Mata Hari's Last Dance(22)

“Yes.”

“He’ll know where to take you.”

“He’s been to Madrid?”

“A dozen times, I should think. His business takes him everywhere.” He sips his wine and watches me thoughtfully. “He likes you.”

“Of course he does. I make him money.”

“It’s more than that.” He puts down his glass. “He enjoys your company, Mata Hari. If I had the time to return to Madrid, I’d go with the both of you.”

I try to picture it. The three of us traipsing across Spain. It would be museums and fine dining and the theater every night. I wouldn’t even have time to perform!

“Perhaps when you return, we’ll go on a trip.”

“That would be lovely.”

“I’ve always wanted to go on safari,” he admits. “I have friends who have been. They tell me that the savannah is unlike any other place on earth. It gets into your soul. It’s a very long journey, but I’ve never known anyone to regret it.”

I can’t imagine traveling so far away from the people I love. Even if Edouard came with me, I couldn’t do it. But I smile, because I know it will never come to pass. Guimet may go, but he won’t take a woman he hardly knows so far away or for so long. A trip like that is an investment. You take a woman you want to marry. Not some casual lover.

“But why don’t we talk about that when you return?” He raises his glass to me. He isn’t distressed at all that I’m leaving. Instead, he’s excited on my behalf. “The world deserves to experience rare things of beauty,” he says, and at the end of the meal he hands me a gift. It’s an Egyptian necklace. Perhaps he’s glad I’ll be away from Jeanne and Givenchy. “The scarabs in the center are three thousand years old.”

He fastens it around my neck and I feel like Cleopatra. I tell him this.

“I doubt she was as exquisite as you.”

*

The next morning at the train station I show the necklace to Edouard. In the bright spring light the scarabs, set in gold filigree against agate and jade, appear brilliant. He looks from the necklace to me. “He must like you,” he says drily.

And even though he is being blasé, I feel delighted. Rudolph wanted me, but he never liked me. He never liked anyone, including himself.

The train pulls into the station and Edouard rises. “Our adventure begins,” he says.

A porter takes our luggage and my pulse races as we pass by coach and enter the first-class car. Edouard sinks into one of the oversize chairs—I have never seen seats this large on a train—and takes a newspaper from a stand, looking as comfortable as he does in his own office. I notice that a few of the women in first class are glancing my way; they recognize me from the papers. Several minutes pass before the sound of a whistle tells me we’re about to leave. Slowly, the train pulls away from the Gare de Lyon and I’m so excited that my nose is practically pressed against the glass.

Edouard lowers his newspaper. When I catch him watching me, I take out my compact but he doesn’t look away. “Have your parents tried to contact you?” he asks.

I snap my powder case shut and study my reflection in the window. My hair is pulled back beneath the veil of my hat, and in my yellow dress chosen by Jeanne de Loynes I feel like I actually belong in first class. Thinking of Jeanne pricks me with guilt: I should have returned at least one of her calls. “My parents are gone,” I tell him.

“Gone where?” he prods.

“Gone out of my life. Why? What does it matter?”

“It matters a great deal. They will to try to contact you,” he says. “Sooner rather than later. This applies to anyone you’ve ever owed money to. Anyone you’ve ever considered a relative. You’ve gained considerable fame, M’greet, and people will start to come out of the woodwork. I’ve seen it happen.”

“That’s absurd. How would they know me? I’m Mata Hari now.”

He looks at me as if he isn’t sure how a person can be so foolish. “Your picture is in every paper. Every word you speak is published alongside your photo. You believe your own blood won’t recognize you?” He tips his newspaper at me. “Prepare yourself.”

“You make it sound as though I’m going into battle,” I say. Then I think of Rudolph and just as quickly shut him out of my mind. “So what is the name of our hotel?” I ask.

“La Paz.” He opens his paper and my photo is there next to Bowtie’s article: MATA HARI ABANDONS FRANCE.

*

I open the doors to my balcony at La Paz and inhale the scent of saffron. Guimet was right. The food, the people, even the weather—all of it is marvelously different from France. “This is exactly what I need.” I toss my hat on to my bed, feeling exuberant. “Let’s go out tonight, Edouard!”

“Sorry. Other plans. And you have a contract for fifteen performances. Get some rest.” He leaves and I wonder if she is blonde.

Fine. I will enjoy the city alone. I have never seen Madrid, and why should Edouard be the only one to have fun? There must be handsome men in this city. Perhaps some Spanish officers. When I tell the hotel concierge what I’m looking for, he grins. “There aren’t many women as truthful as you are.” He directs me to a part of town lined with jewelry stores and bars: an ingenious combination.