Mata Hari's Last Dance

by Michelle Moran

  “In certain places, yes.” I gaze deeply into his eyes. “Very much so.”

  He nods and I know he is imagining himself in such places, with lovers capable of gravity-defying sexual positions. Although, in fact, the book is largely about virtuous living.

  “When you danced in the temple, what did you wear?”

  I look briefly at Clunet. We did not discuss this earlier. “When one dances for Shiva, it is done in the nude. Of course, jewels are like offerings to the gods. They never interfere with the sacredness of the dance. Unlike clothing.”

  I enjoy Guimet’s shock. And from behind me, I can feel Clunet’s approval like warm light. Guimet sweeps back a velvet drape to reveal an astounding collection of jewels: stunning necklaces, bracelets, and a ruby-studded brassiere.

  “This piece is from my last trip to India.” He hands me the silver brassiere. I touch it reverently, holding it up to my chest, pinning his eyes to me.

  Clunet breaks my spell in a clumsy instant. “Is that insured?”

  Guimet pulls his gaze away from my chest and claps Clunet on the back with a sigh. “Everything’s in order.” He turns to me, his new confidante. “He’s a good lawyer, Mata Hari. Always concerned. But does he have an eye for beautiful things? Does he appreciate art and the East like we do? Why don’t you select your favorite pieces to wear for your performance at the launch of my library?”

  I pretend to hesitate.

  “Please,” he says. “I insist.”

  I caress necklaces of gold encrusted with gems. Run my fingertips along silver so pure it’s white. I hold twisted pieces of bronze in my hand, weighing the history in them. In the end, I choose Guimet’s favorites: the brassiere, two snake bangles, a diadem that has pride of place in its own case, and a necklace that—as Guimet observes—will hang at “a lovely length” between my breasts. I pass my selections to Clunet and he locks the jewels in a long metal case.

  “My new library is across the street,” Guimet says. “It is both a house and a museum; I’ve recently added a second floor. It’s home to my greatest collections, gathered from all over the world. I’d like to show it to you, Mata Hari.”

  “Of course,” Clunet says. “We can go now if you’d like. I’ve been curious to see what you’ve accomplished.”

  Guimet looks at him and I wonder if Clunet realizes he hasn’t been invited.

  The three of us walk across the Place d’Iena and Guimet produces a key from his suit pocket. Before us is a two-storied building that stands opposite a life-size statue of George Washington on his horse.

  “They installed that five years ago,” Guimet says with distaste.

  I read the statue’s inscription. “A GIFT OF THE WOMEN OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA IN MEMORY OF THE BROTHERLY HELP GIVEN BY FRANCE TO THEIR FATHERS IN THE FIGHT FOR INDEPENDENCE.”

  “Have you visited America?” I look at Washington’s raised sword. He never visited Paris in his lifetime.

  “New York.” He smiles at a pleasurable memory. “There’s no finer city in the world.”

  I’m surprised by his answer. “You found New York more appealing than Paris?” I can still remember my first glimpse of Paris, her wide boulevards, her sparkling lights. Everywhere I went there was something new to see. And the women . . . they were all dressed like starlets in lacy Callot Soeurs gowns and Paul Poiret dresses.

  “Absolutely,” Guimet says. “There are buildings so tall in New York that some people are afraid to ride the elevators to the top. The entire city is magic.”

  Perhaps someday I will visit New York. A city of magic.

  He pushes open a pair of double doors and we step into a round library so beautifully designed that I hold my breath just entering. It’s a domed cathedral of light and space. The patterned wooden floors are polished to a sheen, and eight graceful columns rise toward the second floor. Everywhere you turn there are books, leather-bound and encased in glass.

  “My God, this must have cost a fortune,” Clunet says, stepping into the center of the room, marveling at the spectacular glass skylight in the ceiling.

  “A small one,” Guimet concedes.

  “Indah,” I say for Guimet’s benefit. In Malay it means, “beautiful.”

