Mata Hari's Last Dance

by Michelle Moran

  I search the busy streets for a cab. The night is a swirl of red and gold lights, a child’s dream of Christmas trees and carolers. And what have I spent it doing? Dancing naked for men who lie to their wives about where they’re going. Inside the shops, the cheerful lights remind me of the way my family decorated our house; of how, on the Feast of Sinterklaas, my brothers would jump on my bed before dawn to wake me so we could creep down the stairs together and spy on the presents that were waiting for us. How different my life was before my mother died and I was sent to the Haanstra School for Girls.

  The holiday I spent at that school was difficult. We girls gathered together under the mistletoe at the end of November to draw names for a gift exchange to celebrate the Feast of Sinterklaas. No one wanted to pick Hendrika Ostrander’s name.

  “No one wants her,” Naatje whispered.

  Adda shook her head. “Last year, someone bought her a comb.”

  When Mrs. Van Tassel held the red hat in front of me, I fished out a name: Hendrika Ostrander.

  We exchanged gifts in the drawing room. From Georgiana I received a thick scarf. Adda was given an exquisite silver bangle, with tiny etchings and a clasp. Naatje’s present was a leather purse made in Italy. All the girls were rapt as Hendrika opened her gift from me. There was the sharp intake of breath when the girl who was Mrs. Van Tassel’s designated toilet cleaner held up a rabbit’s fur bonnet for everyone to see. It had cost me two weeks’ wages.

  Hendrika’s eyes were red. “Thank you,” she whispered to me and I nodded back.

  Everyone deserved a little beauty in their life, I thought. Even Hendrika.

  A black taxi pulls up next to the curb. Edouard is spending the evening with his mother; she is hosting a Christmas party. I want that. To have a mother who expects me every Christmas. Instead of a lying father.

  “Where to, mademois—Mata Hari!”

  I look out at the carolers. Last night Edouard invited me to his mother’s party. I told him no. Now I change my mind. “Madame Clunet’s,” I tell him. “On la Rue Jacob.” An hour’s drive.

  * * *

  I wrap my fingers around the silver knocker and bang twice. The house is exactly as I imagined it, with cozy lace curtains and potted flowers.

  The door swings open and there is Edouard: a drink in one hand, a cigar in the other. There is an expectant hush behind him, as if he were in the middle of a joke and I interrupted the punch line. It’s an uncomfortable feeling.

  “M’greet!” Edouard steps back. “You came.” His smile is genuine. “I’m glad.” The party turns to look at me, a woman arriving alone in a black dress and a mink stole. They are a refined group: ladies wearing ancestral pearls and men that smell of expensive business deals. Edouard picks up a spoon and taps his glass. “I would like to introduce a guest.”

  I feel my cheeks warm. “Edouard, please.”

  He clears his throat. “May I now have the pleasure of announcing Mademoiselle M’greet MacLeod.”

  I feel the color drain from my face. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard this name.

  “She is my client and a most talented dancer.”

  I am frightened to look up; will they recognize me like the taxi driver did? When I do, all their faces are still welcoming. No one at this party reads stories about Mata Hari. But they trust Edouard’s judgment, and I am ushered in warmly.

  They crowd around me, Edouard’s grandpere in his black silk jacket, and his grandmere, with her strong perfume. They want to hear about Edouard as a businessman, they want to tell me stories from his childhood, and how Aunt Adorlee met Uncle Geoffrey on the dance floor to the song “L’Amour Venge.” It is the most wonderful evening I’ve spent since I was a young girl and had a family. When it’s time to go home, Edouard walks me out to his car. He smells like pine needles and brandy.

  “I know why you came,” he says as he opens the car door. “You were lonely.”

  I am mortified; hanging the embarrassing truth out like a girl’s private laundry. “I wasn’t!” I lie.

  “Yes, you were.” He is smiling. “I also know you didn’t encore. The Odéon called before you arrived.” He hesitates. “They fired you.”

