Mata Hari's Last Dance (6 page)

I glance away. She could be talking about me.

Jeanne doesn't notice my discomfort. “However, to meet her you would never know any of this. There's a wonderful energy about her. When Madeleine creates, it's as if a personal muse is guiding her hand.”

I am eager to meet this woman who has reinvented herself after so much tragedy. Surely, though, Jeanne is mistaken: There must be some sign of her past in her eyes, on her face. We stop in front of a beautiful shop on the Rue Taitbout and Jeanne's chauffeur announces our arrival. He opens our doors, first Jeanne's, then mine. I step into the sunshine and before we reach the shop Jeanne and I are already surrounded.

“Jeanne!” someone cries as I step into the sunshine.

Then another voice summons her from the doorway, and finally four women appear to greet us, and all of them are excited to see her. They usher us inside and Jeanne introduces me to the Callot sisters: Marie, Marthe, Regina, and Joséphine. It is plain to see they all bear a striking resemblance to one another, with oval faces and thick, dark hair. They're dressed in simple white blouses and black skirts, yet all around us is evidence of their genius. Gowns made of gold and silver brocade, silks decorated with metal embroidery, dresses so exquisite I hold my breath to look at them. I want to own everything I see.

“We've heard so much about you,” Marie says to me. “We were terribly disappointed to miss your dance at Jeanne's soiree.”

“We were all out of town,” Regina explains.

“Hopefully there will be more dances,” Jeanne says, glancing sideways at me.

There are quite a few customers in the shop watching us, wondering who we might be. Regina guides us toward the back, to a small kitchen.

“I expect you're here to see Madeleine?” she says knowingly.

“You know me well,” says Jeanne. “Is she available?”

On cue, a woman appears. She's tall, with short hair and very large hands. As soon as she sees Jeanne, her face lights up and I realize that Jeanne is right: I can't read this woman's past on her face. She greets Jeanne with kisses on each cheek, tells her she looks wonderful, and then both women turn to me.

“And this is Mata Hari,” Jeanne says. “Mata Hari, Madeleine Vionnet, a dear friend and one of the finest dressmakers in Paris.”

Madeleine steps back to take a better look at me. I'm not wearing one of my Javanese sarongs, but I can see that she's heard stories and she's imagining me in a sheath of silk. “Very pleased to meet you,” she says.

“The pleasure is all mine,” I assure her.

“Shall we take some coffee?” Regina asks, and when we are all seated at the kitchen table, I ask her how Callot Soeurs came to be and she tells me the story.

“Our mother taught us lace making,” Regina says, “and then Marie trained as a dressmaker with Raudnitz and Company. We started off small. Adding lace to lingerie, that sort of thing. But as we became more skilled our clientele grew and soon enough we were able to establish this shop.”

“Was your mother ambitious?” I ask.

“Yes.” Regina sips her coffee thoughtfully. Then she adds, “She pushed us. All of us.”

Her sisters nod.

“It all began with her,” Marie agrees. “A few years ago, Madeleine came to us, and I can only hope we get to keep her for a little while longer.”

“We all know she's biding her time and that one day she will become one of our fiercest rivals,” Regina says.

Madeleine blushes, but there's no malice in Regina's statement.

“I expect that's how you must feel about Mata Hari,” Regina adds, addressing Jeanne. “You discover a wonderful new talent and then—” She snaps her fingers. “Someone else wants to take it away.”

Jeanne wraps her arm around my shoulders. “No one is stealing Mata Hari,” she declares. Her tone is light.

Regina wags her finger. “Just wait.”

“I suppose it's inevitable, isn't it?” Jeanne sighs and the sisters look at me.

“We were hoping that Jeanne would bring you,” Marie admits. “Ever since
Le Figaro
photographed your debut at Guimet's, Madeleine has been wanting to sketch you. I think she was expecting you to show up wearing one of your sarongs.”

“I save them for very special occasions,” I say.

“I understand.” Madeleine waves away any concern, looking, perhaps, slightly embarrassed. “But perhaps—if you don't have any pressing engagements—you would be willing to model for us today? It won't take much time,” she assures me.

