Mata Hari's Last Dance(35)

“Where have you been?”

“I visited a temple with Sofie.” I hurried my words.

His face went red. “Goddamn it!” He pulled his arm back and hit me. “I told you to stay in this house!” I backed up toward the stairs. He grabbed my hair, jerking my head toward his. “You think you can defy me?” He twisted my arm behind my back and shoved me into the wall, crushing me with his weight. “Do you think I don’t see how you look at other men, you little hoer?” He pushed me up the stairs and into the bedroom, throwing me on the floor.

The next thirty days stretched impossibly long.

When the blood didn’t come, I had to acknowledge the horrible reality.

I was carrying Rudolph’s child.





Chapter 12


I Should Have Heeded the Danger





1905


When I see him across the lobby of the Plaza Athénée, I’m sure I’m mistaken. I stop and stare. He is sitting across from a woman I recognize. She is one of my dancers from my time at the Odéon. Audrey? Annique? Whatever her name, she is laughing, tossing back her head, touching invisible pearls at her neck. Across from her, hanging on every word, is Bowtie. His fedora with its Press card is in his lap. His notepad is out and he’s writing furiously. Before I can stop myself I cross the lobby. The sharp click of my heels makes several people turn.

“Mata Hari!” Bowtie stands. A deep flush creeps along his cheeks. He hasn’t interviewed me in months.

“What a surprise to see you here,” I say drily.

The blonde smiles at me from her chair. It is the smile that women reserve only for their competition.

“Yes. Well, Annique,” he nods toward the pretty blonde, “is opening her own show at the Odéon this week.”

The Odéon!

Annique nods. “Nice to see you, Mata Hari.”

There is nothing nice about it. Bowtie shifts his eyes from me to her and I can see the wheels spinning in his head. “Ladies, this is such a lucky meeting,” he says. “Perhaps you’d care to tell Le Figaro your plans, Mata Hari? Will you be in attendance?”

“What is being performed?” I ask, as my entire body goes hot.

“Cleopatra,” Annique says, without the barest hint of shame.

Bowtie is absolutely beside himself with glee. “Didn’t you play Cleopatra in Madrid?” he asks, with false surprise. “The Odéon has two Cleopatras meeting by chance at the Plaza Athénée. Extraordinary. Two Cleopatras in one room!”

“My act is quite different from hers,” Annique says. “In mine, all the dancers perform nude. We don’t use veils. It is very modern.”

They’re both watching me. I think I’m going to be sick. Annique stole my act and now the Odéon is hiring her. I have a crushing feeling in my chest; I haven’t had a new contract in months. Edouard took the owner of the Odéon to court and won, but that money isn’t enough to keep his men working to rescue Non. I’ve paid for three scouting missions so far—each one more disappointing than the last. They can never get close to her. Whenever Non is not with Rudolph she’s at school, and when she’s at school a nanny sits outside waiting for her. The woman never misses a day, never leaves her post.

I turn on my heel and leave Bowtie with Annique. Then I take the long way home. Children are racing paper boats in the Seine. It’s a beautiful day but all I see are the numbers dancing in my head. Ten thousand: what it will cost to bribe Rudolph’s nanny; Edouard has told me this. Six thousand: the amount I’ll need to pay for another reconnaissance mission, and there will need to be more, possibly many. Six: the number of weeks I haven’t worked. Ten: the number of days since I last saw Edouard. Two: the number of men this last week who bought me something worth pawning. One: the only child I have left. And she’s waiting for me. Edouard says his men tell him she looks happy. She appears healthy and well cared for. She has friends in school and jokes with her nanny. Is it true? Or are they telling me lies to make the waiting easier?

When I get home, Edouard phones to tell me that La Madeline wants my Cleopatra.

“Charge them an outrageous sum,” I tell him, feeling vindictive. They rejected me when I first arrived in Paris.

“I already have.”

“Then double it.”

*

I’m being crushed by the circle of reporters surrounding me. There are so many cameras and notepads that I couldn’t find Bowtie in the crowd if I wanted to. When the bulbs finally stop flashing, I do see him. He thrusts a paper under my nose.

PARIS SHOWDOWN: IN DUELING CLEOPATRAS MATA HARI CONQUERS

“Not bad.” I keep walking, letting my white fur trail behind me. It’s an older coat but no one would know it. And suddenly I feel I can conquer Annique and the world. I wait while my chauffeur opens the car door. Before he can close it, Bowtie is there. “Mata Hari, will you be around for—”

“For what? For something Annique isn’t available for?”

“Hold on, now.” He puts his hands up, as if I’m pointing a gun at him. “You know the ropes; this is business. Who knows that better than you? The ‘Showdown’ piece sold more copies for Le Figaro than every other article I’ve written this month combined. Meet me tomorrow,” he pleads. “You’re good for my career.”