His face registers surprise; I hold his eyes and he keeps his silence.
“I know you must be eager to begin your rehearsal,” Jeanne continues, “so I’ll leave you two alone.” She shuts the door and the expectation on her face is almost embarrassing to witness. She should learn to better conceal her emotions.
I look at the crate. “The snake is inside?”
“You have never handled a snake before,” he says.
“No. And I’m afraid of snakes.”
He sighs. “The key is not to be afraid.” He reaches inside the box and lifts out a glistening creature that is much larger than I anticipated. It must be at least six feet long and it’s very muscular. Its forked tongue flicks in my direction. “Touch,” he says, holding the snake out for me, one hand keeping the head firmly at a distance while the rest of the animal is winding its way around his body.
“Will it bite me? Will it poison me?”
“I am holding the head. And this snake constricts; there is no poison. Touch.”
I touch. The skin is dry and cool like spun silk—not at all how it appears. I run my hands along its back and I feel a small thrill. This creature is powerful and elegant—and looks so dangerous.
“I will put her around your shoulders,” he says.
“She?”
He drapes the python around my shoulders and smiles. “Yes.”
I hold my breath as the snake moves its heavy body around mine, hugging my limbs, sliding over my breasts. The creature’s weight is somehow comforting. “She is beautiful.”
“She likes you.”
I think he must be mocking me: Can a snake truly be partial to someone? But Ishan is the picture of earnestness. I watch as the snake slides her tail between my thighs, her skin reflecting the light. “She glistens like water but feels like silk,” I observe.
Ishan’s entire face glows, like a proud father. And for the next four hours he guides me, instructing me on how to hold her, where to place my hands so that she is supported, how to understand her body language.
“Treat her well,” he promises when we are finished, “and she will never harm you.”
* * *
Jeanne calls again, this time to tell me she has borrowed pieces from a friend’s collection to transform her salon into a temple to Kama, the handsome Hindu god of desire. She calls a third time to ask if I have read the morning paper. Specifically, she wants to know what I thought of the article describing how Isadora Duncan is teaching young girls to dance and “share in her classic ideals.”
“I have a surprise for you Mata Hari,” she says, her voice full of promise. Then she says that she has hired eight girls to dance with me. “Perhaps you could come over this evening and rehearse with them?”
As soon as we disconnect I find the newspaper. I search until I find the headline.
DANCE ON THE SANDS AS IN ARCADIAN DAYS
PARIS—At Neuilly, near Paris, in that charming “garden city,” where there are more trees than houses and where dwell more artists, musicians, painters, and sculptors than merchants, Miss Isadora Duncan, the American dancer, the priestess of Greek beauty, and her troupe of little girl pupils reside today in a pretty villa, and one can see all these young devotees of Terpsichore dancing on the sand of the shady paths or on the moss and amid the ferns of the grounds.
No picture could be more enchanting in its ideal charm and classic gracefulness than the dancing of these twelve little girls—the youngest is only 6 years old and the oldest 14—clad in light white or blue tunics, in the purest classic style, with their lasso hair held by a bandeau “a la Greeque,” bare armed and bare legged.
Several times a day Isadora Duncan teaches the little nymphs. One by one, or all together, the happy pupils learn to be graceful and yet natural.
If Jeanne has hired six-year-old children to dance with me, I will have no option but to cancel. Surely she wouldn’t have, almost certainly they’ll be adults, but I skim the rest of the article.
As to how Miss Duncan evolved the idea of training children in her art, the story is best told in her own words:
“I sat once, on a bright afternoon, on the sands of Noordwijk, in Holland. I saw from afar my little niece, who was ‘instinctively’ dancing on the silver edge of the ocean, because the sun was bright, because the air was warm and cheering, because she felt happy to live. Nothing could have been more beautiful than the little barefoot girl dancing with intense joy, with the ever moving blue sea as the background.”
I stop reading. I do not want to imagine little girls dancing by the sea.
