The Lost Mata Hari Ring

by Elyse Douglas

  Suddenly ravenous, Trace spotted an outside café, smelling the bread and the coffee. Did single young women eat alone in cafés in 1916? She had no idea. Her eyes flitted about looking for an empty table, to see if there was a single woman eating alone. There wasn’t. In her time, she loved eating alone in New York cafés, watching people furtively and overhearing conversations. But there were no women, of any age, eating alone in this café. Okay, fine, so be it, she was hungry. She’d start a fashion in Paris in 1916.

  Trace saw men and women glance at her with curious speculation. She spotted an open table for two and went for it. As soon as she sat, more eyes fastened on her. Why were they all staring? It was a crowded café, after all. Weren’t there other people and things to stare at besides her? Was it her clothes, or was it that she wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves? Did she look that out of place? Did she look like someone who had dropped in from the future?

  A silly thought arose. Trace recalled how she'd once perused YouTube videos posted by people who purported to be time travelers. There were two modern sisters who claimed that they had “time-slipped” back to the French Revolution. She didn't believe them.

  Then there was a photograph from the early 1940s, in which a crowd was gawking at some event of immediate interest. In the middle of that crowd was a modern-looking hipster, wearing designer sunglasses from the late 1990s, and a shirt with a logo that wouldn't be manufactured until 1995. If that wasn't enough, the dude was also holding a mostly hidden cell phone in his left hand.

  At the time, Trace had thought the stories entertaining but ridiculous. She hadn’t believed any of them, just like the majority of people who had left negative comments.

  Now, as she sat in a 1916 Paris café, she tried not to look self-conscious as she adjusted herself in the chair, awaiting the server, wishing she had her cell phone to hide her face in.

  The waiter soon arrived, wearing a long white apron, a sad looking mustache, slicked back dark hair and wary little snake eyes. He grunted a “bonsoir,” handed her a menu and waited for her order, his pad at the ready, his impatient pencil point tapping it.

  Trace ordered onion soup, fromage and a coffee. Her French was not good, but good enough. The waiter understood her.

  Trace sat back and watched the traffic for a time and then followed a high fashioned woman, in a flowery hat and stunning long dress, as she walked a proud, white poodle. Two old men with dusty, shapeless suits, sat on a bench, smoking and reading newspapers.

  She was startled when a man stepped up to her, cleared his throat and offered a little bow. “Excusez-moi, madame, j’espère que je ne vous dérange pas?”

  He was excusing himself, hoping he wasn’t bothering her. Trace had always understood French much better than she spoke it. But this man spoke French with an accent of some kind. That she could tell.

  “I don’t speak French well, Monsieur. I’m an American.”

  His pleasant face lit up. “American! How nice.”

  He was a short man, dressed in a loose-fitting jacket, white shirt and wide dark tie. His black hair was long, falling across his broad forehead; his chin was good, his nose prominent; he held a pipe in one hand. Tucked under his arm was what appeared to be a sketchbook. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he was charismatic in an odd sort of way, his piercing eyes holding humor, depth and seduction. Trace figured the man was in his early to mid-thirties.

  “I couldn’t help but notice that you are alone,” he said. “Are you expecting anyone?”

  Trace’s eyes shifted. Should she lie? “No. I am alone.”

  “In that case, would you permit me to sketch you?”

  Trace admired the come-on line. It must be an old-school approach. This was much more interesting than a modern-day dating site.

  “Why me?” Trace said, baiting him. She was flattered. People were watching them, with interest.

  “Because you stand out. You caught my artist’s eye right from the start.”

  She lowered her eyes to hide her pleasure.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Pablo Ruiz, although I am known by my friends and people who pay me as Picasso. Pablo Picasso.”

  Trace’s eyes lifted, widened, and stared at the man in utter disbelief.

  CHAPTER 15

  Pablo Picasso sat opposite her, pulled a pencil from his inside jacket pocket, flipped open his sketchbook, and leafed through some pages until a blank one appeared. Then he went to work, the pencil dancing across the page. His intense gaze focused on the page for a time, then lifted sharply on her, his eyes, two dark pools exploring her hair, lips and eyes, his pencil scratching away, his face locked in stern concentration.