  Guimet leads us to the stairs and motions for us to follow behind him. Viewed from the second story, the entryway floor becomes a starburst of mahogany and pearl. I look at the priceless works of art assembled in this building and I imagine all the countries Guimet must have visited to create such a dreamlike, enchanting space—India, Java, China, Japan. His library is breathtaking. I study him in the soft light with new appreciation. A man capable of executing so many fine details to fulfill his own desire to create a cathedral to Asian art must be a gentle, tasteful lover. Clunet said Guimet was married once. I wonder what became of his wife, whether she died or ran away like I did.

  We stand at the wooden balustrade and Guimet clears his throat. “Edouard, do you still have my lapis necklace in your office?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you retrieve it for me?”

  “Certainly. Tomorrow—”

  “Actually, I would like to have it now.”

  Clunet frowns. “Very well. Mata Hari, shall we—”

  “I believe that Mata Hari is quite comfortable here. No need for her to join you.”

  Both men look in my direction and I weigh the choice in front of me. Clunet holds my gaze for several moments and I wonder if he’s instructing me to say no. Or is he willing me to stay?

  “I’m sure there are many treasures in this enchanting library that Monsieur Guimet would like to share with me,” I tell him. “I see many intriguing books that I would like to know more about. You take care of business, Monsieur Clunet. I’ll find my way home.”

  I look at Guimet and he smiles.

  * * *

  When we’re finished, Guimet reclines on his bed and stares at the ceiling, breathing deeply. “I had no idea,” he keeps saying. “No idea . . .”

  I run my hands over cotton sheets so fine they feel like silk. This is where I belong.

  * * *

  As I dress the following morning in the cavernous luxury of Guimet’s bedroom, he asks what I will require to enhance my performance when I dance at the unveiling of his museum. “Anything,” he stresses, as he tightens the blue sash of his silk robe. “Tell me what you need and I will give you absolutely anything.”

  Countless things I need leap to mind. But I limit my request to statues I’ve seen in Hindu temples and heavy bronze incense holders that are common in Java. “Also,” I say, “I will need a set of Javanese gamelan. Eight instruments. And a flute and zither as well.” It’s a tall order. But Guimet appears unfazed.

  “Consider it done.”

  Chapter 2

  My Dance Is a Sacred Poem

  This time I am the one who is early. I wait for Clunet in the foyer of my run-down building. I rent my tiny room from a man who beats his wife. The carpets stink of urine and mold. I force myself to take a deep breath. After tonight, when Guimet and his guests meet the “Star of the East,” perhaps I’ll never have to live with the scents of poverty again.

  “What are you doing?” Rudolph snapped the first time I allowed myself to inhale the fragrances of Java. The air was heavy with the scent of the yellow and white blossoms of frangipani trees.

  “Smelling the air,” I said, already regretting my marriage to him.

  “You enjoy the scent of cow shit?”

  I ignored his comment and pointed to where terraced gardens were being cultivated in shades of emerald and jade. “What’s being grown over there?”

  He licked a stray morsel of food from his mustache. “Those are rice paddies and coconut palms. The natives call the paddies sawahs,” he said with a dismissive grunt.

  Sawahs. I committed the word to memory. “And t
hat grass, what’s it called?”

  “Alang-alang. A bloody uncivilized language if you ask me. Too much damn singsong. It’s no small wonder these people never contribute anything to society. They’re all too lazy and too busy singing.” He checked his pocket watch. If the driver went any faster our luggage would topple over and litter the streets. “It’s shameful. We colonized this land fifty years ago. But with darkies, what can you do?”

  We were on our way to Yogyakarta, to the house that would have cost a prince’s fortune if it were built in Amsterdam. It was only a few days after my eighteenth birthday, and when we arrived, I ran inside and danced through its whitewashed rooms, admiring my burnished teak furniture and bamboo tables. “I can’t believe it,” I kept saying. I touched everything. The oyster-white countertops, the cinnamon and beige curtains, the flowers in terra-cotta pots. I took off my shoes so I could feel the polished floor, cool as silk, against my feet. “There are servants,” Rudolph said, impatient with my excitement. They appeared on cue behind him. Two women and a man. All three bowed. The women smiled and I recognized my amber tones in their skin, my long, dark hair in theirs. I felt I had come home and I thought that I would live there forever as Margaretha MacLeod. Lady MacLeod.