  I don’t believe it. “Fired me? He can’t do that. Encoring isn’t in the contract.” I feel myself becoming enraged. I need that money for my daughter. “Edouard. I want that money. The full amount.”

  “I don’t—”

  “I will never dance for the Odéon again!”

  “All right.”

  “And I want you to sue him for breach of contract.”

  * * *

  That night, alone and furious in my apartment, I allow myself to remember Rudolph. I conjure him sitting at the table waiting for me.

  “You’re home so early,” I said. “I—”

  “Where have you been?”

  “I visited a temple with Sofie.” I hurried my words.

  His face went red. “Goddamn it!” He pulled his arm back and hit me. “I told you to stay in this house!” I backed up toward the stairs. He grabbed my hair, jerking my head toward his. “You think you can defy me?” He twisted my arm behind my back and shoved me into the wall, crushing me with his weight. “Do you think I don’t see how you look at other men, you little hoer?” He pushed me up the stairs and into the bedroom, throwing me on the floor.

  The next thirty days stretched impossibly long.

  When the blood didn’t come, I had to acknowledge the horrible reality.

  I was carrying Rudolph’s child.

  Chapter 12

  I Should Have Heeded the Danger

  1905

  When I see him across the lobby of the Plaza Athénée, I’m sure I’m mistaken. I stop and stare. He is sitting across from a woman I recognize. She is one of my dancers from my time at the Odéon. Audrey? Annique? Whatever her name, she is laughing, tossing back her head, touching invisible pearls at her neck. Across from her, hanging on every word, is Bowtie. His fedora with its Press card is in his lap. His notepad is out and he’s writing furiously. Before I can stop myself I cross the lobby. The sharp click of my heels makes several people turn.

  “Mata Hari!” Bowtie stands. A deep flush creeps along his cheeks. He hasn’t interviewed me in months.

  “What a surprise to see you here,” I say drily.

  The blonde smiles at me from her chair. It is the smile that women reserve only for their competition.

  “Yes. Well, Annique,” he nods toward the pretty blonde, “is opening her own show at the Odéon this week.”

  The Odéon!

  Annique nods. “Nice to see you, Mata Hari.”

  There is nothing nice about it. Bowtie shifts his eyes from me to her and I can see the wheels spinning in his head. “Ladies, this is such a lucky meeting,” he says. “Perhaps you’d care to tell Le Figaro your plans, Mata Hari? Will you be in attendance?”

  “What is being performed?” I ask, as my entire body goes hot.

  “Cleopatra,” Annique says, without the barest hint of shame.

  Bowtie is absolutely beside himself with glee. “Didn’t you play Cleopatra in Madrid?” he asks, with false surprise. “The Odéon has two Cleopatras meeting by chance at the Plaza Athénée. Extraordinary. Two Cleopatras in one room!”

  “My act is quite different from hers,” Annique says. “In mine, all the dancers perform nude. We don’t use veils. It is very modern.”

  They’re both watching me. I think I’m going to be sick. Annique stole my act and now the Odéon is hiring her. I have a crushing feeling in my chest; I haven’t had a new contract in months. Edouard took the owner of the Odéon to court and won, but that money isn’t enough to keep his men working to rescue Non. I’ve paid for three scouting missions so far—each one more disappointing than the last. They can never get close to her. Whenever Non is not with Rudolph she’s
at school, and when she’s at school a nanny sits outside waiting for her. The woman never misses a day, never leaves her post.

  I turn on my heel and leave Bowtie with Annique. Then I take the long way home. Children are racing paper boats in the Seine. It’s a beautiful day but all I see are the numbers dancing in my head. Ten thousand: what it will cost to bribe Rudolph’s nanny; Edouard has told me this. Six thousand: the amount I’ll need to pay for another reconnaissance mission, and there will need to be more, possibly many. Six: the number of weeks I haven’t worked. Ten: the number of days since I last saw Edouard. Two: the number of men this last week who bought me something worth pawning. One: the only child I have left. And she’s waiting for me. Edouard says his men tell him she looks happy. She appears healthy and well cared for. She has friends in school and jokes with her nanny. Is it true? Or are they telling me lies to make the waiting easier?