“And you can wear one of Madeleine's exotic creations,” says Marie, as if sweetening the deal.

I look at Jeanne. What are our plans for the rest of the day?

“Of course she can,” Jeanne says. “That's why we're here.”

I feel a surge of gratitude toward her. Why is she so kind to me? Perhaps she sees in me a younger version of herself?

Madeleine rises and asks us to follow her into a brightly painted room filled with bolts of fabric and a dozen sewing machines. Sev
eral chairs are arranged around a soft white rug where I imagine previous models have stood.

“If you could take off your gown and gloves, I'll get the materials for the design I want you to wear,” Madeleine says and leaves for a moment. Jeanne seats herself to watch as I undress. I smile at her in my undergarments.

“It's going to be such a great shame to lose you,” she says.

I keep the mood light. “I don't think you will lose me to Madeleine.”

“Then it will be to someone much more infuriating. And I dare say a man.”

Madeleine returns with an armful of nearly translucent fabric in a soft mint green. “Have you ever modeled before?” she asks, as she arranges a loose sheath around my body, tucking it in here and pinning it there.

“I haven't.” The material is soft as a whisper.

“It is the opposite of dancing. Simply stay still.”

It takes nearly an hour for Madeleine to create her vision, and when she's done, I'm standing barefoot on the carpeted floor wearing a stylized version of an Indian sari in loose tulle. It's exquisite, unlike anything I've ever worn before. I stand still while she sketches me, first my front and then my back. Jeanne talks while Madeleine works.

“I want to hear all the gossip at Callot Soeurs. What tidbits do you have for me?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Madeleine continues drawing. “It's incredibly boring right now. No infamous customers, no shocked matrons, no scandalous women.” She nods at me. “Until today.”

We all laugh.

“I was telling Mata Hari how successful you've been, Madeleine.”

“Have you? I suppose mine is an underdog story.”

“I can appreciate that,” I say, and something in my tone of voice makes Madeleine look up from her paper. I've been too honest. “Similar past. Similar triumphs,” I admit.

“I didn't know that,” Jeanne says, looking at me expectantly, wanting more.

“I don't talk about it,” I say. Perhaps I've talked too much.

“Women like us prefer to forget we had a past. Too painful,” Madeleine says, saving me. “We'd rather create.”

She has no idea how true this is.

Madeleine puts some finishing touches on her sketch and shakes her head. “You're striking,” she says, speaking as though to herself. “But of course, you already know this.”

The compliment feels significant coming from her. She's seen so many beautiful bodies and women. And she's made a great success of her life. Tragedy didn't force her to live in the ashes of her burned-out former life.

“This sketch”—she holds it so that I can see it—“will advertise this sheath dress in the Sunday papers. Look for it next month.”

I can't wait to tell Edouard. Of all the things! I'm a model in the Sunday papers!

“So where are the two of you going next?” Madeleine asks.

Jeanne looks at me. “I don't know. Are you tired?” she asks.

“Not at all.” I feel invigorated.

“Have you stopped by Paris Nouveau?” Madeleine asks. “There are some truly beautiful pieces there right now.”

So that's where we go, passing by a line of fancy boutiques with glassy storefronts and heavy oak doors. At Paris Nouveau Jeanne buys me a cashmere sweater in baby-doll pink, a muted gray dress, and a simple black coat. From the shop, she places a phone call to someone to collect our bags. I can't imagine who the operator is connecting her to, but five minutes later her chauffeur appears.

Outside, horses still amble down the cobbled streets, but it's the cars that dominate, at least today. They make nearly as much noise as the carriages, yet I prefer their smooth, glossy exteriors and how they make moving seem effortless. I note that many pedestrians don't like them but I still want one. I wonder if Jeanne has a carriage as well, or whether the car is her only vehicle now.

She takes me to the restaurant Le Grand Véfour and we slip into the padded leather booths. Then she whispers to me about all the famous people who have dined here. Apparently, all of Paris has been. Even the Callot sisters.