  “What is your name?” Picasso asked.

  “Trace, Tracey Rutland.”

  He lifted a dark eyebrow. “I like Trace. It has imagination, and it’s direct. I like things that are direct.”

  Trace was aware of some of Picasso’s more famous works, thanks to an art class she’d taken in college, but she couldn’t recall creation dates. She believed that his most famous work, entitled Guernica, had been painted in the 1930s. Trace was sure that The Old Guitarist had been painted in the early 1900s, and she recalled that Picasso had painted it after the suicide of a close friend. Should she mention it?

  She also was aware of Picasso’s highly geometric and minimalist Cubist objects, with the occasional element of collage. She had difficulty relating to those paintings, finally conceding that she didn’t have the necessary background to understand and appreciate them. Other dates and times of his works were a blur, like so many things from the past and the future.

  When her soup arrived, along with some baguette, she hesitated, not knowing if her eating would spoil Picasso’s sketch.

  “Go ahead. Eat,” he commanded, as he worked on.

  So, Trace did eat. She was hungry.

  “What is it?” he asked, quietly, as if talking to himself, not looking at her.

  “What is what?” Trace asked, staring at this world-famous man, who had died sometime in the 1970s. Her mind still struggled to take in the reality of him.

  “You,” Picasso said, pointedly. “Yes, you. Am I to sketch your face, what’s inside your face or what’s behind it? You seem to be in pieces to me. Okay, I’ll have to find you in pieces.”

  Trace stopped eating. “Pieces? What do you mean, in pieces?”

  He didn’t lift his eyes as the pencil jerked and skimmed across the page. “Painting is a blind man’s profession, Trace. He paints not what he sees, but what he feels—what he tells himself about what he has seen. I’m not sure yet what I am seeing.”

  Trace didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything. When her cheese arrived, she ate sparingly, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, as if she were under a microscope and the entire café was examining her.

  “This is not my café, you know, Trace. I came here to meet my friend Sevuk Andranikian, but he did not show up. I usually meet friends in the Café de la Rotonde. Do you know it?”

  “No…”

  “It's in Montparnasse, at the corner of Boulevard du Montparnasse and Boulevard Raspail. You should come. Victor Libion, the founder, is a friend. You will meet many of my friends there, and maybe you'll meet Sevuk Andranikian. He is a professional friend to many bartenders, from Lisbon to London to Paris. Boire comme un trou—or better said, Sevuk drinks too much—but I love him like a brother. He lost all his family last year, when they were slaughtered by the Ottoman Empire. You could cheer him up. He loves mysterious, pretty girls. He also tries to paint but…to copy others is necessary, but to copy oneself is pathetic. Still, I love Sevuk. He is both rich and poor, both man and boy, both comic and tragic. How will he find his wholeness? His one? His completeness?”

  Picasso shrugged, stopped abruptly and glanced up at her, as a thought struck. “You should come to my studio, so I can see you again, so I can put together your many pieces… or not. Maybe you’re best in pieces. Many of us are, you know, broken up into
pieces. This war is doing that very well. I’m sure you see it. Not outside so much, but inside, where the true reality lives. Lots of pieces. But then I think you know that, Trace.”

  No, Trace did not know that, but maybe she was learning.

  “My studio is easy to find, Trace. It’s on Rue Schoelcher.”

  “Mr. Picasso, I need a job,” Trace blurted out.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “No need for ‘Mister,’ Trace. Picasso is me. I am Picasso. What kind of job?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a dancer, singer. I can act.”

  “Ah yes, Trace. Yes. You perform. Of course, you must, with that flame of honey blonde hair, those startled eyes and those rose petal lips, which I’d love to touch with a feather.”

  Trace’s eyes moved away from him. Was he flirting with her? Pablo Picasso?

  He continued to work. “You could model, Trace. I know many artists. The theatre is now barren, with this raping war going on.”

  “Is the money good?”

