Mata Hari's Last Dance(6)
“Ready?” he asks, and pretends not to notice my embarrassment. He offers me his arm as if we were in an elegant hotel, and he walks me to his car. I wait as he opens the door for me. He tucks in the edges of my long cloak as well.
“Thank you,” I say. Rudolph never opened or closed my carriage door.
Clunet starts the car. As we drive toward the Place d’Iena I begin to feel nervous. I try not to imagine what will happen to me if my dance is rejected; life won’t be worth living if this evening is a disaster. Then the dream of Paris will truly be gone. I glance at Clunet, his expensive blue suit and thick salt-and-pepper hair. If I fail to impress, he’ll toss me away as easily as he tossed that rose from his car the day we signed our contract.
He must notice the way I am twisting the fabric of my cloak because he says, “Nothing to be frightened about, M’greet. I’ve seen you perform. You’ll conquer them tonight.”
But there is everything to be frightened about. “There will be so many guests—”
“Yes. Think of it as performing in a theater.”
“An exclusive theater; every member of the audience is astoundingly wealthy.”
He smiles. “That is the very best kind of playhouse.”
I recognize the statue of George Washington. We have reached the Place d’Iena. There are still three hours before the two hundred guests are due to arrive, but I’ll need the time to practice and dress. A butler answers the door and as soon as we’re inside, Guimet pounces on us. He’s all compliments and smiles with me, but with Clunet he’s more formal. He offers his hand and says, “Looking forward to tonight.” Then he turns back to me, as excited as a boy. “Wait until you see what I’ve done.”
He escorts us across the street to the library and I’m truly amazed. He has transformed a cathedral of books and art into an Indian temple. Incense wafts, thick and heady, between the columns, while men dressed in gold silks and wearing jewel-encrusted turbans wave ostrich-feather fans. A three-foot statue of Shiva Nataraja, the destroyer of worlds, glitters from the center of the room. I close my eyes for a moment and breathe deeply. He has spared no expense and the authenticity is exquisite; it is as if Paris is thousands of miles away and I am standing in a temple in Java.
Exactly as I requested, a gamelan orchestra is poised, waiting for me. The musicians have set up in the back of the room. In the car I was nervous; the stakes are so high. If I succeed, I am guaranteed entry into high society; if I fail, it is back to Montmartre and misery. Yet standing in front of Shiva—who is trampling Illusion with his right foot—I feel powerful and strong. I take off my light cloak. I am wearing only the silver brassiere and a thin silver band on my thigh that is clearly visible through my diaphanous skirt. Guimet cannot take his eyes off me.
“I must rehearse,” I say, dismissing the two men.
Guimet immediately kisses each of my cheeks. “Bonne chance,” he says on the first, and on the second kiss, “Shubhkamnaye.”
Good luck in both French and Hindi.
But it’s clear that Clunet isn’t going to leave. “Thank you, Edouard,” I say, handing him my cloak. Then I focus all of my charm on the men in my orchestra. “And thank you for joining me for tonight’s experience. This dance is unlike anything you’ve witnessed before. While we rehearse I ask but two things of you: If you are shocked, hide your emotions. If you are offended, leave.”
The men exchange looks between themselves. A few of them have glanced at Clunet; none have met my eye.
“My hope, however, is that each of you will stay. That you will help me create one of the most memorable evenings in Paris, one that will make you famous throughout this city.”
The men look intrigued; one or two has risked meeting my glance.
“We have less than three hours to come to know each other, to anticipate each other’s needs. We will practice the entire dance together. We will rehearse until we know we are perfect. I will enter from beneath the stairs.” I indicate the exact spot. “You will start to play moments before I come out, gently transporting our audience away from the present, away from their everyday lives. Then—at the instant I appear—the music must crescendo.”
We run through the dance and my hips sway to their music, the movement and the percussion carrying us all to another world. I am certain some of these musicians have seen dancers partially disrobe; they have knowing looks in their eyes. But when I slip off the last of my layered skirts and kneel before Shiva, my back arched, everything I was born with displayed, I know their shock is genuine. I glance over in time to see Edouard Clunet with his eyes as wide as those of the men in my orchestra.
His expression tells me I’m in exactly the right position.
*
I hear the sounds of people moving into the library, members of French society talking and laughing and taking their places.
“This is quite a spectacular room.”
“I hear the entertainer is Japanese.”
Chairs scrape across the floor. Then the lamps dim and all conversation stops as Guimet begins his introduction.
“Our guest was born in the south of India at Jaffnapatam. She is the daughter of a great Brahmin family. Tonight we will witness one of the sacred dances of India.”
The audience murmurs as the orchestra begins, filling the room with music few people in Paris have ever heard.