There is another pause on the phone.
“I’m sorry.” And I really am. “It’s bigger, Edouard. And closer to Givenchy.”
“Is that all that’s important now?” he says.
“Why don’t you come over? Let me take you to dinner.”
“I’ve already eaten.”
* * *
That night I dream of my father. Dressed in my best suit, a cream silk trimmed in green with small pearl buttons and looking like a genuine baron’s daughter, I walk quickly along the streets of Amsterdam, stepping over the fruits of the spindle trees that litter the sidewalks. My heels crush them into the ground, turning them into stains of red.
I follow the canals to the center of town. Here the ginkgo trees hang heavy in the heat. I arrive at the bottle-making factory. I stare up at the blackened brick building. I walk up steps covered in soot. Inside, the lights are dim. I adjust my hat and immediately a man appears to greet me. He is dirty, with stained trousers and grease on his face.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, I’m looking for a man. Mr. Adam Zelle.”
“Oh ma’am, I’m sorry.”
“He’s dead,” I whisper, feeling it in my heart.
“Dead? The last I saw him he was fit as an ox.”
“Then what are you sorry for?”
“He left six months ago to take another position.”
So he is alive. My papa is alive! “Do you have any idea where he went?”
“I can tell you exactly: 148 Lange Leidschedwarsstraat. I was there last night. His new wife cooks up a feast every Sunday.”
I awaken gasping for breath.
Chapter 7
Can Madrid Appreciate a French Sensation?
Edouard lets himself in to my apartment on Rue Balzac as if he’s the one paying the rent every month. “How would you like to move up from private shows to theater performances?” he calls to me.
“Like La Madeline?” I answer from the kitchen. That would be wonderful. They rejected me before Edouard discovered me at L’Ete. “Why not?” I take the flowers I’ve been arranging and join him in the living room; he is on my couch lighting a cigar. “We could charge five thousand francs,” I suggest, “for a single performance.” I think of the owner’s smug face and imagine the pleasure of telling him what a performance from Mata Hari now costs. Enough to buy a car for each day of the week. Although when I would find time to drive it would be another story . . .
“No, not in France.” He snaps his silver lighter shut with his thumb.
I stop fussing with Jeanne’s flowers.
“Madrid,” he says. “The Kursaal.”
The Central Kursaal in the Plaza del Carmen? It’s one of the most beautiful buildings in Spain. “Will they want me?”
“Of course. It’s time we build Mata Hari. You are a ‘French sensation’ right now,” he says, and I realize he is quoting someone, “but destined to be an international one, M’greet.”
He pulls a clipping from his breast pocket. It’s Bowtie’s latest article and now I understand. We met for dinner last week at Maxim’s. He told me our last interview had sold out Le Figaro. Tell me something sensational, he said, as if we might trade gossip of any other kind. I hesitated before giving him Givenchy; I did not want to make the marquis angry. Then Bowtie bragged about his interview with Isadora Duncan—how her latest lover is Paris Singer, of Singer sewing machines. I knew he was casting a line, but I bit. I gave him details. I told him where he could find us the next afternoon, at Longchamp betting on the horses. He waited with his camera and notepad. I pretended to be shocked by his sudden appearance; he pretended to be shocked by his good fortune. Now I read the headline: MATA HARI AND HER MARQUIS: WILL THEY MARRY? Beneath the headline is a photo: I’m wearing a walking skirt with a matching parasol and wide-brimmed hat. Givenchy, in his linen suit and straw boater, looks dashing.
As soon as Bowtie started snapping photos Givenchy became angry. Is that the man who interviewed you last month? I recall that bow tie.
I don’t recognize him, I claimed.
But he saw through my lie and hasn’t called since. Maybe it doesn’t matter now. “Do they sell Le Figaro in Amsterdam?”
Edouard raises his brows. “Someone there you’re hoping to impress?”
I shrug and tuck the clipping into my pocket. Another victory to put in my scrapbook.