  Now I know I should have married a man like Guimet. Intelligent, refined, a lover of art. A gentle man.

  Three uncouth-looking men pass through the dingy lobby and try to engage me in conversation. I shiver inside my black cloak. I’m wearing almost nothing underneath it—only a few veils and a thin top. I turn my back on the men and wish Clunet would hurry. When he finally arrives, he parks across the street and I watch as he walks up the three steps into the lobby. As he enters, I’m certain he is appalled by the same things that dismayed me the day I made this building my home. The stains on the carpets, the old tarnished mirror decorating the wall—the odor. Still, this is preferable to ­having him inside my apartment again; I know how shabby it is. Rue Durantin is all I can afford.

  “Ready?” he asks, and pretends not to notice my embarrassment. He offers me his arm as if we were in an elegant hotel, and he walks me to his car. I wait as he opens the door for me. He tucks in the edges of my long cloak as well.

  “Thank you,” I say. Rudolph never opened or closed my carriage door.

  Clunet starts the car. As we drive toward the Place d’Iena I begin to feel nervous. I try not to imagine what will happen to me if my dance is rejected; life won’t be worth living if this evening is a disaster. Then the dream of Paris will truly be gone. I glance at Clunet, his expensive blue suit and thick salt-and-pepper hair. If I fail to impress, he’ll toss me away as easily as he tossed that rose from his car the day we signed our contract.

  He must notice the way I am twisting the fabric of my cloak because he says, “Nothing to be frightened about, M’greet. I’ve seen you perform. You’ll conquer them tonight.”

  But there is everything to be frightened about. “There will be so many guests—”

  “Yes. Think of it as performing in a theater.”

  “An exclusive theater; every member of the audience is astoundingly wealthy.”

  He smiles. “That is the very best kind of playhouse.”

  I recognize the statue of George Washington. We have reached the Place d’Iena. There are still three hours before the two hundred guests are due to arrive, but I’ll need the time to practice and dress. A butler answers the door and as soon as we’re inside, Guimet pounces on us. He’s all compliments and smiles with me, but with Clunet he’s more formal. He offers his hand and says, “Looking forward to tonight.” Then he turns back to me, as excited as a boy. “Wait until you see what I’ve done.”

  He escorts us across the street to the library and I’m truly amazed. He has transformed a cathedral of books and art into an Indian temple. Incense wafts, thick and heady, between the columns, while men dressed in gold silks and wearing jewel-encrusted turbans wave ostrich-feather fans. A three-foot statue of Shiva Nataraja, the destroyer of worlds, glitters from the center of the room. I close my eyes for a moment and breathe deeply. He has spared no expense and the authenticity is exquisite; it is as if Paris is thousands of miles away and I am standing in a temple in Java.

  Exactly as I requested, a gamelan orchestra is poised, waiting for me. The musicians have set up in the back of the room. In the car I was nervous; the stakes are so high. If I succeed, I am guaranteed entry into high society; if I fail, it is back to Montmartre and misery. Yet standing in front of Shiva—who is trampling Illusion with his right foot—I feel powerful and strong. I take off my light cloak. I am wearing only the silver brassiere and a thin silver band on my thigh that is clearly visible through my diaphanous skirt. Guimet cannot take his eyes off me.

  “I must rehearse,” I say, dismissing the two men.

  Guimet immediately kisses each of my cheeks. “Bonne chance,” he says on the first, and on the second kiss, “Shubhkamnaye.”

  Good luck in both French and Hindi.

  But it’s clear that Clunet isn’t going to leave. “Thank you, Edouard,” I say, handing him my cloak. Then I focus all of my charm on the men in my orchestra. “And thank you for joining me for tonight’s experience. This dance is unlike anything you’ve witnessed before. While we rehearse I ask but two things of you: If you are shocked, hide your emotions. If you are offended, leave.”

