Mata Hari's Last Dance(52)

I know I could call, but I want to hear his voice. I want to see his face.

I walk the three blocks from my hotel to his office. In the streets, I see the same patterns again and again on women’s dresses. They’ve been made from sacks. Flour companies have taken to embroidering pretty patterns on their cotton bags so women can turn them into clothes when they are empty. I haven’t purchased a new dress in months, but now I feel wealthy.

I reach Edouard’s office and knock. His secretary answers.

“Mata Hari.” She makes no move to let me inside. “I don’t believe Monsieur Clunet will want to see you,” she says.

“That is not your decision to make,” I reply, affronted. I am ready to say more when she shocks me into silence.

“He is married, madam. He’s a respectable man now and does not require your services anymore.”

She shuts the door and for several moments I can’t breathe. I press my back against the door to keep from sliding to the pavement. Married? It has to be the blonde from Berlin. Pearl Buttons. The thought of them together, living in a house, talking about the war over coffee at breakfast, makes me physically ill.

*

I return directly to the Grand Hotel. I order dinner in bed. I stay in my blue silk robe all the following day. When I hear the bellboy leaving newspapers outside my door, I don’t rise to fetch them. I don’t even turn on the radio for news. I don’t care what’s happening anymore. I stay in bed for days.

After a week, I feel the strength to get up and get dressed.

I go downstairs, to the ivory-colored foyer.

There is no war or heartache in the Grand. In one of the back rooms is a piano, a black Steinway. A young man is playing and immediately I’m reminded of Evert. The double-breasted uniform decorated with medals. His high cheekbones and blue sapphire eyes. “You’re a beautiful pianist,” I say.

“Thank you.”

“Russian?” I ask.

“Is my French that bad?”

“No, I have a good ear.” I motion for him to slide down the bench; then I sit next to him and pick up his tune. We play together.

“You are Mata Hari.”

For some reason, I’m disappointed. “Yes.”

“Vadime de Massloff,” he introduces himself. “An army captain.”

“What are you doing in Paris?”

“I have two weeks off before I return.”

“I didn’t realize holidays were allowed in the middle of a war,” I say, flirting. We keep playing together, our fingers brushing on the ivory keys.

“Depends on how long you’ve been fighting.” He sounds a thousand years old. I’m guessing he’s twenty-three or twenty-four. Just a few years older than Norman would have been, if he had survived.

“Where did you learn to play?” he asks.

In Leeuwarden. “Around.” I stop playing. “Would you like to take a walk with me?”

He nearly leaps out of his chair. I give him my arm and allow him to lead me along the Grand Boulevard, where we can admire the shops. No one has told the storefront decorators that a war is being fought.

“So is your family in Russia?” I ask.

“Yes. My family leads a hard life there.”

Meaning they are poor. “Do they have a trade?”

“Yes. They are shop owners.” I indicate a café and we go inside. “But the men in my family all serve their country. We are military men.” He is proud.

We order coffee and sit across from each other. There are other men in the café, some injured and some probably on leave. What must it feel like to be granted leave from hell, knowing eventually you’ll have to go back? To come to Café de la Paix while your comrades are flying missions over Berlin, being shot down, wounded, maimed. And then to return a week later and fly those same missions. It must be unbearable.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

I consider lying to him. “War. How uncertain life is.”

“Let’s not think about war, then,” he says in the way that only young people can. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

He smells like rainwater and musk. I lead him to my room and his strength becomes my new shelter in this world.

*

During the next two weeks we are inseparable. I learn about Va--dime’s family in northern Russia and I tell him about my childhood in Leeuwarden. He’s surprised to learn I’m not from India.

“So all of those dances?”

“I learned them in Java,” I confess.

It’s still exotic to him. India, Java . . . both are entire worlds away from machine guns and trenches. We don’t speak about war. In my suite in the Grand we don’t open a single newspaper. Europe may be crumbling beneath our feet or sliding into the sea, but neither of us wants to know.

*

I dream of Evert, and in the dream he is sailing away. The significance isn’t lost on me: In two days Vadime will return to his unit. I do not want to feel the pain of loss before it is necessary, but it’s almost impossible to ignore. I focus on enjoying the moments, but in the dance hall, outside the café, in my suite—all I can think about is vanishing time.

On our last day in Paris together, I wake early and dress while Vadime’s still in bed. Downstairs in the lounge I order a gin and tonic.