“The Kursaal,” Edouard says, “is a venue that requires something extraordinary. Not an Indian dance. An exotic character the masses will identify with. I don’t want you to repeat Lady Godiva—”
“Cleopatra,” I say.
“Perfect.” Then his eyes grow distant. “We will book you in Madrid, Berlin, and after that, who knows?”
“In Berlin,” I say, “I want to dance Salome.”
That evening I leave messages with both Givenchy and Guimet to let them know that I will be leaving Paris shortly. It’s been so long since I’ve seen Guimet that I’m not sure if he will care. But he calls a few hours after Givenchy—who expresses dismay that I’m abandoning him.
* * *
“And that gives that lawyer a reason to abscond with you? What about my needs?”
We are sitting in the restaurant of the Hotel de Crillon. He’s dressed in a blue suit and I realize I could search a dozen cities and never find a man as good looking as Givenchy. But the man is in love with himself. Whomever he marries must be willing to worship him.
Before the wine has even arrived Givenchy is asking why I must go. I remind him that I’m performing at the Kursaal and he talks over me as if this doesn’t matter. “What can Madrid offer that Paris doesn’t? Can Madrid appreciate a French sensation? I ask you again, what about my needs?”
His self-absorption is both exasperating and comical. I imagine his childhood. Nannies tripping over themselves to give him toys, sweets, pony rides. “I’ll send you telegrams,” I promise.
We eat our dinner in silence.
Guimet, however, is practically joyful. We sit across from each other in Maxim’s and over roasted duck he tells me what to expect in Madrid.
“The Spanish are not like Parisians. They run hot, like the Italians,” he says. When I ask him to explain, he tells me, “It’s the way they dance, the way they talk. It’s in their blood. Or maybe it’s in their food.” He laughs.
“It sounds like you enjoy Spain.”
“More than any other country in Europe.”
I imagine being as well traveled as him. Where would I want to go if I had already seen everything? Back to Java. To the beaches and hills and my friendship with Mahadevi.
“If you have time, see the museums,” he suggests. “The Prado especially. Edouard is going with you, correct?”
“Yes.”
“He’ll know where to take you.”
“He’s been to Madrid?”
“A dozen times, I should think. His business takes him everywhere.” He sips his wine and watches me thoughtfully. “He likes you.”
“Of course he does. I make him money.”
“It’s more than that.” He puts down his glass. “He enjoys your company, Mata Hari. If I had the time to return to Madrid, I’d go with the both of you.”
I try to picture it. The three of us traipsing across Spain. It would be museums and fine dining and the theater every night. I wouldn’t even have time to perform!
“Perhaps when you return, we’ll go on a trip.”
“That would be lovely.”
“I’ve always wanted to go on safari,” he admits. “I have friends who have been. They tell me that the savannah is unlike any other place on earth. It gets into your soul. It’s a very long journey, but I’ve never known anyone to regret it.”
I can’t imagine traveling so far away from the people I love. Even if Edouard came with me, I couldn’t do it. B
ut I smile, because I know it will never come to pass. Guimet may go, but he won’t take a woman he hardly knows so far away or for so long. A trip like that is an investment. You take a woman you want to marry. Not some casual lover.
“But why don’t we talk about that when you return?” He raises his glass to me. He isn’t distressed at all that I’m leaving. Instead, he’s excited on my behalf. “The world deserves to experience rare things of beauty,” he says, and at the end of the meal he hands me a gift. It’s an Egyptian necklace. Perhaps he’s glad I’ll be away from Jeanne and Givenchy. “The scarabs in the center are three thousand years old.”
He fastens it around my neck and I feel like Cleopatra. I tell him this.
“I doubt she was as exquisite as you.”
* * *
The next morning at the train station I show the necklace to Edouard. In the bright spring light the scarabs, set in gold filigree against agate and jade, appear brilliant. He looks from the necklace to me. “He must like you,” he says drily.
And even though he is being blasé, I feel delighted. Rudolph wanted me, but he never liked me. He never liked anyone, including himself.
The train pulls into the station and Edouard rises. “Our adventure begins,” he says.
