Mata Hari's Last Dance(10)

“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 never 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 formal-wear 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.