  When I get home, Edouard phones to tell me that La Madeline wants my Cleopatra.

  “Charge them an outrageous sum,” I tell him, feeling vindictive. They rejected me when I first arrived in Paris.

  “I already have.”

  “Then double it.”

  * * *

  I’m being crushed by the circle of reporters surrounding me. There are so many cameras and notepads that I couldn’t find Bowtie in the crowd if I wanted to. When the bulbs finally stop flashing, I do see him. He thrusts a paper under my nose.

  PARIS SHOWDOWN: IN DUELING CLEOPATRAS MATA HARI CONQUERS

  “Not bad.” I keep walking, letting my white fur trail behind me. It’s an older coat but no one would know it. And suddenly I feel I can conquer Annique and the world. I wait while my chauffeur opens the car door. Before he can close it, Bowtie is there. “Mata Hari, will you be around for—”

  “For what? For something Annique isn’t available for?”

  “Hold on, now.” He puts his hands up, as if I’m pointing a gun at him. “You know the ropes; this is business. Who knows that better than you? The ‘Showdown’ piece sold more copies for Le Figaro than every other article I’ve written this month combined. Meet me tomorrow,” he pleads. “You’re good for my career.”

  He’s a pretty talker, but the truth is that he’s good for mine, too. I make him wait several moments before answering. “Same lobby. Ten o’clock.”

  He tips his hat to me and the chauffeur closes my door.

  * * *

  I arrive in the lobby of the Plaza Athénée at ten minutes to ten.

  Last night I had a terrible dream. I was standing on stage and no one was in the audience. I kept waiting and waiting, but no one came. The horror of the dream isn’t how real it felt but that someday it will be true. How many years do I have left? Five? Three? There are younger girls duplicating my roles right now. There are no more veils to drop. How will I afford to bring Non home? How will I take care of myself?

  “Mata Hari?”

  “Yes?” I look up and realize that a balding man in an expensive suit wearing a striking gold watch is standing before me.

  “Felix Rousseau,” he says.

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Felix.”

  “I want to tell you how much I enjoy your shows. I’ve been to one in Madrid and I was there last night at La Madeline. I wish I had seen you in Berlin.”

  “You’re a traveler, then?”

  “For work. I’m a banker.” A very wealthy banker, his smile adds.

  I learn he has a château at Esvres. Fifteen butlers, seventeen maids, a stable full of horses. “He collects everything,” I tell Edouard the next day when I see him for lunch at Maxim’s. “Suits of armor, coins, musical instruments, cars.”

  “Women?” Edouard asks, and he actually looks jealous.

  “He did say he is unhappy with his wife.”

  Edouard’s lips thin. “So he’s an original liar, too.”

  * * *

  The next weekend Rousseau invites me to Esvres. “Give her whatever she wants,” he tells the servants. And they do. There is coffee waiting for me after my morning ride, in the afternoon a dozen new books are arranged in the parlor, and in the evening we dine at the Plaza Athénée, my new favorite place.

  “Mata Hari, I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine. An artist by the name of Pablo Picasso.”

  He’s a little man in an oversize coat. I extend my arm and he kisses my hand briefly. “I’ve seen one of your shows,” he says. “You are wonderful. Rousseau does nothing but talk about you.”

  “Oh, that’s a lovely exaggeration.”

  He smiles. “Perhaps someday you will sit for a painting.”

  He must be very talented if Rousseau is interested in him. I am about to agree when Rousseau speaks. “Most unfortunately Mata Hari is very busy,” he lies.

  Both men look toward me.

  “My schedule is full,” I say, and I see Rousseau’s shoulders relax. But perhaps he is too relaxed. “However, it is very flexible, like I am.”

  Later that evening Rousseau buys me a ring worth a thousand francs, and I recognize how easily he can be led. When he takes me to the races at Longchamp the following day, I search out Pablo. We talk and I laugh at everything he says as if he’s the most charming man in Paris. It doesn’t take very long: Pablo is in the middle of a story about Spain.