  “Good? Trace, this is Paris during a war. Artists are not rich. Anyway, money is a child trap. I’d like to live as a poor man with lots of money.”

  “I need money, Picasso.”

  “Okay, you need money. So, you model. You meet artists. Artists know people in the theatre. Artists need inspiration. Artists need mistresses.”

  Trace had just met this man and yet, in some strange way, she was comfortable with him. He was honest, blunt, seductive and childlike, with absolutely no pretensions. She'd never met anyone like him.

  “Okay, so I’ll model,” Trace said.

  She finished her lunch, while Picasso finished his sketch of her.

  “Can I see it?” Trace asked.

  Without a word, Picasso turned the sketchbook about, holding it up to the light.

  Trace inclined forward to study the penciled sketch. Her hair was scattered and exaggerated, her face long, eyes wide apart. It was not a literal portrait, but she could see herself in it. It was remarkable. So like her and yet unlike her. On one side of her face was a fresh, young woman with a penetrating eye. On the other side was a face with lines, shadows, and a wide, fearful eye. One side was young, the other wizened and old. Trace was amazed—stunned to silence. Picasso had captured exactly what she was feeling—and had been feeling ever since she was a little girl—as well as the fear and vulnerability she’d felt since she’d arrived in 1916.

  Picasso grinned mischievously. “There are so many realities, Trace, that in trying to encompass them all, one ends in darkness. That’s why, when I sketch a face or paint a portrait, I must stop somewhere, in a sort of caricature. All portraiture is caricature.”

  He stood, closed his sketchbook and stared down at her, his dark eyes digging into her. Without another word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a few francs and tossed them down on the table.

  “Money, Trace, for your time as my model here today. Come and see me. You’ll make more money. Perhaps we’ll play with a few feathers around your mouth or your heart. Who knows?”

  And then he was gone, sauntering off into the crowds under a late afternoon sun.

  Trace spent another restless night, shifting, waking and pacing the room, anxious for morning to come so she could visit the American Embassy to begin the process of obtaining her passport. She’d dreamed of her daughter—Mata Hari’s daughter, Nonnie—and Trace felt an increasing urgency—a burning need to see the girl, so that no matter what happened to Mata Hari, Trace could begin to heal and find some peace.

  As Trace sat in the hotel’s gold and blue dining room, finishing her coffee, she was surprised to see Mata Hari enter. She flirted girlishly with the gracious maître d’ and followed him to Trace’s table. As Mata Hari approached, her face fell into a grim, serious expression. Trace brushed her lips with her satin napkin and stood.

  “Please sit down,” Mata Hari said, with a quick wave of her hand, as the maître d’ bowed and left. Trace returned to her seat and, without an invitation, Mata Hari sat opposite her, as an efficient waiter in a white coat and black bow tie arrived.

  “Just coffee and a croissant,” Mata Hari said.

  The waiter nodded and glided away.

  “Have you finished your breakfast, Trace?”

  “Yes.”

  Mata Hari wore a chiffon dress, detailed in white beads, with white gloves and a matching broad white hat. Trace couldn’t help but notice that the dress had three different overlapping layers, and all had to be buttoned, snapped, and hooked in just the right order. Talk about labor intensive.

  “You should have a croissant,” Mata Hari said. “They are excellent here—three parts butter to ten parts flour, or so the pastry chef, François Darroze, explained to me some time ago. He is off fighting in the war, you know, and I have recently heard that he was killed in some damned awful battle. Well, his croissants live on, don’t they, and that is a fortunate thing for all of us.”

  This was not a joke, and Trace was again struck by Mata Hari’s apparent lack of sensitivity. She could be warm and generous, but also cold and aloof.

  Mata Hari went straight to business. “Trace, I am furiously working to receive my papers so that I can travel to Vittel. I want you to come with me.”

  Trace questioned Mata Hari with her eyes. “I don’t understand. You asked me to leave the chateau.”

  “I responded in anger.”

  “Do you still think I’m a spy?”