* * *
“Mata Hari,” Jeanne says, kissing my cheeks and ushering me inside later that evening. “You are a vision!” She leads me down a number of hallways until we are in a wide room that I have not seen before. “Here are the ladies. They are yours to command.”
I do my best to hide my relief. They are tiny creatures—girls as thin and as pale as slips. But they are not children. I picture them flitting around as light and nimble as fairies. Standing before them, I feel like an Amazon. Did I look as eager and hopeful as they do when I first arrived in Paris looking for employment? “Thank you, Jeanne,” I say. I know exactly how I’ll incorporate them into my dance.
“Anything you need, absolutely anything, all you have to do is ask, Mata Hari.”
She leaves us alone. There’s a stage in the center of the room and sitting in the middle of the stage is a large bronze statue of the Hindu god Kama.
“Kama is the god of desire,” I explain, gesturing for them to come closer. “The dance we are going to perform is sacred in India. It happens only once a year—at harvest—when women gather before the statue of Kama and try to seduce him.”
“Why do they do this?” someone asks, a pretty girl with an upturned nose.
“Because Kama can grant them whatever they wish. Whatever desires are in their hearts. But he only chooses one girl. The one he desires most. Each of you will be standing on stage.” I arrange them around the statue. “When I appear, I will be dressed in nothing but a thin white veil and a snake.”
The girls look at one another. “Not a living creature?” one of them asks.
“Yes.”
“Will we have to—”
“No. I am the only one allowed to touch the snake.”
Their relief is visible. “And our dress?” another asks.
“I assume you’re all familiar with Isadora Duncan?” I say benevolently. “You will all wear the kind of sheaths she favors.”
Again, relief. Her sheaths are modest; they cannot be considered remotely revealing.
“I will be the only one undressed. Now in India, the girls approach the god with their hands outstretched. Here.” I show them a pose of supplication and each girl imitates it.
I describe what the room will be like on the night of the performance. The lights will be dim. There will be incense and smoke.
“Each of you will entreat the god yet fail to move him. You will then glide to the edge of the stage, maintaining your arms in prayer, and form a semi-circle around Kama. After the last girl has attempted to seduce the god—you,” I choose Upturned Nose, “I will appear.”
Chapter 6
Give Them a Story
Are you sure there’s nothing else I can bring you?”
Jeanne has delivered a cup of water to me. I’d desperately love a glass of wine as well, but I have to be clearheaded for this performance. Women are taking their seats in the salon and I hear them whispering to one another, asking about the statue in the center of the room. The only men here tonight are Edouard and Bowtie; I invited them both.
“I have everything I need,” I tell her. I tighten the pair of gold vanki on my upper arms and slip heavy red bangles over my wrists. Both the vanki and the bangles are adorned with snakes, and I admire the gleam of their ruby eyes.
I shake the bells on my anklets to be certain they are untangled and will sing while I dance. I touch the triangle between my breasts and feel the silver amulet that Mahadevi gave me one afternoon as we sat in her parlor in Java, sipping rum from frosted glasses. It is the only piece of jewelry I wasn’t able to pawn after I arrived in Paris and I am glad I still possess it. Shaped like an eye, it is meant to ward off evil. Rudolph believed it was a sign of witchcraft.
“I have everything I need,” I repeat. I wish Jeanne would take this cue and leave, but she lingers; now she is glancing at the amulet. “Were you born in India?” she asks. “Is that the truth?”
I’m tempted to say no. We’re so very similar, Jeanne and I. She wasn’t born into luxury and wealth; she was born Marie-Anne Detourbay. Bowtie told me she earned her title on her back. But I tell her what Edouard would want me to say, especially before this performance. “Yes.”
The gamelan orchestra she’s hired begins to play the piece I call “Seduction.”
“It’s time,” I tell her.
“Good luck.” She kisses both of my cheeks. Her hand lingers on mine. “You’re quite the mystery, Mata Hari.” And I can see this excites her.
