Mata Hari's Last Dance(18)

“Jeanne!” someone cries as I step into the sunshine.

Then another voice summons her from the doorway, and finally four women appear to greet us, and all of them are excited to see her. They usher us inside and Jeanne introduces me to the Callot sisters: Marie, Marthe, Regina, and Joséphine. It is plain to see they all bear a striking resemblance to one another, with oval faces and thick, dark hair. They’re dressed in simple white blouses and black skirts, yet all around us is evidence of their genius. Gowns made of gold and silver brocade, silks decorated with metal embroidery, dresses so exquisite I hold my breath to look at them. I want to own everything I see.

“We’ve heard so much about you,” Marie says to me. “We were terribly disappointed to miss your dance at Jeanne’s soiree.”

“We were all out of town,” Regina explains.

“Hopefully there will be more dances,” Jeanne says, glancing sideways at me.

There are quite a few customers in the shop watching us, wondering who we might be. Regina guides us toward the back, to a small kitchen.

“I expect you’re here to see Madeleine?” she says knowingly.

“You know me well,” says Jeanne. “Is she available?”

On cue, a woman appears. She’s tall, with short hair and very large hands. As soon as she sees Jeanne, her face lights up and I realize that Jeanne is right: I can’t read this woman’s past on her face. She greets Jeanne with kisses on each cheek, tells her she looks wonderful, and then both women turn to me.

“And this is Mata Hari,” Jeanne says. “Mata Hari, Madeleine Vionnet, a dear friend and one of the finest dressmakers in Paris.”

Madeleine steps back to take a better look at me. I’m not wearing one of my Javanese sarongs, but I can see that she’s heard stories and she’s imagining me in a sheath of silk. “Very pleased to meet you,” she says.

“The pleasure is all mine,” I assure her.

“Shall we take some coffee?” Regina asks, and when we are all seated at the kitchen table, I ask her how Callot Soeurs came to be and she tells me the story.

“Our mother taught us lace making,” Regina says, “and then Marie trained as a dressmaker with Raudnitz and Company. We started off small. Adding lace to lingerie, that sort of thing. But as we became more skilled our clientele grew and soon enough we were able to establish this shop.”

“Was your mother ambitious?” I ask.

“Yes.” Regina sips her coffee thoughtfully. Then she adds, “She pushed us. All of us.”

Her sisters nod.

“It all began with her,” Marie agrees. “A few years ago, Madeleine came to us, and I can only hope we get to keep her for a little while longer.”

“We all know she’s biding her time and that one day she will become one of our fiercest rivals,” Regina says.

Madeleine blushes, but there’s no malice in Regina’s statement.

“I expect that’s how you must feel about Mata Hari,” Regina adds, addressing Jeanne. “You discover a wonderful new talent and then—” She snaps her fingers. “Someone else wants to take it away.”

Jeanne wraps her arm around my shoulders. “No one is stealing Mata Hari,” she declares. Her tone is light.

Regina wags her finger. “Just wait.”

“I suppose it’s inevitable, isn’t it?” Jeanne sighs and the sisters look at me.

“We were hoping that Jeanne would bring you,” Marie admits. “Ever since Le Figaro photographed your debut at Guimet’s, Madeleine has been wanting to sketch you. I think she was expecting you to show up wearing one of your sarongs.”

“I save them for very special occasions,” I say.

“I understand.” Madeleine waves away any concern, looking, perhaps, slightly embarrassed. “But perhaps—if you don’t have any pressing engagements—you would be willing to model for us today? It won’t take much time,” she assures me.

“And you can wear one of Madeleine’s exotic creations,” says Marie, as if sweetening the deal.

I look at Jeanne. What are our plans for the rest of the day?

“Of course she can,” Jeanne says. “That’s why we’re here.”

I feel a surge of gratitude toward her. Why is she so kind to me? Perhaps she sees in me a younger version of herself?

Madeleine rises and asks us to follow her into a brightly painted room filled with bolts of fabric and a dozen sewing machines. Several chairs are arranged around a soft white rug where I imagine previous models have stood.

“If you could take off your gown and gloves, I’ll get the materials for the design I want you to wear,” Madeleine says and leaves for a moment. Jeanne seats herself to watch as I undress. I smile at her in my undergarments.

“It’s going to be such a great shame to lose you,” she says.

I keep the mood light. “I don’t think you will lose me to Madeleine.”

“Then it will be to someone much more infuriating. And I dare say a man.”

Madeleine returns with an armful of nearly translucent fabric in a soft mint green. “Have you ever modeled before?” she asks, as she arranges a loose sheath around my body, tucking it in here and pinning it there.

“I haven’t.” The material is soft as a whisper.