Mata Hari's Last Dance(26)

Edouard laughs. But before he can reply, Hilda Schweitzer appears to take us on a guided tour. She is the owner’s wife, but I’m disappointed that Heinrich Schweitzer isn’t escorting us himself. On the train, Edouard told me that Heinrich Schweitzer had invested his entire life’s savings in Le Metropol. I admire his passion.

As we follow Madame Schweitzer, I realize that Le Metropol is more of a resort than a theater. She points out cafés, a luxury spa, and a three-story ice arena within the building.

“It is the only indoor ice arena in Germany,” she says with pride.

“An indoor ice arena?” Edouard whispers to me. “Is there a shortage of cold weather in Germany?”

Finally, she takes us into the theater, a circular room with several hundred seats and a gilded ceiling painted with angels. A dozen women are waiting for us on the stage: my dancers. They are tall, like me, but blonde, and many of them have blue eyes. I will stand out. Even if we are all dancing together, no one will ask which is Mata Hari.

*

I’m in high spirits when we arrive at the Hotel. It is icing on my cake to learn that the crown prince of Prussia is also a guest. And that he has requested to meet me. “The future kaiser,” I crow to Edouard as we make our way across the lobby.

“Don’t gloat; it’s unbecoming. He’s too young for you and engaged to be married.”

“I have an official summons.” I ignore his lack of enthusiasm. “Do I have time to change? What do I wear to meet a prince? I think a—”

“Mata Hari!”

I cover my chest with my hand as a reporter appears from behind a potted plant. “My God, you scared me.”

“Are you here to meet the crown prince of Prussia? Will you dance nude in Berlin? How long will you be here?”

I say, “Go to the lounge in forty minutes.”

The reporter looks at Edouard, but he is stone-faced. “What happens in forty minutes?” he asks me.

“You’ll see.”

*

I make my way down to the lounge within the hour, wearing a cream Paul Poiret dress and white pearls, feeling invincible. The prince is young, but he is also tall and confident. He greets me in German and I reply in kind. This pleases him immensely and he gestures toward a sofa. As soon as I sit we are surrounded by handsome men in uniform. A hotel employee is summoned and wine appears. The prince offers to pour me a glass and as soon as I raise it to my lips we are photographed.

“Get them out of here!” the prince shouts, but it’s too late. The photograph has been taken. “Always these journalists.” He is shaking his head. “Don’t you tire of them?”

I feign exasperation. “Absolutely.”

“I can’t go anywhere without being spied upon.”

“I hope you will come to my show,” I say.

“Oh, you may be certain of it.”

But the prince doesn’t come that night. I don’t see him until my third performance. And that presents a problem, because Alfred Kiepert is already waiting for me in the hall. He is dressed in his officer’s uniform and looks irresistible. I’ve invited him back twice since my opening, when I spotted him in the audience. It’s a shame I have to turn him away tonight. But there is no question of disappointing the heir to the German throne.

*

There is no other way to see Berlin than on the arm of a crown prince. I am convinced of this as he accompanies me to dinner at the Hotel Kaiserhof. It’s the grandest hotel in all of Europe. Over two hundred rooms and a ballroom so beautiful that it will hurt to leave it. But we have not come to dance. After a long day of shopping and sightseeing, the crown prince wishes to eat.

We sit across from each other in the hotel’s glittering new restaurant and I worry that I’m a fraud among so many wealthy people. Though surely some of these women with their long cigarette holders and heavy furs must have married into their money. All of them can’t be titled heiresses. I look around the room and try to pick out which ones might be like me. Definitely the blonde with her low-cut dress—if not, why would she wear such a thing? Perhaps she’s a mistress. Or maybe she’s made herself into a second wife? There’s a man with a woman who wears rings on each finger and a diamond necklace that dips into her cleavage. She wasn’t born into this world—I’d stake money on it. So I’m not the only one.

“What do you like best about Berlin?” the prince asks.

There is so much I have enjoyed I have to weigh my answer carefully. We did so many things today. I have now ridden on Berlin’s electric trams and taken coffee in the most famous of shops. I’m the owner of a new fur hat and three rings, one diamond, the other two emerald. Everywhere we went, on nearly every street, I saw billboards using electric advertising. “Berlin is the city of the future,” the prince said. If this is true, then the future is all moving type and flashing lights. “I believe I liked the Esplanade best,” I say.

He grins and it makes him look so youthful. “Me, too.”

I order the pot roast. He orders the pork. When Bowtie finds us again, we’re toasting to the wonder that is Berlin.

*

On the train back to Paris, I finish reading a review aloud to Edouard. “ ‘Mesmerizing Mata Hari was a most entrancing Salome. Her interpretation was bewitching.’ ” I hold up the Berliner Tageblatt. “And here is the best part.” There is a photo of the prince and me in an expensive shop on the Unter den Linden. “For the scrapbook.” I fold the paper carefully. “Isn’t it wonderful? I love Berlin. And Berlin loved me.”