Mata Hari's Last Dance (8 page)

I look at Edouard, overwhelmed by gratitude. “I hope you will all help me make this two of the most memorable weeks in the history of the Kursaal. It's an honor to be here.”

*    *    *

On opening night, I am Cleopatra, queen of the Nile. The female dancers Ramón has given me are dressed in Grecian sheaths and golden breastplates. The male dancers wear nothing but short, white kilts. On stage, in front of a thousand people, I dance her agony with Caesar, her ecstasy with Antony, her untimely death. I wear more jewels than the queen of England and a constricting snake (it seemed unwise to wear an asp). I don't wear anything else. The next morning I am front-page news in every paper.

“You see this? You see this?” Ramón holds up a copy of
La Vanguardia
. He is waiting for me in the lobby of the Kursaal.

I look at the front page. There I am. And next to me, all teeth and lace, is Ramón. Beneath us is the headline:
MATA HARI TAKES THE CITY OF MADRID BY STORM
.

“You are a gift! The most exciting thing that's ever happened to the Kursaal,” Ramón says. “Thank you for coming here.” He takes my hand.

“Ramón—”

“No.
Thank you.
” He's weepy eyed and sentimental. “Is there anything I can do? Anything I can get you?”

“Nothing, Ramón. I don't want to keep you.”

“Take this,” he insists, pressing the newspaper into my hand.

“Thank you.” I will keep it for my scrapbook. “I should go and rehearse.”

But when I get to the ballroom, everyone is standing in a circle around one of the musicians—I believe his name is Jean Hallure. He is sitting on the floor. “Encore, encore. Will it be like that every night? Mata Hari is going to exhaust us!” he is muttering.

The circle of dancers and musicians breaks up as I enter. Jean Hallure has his head in his hands and is very drunk. When he sees me, it appears as if he believes he has summoned me. “Mata Hari, I've never seen anyone as beautiful as you!” he bellows. Then he blanches and makes a pathetic attempt to rise and ends up lurching back to the floor. The other performers are shaking their heads in disgust.

“I don't think you're in any condition to rehearse,” I say. I turn to the others and nod to one whose name I don't recall. “Could you take Jean someplace quiet?”

One musician offers Hallure his arm. “
I
wouldn't take advantage of you!” Hallure exclaims, struggling to his feet.

“Thank you, Jean.” I nod and Jean Hallure is escorted away.

Everyone looks at me. The orchestra can't rehearse without Jean. They are waiting for me to make a decision.

“Let's take this morning off,” I say. “Rehearsal is canceled.” I can see the relief on everyone's face. The truth is, we don't need more practice.

*    *    *

Back at La Paz I find Edouard in his room, relaxing. “Let's go out,” I suggest. “To a museum. I want to see the Museo del Prado. Did you know it was built by Charles III?”

“I had no idea.”

“He wanted to prove that his was the period of Enlightenment.”

“Thank you for enlightening me. Let me get my hat.”

*    *    *

The Museo del Prado is spectacular: all tiled roofs and floors, marble fountains, and lovely rotundas allowing light to filter in and kiss statues of military leaders. My favorite kind of men, my husband the only exception. We spend the day looking at art. It is peaceful; the quiet click of heels on smooth orange tile and the soft, still paintings of Goya and Titian. We find ourselves in front of a Rembrandt, on loan from Paris. I stand in front of the Dutch artist's painting,
Bathsheba at Her Bath
, and I am remembering my father.

“What are you thinking?” Edouard's voice is soft.

“Me?”

“No, the woman across the gallery.”

I tell him the truth. “Sometimes my father would show us these paintings in books. My brothers and me. He'd tell us stories. But that was a long time ago.”

Edouard nods. I can feel he wants me to say more, but I don't
want sympathy. Fathers abandon their children. Mine wasn't the first. “Tell the truth now,” I change the subject. “All of your pretty little blondes . . . they wouldn't know a Goya from a Rembrandt, would they?”

We stay in the museum for hours, sitting on the marble benches, wandering in the gardens, watching the people. Edouard stands in front of a statue of Charles V holding a spear and assumes the same pose. It is my favorite moment of the day.

We are the last visitors to leave.

“Shall we dine?” Edouard asks.

“We shall,” I say, taking his arm. We stroll to the Plaza del Angel, pass beneath the yellow and blue tiled walls of Ramón's España Cañi, then go to a café near La Paz. We order salmorejo with fino sherry. Edouard tells me that his last trip to Madrid was with his sister. “She insisted on seeing the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona.
The Encierro
they call it. So we traveled there by train, not knowing that the opening ceremonies were underway. We stood in the Plaza Consistorial, wondering where the bulls would be running.”

“You didn't!” Even I know this was a foolish move.

“We did. The San Saturnino clock struck eight. Suddenly everyone was moving.”

“How could you not know the bulls go charging down that street after everyone?”