A porter takes our luggage and my pulse races as we pass by coach and enter the first-class car. Edouard sinks into one of the oversize chairs—I have never seen seats this large on a train—and takes a newspaper from a stand, looking as comfortable as he does in his own office. I notice that a few of the women in first class are glancing my way; they recognize me from the papers. Several minutes pass before the sound of a whistle tells me we’re about to leave. Slowly, the train pulls away from the Gare de Lyon and I’m so excited that my nose is practically pressed against the glass.
Edouard lowers his newspaper. When I catch him watching me, I take out my compact but he doesn’t look away. “Have your parents tried to contact you?” he asks.
I snap my powder case shut and study my reflection in the window. My hair is pulled back beneath the veil of my hat, and in my yellow dress chosen by Jeanne de Loynes I feel like I actually belong in first class. Thinking of Jeanne pricks me with guilt: I should have returned at least one of her calls. “My parents are gone,” I tell him.
“Gone where?” he prods.
“Gone out of my life. Why? What does it matter?”
“It matters a great deal. They will to try to contact you,” he says. “Sooner rather than later. This applies to anyone you’ve ever owed money to. Anyone you’ve ever considered a relative. You’ve gained considerable fame, M’greet, and people will start to come out of the woodwork. I’ve seen it happen.”
“That’s absurd. How would they know me? I’m Mata Hari now.”
He looks at me as if he isn’t sure how a person can be so foolish. “Your picture is in every paper. Every word you speak is published alongside your photo. You believe your own blood won’t recognize you?” He tips his newspaper at me. “Prepare yourself.”
“You make it sound as though I’m going into battle,” I say. Then I think of Rudolph and just as quickly shut him out of my mind. “So what is the name of our hotel?” I ask.
“La Paz.” He opens his paper and my photo is there next to Bowtie’s article: MATA HARI ABANDONS FRANCE.
* * *
I open the doors to my balcony at La Paz and inhale the scent of saffron. Guimet was right. The food, the people, even the weather—all of it is marvelously different from France. “This is exactly what I need.” I toss my hat on to my bed, feeling exuberant. “Let’s go out tonight, Edouard!”
“Sorry. Other plans. And you have a contract for fifteen performances. Get some rest.” He leaves and I wonder if she is blonde.
Fine. I will enjoy the city alone. I have never seen Madrid, and why should Edouard be the only one to have fun? There must be handsome men in this city. Perhaps some Spanish officers. When I tell the hotel concierge what I’m looking for, he grins. “There aren’t many women as truthful as you are.” He directs me to a part of town lined with jewelry stores and bars: an ingenious combination.
* * *
The cabdriver takes me through the Barrio de Salamanca to Serrano Street. It’s the most exclusive part of the city. “No poor people here,” he tells me. I can see why. Everything seems costly and reserved, like old titled men. The area doesn’t have the same feeling as Paris, where everything feels sharp and modern. Old growth trees line the roads. There are more carriages here than cars. But the wealth is unmistakable. It’s in the cut of people’s suits as they pass and the dark beauty of the horses as they trot through the streets. The chestnut trees are in bloom and everything smells wonderful.
The cabdriver lets me out on Serrano Street. There are businesses and bars, as the concierge promised. I walk a little ways, taking in the feel for the city. There are very few women here. But there are a number of single men.
I see Eliodoro before he sees me. Leather boots, gold watch, three gold rings. He’s not an officer, which is disappointing, but there’s something about him I like when our eyes meet.
“Señorita.” He tips his hat to me.
“Señor.”
We spend the evening together, drinking, dancing, then drinking some more. When he leans across the table at Las Noches to kiss me, I don’t stop him. On the dance floor behind us, women are doing far more scandalous things.
“Come home with me,” he says.
I refuse. “I don’t even know you.”
“Then let’s at least enjoy the night air.”
I agree to this and as we walk the streets he tells me about his life in Madrid. His ornery wife, his three difficult children, his business trading oil. He has no interest in my life or in knowing anything about me. He simply wants to talk and I let him. When I return to La Paz at six the next morning, Edouard is pacing outside my room.
