Mata Hari's Last Dance (3 page)

Chapter 3

Everything I Hoped For

C
lose your eyes and I'll transport you to a temple called Borobudur,” I whisper in Guimet's ear as we lounge in his bed and listen to the rain. I've convinced him that I conceived my sacred dances at this sanctuary and offered them to the faithful, but this isn't true. I did visit the holy place once, on a morning as warm and fragrant as this March morning is damp and chill. Sofie, my only friend and the wife of one of my husband's subordinates, arranged the outing. We made the trip without the men, accompanied by my servant, an Indian woman named Laksari.

Guimet closes his eyes and I paint him a picture with words. Gone is the mahogany four-poster bed. Now, we are traveling in a rickety andong. I am pressed between Laksari and Sofie. We pass by roadside stalls where the scents of fresh fruit and cardamom waft heavily in the air. Bananas hang in bunches from the tops of bamboo huts and signs promise
Freshly Picked
and
Ripe
—I know this because Laksari is translating as we pass them by. There is absolutely nothing of Leeuwarden here. In Yogyakarta one can see reflections of The Netherlands in the way the officers' wives dress, in the foods offered in the market—but this is a world of its own. We pass through a river
valley with thatched-roofed houses on stilts. The houses climb up the tiered slopes and sweep down into rice paddies.

“They allow ducks to eat the rice?” I ask, watching the emerald-throated birds bob and nibble.

“The ducks do not eat the rice,” Laksari corrects me. “They eat the insects that hurt the rice.”

We wind along palm-fringed roads and listen to women singing in the fields while men at the warungs—tiny shops—call out to us to buy fresh coconuts. The andong takes us through a small grove of heavenly smelling pine to where bamboo houses nestle against the hills. They are covered by twisted magenta garlands. Laksari tells me the funnel-shaped flowers are called ipomoea.

When the andong driver announces, “Nearly there, my ladies,” we are transported back in time. Before our eyes an ancient temple rises from the jungle floor, partially obscured by abundant flora and twisting vines. Dutch soldiers work in complete silence, laboring to clear off the lush vegetation; it appears as if the verdure wishes to reclaim the terraces that rise, one above another, as the temple ascends to the sky. I breathe deeply and believe I am inhaling the wisdom of a thousand years.

“I am sure you know Borobudur was built by the Shailendra dynasty. And that it took eighty years of labor to build,” I say to Guimet, tracing my finger over his chest.

In my memory, Sofie, Laksari, and I walk to the base of the holy place and I touch the wall. It is made of basalt. On the first level, inside, are friezes illustrating the stages of life.

We go inside and the temperature drops. It is cool and the air smells of soil, of the earth itself. Sofie points to images depicting Greed, Ignorance, Envy. According to Buddhists, she says, you reach enlightenment by overcoming desire. If you are a slave to earthly desires, you will never achieve Nirvana, the ultimate ­enlightenment . . . heaven, I suppose.

Slowly, we make our way to the top of Borobudur, an ascent that elevates us, delivers us so close to the heavens that you can view volcanoes jutting through the forest canopy.

At the topmost level of the pyramid we discover the meditating stone Buddhas. They are sitting in quiet bliss, feet crossed one over the other, palms outward, contemplating the world from inside stone bells. At first glance they look identical; closer inspection reveals subtle differences in the placement of their hands. In the very center rests the largest bell pointing toward Nirvana.

“Ah. Nirvana,” says Guimet, startling me back into the present. He cups my breast and jiggles it in his hand.

*    *    *

I search the papers later that morning and I find my review under the headline
SACRED DANCES OF BRAHMANISM
I read it as quickly as I can, holding my breath.

“This is different from any dancing I have seen in Paris,” said M. Mollier, who spoke to the director of the Guimet Museum, an establishment devoted to art pertaining to religions of the extreme East, and where lectures are given to students twice a week.

Different from anything he has seen.

The article continues:

“The dance begins in slow rhythms and gradually becomes highly impassioned. The costume is purely Indian, disclosing the skin, which is profusely ornamented with jewels and slender gold chains. The feet are bare, and in her improvisations derived from the ‘Mantras,' or sacrificial incantations, she often works herself up to a pitch of excitement and frenzy that may be more readily imagined than described. The dance symbolic of worship to the three deities of Brahmanism, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, are intensely emotional . . .”

I skim to the end:

“The Brahman dances present the most original novelty of the Parisian season.”

I feel pure exhilaration.

*    *    *

Edouard has taken me to a building on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, a fashionable street in the eighth arrondissement. We are standing on the threshold of my new apartment, yet he refuses to open the door. First he asks me if I know that Saint-Honoré is the patron saint of bakers. Now he delays further by asking me to imagine what's inside.

“A room,” I say, too excited and impatient for games.

“Very clever. What manner of rooms?”

“I don't know—oh, Edouard, please, open the door!”

Inside is absolutely everything I've ever hoped for: parquet flooring, heavy cedar-wood beams, chandeliers with crystals, a bathroom with running water, and a balcony overlooking Paris. I hug him; he has given me everything I asked for. I run my hands over the satin chairs and breathe in the scent of the fresh-cut yellow roses in crystal vases. I have read that yellow roses are symbolic for “new beginnings.” I hope this is true. I absorb my good fortune. It's obvious the furniture choices are his: heavy masculine pieces in mahogany and glass. Large gilt-framed paintings. Persian carpets.

“I love everything,” I tell him, as I spy a telephone. My own telephone!

“It is a luxury you will need, I am sure. The two of you will have all the time in the world to become better acquainted later this evening. You may want to join the Telephone Subscribers' Association. But this afternoon we must go shopping.” When he sees my expression of surprise, he searches for the right words before admitting, “You require a wardrobe. A proper wardrobe.”

I am not insulted by the implications. I am thrilled to be considered a courtesan—I have read of mistresses to barons and princes who live in splendor like this.

“Money for emergencies,” he says. He reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a purse. “Before we leave, let's find a safe place for it.”

It holds one hundred francs. My God, it's enough to live for two months.

*    *    *

As we drive together down the Rue du Faubourg Saint-­Honoré, he explains what I can expect from the Rothschild's event. They have planned a party for more than six hundred guests, and Madam Rothschild has requested that I perform something from the classics.

“
Tristan and Isolde
,” he suggests.

“Lady Godiva,” I counter. Her story was a favorite when I was a child. My father knew I loved the tale and only told it late at night when my brothers were in bed. “Tell her I absolutely must have a horse. That is a requirement. A white horse,” I add.

“Do you ride?”

“Of course. Would I ask for a horse if I couldn't ride? My father taught me.” Before he disappeared, leaving bills and empty cupboards to remember him by.

Edouard is nodding. “A white horse, nonnegotiable.”

I glance out the window and watch the women walking along the Champs-Élysées. They are breathtaking, wearing dresses of such rich fabrics that Marie Antoinette would be envious. I imagine myself in a metallic brocade with lace. I add delicate sleeves and a high black belt to accentuate my waist, and improve the whole ensemble by including pearls around my neck.

“Everyone who sees you must remember you,” says Edouard.
“That is our goal. This requires strategy; none of your dresses are to be repeated. The same rule applies to your performances.”

Edouard stops the car in front of an exclusive-looking women's boutique. I've never been inside such an expensive shop. The moment we step out of the car a man in a black suit takes Edouard's keys.

“You're giving your car to a stranger?” I ask, astonished at his lack of concern.

“The man's a valet, M'greet. It's his job to watch cars.”

I blush and say, “Of course.” But as we walk away I keep turning around.

*    *    *

Inside Le Bon Marché the air is lightly perfumed—lavender and vanilla, I think. And suddenly it's my thirteenth birthday again and my father has taken me to the finest dress shop in Leeuwarden.
Find her a dress that's fit for the queen
, he says, and the shop girl is more than happy to oblige. But here, in this shop, there are so many exquisite items to look at that I feel slightly overwhelmed. I linger by the front window, where there are rows of shawls. Each looks as soft and rich as butter. I delicately brush them with my fingertips, and feel intoxicated.

“Choose,” Edouard tells me, gesturing expansively. “You need four or five ensembles for this engagement, minimum.” Then he sighs, and says almost to himself, “A Rothschild event waxes on for days.”

I try on a dozen different dresses, hats, cashmere shawls. I am one of the women on the Champs-Élysées. I hold up a gleaming string of pearls. “These?” I ask, although he has said nothing about my lack of jewels. “Every woman needs pearls.”

Edouard nods his approval and the shopkeeper asks, “Would madam like to try this matching bracelet?”

*    *    *

That evening I don't go back to Montmartre. I return directly to my elegant apartment on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. I unlock my new life and stand on my private balcony to gaze out over Paris while I wait for Guimet to arrive. The air is chilly and the sun is setting but I have wrapped myself in cashmere and I feel deliciously warm and safe. I will leave my old possessions in that miserable rented room. They belong to the past. I have no desire to claim them.

Chapter 4

Looking for Fame

I
have lived in Paris for more than a year, yet in all that time I never realized that a few minutes of travel could take me from Notre Dame to Baron Henri de Rothschild's château. It's the most beautiful building I've ever seen, hidden from the road by a thick bed of trees and protected from outsiders by a great stone wall. Edouard's car pulls into the circular drive and I see reporters crowding the columned steps of the estate.

“Are they here for
me
?”

“They're certainly not waiting to hear my opinion on international law,” Edouard says drily.

I bite my lower lip.

He places his palm on my knee. “You'll be fine.” He steps out and opens my door; then the barrage of questions begins.

“Is it true that you were born on the Malabar Coast?”

“Yes,” I say, before I'm even out of the car. “In the city of Jaffnapatam.”

“Is this how you spell it?” A reporter thrusts a notebook under my nose. He's wearing a card that says
Press
in the hatband of his fedora.

“Exactly.”

I get out and a second reporter maneuvers through the crowd. He
is wearing a bright yellow bow tie. “So tell me, Mata Hari, what is required of a temple dancer?”

“The most sacred festivals require the ability to charm snakes,” I say. “It is dangerous work. My mother—”

“What makes you different from Isadora Duncan?” someone else shouts.

Edouard pushes several reporters out of the way and we climb the steps of the château. At the front door he turns to the crowd: “As she's said, her mother danced at Kanda Swany, and yes, she died giving birth in a temple. Now if you'll excuse us, she has a dance to perform.”

“Tell me about India,” Bowtie persists, and the crowd of men surge, pushing us against the door. “When will you be returning?”

“Never,” I say. “France is my home now.”

A dozen pens begin to write.

“Now if you'll excuse us.”

A butler opens the heavy oak doors as if on cue and Edouard ushers me inside.

“Can you believe that mob?” I whisper. “Those reporters would have followed us inside if you hadn't blocked them.”

“Yes, they're a real pain in the ass. Isadora Duncan?” he asks, in a tone of disgust. “That woman clomps about wrapped in blankets. She's as seductive as a nun. There's no comparison between the two of you.”

As the butler ushers us down the hall I keep looking out the windows to see if they're waiting for me.

“Stop that,” Edouard says. “You'll only encourage them.”

“Isn't that what we want?” They've all gone away. All except Bowtie, who's trying to push through the hedges so that he can see through the glass. I walk closer to the windows, hoping he'll catch a glimpse of me.

“Yes.” Edouard guides me away with his arm. “But not here. The Rothschilds are private people,” he whispers.

What kind of private people,
I wonder,
host an event for six hundred guests?

I don't have to wonder for long. We meet them in the salon, decorated in loud pink brocade chairs and heavy silver mirrors. Baron Henri de Rothschild is short and fat: He makes me think of a little toad. I have heard that he is a playwright, that he uses a pen name. I tower over him as I execute a well-practiced curtsy, allowing him a quick glimpse of breasts. His bejeweled wife, Mathilde, frowns.

“So. We have heard that you were born on the Malabar Coast,” Rothschild says, offering me a seat.

“Yes. My mother danced at Kanda Swany. And now I am honored to dance for you.”

“I understand you will deliver something different from your performance at the library?” He sounds disappointed, but his wife looks relieved.

Edouard catches my eye; he told me that the baron begged for a repeat of the temple dance. But his look says, we
neve
r repeat performances.

“Tonight,” I tell him, “I will give you Lady Godiva. A noblewoman who defied her husband while clothed by her long, lovely hair.” When the baron's wife gasps, I add, “She was bold, acting for the welfare of the poor.”