He laughs. “We ran for our lives. It was madness. Finally, we hid in a doorway.”

I imagine Edouard cowering in a doorway. I imagine him having a sister.

“God, M'greet, it's so refreshing to get out like this.”

I know what he means. We toast to each other. And for the first time in many years I feel content. It's almost unsettling.

And when we finish the first bottle of wine, we order another.

*    *    *

“Would you like to come in?” We are at the threshold of my room at La Paz, both a little drunk.

“I'm not a diversion, M'greet. When you're more serious, ask again.” He starts to say something else, then pauses, changes his mind. “Men become obsessed with you,” he says at last. “I don't know why. But they do. If we start something, it won't be for a night.”

“That's fine,” I promise. I pull at his jacket, trying to sway him. He resists. “This offer doesn't stand forever,” I warn him.

He tips his hat to me. “Good night, M'greet.”

I stand in the empty hallway, alone, burning with shame.

*    *    *

Thousands of people come to the Kursaal to see
Cleopatra
. They come from cities as far away as Copenhagen and Cologne just so they can say they've seen Mata Hari dance. After each performance I mingle with the elegant and the powerful. The prince of Sweden, a princess from Germany, a colonel from Germany by the name of Braun. Over the course of fifteen evenings I conquer Spain. I send telegrams that keep Guimet and Givenchy longing for my return. But Edouard is another story, and we don't discuss what happened between us after opening night.

On
Cleopatra
's closing night, Edouard lets himself in to my dressing room. His hair is perfectly combed and in his black suit he's more distinguished looking than any prince in Europe. He's holding a small velvet box. He offers it to me as I take off my wig.

“A peace offering?” I joke.

He nods. “Something like that.”

I take the box and open it. Inside is a thin gold necklace with a dragon pendant. “It's beautiful.”

“From China.”

“You've been?”

He makes a small gesture I interpret to mean yes. Why haven't I ever thought to ask Edouard about his travels? I let him fasten the necklace around my neck and admire the pendant in the low light of the room. It gleams.

“You were stunning tonight. They'll be talking about it in all of the papers.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes.” He takes a seat on the padded bench and watches me. “Anyone coming tonight?”

He means men. “No. Only you.”

“Then why don't we go out? To celebrate.”

“A last night in Madrid?”

“It might be a while before we come back, and who knows if it will be together?”

For some reason, the idea stings. I wouldn't want to return to Madrid without Edouard. It wouldn't be the same. “You're always so pessimistic.”

“You're always so optimistic. That's why we make a good team. Get dressed. I have a special invitation for tonight.”

He won't tell me what it is. I put on my favorite piece from ­Callot Soeurs, a satin dress with lace worthy of a princess. Outside the ­theater, Edouard's smile tells me I've chosen right. We drive toward the Royal Palace, and when the car turns at the gates, I catch my breath. “Is this where we're going? You are taking me to the palace?”

“Wait and see. Patience.”

We stop at a guardhouse and the soldier inside consults a register. Incredibly, our names are on his list, because he waves us through. When a man in a black tuxedo escorts us from our car, I tell Edouard, “I have to know what this is. What have we been invited to?”

“The king's gala dinner.”

I stop walking. “How long have you been keeping this a secret?” Then a thought occurs to me. “Were you always going to take me?” I ask him.

Edouard pulls me along. “It depended.”

“It depended on . . . ?”

“I don't know. How I woke up feeling this morning.”

I slap his shoulder gently, too excited to be insulted. I have never been to a gala dinner. Above us, the stars look like small chips of ice. It's a magical night.

“Shall we?” he asks.

We're at the steps of the palace. Inside, music is playing and I can see the lights of magnificent chandeliers. The high, sweet laughter of the women floats down the steps to us.

*    *    *

It's as if the king decreed only the most beautiful people in Spain could be invited. We dine from a table that's impossibly long, set with crystal and china on brocade tablecloths. There is electricity in the palace, but our dinner is served by candlelight. We are seated near a couple who boast that they arrange the king's meetings: secretaries of the most glorified kind. They inform us that the gala is held each year and that china and linens are never used twice.

“Can you imagine?” I whisper to Edouard.

“You'd need a house just for the china.”

We dance together when the dinner is through in a space that's so large you can't see from one end to the other. The musicians are arranged high on a stage. Midway through the evening new players come in to relieve them. Around midnight, I follow Edouard to a table where drinks are being served and a man in a crisp black military uniform approaches him. They speak, laughing at each other's
jokes, and it is quite a while before I realize who he is. Both men turn to me, and King Alfonso says, “Ah, and you must be Mata Hari.”

I stare at Edouard, trying to fathom how he could possibly be acquainted with the king of Spain. Obviously, there's a great deal I don't know about him. “Yes,” I say, at a loss. Do I bow? Curtsy? What were other women doing? Before I can puzzle it out, the king is already speaking.

“Your dancing has made news all across Madrid. I was hoping to see some of it for myself. