Mata Hari's Last Dance(23)

*

The cabdriver takes me through the Barrio de Salamanca to Serrano Street. It’s the most exclusive part of the city. “No poor people here,” he tells me. I can see why. Everything seems costly and reserved, like old titled men. The area doesn’t have the same feeling as Paris, where everything feels sharp and modern. Old growth trees line the roads. There are more carriages here than cars. But the wealth is unmistakable. It’s in the cut of people’s suits as they pass and the dark beauty of the horses as they trot through the streets. The chestnut trees are in bloom and everything smells wonderful.

The cabdriver lets me out on Serrano Street. There are businesses and bars, as the concierge promised. I walk a little ways, taking in the feel for the city. There are very few women here. But there are a number of single men.

I see Eliodoro before he sees me. Leather boots, gold watch, three gold rings. He’s not an officer, which is disappointing, but there’s something about him I like when our eyes meet.

“Se?orita.” He tips his hat to me.

“Se?or.”

We spend the evening together, drinking, dancing, then drinking some more. When he leans across the table at Las Noches to kiss me, I don’t stop him. On the dance floor behind us, women are doing far more scandalous things.

“Come home with me,” he says.

I refuse. “I don’t even know you.”

“Then let’s at least enjoy the night air.”

I agree to this and as we walk the streets he tells me about his life in Madrid. His ornery wife, his three difficult children, his business trading oil. He has no interest in my life or in knowing anything about me. He simply wants to talk and I let him. When I return to La Paz at six the next morning, Edouard is pacing outside my room.

“Where have you been?”

I turn my key. “Out.” I give him a sly smile and hope it infuriates him.

“We leave in ten minutes,” he says. “I’ll be waiting in the lobby.”

*

From the passenger seat of our rented car I roll up my knee-high stockings and yawn. “Have you ever been to the Kursaal?”

“Yes.” Edouard glances at me and his eyes rest on my necklace. “Something new?”

I touch the cold stones; they feel solid, permanent. “You like it?” A small keepsake. “From last night.”

He doesn’t respond, and I don’t make further conversation. When we arrive at Tetuan Street, Edouard parks the car; there is no valet.

The Kursaal is more beautiful than I imagined, with towering Greek columns and laurel designs. We enter the building and I am swept away: the high ceilings, the chandeliers, the dramatic scenes from Spanish literature decorating the walls. I move closer to one of the paintings to see if I can recognize its source but am interrupted by a man who steps directly in front of me.

“Mata Hari? It is! Welcome, welcome!” He embraces me with kisses and I laugh.

“Mata Hari, this is Ramón,” Edouard says. “The owner of the Kursaal.”

“Ramón,” I say. “So lovely to meet you.”

Ramón kisses Edouard’s cheeks and tells us both how excited he is. “You have no idea, the anticipation. No idea! Come, I want to show you the theater. Then we can meet the dancers.”

He takes us on a tour of the Kursaal. Everything about it is -enormous—the chandeliers, the ballroom, sweeping flights of lushly carpeted stairs. Nearly every wall that isn’t painted is mirrored. When the sun sets, I think, the chandeliers will be absolutely dazzling. In a mirrored hallway carpeted in red velvet a long line of dancers are waiting. “Two dozen of the most beautiful women in Spain.” They are taller than Jeanne’s dancers, and though I wouldn’t think it possible, even more beautiful. They press around me, telling me their names, hoping to make an impression, eager for me to remember them. “We’ve heard so much about you,” they say. And, “Everyone in Madrid is in awe of your talent.”

I look at Edouard, overwhelmed by gratitude. “I hope you will all help me make this two of the most memorable weeks in the history of the Kursaal. It’s an honor to be here.”

*

On opening night, I am Cleopatra, queen of the Nile. The female dancers Ramón has given me are dressed in Grecian sheaths and golden breastplates. The male dancers wear nothing but short, white kilts. On stage, in front of a thousand people, I dance her agony with Caesar, her ecstasy with Antony, her untimely death. I wear more jewels than the queen of England and a constricting snake (it seemed unwise to wear an asp). I don’t wear anything else. The next morning I am front-page news in every paper.

“You see this? You see this?” Ramón holds up a copy of La Vanguardia. He is waiting for me in the lobby of the Kursaal.

I look at the front page. There I am. And next to me, all teeth and lace, is Ramón. Beneath us is the headline: MATA HARI TAKES THE CITY OF MADRID BY STORM.

“You are a gift! The most exciting thing that’s ever happened to the Kursaal,” Ramón says. “Thank you for coming here.” He takes my hand.

“Ramón—”

“No. Thank you.” He’s weepy eyed and sentimental. “Is there anything I can do? Anything I can get you?”

“Nothing, Ramón. I don’t want to keep you.”