“I believe those who did not merit an invitation to tonight's event will deeply regret their absence,” Edouard says quickly. “This evening we will bear witness to a once-in-a-lifetime performance.”

“Indeed!” The baron's pleasure is evident. He summons a servant and tells him to show us to our rooms. “Mata Hari must rest and prepare.”

The room is spectacular and the view of the lake calms my nerves.
I sink into the cloud of expensive linens on the bed. I wonder what Bowtie is writing about me. I close my eyes for only a moment before a sharp knock on the door disturbs my peace.

Outside, the baron is smiling. He is so fat that the exertion of climbing his own stairs has left sweat on his brow. But his eyes are beautiful and his taste—the cut of his suit, the soft leather of his shoes—is impeccable. I invite him inside and he notes that I've unpacked.

“I hope the accommodations are to your liking?”

“This room is wonderful,” I say.

“Occasionally my foreign guests find these suites too large. Too lonely.”

“It's very big,” I say, understanding him perfectly. “Yet how can I be lonely now that you are with me?”

*    *    *

Under the full moon I arrive in the jasmine-scented garden on a white horse, covered only by my hair and a translucent veil.

“Is she wearing anything?” a woman whispers. “Anything at all?”

“I think she's naked!”

I slip off the horse without a word. Six hundred people who have never known hunger stand still, breathless in the face of my nakedness. The music begins and I bend over backward, a silver-skinned diva in the jasmine night.

*    *    *

At the threshold of my room, Edouard appears absolutely delighted. He holds out his hand and I slip a gloved arm through his. “Ready?” he asks.

“I should think that my performance merits at least one compliment,” I say, as we journey down the thickly carpeted hallway. “Did you admire my horsemanship?”

“I admired more than that; you were stunning. Breathtaking. More regal than Godiva herself.”

“And this dress?” I prod.

“I am the person who bought it for you,” he reminds me. And then adds, “No woman in Paris—on earth—could hope to look more lovely in lavender. And those pearls . . .” He puts his hand over his heart.

“You are looking handsome yourself.” And it is true. In his formal­wear his appearance is dashing.

“I know.”

“Rascal.”

We descend the stairs to join the Rothschilds' party and he leans in to whisper instructions to me. “Everyone who matters is here. Don't speak at length with anyone who appears drunk, in particular the German ambassador, an unpleasant man called von Schoen.”

At the bottom of the stairs a butler escorts us into a mirror-lined ballroom illuminated by dozens of chandeliers. And beneath them, on the polished wooden dance floor, hundreds of people are laughing and chatting.

“And be careful of Lady Brochard. That's her, near the window.” He inclines his head slightly to indicate a plump woman in a burgundy dress. “She's known for her sweetness and for passing on malicious gossip. But Lady Saint-Amour is a gem.” I follow his gaze to a slender woman with auburn hair. “And all of the Barton sisters are delightful. Although I haven't spotted them yet.”

“Is there anyone you don't know?”

“In Paris? Not really.”

Over the sounds of tinkling glasses and conversation are the high, sweet notes of a string quartet. We move through the room and I catch snippets as we walk. Women talking of horses and furs. Men concerned that the price of food is rising. Is this a good time to invest in wheat? What about corn? A dark-haired man meets my gaze and
we both smile. Who could possibly care about wheat on a night as elegant and promising as this?

The string quartet is playing something slow. Edouard disappears and the dark-haired man asks me to dance. Henri de Marguerie. His suit is immaculate and the band on his wrist reads Rolex. It looks to be a tiny clock of some sort. “It's a wristwatch,” he says when he catches me staring.

“I've never seen one,” I confess.

“Soldiers use them. In a few years, everyone will have one.”

“You're military?” I imagine his uniform: army, air force, navy? He would be dashing in anything.

“I was a pilot. You were magnificent tonight,” he says, and I allow him to continue complimenting me as we cross the dance floor. An orchestra replaces the string quartet and the new musicians strike up a waltz. He tells me about his family in London. I tell him about my time in Bombay. Then the musicians abandon Johann Strauss and begin playing a more scandalizing tune; I learned the accompanying dance my first week in Paris. The handsome aviator raises his eyebrows at me, asking if I'm willing to accept his invitation.