“Where have you been?”
I turn my key. “Out.” I give him a sly smile and hope it infuriates him.
“We leave in ten minutes,” he says. “I’ll be waiting in the lobby.”
* * *
From the passenger seat of our rented car I roll up my knee-high stockings and yawn. “Have you ever been to the Kursaal?”
“Yes.” Edouard glances at me and his eyes rest on my necklace. “Something new?”
I touch the cold stones; they feel solid, permanent. “You like it?” A small keepsake. “From last night.”
He doesn’t respond, and I don’t make further conversation. When we arrive at Tetuan Street, Edouard parks the car; there is no valet.
The Kursaal is more beautiful than I imagined, with towering Greek columns and laurel designs. We enter the building and I am swept away: the high ceilings, the chandeliers, the dramatic scenes from Spanish literature decorating the walls. I move closer to one of the paintings to see if I can recognize its source but am interrupted by a man who steps directly in front of me.
“Mata Hari? It is! Welcome, welcome!” He embraces me with kisses and I laugh.
“Mata Hari, this is Ramón,” Edouard says. “The owner of the Kursaal.”
“Ramón,” I say. “So lovely to meet you.”
Ramón kisses Edouard’s cheeks and tells us both how excited he is. “You have no idea, the anticipation. No idea! Come, I want to show you the theater. Then we can meet the dancers.”
He takes us on a tour of the Kursaal. Everything about it is enormous—the chandeliers, the ballroom, sweeping flights of lushly carpeted stairs. Nearly every wall that isn’t painted is mirrored. When the sun sets, I think, the chandeliers will be absolutely dazzling. In a mirrored hallway carpeted in red velvet a long line of dancers are waiting. “Two dozen of the most beautiful women in Spain.” They are taller than Jeanne’s dancers, and though I wouldn’t think it possible, even more beautiful. They press around
me, telling me their names, hoping to make an impression, eager for me to remember them. “We’ve heard so much about you,” they say. And, “Everyone in Madrid is in awe of your talent.”
I look at Edouard, overwhelmed by gratitude. “I hope you will all help me make this two of the most memorable weeks in the history of the Kursaal. It’s an honor to be here.”
* * *
On opening night, I am Cleopatra, queen of the Nile. The female dancers Ramón has given me are dressed in Grecian sheaths and golden breastplates. The male dancers wear nothing but short, white kilts. On stage, in front of a thousand people, I dance her agony with Caesar, her ecstasy with Antony, her untimely death. I wear more jewels than the queen of England and a constricting snake (it seemed unwise to wear an asp). I don’t wear anything else. The next morning I am front-page news in every paper.
“You see this? You see this?” Ramón holds up a copy of La Vanguardia. He is waiting for me in the lobby of the Kursaal.
I look at the front page. There I am. And next to me, all teeth and lace, is Ramón. Beneath us is the headline: MATA HARI TAKES THE CITY OF MADRID BY STORM.
“You are a gift! The most exciting thing that’s ever happened to the Kursaal,” Ramón says. “Thank you for coming here.” He takes my hand.
“Ramón—”
“No. Thank you.” He’s weepy eyed and sentimental. “Is there anything I can do? Anything I can get you?”
“Nothing, Ramón. I don’t want to keep you.”
“Take this,” he insists, pressing the newspaper into my hand.
“Thank you.” I will keep it for my scrapbook. “I should go and rehearse.”
But when I get to the ballroom, everyone is standing in a circle around one of the musicians—I believe his name is Jean Hallure. He is sitting on the floor. “Encore, encore. Will it be like that every night? Mata Hari is going to exhaust us!” he is muttering.
The circle of dancers and musicians breaks up as I enter. Jean Hallure has his head in his hands and is very drunk. When he sees me, it appears as if he believes he has summoned me. “Mata Hari, I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you!” he bellows. Then he blanches and makes a pathetic attempt to rise and ends up lurching back to the floor. The other performers are shaking their heads in disgust.
Mata Hari's Last Dance Page 7
