Fealy.
“Please, have a seat.”
She indicates a silk chair patterned with flowers. If the parlor reflects the house, her entire home is decorated in purples and mauves. The impact is slightly disconcerting. She may be famous for her salon, but I doubt she has ever been praised for her taste in décor.
“And please.” She leans forward. “Call me Jeanne.”
Immediately, the image of another Jeanne forms in my mind. But I refuse to allow it to come into focus; I simply won’t allow myself to dwell on her. Not here. I focus on the heart-shaped face of the woman in front of me instead. “Jeanne,” I repeat, giving her name a Malaysian lilt, and her hands go to the pearls around her neck, drawing attention to her face. It thrills men to hear their names spoken with an accent. Now I know it thrills her, too.
“You don’t look like Isadora Duncan,” she says. “If you don’t mind my saying.”
Yes, Isadora. The Dancing Nun. “My lawyer,” I say, brushing Isadora aside, “has told me you desire a sensual performance, a piece that is provocative.”
“Yes.” She moves closer to me. “I read in Le Figaro that the most sacred festivals”—her voice is a whisper—“involve a snake.”
I actually feel the color draining from my face. After I danced for the Rothschilds, Bowtie followed me all around town; I didn’t notice him until he finally cornered me with Edouard as we were dining at Maxim’s. I made up all manner of things to impress him. What else did I tell that man?
“If I arrange for such a creature, will you perform that dance?”
A servant lowers a platter of tea and sandwiches onto the settee between us.
“I . . .” I have never been near a snake, let alone danced with one. “I will have to consider this request.”
“I understand. The dance is sacred. In ordinary circumstances it would be viewed in a temple.” She indicates that the servant should pour the tea. “But as we do not have a temple . . .”
She has mistaken my reluctance for piety. I’m about to decline, to impress upon her the strict religious nature of a snake dance, when I recall how furiously Bowtie was scribbling. If he were to write about Mata Hari dancing with a living snake in Madame de Loynes’s famous salon in front of an audience composed exclusively of “certain” women . . .
“Please,” Jeanne says. She is actually begging.
I take her hand. “For you—and only you—I will do it.”
All throughout India men charm snakes. It can’t be that difficult to dance with one.
* * *
I inform Edouard that my new dance requires extra time to rehearse and he has given me seven days. But I still have not solved the problem of working with a snake. It has started to rain and the cream-colored walls of my apartment feel as if they are closing in on me whenever I think of reptiles. What am I going to do? My thoughts turn to the purse with the hundred francs. Perhaps I should visit the Champs-Élysées? I can shop, distract myself. I desperately need a new pair of gloves and also some boots for the winter. I look out the widow to judge how hard it is raining when the sound of the phone startles me from my daydreams. I hurry to answer it, feeling like an actress in a fancy movie. It is such a luxury to have a phone.
Guimet wishes to see me.
* * *
I watch from my window as the chauffeur opens the car door. As always, Guimet is impeccably dressed. Today he wears a long black coat against the rain and an expensive fedora. When he arrives at my door, I greet him with kisses and notice that he is wearing a new wristwatch.
“My God, I’ve missed you,” he mumbles into my hair. And then he says, “I hear you are dancing for Jeanne de Loynes next week.”
If my marriage to Rudolph MacLeod taught me nothing else, it schooled me in the ability to recognize jealousy in an innocent comment, to interpret a tone. When Rudolph asked, “Where have you been?” it always meant trouble. I could hear the tenseness in his voice as he sat at the table without his paper or drink, staring at the wall, waiting for me.
“I said, where have you been?”
“At the market,” I hurry my words. “At the market—”
“I told you not to go there anymore, goddamn it!” He pulls his arm back and hits me. “You think you can defy me? You think I don’t see the way you look at the men I command?”
“Yes. The performance is for a small group,” I say, forcing myself back to the present, ignoring the tense quality of his voice by imagining the Buddhas of Borobudur calmly meditating their way to Nirvana. “The gathering is for women only.”
“Jeanne will want you for herself, you know. Once she meets you.”
I did not realize Guimet was the type of man to be jealous of a woman. “A woman will woo me away from you?” I tease. I don’t like this ugly aspect of his personality.
“She’s no longer a beauty but she can still be very convincing.”
I want to ask if she has ever “convinced” him, but decide to distract him instead. “It’s only a dance,” I say. I lead him to my bedroom and we make love. Afterward, he isn’t angry. But he’s not happy, either, and he doesn’t offer to take me to dinner.
I spend the night alone, feeling anxious. I am unable to sleep for the longest time, and when I finally do, my dreams take me to my darkest times in Java.
* * *
I’m in no mood to rehearse the following day. It is a clear day and I wander the boutiques along the Champs-Élysées with the money Edouard left for me. I can hear his voice in my head, scolding me. “Only for important expenses!” But today everything feels tremendously important: the hand-painted silk scarf in aquamarine, the stunning citrine ring and matching necklace, the bronze incense burner I discover in a shop run by an Egyptian man and his son.
Nothing could feel better than this. Then I see a young girl begging outside of an expensive clothing shop and all of my happiness turns to dust. The girl has dark hair and wide dark eyes. Her arms look thin. She holds out her cupped hands and I tell her to wait while I go inside. When I come out, I wrap a new cashmere shawl around her shoulders. She begins to cry. “Thank you, madam. Thank you,” she keeps saying.
“It’s nothing, little one,” I tell her. “Where are your parents?”
“Maman is gone.” Meaning dead. “Papa is working.”
“What does he do?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
I buy her a warm baguette and several slices of meat. When I return home, my purse is empty, but Guimet has completely vanished from my thoughts.
* * *
Comtesse de Loynes phones to tell me that the snake has arrived. Edouard is sitting across from me, looking completely at home in one of a pair of aubergine chairs he bought for my apartment. As soon as I click the receiver back into place, he wants to know why the wealthiest woman in France is calling me at home.
“Why isn’t she calling me at my office?”
“Perhaps because you’re not there,” I offer. He doesn’t find my answer humorous. I can see by the look on his face that he is concerned. “Don’t look so grumpy,” I say. “I’ve planned a surprise.” Or a disaster.
He fixes me with his eyes. “I don’t like surprises.”
* * *
“Mata Hari!” Jeanne moves swiftly down the steps and kisses both of my cheeks. We walk arm in arm into her foyer, and for the second time in a week I am surprised by how little taste she possesses for furniture. The mirrors are ridiculously ostentatious. Her ornate chairs must have started life in Versailles; they look too complicated to sit on. She leads me into the foyer where the walls are frescoed with pasture scenes. Waiting for me is a man standing next to a crate. I smell straw and hear rustling. If I live to be a hundred, I vow silently, I will never boast about snake handling again.
“Mata Hari, this is Ishan,” Jeanne says. “He comes to us all the way from Bombay, not so far from where you were born, I believe?”
Mata Hari's Last Dance Page 4