The floor clears and his chest presses against mine. I give him my hand and he stretches it out in front of me. “Ready?” he asks. I can smell the faint trace of soap on his skin and the musky scent of cologne on his shirt. In front of the baron's six hundred guests we begin the tango, stepping on half notes, dipping on counts three and four. He's a wonderful dancer, my aviator. I imagine he is equally graceful when he is dancing horizontally.

When our dance is complete the entire room erupts into applause. We make our way to Edouard and I tell him that henceforth all future engagements must come with dashing aviators. The man laughs. So does Edouard, as a blonde slips her slender arm through his in a proprietary way.

“Well done,” she says to me, though I can't decide whether she's sincere or mocking me. Her hair is swept up into a pile of loose curls. She begins to steer Edouard away and I study the way she walks, how she holds her long cigarette between her forefinger and thumb.

As the evening progresses, half a dozen men ask me to dance. When the musicians begin their last piece, however, it's the aviator who returns. “May I have the pleasure of escorting you to your room?” he asks.

I search for Edouard and his sophisticated blonde, but they're nowhere to be seen. I notice that other couples are retiring for the night. “Yes,” I say.

He walks me to the stairs. The thick red carpet feels like velvet underfoot; it's nearly black beneath the low light of the chandeliers.

“You're quite the dancer,” I tell him. “So gentle yet so strong.”

“As are you, my little mouse.”

“Is that what you think I am?”

“Yes, and you should be careful before I pounce!”

He chases me up the stairs, pretending to be a tiger. And when we fall into bed together, I'm not even thinking about Edouard's blonde.

*    *    *

The next morning Edouard appears in my room without knocking, before I've had the opportunity to change from my dressing gown. “Pack your things,” he says. “Quickly.”

“We're leaving? I thought we were staying until—”

“The baron wants you to dance again tonight. But Mata Hari never repeats herself. You must always leave them wanting more, M'greet.”

“You can't tell him no?” I'm imagining the Rothschilds' other guests, already downstairs and chatting to one another over orange juice and champagne. I'm looking forward to seeing my aviator again.

“This is the baron. He is relentless.” He looks around my room, at all of my belongings—some hanging, some on the backs of chairs, some delicate pieces on the floor where they were discarded in haste. He sighs. “I'll come back for you in an hour. Be ready.”

Edouard returns exactly when promised. He lifts my two cases and when I begin to protest, he shakes his head. “We're using the servants' stairs,” he says.

A small thrill passes through me as I follow him into a stairwell reserved for the household staff. A butler on his way to the second floor scowls at us, but I borrow the tone of Edouard's blonde and say, “We're on our way to attend to Lady Brochard,” and immediately he looks abashed and lets us pass.

Outside, the reporters are gone and Edouard's car is waiting. He starts the car and as we drive away I feel as light as a child; Edouard looks like a giddy schoolboy.

“You'd make a fine spy, M'greet,” he says.

The car smells of freshly polished leather and smoke. The blonde must have been in my seat last night. We drive down the Rue du Cloître, passing under the shadow of Notre Dame. There are more cars on the road than carriages. I wonder if it's the same now in Leeuwarden. “Do people have more money to spend or are cars getting cheaper?”

Edouard frowns. “I suppose they're getting cheaper.”

“How much do they cost?”

“Close to fifteen thousand francs.”

The baron paid me twice that for Lady Godiva. I look at one of the rings that Guimet gave me and think that perhaps I will buy myself a car. We fall into silence. Finally, I ask, “So how was your night?”

He looks at me sidelong. “Excellent. Yours?”

I take one of the cigarettes the aviator gave me and light it the way
Edouard's blonde did, tilting my head back and letting the smoke out, slowly, sensuously, as I practiced in the mirror. “Wonderful.”

He grabs the cigarette from my mouth. “Jesus Christ, what are you doing?” He flings it out the window and I'm shocked. “That's a nasty habit.”

“Your blonde smokes!”

“Who?”

“The girl you left with last night.”

“She smokes? Well, notice who's in the car with me. I don't live with her.”

“You don't live with me either!”

We both brood for several long minutes. Edouard is the one to break the silence. “I have another engagement lined up for you,” he says. “But this isn't like our previous arrangements. There will only be women in this audience.”