Mata Hari's Last Dance(16)

I look at myself in the mirror. What is the difference between those men in Java and these women in Jeanne’s salon? “None,” I whisper. They both crave a spectacle.

*

In a small room outside the salon my eight dancers are listening for their cue. Ishan is with me backstage, minding the snake. The guests are all seated and now the first of the eight doomed to fail the god Kama enters the salon. Through a small opening in the curtain I watch her dance: She is faithful to everything we’ve rehearsed. She finds her place, and the next dancer begins. She, too, positions herself around the god of desire. There is absolute silence in the room. As the next girl appears, Ishan drapes the python like a stole across my shoulders, its diamond-shaped head resting between my breasts. I adjust my posture to accommodate the weight, and I anticipate what is to come. Soon, Upturned Nose has joined the ranks of the others who could not win over the god. I step from behind the curtain and take the stage wearing only a sheer white veil and the snake. The women in the audience gasp collectively.

The lights dim and I let my veil fall. I am shaved, a nubile virgin gifting herself to the god of desire. In the flickering candlelight the girls join my veils on the floor, watching as I make love to Kama. They chant as I begin to writhe and moan. I think I hear a woman in the audience invoke God’s name. As I reach my climax the girls rush from the stage as a scarlet curtain falls: I am no longer a child, but a woman.

Backstage, I quickly return the snake to Ishan, and he gently places her in her crate. We both can hear that the audience is ecstatic. After I slip on a simple black wrap and place camellias in my hair and around my neck, I rejoin the salon. Some of the women are fanning themselves with their hands. I go directly to Jeanne and kiss her lips, knowing how much it will shock Bowtie and Edouard. For a moment, she’s stunned, and I wonder if maybe I’ve presumed too much. Then she takes my hand and raises it with hers. “The beautiful and alluring Mata Hari!”

Everyone wants to meet with me. To shake my hand or kiss my cheek or to ask me questions about India. Bowtie is busy snapping away, alternating between writing and taking photos. But Edouard remains at the back of the room.

“A moment?” Bowtie asks, interrupting a woman who is standing too close and telling me about her trip to Bombay.

“There is an intruder in the house!” I tell her. “A man!” In truth, I am so happy to be rescued from her company that I am tempted to kiss him. Instead, I follow Bowtie to a quiet corner where he can interview me in peace.

“That was quite a show you put on. Was it truly an authentic temple dance?”

“Of course. I believe I already told you—”

He waves away my response. “That’s part of the act. I get it. I’m merely curious.” He bends his head toward me. “Off the record.”

He is wearing a dapper chartreuse bow tie with a plain gray vest, but it is his baby face that tempts me to confide in him. I resist and honor my promise to Edouard. “Yes, this is precisely how this dance happens in India. Once a year. At harvest time.”

He nods. “Good. Now give me something new to work with. Readers already know you come from India. They read all about it after Guimet’s soiree. Give me something exclusive that I can tell them now.”

I laugh self-consciously. What does he require from me?

“Tell me about the snakes in the temples. Do you sleep among snakes if you dance in the temple?”

“Snakes—”

“Fantastic! They sleep with you to keep warm. And it’s dangerous, isn’t it? But young women like you believe the god will protect you. Is that right?”

He’s practically feeding it to me. “Yes.”

His pen is moving faster than I can speak. “And have you always lived in India? Is Paris the first city you’ve lived in since leaving the country of your birth?”

“I’ve lived in Java,” I reveal, wanting to remain as close to the truth as possible. Those are always the most believable lies.

He looks impressed. “And what did you do in Java?”

“Dance. And fall in love,” I say, warmed by his enthusiasm.

He looks up sharply. “Any man in particular?”

I look at him slyly. “All men, of course.”

“But there was one man in particular. You were married, am I right?”

I am not prepared for this question. How does he know about my marriage? I’ve told no one. Not even Edouard. “I’d prefer not to talk about—”

“Was his name Rudolph MacLeod? Was he in the Dutch army? He was much older than you—”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” I repeat. I can hear the shrillness in my voice and lower it immediately. “Ever.”

“Do you still love him?” Mahadevi asked me before I left. She watched me closely under her thick, black lashes.

I avoided her question. “He’s old. He’s sick. He has rheumatism, and a bad heart. He’s going to die soon.”

“A man like him? He will live to be a hundred and four. Men like him live forever.”

“All right, all right.” Bowtie flips his notepad shut. “They’re going to love this. Thank you,” he says. “I’m off to file this and then have a drink at the bar in the Grand.” He tips his chin and leaves with his story. The room has largely cleared; Edouard is waiting for me near the door; he’s been standing there for at least half an hour.