She leaves and I allow myself a quick memory. I am learning to imitate Mahadevi’s hands; we are moving our hips together slowly and hypnotically, our arms raised. “Did you know,” she asks me, “that my mother was Buddhist and my father was Hindu? It was a forbidden love.” She sighs. “It should have stayed forbidden.” Then she stops our lesson abruptly and says, “You must dance in public with me.” She reaches out and touches my hair. “In yellow, you would be a goddess,” she says.
I am shocked. I’ve discovered that she is twenty-nine and has entertained many men. She understands men, the way they think. She is more than a dancer. This was why she owns such nice things yet has no husband. I envy her. I want to be able to look at a man and say, “He wants me for a week. No more, no less.” I think about what it would be like to buy anything I want. I compare my life to Mahadevi’s and decide I want that kind of freedom, even if it comes at the price of men who only stay for a week. I accept her invitation although I know there will be consequences. My error is in believing I will be the one to suffer them.
The night that I dance with Mahadevi, two hundred people sit in Rudolph’s garden, dressed in chiffon and gold, laughing with one another. The women wear silk and pearls; the men look dashing in their uniforms and brass. When Mahadevi and I finish our performance, the wives of my husband’s subordinates, not knowing whether to be awestruck, scandalized, or both, finally stand and applaud. Their husbands’ admiration follows, and I bathe in their sun as Mahadevi kisses me on the lips, her taste like saffron; our sarong-clad bodies melt together like molasses in the warm island moonlight.
I look at myself in the mirror. What is the difference between those men in Java and these women in Jeanne’s salon? “None,” I whisper. They both crave a spectacle.
* * *
In a small room outside the salon my eight dancers are listening for their cue. Ishan is with me backstage, minding the snake. The guests are all seated and now the first of the eight doomed to fail the god Kama enters the salon. Through a small opening in the curtain I watch her dance: She is faithful to everything we’ve rehearsed. She finds her place, and the next dancer begins. She, too, positions herself around the god of desire. There is absolute silence in the room. As the next girl appears, Ishan drapes the python like a stole across my shoulders, its diamond-shaped head resting between my breasts. I adjust my posture to accommodate the weight, and I anticipate what is to come. Soon, Upturned Nose has joined the ranks of the others who could not win over the god. I step from behind the curtain and take the stage wearing only a sheer white veil and the snake. The women in the audience gasp collectively.
The lights dim and I let my veil fall. I am shaved, a nubile virgin gifting herself to the god of desire. In the flickering candlelight the girls join my veils on the floor, watching as I make love to Kama. They chant as I begin to writhe and moan. I think I hear a woman in the audience invoke God’s name. As I reach my climax the girls rush from the stage as a scarlet curtain falls: I am no longer a child, but a woman.
Backstage, I quickly return the snake to Ishan, and he gently places her in her crate. We both can hear that the audience is ecstatic. After I slip on a simple black wrap and place camellias in my hair and around my neck, I rejoin the salon. Some of the women are fanning themselves with their hands. I go directly to Jeanne and kiss her lips, knowing how much it will shock Bowtie and Edouard. For a moment, she’s stunned, and I wonder if maybe I’ve presumed too much. Then she takes my hand and raises it with hers. “The beautiful and alluring Mata Hari!”
Everyone wants to meet with me. To shake my hand or kiss my cheek or to ask me questions about India. Bowtie is busy snapping away, alternating between writing and taking photos. But Edouard remains at the back of the room.
“A moment?” Bowtie asks, interrupting a woman who is standing too close and telling me about her trip to Bombay.
“There is an intruder in the house!” I tell her. “A man!” In truth, I am so happy to be rescued from her company that I am tempted to kiss him. Instead, I follow Bowtie to a quiet corner where he can interview me in peace.
“That was quite a show you put on. Was it truly an authentic temple dance?”