  The men exchange looks between themselves. A few of them have glanced at Clunet; none have met my eye.

  “My hope, however, is that each of you will stay. That you will help me create one of the most memorable evenings in Paris, one that will make you famous throughout this city.”

  The men look intrigued; one or two has risked meeting my glance.

  “We have less than three hours to come to know each other, to anticipate each other’s needs. We will practice the entire dance together. We will rehearse until we know we are perfect. I will enter from beneath the stairs.” I indicate the exact spot. “You will start to play moments before I come out, gently transporting our audience away from the present, away from their everyday lives. Then—at the instant I appear—the music must crescendo.”

  We run through the dance and my hips sway to their music, the movement and the percussion carrying us all to another world. I am certain some of these musicians have seen dancers partially disrobe; they have knowing looks in their eyes. But when I slip off the last of my layered skirts and kneel before Shiva, my back arched, everything I was born with displayed, I know their shock is genuine. I glance over in time to see Edouard Clunet with his eyes as wide as those of the men in my orchestra.

  His expression tells me I’m in exactly the right position.

  * * *

  I hear the sounds of people moving into the library, members of French society talking and laughing and taking their places.

  “This is quite a spectacular room.”

  “I hear the entertainer is Japanese.”

  Chairs scrape across the floor. Then the lamps dim and all conversation stops as Guimet begins his introduction.

  “Our guest was born in the south of India at Jaffnapatam. She is the daughter of a great Brahmin family. Tonight we will witness one of the sacred dances of India.”

  The audience murmurs as the orchestra begins, filling the room with music few people in Paris have ever heard.

  “She will honor us with the dance of the devadasis, a sacred art belonging to the Hindu god Shiva. In doing so, she will bless this library. I present to you the dancer, Mata Hari.”

  I enter the room and the music crescendos.

  Two hundred pairs of eyes turn toward me.

  “My dance is a sacred poem,” I begin, as the orchestra plays a slow rhythm. I am offering them the precise speech Mahadevi fabricated in Java, a Dutch colony worlds away from this exclusive gathering. I have memorized it faithfully, to the letter. I spread my arms. “Each movement is a wor
d and every word is underlined by music.” I pause; la gratin listens, spellbound. “The temple in which I dance can be vague or faithfully reproduced as it is here tonight. For I am the temple. All true temple dancers are religious in nature and all explain, in gestures and poses, the rules of the sacred texts.”

  I begin to move my hips. “One translates the divine attributes of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva—creation, fecundity, destruction. This is the dance I dance tonight. The dance of destruction as it leads to creation.”

  The room is mesmerized as I translate the speech into English, Dutch, German, then Javanese. By the end, no one understands what I’m saying, but I see that they are enraptured with the foreignness of my words, hypnotized by my movements.

  The music changes, becomes a slow sensuous beat. I close my eyes and free the knots that hold the veils of my skirt in place, letting them drift, like petals, to the ground.

  The hypnotic sounds of the flutes rise and yet I hear the audience gasp as one.

  I kneel before Shiva; all that clothes me now are the silver arcs on my breasts and the silver band across my thighs. The wives in the audience are wide-eyed. I imagine the husbands are wishing for looser trousers.

  The music becomes deeper, more urgent. I crouch, exposing myself to the men in the front row. Quick as a flash I lift my arms and offer myself to the audience in seductive, orgasmic waves. The men sit forward. The women lean back.

  I fall on my knees before the statue of Shiva and arch my back in ecstasy.

  As the music climaxes, Guimet is the first to leap to his feet, applauding.

  * * *

  “Excuse me,” Edouard interrupts my conversation, cupping my elbow and guiding me toward a secluded spot. The entire library is abuzz. I overhear the words “brilliant” and “incomparable.” The line of people waiting to talk with Guimet will easily take several hours to get through. I look over my shoulder at the handsome young officer I’ve been pulled away from and wink at him, promising my return. Is anything more attractive than a man in uniform?