  “Mata Hari,” Rousseau interrupts.

  I look at him and mouth shhhh. I turn back to Pablo.

  “Mata Hari, it’s time we leave.”

  “So soon? But Pablo—”

  “Yes.”

  I take his arm and follow him out. Rousseau is silent. I wonder if I overplayed my hand.

  In the car, he sits very still for several minutes without looking at me or saying a word. I begin to think of ways to placate him when he says, “I can get your daughter back.”

  I am stunned. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you told me since the first day we met. I believe I have the means to help you,” he says. “Nothing is more important to you, is it?”

  “No.” Now I feel guilty for flirting with Pablo. “My lawyer is already—”

  “Edouard Clunet?”

  I’m surprised he knows the name.

  “I’ve dealt with him before. We don’t need his help.”

  “But he’s already—”

  “Mata Hari, I know people.”

  I study him through sudden tears. He is earnest.

  “Let me handle this.” He holds out his hands. “Stay with me,” he says.

  I take his hands. And I do.

  * * *

  I live with Rousseau in his château for four weeks. There are so many promises he makes. Trips we’ll take, gifts he’ll buy, places we’ll dine—and of course, most importantly, the rescue of Non. But by the end of the month, for all of the fancy dining, trinkets, and shows, he has done nothing to bring me my daughter. I take out my bags and start packing my things.

  “Where are you going?” Rousseau actually sounds shocked. He is in the doorway, watching me fold clothes.

  I don’t want to tell him the truth so I say, “You know I can’t stay in the country forever.” I fold some silk nighties into my case. “I have to return to Paris. I have to dance. I must earn my living.” If only I had a contract.

  Rousseau is at a loss. A coin doesn’t sell its owner. “Can’t you stay?”

  “You will find other women to entertain you,” I tell him.

  “Not like you!” He crosses the room and holds me with surprising strength. “I’ll take care of you,” he swears. “I promise.”

  My attempt to leave makes him more generous. I write to Edouard and ask about his progress with Non. I end with a postscript. “PS: Maybe this is love?”

  Edouard writes back. The status of Non’s custody remains the same. He ends with his own posts
cript: “For whom? You or the old man?”

  * * *

  “I have a surprise for you,” Rousseau says, and the next day we go for a ride. His chauffeur turns left on Rue Windsor, one of the most expensive avenues in the fashionable suburb of Neuilly. The car stops in front of a glittering white villa with wide, arching windows and sweeping vistas. Rousseau turns to me. “The Villa Rémy.” He hands me an envelope. “My surprise. It’s yours.” Inside the envelope is the deed. “All I ask is to be welcome to visit once in a while.”

  I am crying. “Why did you do this? Why?”

  “Because I can.”

  * * *

  I usher Edouard inside. The stained glass over the door reads Sois le bienvenu.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  I watch his eyes as they appraise the villa. My villa. Not an apartment belonging to someone else. “There are six bedrooms,” I say. “Plus a pool and a garden and a stable with horses.” I show him everything: my boxes of jewels, my closets filled with clothes. But I save the best for last. A room meant for Non. I’ve had the walls painted pink.

  “Your banker friend must have a lot of money.” Other men he has no trouble calling lovers. But Rousseau is “my banker friend.”

  “Imagine my daughter living here,” I say. I will do for Non exactly what I dreamed my father would do for me.

  Edouard takes a seat on the child-size bed. He looks at the dolls and frowns. “I know this is taking a long time,” he says.

  “Yes, but I have something to tell you.” I am nervous.

  “You aren’t pregnant?” he asks.

  “Of course not!”

  He looks relieved.

  “I told Rousseau about Non. I told him the first day we met.”

  “M’greet—”

  “He’s hired someone to get her.”

  “What?”

  His expression makes me nervous. I rush the rest of my news. “Rousseau hired a woman named Anna. She speaks Dutch. She was born in the same town that I was. She knows what to do. She’s going to find Non and bring her to Paris.”

  “Who is she? Do you trust her? M’greet, my men consistently report—”