  “I don’t care what you are. It doesn’t matter to me now. I’ve changed my mind about the whole thing. I need a friend now, Trace, and despite what I said, I feel as though I can trust you. And, anyway, if you are spying for the British or the Americans, what of it? Maybe, somehow, you can help me get to Vittel to see poor Vadime.”

  “I can’t help you,” Trace stressed. “I can’t even help myself right now.”

  “Okay, fine. Then let us help each other. Let’s just say I need a traveling companion. Will you go with me?” she asked, her eyes imploring.

  Trace stared down at the white tablecloth. “Is there any way I can talk you out of this, Mata Hari?”

  “No, of course not. I must get to Vadime. Please do not start all that foolish talk again.”

  Trace looked up. “Have you heard from Edward?”

  “Yes. He has visited Vadime two or three times. Poor Vadime has been partially blinded. He’s depressed and sick.” Mata Hari leaned forward. “I have contacted two former lovers for help with my papers, Jean Hallaure, a French intelligence officer, and Baron de Marguérie, a French diplomat. I’m waiting to hear back from them.”

  “And how is Edward?”

  Mata Hari leaned back. “He told me to tell you that he’ll be coming to Paris soon. He said he has arranged to send you more money, so you are not to worry about leaving the Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais. He also told me to tell you that he’ll help you with your passport. As you know, his family has connections.”

  Trace made a small murmur of complaint, irritated at feeling helpless to support herself. Should she go to Picasso? If she did, she was sure he’d take it that she was prepared to sleep with him, or maybe even become his mistress. That was just too weird, and it was out of the question.

  “What is the matter, Trace? Edward cares about you deeply. His family is very rich. He will take care of you. You are a very fortunate young woman.”

  Trace sighed. “Yes, it would seem so.”

  “Will you go with me to see Vadime, Trace? Please.”

  Trace stared directly at Mata Hari. There was no way Trace was going to get involved in Mata Hari’s intrigues and eventual destruction. There was no way she was going to put her name out there for all the French officials to see and ponder over. After all, Trace had already been through all that, hadn’t she?

  “No, Mata Hari. I’m sorry, I can’t go with you.”

  Mata Hari stared, soberly. “Then I’m sorry, Trace. I hope you won’t be angry with me.”

  “Angry about what?”

  “I as
sumed you’d come with me, so I forwarded your name to my two contacts, and I asked that they process traveling papers for both of us.”

  Trace felt a sudden, knifing threat. She felt an alarm go off in her head. She had no past. She didn’t exist in this time, and yet she was here. That would undoubtedly be a red flag. If Mata Hari thought she was a spy, what would these paranoid, suspicious French officials think?

  It was too late. Trace’s name was out there now. Should she run? Where? She had no passport. She had the Marquis’ letter of recommendation, but how far would that get her?

  Trace grew cold with fear. Could Edward help her? Could he get her to England somehow, and away from all this?

  CHAPTER 16

  A little over a week later, Mata Hari and Trace were to meet again at the Café de la Rotonde, located on the corner of Boulevard du Montparnasse and Boulevard Raspail. While waiting for Mata Hari, Trace had glanced about, looking for Picasso, but she didn’t see him. What she did see was a man wearing a dark suit and a dark bowler hat, seated at a table near the sidewalk, pretending to read a paper. Trace knew he was watching her. He had a blunt, impassive face and a sober expression. His beady bird-eyes shifted toward her a couple of times. He was not a very good policeman or detective, but his presence had an effect: Trace was fidgety and nervous.

  Under cloudy skies, Trace sipped a coffee and nibbled on a pastry, pretending a French insouciance. She had spent her last few days wandering the city, visiting the American Embassy, and sitting in her room reading newspapers and novels, distracting her mind.

  Unfortunately, the American Embassy had denied her request for a passport, despite Marquis de Beaufort’s letter and Edward’s British Embassy contact, Allister Chapman. They wanted more documentation, especially in this time of war. Of course, Trace had no documentation, and she’d told them her family had all been killed in America, and she was desperate to return home. No amount of pleading—or lying—had helped. For now, at least, Trace was stuck in Paris.