Mata Hari's Last Dance(4)

“Tell me about the stupas,” he says.

“The bell-shaped stones in which meditating Buddhas sit in quiet bliss contemplating the world? They are part of the temple.”

“You’ve seen them?”

“Many times.” They are a piece of paradise overlooking Yogyakarta.

“How many are there?”

“Seventy-two, if you do not include the largest one in the middle.”

He rises abruptly and I look at Clunet. Have I said something wrong?

“Come,” Guimet says.

I exhale and Clunet and I share an uneasy glance. We follow him into an antechamber. The dark velvet curtains are drawn and the air is cool. In large glass cases illuminated books are displayed. He walks to one work in particular and stops. I recognize it immediately.

“The Kamasutra,” I say. A book of sex, and this particular volume contains explicit pictures. I move closer to Guimet and begin to read in Malay, the language my barbarian husband hated with such ignorant passion. I make certain to catch his eye each time I pronounce an evocative word.

After I fall silent, Guimet immediately asks, “Is this book truly held sacred in India?”

“In certain places, yes.” I gaze deeply into his eyes. “Very much so.”

He nods and I know he is imagining himself in such places, with lovers capable of gravity-defying sexual positions. Although, in fact, the book is largely about virtuous living.

“When you danced in the temple, what did you wear?”

I look briefly at Clunet. We did not discuss this earlier. “When one dances for Shiva, it is done in the nude. Of course, jewels are like offerings to the gods. They never interfere with the sacredness of the dance. Unlike clothing.”

I enjoy Guimet’s shock. And from behind me, I can feel Clunet’s approval like warm light. Guimet sweeps back a velvet drape to reveal an astounding collection of jewels: stunning necklaces, bracelets, and a ruby-studded brassiere.

“This piece is from my last trip to India.” He hands me the silver brassiere. I touch it reverently, holding it up to my chest, pinning his eyes to me.

Clunet breaks my spell in a clumsy instant. “Is that insured?”

Guimet pulls his gaze away from my chest and claps Clunet on the back with a sigh. “Everything’s in order.” He turns to me, his new confidante. “He’s a good lawyer, Mata Hari. Always concerned. But does he have an eye for beautiful things? Does he appreciate art and the East like we do? Why don’t you select your favorite pieces to wear for your performance at the launch of my library?”

I pretend to hesitate.

“Please,” he says. “I insist.”

I caress necklaces of gold encrusted with gems. Run my fingertips along silver so pure it’s white. I hold twisted pieces of bronze in my hand, weighing the history in them. In the end, I choose Guimet’s favorites: the brassiere, two snake bangles, a diadem that has pride of place in its own case, and a necklace that—as Guimet observes—will hang at “a lovely length” between my breasts. I pass my selections to Clunet and he locks the jewels in a long metal case.

“My new library is across the street,” Guimet says. “It is both a house and a museum; I’ve recently added a second floor. It’s home to my greatest collections, gathered from all over the world. I’d like to show it to you, Mata Hari.”

“Of course,” Clunet says. “We can go now if you’d like. I’ve been curious to see what you’ve accomplished.”

Guimet looks at him and I wonder if Clunet realizes he hasn’t been invited.

The three of us walk across the Place d’Iena and Guimet produces a key from his suit pocket. Before us is a two-storied building that stands opposite a life-size statue of George Washington on his horse.

“They installed that five years ago,” Guimet says with distaste.

I read the statue’s inscription. “A GIFT OF THE WOMEN OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA IN MEMORY OF THE BROTHERLY HELP GIVEN BY FRANCE TO THEIR FATHERS IN THE FIGHT FOR INDEPENDENCE.”

“Have you visited America?” I look at Washington’s raised sword. He never visited Paris in his lifetime.

“New York.” He smiles at a pleasurable memory. “There’s no finer city in the world.”

I’m surprised by his answer. “You found New York more appealing than Paris?” I can still remember my first glimpse of Paris, her wide boulevards, her sparkling lights. Everywhere I went there was something new to see. And the women . . . they were all dressed like starlets in lacy Callot Soeurs gowns and Paul Poiret dresses.

“Absolutely,” Guimet says. “There are buildings so tall in New York that some people are afraid to ride the elevators to the top. The entire city is magic.”

Perhaps someday I will visit New York. A city of magic.

He pushes open a pair of double doors and we step into a round library so beautifully designed that I hold my breath just entering. It’s a domed cathedral of light and space. The patterned wooden floors are polished to a sheen, and eight graceful columns rise toward the second floor. Everywhere you turn there are books, leather-bound and encased in glass.

“My God, this must have cost a fortune,” Clunet says, stepping into the center of the room, marveling at the spectacular glass skylight in the ceiling.

“A small one,” Guimet concedes.