Mata Hari's Last Dance(36)

He’s a pretty talker, but the truth is that he’s good for mine, too. I make him wait several moments before answering. “Same lobby. Ten o’clock.”

He tips his hat to me and the chauffeur closes my door.

*

I arrive in the lobby of the Plaza Athénée at ten minutes to ten.

Last night I had a terrible dream. I was standing on stage and no one was in the audience. I kept waiting and waiting, but no one came. The horror of the dream isn’t how real it felt but that someday it will be true. How many years do I have left? Five? Three? There are younger girls duplicating my roles right now. There are no more veils to drop. How will I afford to bring Non home? How will I take care of myself?

“Mata Hari?”

“Yes?” I look up and realize that a balding man in an expensive suit wearing a striking gold watch is standing before me.

“Felix Rousseau,” he says.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Felix.”

“I want to tell you how much I enjoy your shows. I’ve been to one in Madrid and I was there last night at La Madeline. I wish I had seen you in Berlin.”

“You’re a traveler, then?”

“For work. I’m a banker.” A very wealthy banker, his smile adds.

I learn he has a chateau at Esvres. Fifteen butlers, seventeen maids, a stable full of horses. “He collects everything,” I tell Edouard the next day when I see him for lunch at Maxim’s. “Suits of armor, coins, musical instruments, cars.”

“Women?” Edouard asks, and he actually looks jealous.

“He did say he is unhappy with his wife.”

Edouard’s lips thin. “So he’s an original liar, too.”

*

The next weekend Rousseau invites me to Esvres. “Give her whatever she wants,” he tells the servants. And they do. There is coffee waiting for me after my morning ride, in the afternoon a dozen new books are arranged in the parlor, and in the evening we dine at the Plaza Athénée, my new favorite place.

“Mata Hari, I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine. An artist by the name of Pablo Picasso.”

He’s a little man in an oversize coat. I extend my arm and he kisses my hand briefly. “I’ve seen one of your shows,” he says. “You are wonderful. Rousseau does nothing but talk about you.”

“Oh, that’s a lovely exaggeration.”

He smiles. “Perhaps someday you will sit for a painting.”

He must be very talented if Rousseau is interested in him. I am about to agree when Rousseau speaks. “Most unfortunately Mata Hari is very busy,” he lies.

Both men look toward me.

“My schedule is full,” I say, and I see Rousseau’s shoulders relax. But perhaps he is too relaxed. “However, it is very flexible, like I am.”

Later that evening Rousseau buys me a ring worth a thousand francs, and I recognize how easily he can be led. When he takes me to the races at Longchamp the following day, I search out Pablo. We talk and I laugh at everything he says as if he’s the most charming man in Paris. It doesn’t take very long: Pablo is in the middle of a story about Spain.

“Mata Hari,” Rousseau interrupts.

I look at him and mouth shhhh. I turn back to Pablo.

“Mata Hari, it’s time we leave.”

“So soon? But Pablo—”

“Yes.”

I take his arm and follow him out. Rousseau is silent. I wonder if I overplayed my hand.

In the car, he sits very still for several minutes without looking at me or saying a word. I begin to think of ways to placate him when he says, “I can get your daughter back.”

I am stunned. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me since the first day we met. I believe I have the means to help you,” he says. “Nothing is more important to you, is it?”

“No.” Now I feel guilty for flirting with Pablo. “My lawyer is already—”

“Edouard Clunet?”

I’m surprised he knows the name.

“I’ve dealt with him before. We don’t need his help.”

“But he’s already—”

“Mata Hari, I know people.”

I study him through sudden tears. He is earnest.

“Let me handle this.” He holds out his hands. “Stay with me,” he says.

I take his hands. And I do.

*

I live with Rousseau in his chateau for four weeks. There are so many promises he makes. Trips we’ll take, gifts he’ll buy, places we’ll dine—and of course, most importantly, the rescue of Non. But by the end of the month, for all of the fancy dining, trinkets, and shows, he has done nothing to bring me my daughter. I take out my bags and start packing my things.

“Where are you going?” Rousseau actually sounds shocked. He is in the doorway, watching me fold clothes.

I don’t want to tell him the truth so I say, “You know I can’t stay in the country forever.” I fold some silk nighties into my case. “I have to return to Paris. I have to dance. I must earn my living.” If only I had a contract.

Rousseau is at a loss. A coin doesn’t sell its owner. “Can’t you stay?”

“You will find other women to entertain you,” I tell him.