A young man approaches our table. I have never seen anyone with eyes like his—so clear and blue. They are hypnotizing.

“Jeanne, I haven't seen you here in months,” he says.

“I've been keeping far too busy, Marquis.”

She offers him her hand and he kisses it slowly. Then he steps back to look at me.

“Mata Hari,” Jeanne says, “may I introduce you to the Marquis de Givenchy. The most charming
and eligible
bachelor in France.”

He leans forward to bring my hand to his lips and inhales my perfume as he does. “What
is
that?” He is still holding my hand. He closes his eyes. He inhales again.

“The scents of Java,” I say. “Tobacco,” I tell him. “Vanilla, cedar wood . . .”

“Stunning.” He opens his eyes. “Jeanne, how long were you planning to keep this creature from me?”

“As long as possible.” She winks at me.

“You are terrible. A woman this beautiful should never be hidden.” He's still holding my hand. I take it back and Jeanne offers him a seat, but he refuses.

“I'm afraid I am meeting someone,” he says. I wonder if it's a woman. “Another time. Where are you staying, Mata Hari?”

“With me.” Jeanne smiles, and I know what she wants him to think.

“Oh.”

“It's temporary,” I say. “I have an apartment.”

He reaches into his pocket and hands me a card. His name and address are printed on the front. There is also a number. I have never been given a card with a number. I thought that only lawyers used these.

*    *    *

I don't call Givenchy. When I return from my stay with Jeanne, I call Guimet instead, knowing that's what Edouard would want me to do. He is hesitant at first, but I am all sweetness and honey with him on the phone. “I will make it worth your while,” I promise.

As soon as he arrives, I regret this decision. He's dressed in an overcoat and hat. He removes neither one when he takes a chair in the salon.

“So tell me about your performance,” he says.

I sit opposite him, crossing my legs so that the silk of my dressing gown parts along my thigh. “It was nothing like the performance I gave for you.”

“That's not what I heard.”

I try to turn the situation light. “It's true. There were only women in this audience. How boring! Can you imagine?”

“No. I cannot. Why anyone would want to spend time with the
Comtesse
de Loynes I cannot imagine.” He emphasizes the word
comtesse
to indicate he knows how she came by the title. “I thought you had better judgment, Mata Hari.”

“No. Apparently not. Good night, monsieur,” I tell him.

Guimet stands, affronted. No woman, I'm sure, has ever spoken to him this way.

“Perhaps I will see you when you're in better spirits,” I say. I don't
see him out. I disappear into my room and when I hear him shut the door, I call Givenchy.

“I'll send a car for you,” he says.

*    *    *

The marquis is similar to my aviator at the Rothschilds': slow and tender. He makes love as if the two of us have all the time in the world and nothing is more important than my pleasure. I know he has had women hundreds of times before, but there is something in the way he holds my gaze that lets me believe that none of his other women have mattered. It is us—only us. This is why he's the most eligible bachelor in France. By the time we have finished our last glass of wine the sharp memory of my fight with Guimet is only a dull recollection; it means nothing.

Perhaps Guimet senses this. The next evening before I'm finished dressing for the night a large package arrives.

“Mata Hari?” the delivery boy asks.

“Yes.”

He holds out a box with a familiar logo and a single printed word:
HERMÈS
. I take it inside and unwrap a cashmere shawl and gloves. The note inside is signed by Guimet. “I'm sorry,” it reads. I am trying on the gloves and wrapping myself in cashmere when there's a knock at the door. Guimet! I open it at once but Givenchy is outside.

“Not a good time?” He looks past me, thinking he's caught me with some other lover.

“No. Come in.” I take him into the salon. Guimet's note and the box from Hermès is still on the table.

“A gift?”

I shrug. “They come sometimes.”

“I imagine it's more than sometimes.”

I see he's carrying a box as well. It's small. Jewelry? He holds it
out for me and I unwrap it slowly. A sapphire ring encircled with diamonds. How many nights of rent would this have paid for those first months in Paris? I take it out and slip it on my finger, showing it off for him. “It's beautiful.”

“Enough to convince you to stop taking gifts from anyone else?”