Mata Hari's Last Dance(9)

It holds one hundred francs. My God, it’s enough to live for two months.

*

As we drive together down the Rue du Faubourg Saint--Honoré, he explains what I can expect from the Rothschild’s event. They have planned a party for more than six hundred guests, and Madam Rothschild has requested that I perform something from the classics.

“Tristan and Isolde,” he suggests.

“Lady Godiva,” I counter. Her story was a favorite when I was a child. My father knew I loved the tale and only told it late at night when my brothers were in bed. “Tell her I absolutely must have a horse. That is a requirement. A white horse,” I add.

“Do you ride?”

“Of course. Would I ask for a horse if I couldn’t ride? My father taught me.” Before he disappeared, leaving bills and empty cupboards to remember him by.

Edouard is nodding. “A white horse, nonnegotiable.”

I glance out the window and watch the women walking along the Champs-élysées. They are breathtaking, wearing dresses of such rich fabrics that Marie Antoinette would be envious. I imagine myself in a metallic brocade with lace. I add delicate sleeves and a high black belt to accentuate my waist, and improve the whole ensemble by including pearls around my neck.

“Everyone who sees you must remember you,” says Edouard. “That is our goal. This requires strategy; none of your dresses are to be repeated. The same rule applies to your performances.”

Edouard stops the car in front of an exclusive-looking women’s boutique. I’ve never been inside such an expensive shop. The moment we step out of the car a man in a black suit takes Edouard’s keys.

“You’re giving your car to a stranger?” I ask, astonished at his lack of concern.

“The man’s a valet, M’greet. It’s his job to watch cars.”

I blush and say, “Of course.” But as we walk away I keep turning around.

*

Inside Le Bon Marché the air is lightly perfumed—lavender and vanilla, I think. And suddenly it’s my thirteenth birthday again and my father has taken me to the finest dress shop in Leeuwarden. Find her a dress that’s fit for the queen, he says, and the shop girl is more than happy to oblige. But here, in this shop, there are so many exquisite items to look at that I feel slightly overwhelmed. I linger by the front window, where there are rows of shawls. Each looks as soft and rich as butter. I delicately brush them with my fingertips, and feel intoxicated.

“Choose,” Edouard tells me, gesturing expansively. “You need four or five ensembles for this engagement, minimum.” Then he sighs, and says almost to himself, “A Rothschild event waxes on for days.”

I try on a dozen different dresses, hats, cashmere shawls. I am one of the women on the Champs-élysées. I hold up a gleaming string of pearls. “These?” I ask, although he has said nothing about my lack of jewels. “Every woman needs pearls.”

Edouard nods his approval and the shopkeeper asks, “Would madam like to try this matching bracelet?”

*

That evening I don’t go back to Montmartre. I return directly to my elegant apartment on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. I unlock my new life and stand on my private balcony to gaze out over Paris while I wait for Guimet to arrive. The air is chilly and the sun is setting but I have wrapped myself in cashmere and I feel deliciously warm and safe. I will leave my old possessions in that miserable rented room. They belong to the past. I have no desire to claim them.





Chapter 4


Looking for Fame

I have lived in Paris for more than a year, yet in all that time I never realized that a few minutes of travel could take me from Notre Dame to Baron Henri de Rothschild’s chateau. It’s the most beautiful building I’ve ever seen, hidden from the road by a thick bed of trees and protected from outsiders by a great stone wall. Edouard’s car pulls into the circular drive and I see reporters crowding the columned steps of the estate.

“Are they here for me?”

“They’re certainly not waiting to hear my opinion on international law,” Edouard says drily.

I bite my lower lip.

He places his palm on my knee. “You’ll be fine.” He steps out and opens my door; then the barrage of questions begins.

“Is it true that you were born on the Malabar Coast?”

“Yes,” I say, before I’m even out of the car. “In the city of Jaffnapatam.”

“Is this how you spell it?” A reporter thrusts a notebook under my nose. He’s wearing a card that says Press in the hatband of his fedora.

“Exactly.”

I get out and a second reporter maneuvers through the crowd. He is wearing a bright yellow bow tie. “So tell me, Mata Hari, what is required of a temple dancer?”

“The most sacred festivals require the ability to charm snakes,” I say. “It is dangerous work. My mother—”

“What makes you different from Isadora Duncan?” someone else shouts.

Edouard pushes several reporters out of the way and we climb the steps of the chateau. At the front door he turns to the crowd: “As she’s said, her mother danced at Kanda Swany, and yes, she died giving birth in a temple. Now if you’ll excuse us, she has a dance to perform.”

“Tell me about India,” Bowtie persists, and the crowd of men surge, pushing us against the door. “When will you be returning?”