Mata Hari's Last Dance(5)
“Indah,” I say for Guimet’s benefit. In Malay it means, “beautiful.”
Guimet leads us to the stairs and motions for us to follow behind him. Viewed from the second story, the entryway floor becomes a starburst of mahogany and pearl. I look at the priceless works of art assembled in this building and I imagine all the countries Guimet must have visited to create such a dreamlike, enchanting space—India, Java, China, Japan. His library is breathtaking. I study him in the soft light with new appreciation. A man capable of executing so many fine details to fulfill his own desire to create a cathedral to Asian art must be a gentle, tasteful lover. Clunet said Guimet was married once. I wonder what became of his wife, whether she died or ran away like I did.
We stand at the wooden balustrade and Guimet clears his throat. “Edouard, do you still have my lapis necklace in your office?”
“Of course.”
“Will you retrieve it for me?”
“Certainly. Tomorrow—”
“Actually, I would like to have it now.”
Clunet frowns. “Very well. Mata Hari, shall we—”
“I believe that Mata Hari is quite comfortable here. No need for her to join you.”
Both men look in my direction and I weigh the choice in front of me. Clunet holds my gaze for several moments and I wonder if he’s instructing me to say no. Or is he willing me to stay?
“I’m sure there are many treasures in this enchanting library that Monsieur Guimet would like to share with me,” I tell him. “I see many intriguing books that I would like to know more about. You take care of business, Monsieur Clunet. I’ll find my way home.”
I look at Guimet and he smiles.
*
When we’re finished, Guimet reclines on his bed and stares at the ceiling, breathing deeply. “I had no idea,” he keeps saying. “No idea . . .”
I run my hands over cotton sheets so fine they feel like silk. This is where I belong.
*
As I dress the following morning in the cavernous luxury of Guimet’s bedroom, he asks what I will require to enhance my performance when I dance at the unveiling of his museum. “Anything,” he stresses, as he tightens the blue sash of his silk robe. “Tell me what you need and I will give you absolutely anything.”
Countless things I need leap to mind. But I limit my request to statues I’ve seen in Hindu temples and heavy bronze incense holders that are common in Java. “Also,” I say, “I will need a set of Javanese gamelan. Eight instruments. And a flute and zither as well.” It’s a tall order. But Guimet appears unfazed.
“Consider it done.”
Chapter 2
My Dance Is a Sacred Poem
This time I am the one who is early. I wait for Clunet in the foyer of my run-down building. I rent my tiny room from a man who beats his wife. The carpets stink of urine and mold. I force myself to take a deep breath. After tonight, when Guimet and his guests meet the “Star of the East,” perhaps I’ll never have to live with the scents of poverty again.
“What are you doing?” Rudolph snapped the first time I allowed myself to inhale the fragrances of Java. The air was heavy with the scent of the yellow and white blossoms of frangipani trees.
“Smelling the air,” I said, already regretting my marriage to him.
“You enjoy the scent of cow shit?”
I ignored his comment and pointed to where terraced gardens were being cultivated in shades of emerald and jade. “What’s being grown over there?”
He licked a stray morsel of food from his mustache. “Those are rice paddies and coconut palms. The natives call the paddies sawahs,” he said with a dismissive grunt.
Sawahs. I committed the word to memory. “And that grass, what’s it called?”
“Alang-alang. A bloody uncivilized language if you ask me. Too much damn singsong. It’s no small wonder these people never contribute anything to society. They’re all too lazy and too busy singing.” He checked his pocket watch. If the driver went any faster our luggage would topple over and litter the streets. “It’s shameful. We colonized this land fifty years ago. But with darkies, what can you do?”
We were on our way to Yogyakarta, to the house that would have cost a prince’s fortune if it were built in Amsterdam. It was only a few days after my eighteenth birthday, and when we arrived, I ran inside and danced through its whitewashed rooms, admiring my burnished teak furniture and bamboo tables. “I can’t believe it,” I kept saying. I touched everything. The oyster-white countertops, the cinnamon and beige curtains, the flowers in terra-cotta pots. I took off my shoes so I could feel the polished floor, cool as silk, against my feet. “There are servants,” Rudolph said, impatient with my excitement. They appeared on cue behind him. Two women and a man. All three bowed. The women smiled and I recognized my amber tones in their skin, my long, dark hair in theirs. I felt I had come home and I thought that I would live there forever as Margaretha MacLeod. Lady MacLeod.
Now I know I should have married a man like Guimet. Intelligent, refined, a lover of art. A gentle man.
Three uncouth-looking men pass through the dingy lobby and try to engage me in conversation. I shiver inside my black cloak. I’m wearing almost nothing underneath it—only a few veils and a thin top. I turn my back on the men and wish Clunet would hurry. When he finally arrives, he parks across the street and I watch as he walks up the three steps into the lobby. As he enters, I’m certain he is appalled by the same things that dismayed me the day I made this building my home. The stains on the carpets, the old tarnished mirror decorating the wall—the odor. Still, this is preferable to -having him inside my apartment again; I know how shabby it is. Rue Durantin is all I can afford.