Mata Hari's Last Dance(24)

“Take this,” he insists, pressing the newspaper into my hand.

“Thank you.” I will keep it for my scrapbook. “I should go and rehearse.”

But when I get to the ballroom, everyone is standing in a circle around one of the musicians—I believe his name is Jean Hallure. He is sitting on the floor. “Encore, encore. Will it be like that every night? Mata Hari is going to exhaust us!” he is muttering.

The circle of dancers and musicians breaks up as I enter. Jean Hallure has his head in his hands and is very drunk. When he sees me, it appears as if he believes he has summoned me. “Mata Hari, I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you!” he bellows. Then he blanches and makes a pathetic attempt to rise and ends up lurching back to the floor. The other performers are shaking their heads in disgust.

“I don’t think you’re in any condition to rehearse,” I say. I turn to the others and nod to one whose name I don’t recall. “Could you take Jean someplace quiet?”

One musician offers Hallure his arm. “I wouldn’t take advantage of you!” Hallure exclaims, struggling to his feet.

“Thank you, Jean.” I nod and Jean Hallure is escorted away.

Everyone looks at me. The orchestra can’t rehearse without Jean. They are waiting for me to make a decision.

“Let’s take this morning off,” I say. “Rehearsal is canceled.” I can see the relief on everyone’s face. The truth is, we don’t need more practice.

*

Back at La Paz I find Edouard in his room, relaxing. “Let’s go out,” I suggest. “To a museum. I want to see the Museo del Prado. Did you know it was built by Charles III?”

“I had no idea.”

“He wanted to prove that his was the period of Enlightenment.”

“Thank you for enlightening me. Let me get my hat.”

*

The Museo del Prado is spectacular: all tiled roofs and floors, marble fountains, and lovely rotundas allowing light to filter in and kiss statues of military leaders. My favorite kind of men, my husband the only exception. We spend the day looking at art. It is peaceful; the quiet click of heels on smooth orange tile and the soft, still paintings of Goya and Titian. We find ourselves in front of a Rembrandt, on loan from Paris. I stand in front of the Dutch artist’s painting, Bathsheba at Her Bath, and I am remembering my father.

“What are you thinking?” Edouard’s voice is soft.

“Me?”

“No, the woman across the gallery.”

I tell him the truth. “Sometimes my father would show us these paintings in books. My brothers and me. He’d tell us stories. But that was a long time ago.”

Edouard nods. I can feel he wants me to say more, but I don’t want sympathy. Fathers abandon their children. Mine wasn’t the first. “Tell the truth now,” I change the subject. “All of your pretty little blondes . . . they wouldn’t know a Goya from a Rembrandt, would they?”

We stay in the museum for hours, sitting on the marble benches, wandering in the gardens, watching the people. Edouard stands in front of a statue of Charles V holding a spear and assumes the same pose. It is my favorite moment of the day.

We are the last visitors to leave.

“Shall we dine?” Edouard asks.

“We shall,” I say, taking his arm. We stroll to the Plaza del Angel, pass beneath the yellow and blue tiled walls of Ramón’s Espa?a Ca?i, then go to a café near La Paz. We order salmorejo with fino sherry. Edouard tells me that his last trip to Madrid was with his sister. “She insisted on seeing the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona. The Encierro they call it. So we traveled there by train, not knowing that the opening ceremonies were underway. We stood in the Plaza Consistorial, wondering where the bulls would be running.”

“You didn’t!” Even I know this was a foolish move.

“We did. The San Saturnino clock struck eight. Suddenly everyone was moving.”

“How could you not know the bulls go charging down that street after everyone?”

He laughs. “We ran for our lives. It was madness. Finally, we hid in a doorway.”

I imagine Edouard cowering in a doorway. I imagine him having a sister.

“God, M’greet, it’s so refreshing to get out like this.”

I know what he means. We toast to each other. And for the first time in many years I feel content. It’s almost unsettling.

And when we finish the first bottle of wine, we order another.

*

“Would you like to come in?” We are at the threshold of my room at La Paz, both a little drunk.

“I’m not a diversion, M’greet. When you’re more serious, ask again.” He starts to say something else, then pauses, changes his mind. “Men become obsessed with you,” he says at last. “I don’t know why. But they do. If we start something, it won’t be for a night.”

“That’s fine,” I promise. I pull at his jacket, trying to sway him. He resists. “This offer doesn’t stand forever,” I warn him.

He tips his hat to me. “Good night, M’greet.”

I stand in the empty hallway, alone, burning with shame.

*

Thousands of people come to the Kursaal to see Cleopatra. They come from cities as far away as Copenhagen and Cologne just so they can say they’ve seen Mata Hari dance. After each performance I mingle with the elegant and the powerful. The prince of Sweden, a princess from Germany, a colonel from Germany by the name of Braun. Over the course of fifteen evenings I conquer Spain. I send telegrams that keep Guimet and Givenchy longing for my return. But Edouard is another story, and we don’t discuss what happened between us after opening night.