“Of course. I believe I already told you—”
He waves away my response. “That’s part of the act. I get it. I’m merely curious.” He bends his head toward me. “Off the record.”
He is wearing a dapper chartreuse bow tie with a plain gray vest, but it is his baby face that tempts me to confide in him. I resist and honor my promise to Edouard. “Yes, this is precisely how this dance happens in India. Once a year. At harvest time.”
He nods. “Good. Now give me something new to work with. Readers already know you come from India. They read all about it after Guimet’s soiree. Give me something exclusive that I can tell them now.”
I laugh self-consciously. What does he require from me?
“Tell me about the snakes in the temples. Do you sleep among snakes if you dance in the temple?”
“Snakes—”
“Fantastic! They sleep with you to keep warm. And it’s dangerous, isn’t it? But young women like you believe the god will protect you. Is that right?”
He’s practically feeding it to me. “Yes.”
His pen is moving faster than I can speak. “And have you always lived in India? Is Paris the first city you’ve lived in since leaving the country of your birth?”
“I’ve lived in Java,” I reveal, wanting to remain as close to the truth as possible. Those are always the most believable lies.
He looks impressed. “And what did you do in Java?”
“Dance. And fall in love,” I say, warmed by his enthusiasm.
He looks up sharply. “Any man in particular?”
I look at him slyly. “All men, of course.”
“But there was one man in particular. You were married, am I right?”
I am not prepared for this question. How does he know about my marriage? I’ve told no one. Not even Edouard. “I’d prefer not to talk about—”
“Was his name Rudolph MacLeod? Was he in the Dutch army? He was much older than you—”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” I repeat. I can hear the shrillness in my voice and lower it immediately. “Ever.”
“Do you still love him?” Mahadevi asked me before I left. She watched me closely under her thick, black lashes.
I avoided her question. “He’s old. He’s sick. He has rheumatism, and a bad heart. He’s going to die soon.”
“A man like him? He will live to be a hundred and four. Men like him live forever.”
“All right, all right.” Bowtie flips his notepad shut. “They’re going to love t
his. Thank you,” he says. “I’m off to file this and then have a drink at the bar in the Grand.” He tips his chin and leaves with his story. The room has largely cleared; Edouard is waiting for me near the door; he’s been standing there for at least half an hour.
“Are you ready, Mata Hari?” he asks. “Shall we get your cloak?”
Suddenly Jeanne is at my side, her arm linked through mine. “Oh, it’s early yet! Mata Hari is welcome to stay.”
“I don’t think that is advisable—”
“Would you like to stay, Mata Hari?”
I glance at Edouard. “Very much.”
I expect him to object; instead he leaves without saying goodbye.
Jeanne takes me by the hand and leads me to a room that is unbelievably overdone in florals and gold. A pair of Chinese lamps flank her bed, along with matching chairs in an aggressive pattern. But the bed! I have never seen one like it. It’s the size of the stage I performed on tonight. I look at Jeanne and think I know what she wants. Another performance. Instead, she leads me to the edge of the bed. Then she sits next to me and says, “That was extraordinary. Truly, Mata Hari.”
“Thank you.” In the way she looks at me she reminds me—for a fleeting moment—of Mahadevi. She could gaze with eyes like black fire. The heat of Mahadevi’s stare was sometimes too intense. Many times I looked away, embarrassed.
“I’ve never met anyone like you in France. Or anywhere else.”
“That’s what Edouard says,” I answer, looking her straight in the eye.
“He’s more than your lawyer, isn’t he?”
I don’t know why I’m blushing. “No. It’s strictly business between him and I.”
I can see by Jeanne’s face that she’s surprised. “I had thought you were lovers.”
“No,” I scoff. “He’ll never settle with one woman.”
“Men don’t have to. That’s how women like us stay alive, isn’t it?” I had thought she would be embarrassed by her past. “Thank you for agreeing to stay,” she says.
“I’m risking a great deal to be here.”
Mata Hari's Last Dance Page 5