Mata Hari's Last Dance(34)

*

The next night the owner of the Odéon is in the doorway of my dressing room, his mouth tight. “You will encore.”

“I will not!” I fling my brush across the room, watch it smack into the wall with a satisfying thud. “I encored twice yesterday and three times the day before. I’m done tonight. I’m done for every other night. No more encores.” I grab my cloak and slam the door behind me. In the cold December street, I can still hear the crowd in the theater, chanting Mata Hari! Mata Hari!

I search the busy streets for a cab. The night is a swirl of red and gold lights, a child’s dream of Christmas trees and carolers. And what have I spent it doing? Dancing naked for men who lie to their wives about where they’re going. Inside the shops, the cheerful lights remind me of the way my family decorated our house; of how, on the Feast of Sinterklaas, my brothers would jump on my bed before dawn to wake me so we could creep down the stairs together and spy on the presents that were waiting for us. How different my life was before my mother died and I was sent to the Haanstra School for Girls.

The holiday I spent at that school was difficult. We girls gathered together under the mistletoe at the end of November to draw names for a gift exchange to celebrate the Feast of Sinterklaas. No one wanted to pick Hendrika Ostrander’s name.

“No one wants her,” Naatje whispered.

Adda shook her head. “Last year, someone bought her a comb.”

When Mrs. Van Tassel held the red hat in front of me, I fished out a name: Hendrika Ostrander.

We exchanged gifts in the drawing room. From Georgiana I received a thick scarf. Adda was given an exquisite silver bangle, with tiny etchings and a clasp. Naatje’s present was a leather purse made in Italy. All the girls were rapt as Hendrika opened her gift from me. There was the sharp intake of breath when the girl who was Mrs. Van Tassel’s designated toilet cleaner held up a rabbit’s fur bonnet for everyone to see. It had cost me two weeks’ wages.

Hendrika’s eyes were red. “Thank you,” she whispered to me and I nodded back.

Everyone deserved a little beauty in their life, I thought. Even Hendrika.

A black taxi pulls up next to the curb. Edouard is spending the evening with his mother; she is hosting a Christmas party. I want that. To have a mother who expects me every Christmas. Instead of a lying father.

“Where to, mademois—Mata Hari!”

I look out at the carolers. Last night Edouard invited me to his mother’s party. I told him no. Now I change my mind. “Madame Clunet’s,” I tell him. “On la Rue Jacob.” An hour’s drive.

*

I wrap my fingers around the silver knocker and bang twice. The house is exactly as I imagined it, with cozy lace curtains and potted flowers.

The door swings open and there is Edouard: a drink in one hand, a cigar in the other. There is an expectant hush behind him, as if he were in the middle of a joke and I interrupted the punch line. It’s an uncomfortable feeling.

“M’greet!” Edouard steps back. “You came.” His smile is genuine. “I’m glad.” The party turns to look at me, a woman arriving alone in a black dress and a mink stole. They are a refined group: ladies wearing ancestral pearls and men that smell of expensive business deals. Edouard picks up a spoon and taps his glass. “I would like to introduce a guest.”

I feel my cheeks warm. “Edouard, please.”

He clears his throat. “May I now have the pleasure of announcing Mademoiselle M’greet MacLeod.”

I feel the color drain from my face. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard this name.

“She is my client and a most talented dancer.”

I am frightened to look up; will they recognize me like the taxi driver did? When I do, all their faces are still welcoming. No one at this party reads stories about Mata Hari. But they trust Edouard’s judgment, and I am ushered in warmly.

They crowd around me, Edouard’s grandpere in his black silk jacket, and his grandmere, with her strong perfume. They want to hear about Edouard as a businessman, they want to tell me stories from his childhood, and how Aunt Adorlee met Uncle Geoffrey on the dance floor to the song “L’Amour Venge.” It is the most wonderful evening I’ve spent since I was a young girl and had a family. When it’s time to go home, Edouard walks me out to his car. He smells like pine needles and brandy.

“I know why you came,” he says as he opens the car door. “You were lonely.”

I am mortified; hanging the embarrassing truth out like a girl’s private laundry. “I wasn’t!” I lie.

“Yes, you were.” He is smiling. “I also know you didn’t encore. The Odéon called before you arrived.” He hesitates. “They fired you.”

I don’t believe it. “Fired me? He can’t do that. Encoring isn’t in the contract.” I feel myself becoming enraged. I need that money for my daughter. “Edouard. I want that money. The full amount.”

“I don’t—”

“I will never dance for the Odéon again!”

“All right.”

“And I want you to sue him for breach of contract.”

*

That night, alone and furious in my apartment, I allow myself to remember Rudolph. I conjure him sitting at the table waiting for me.

“You’re home so early,” I said. “I—”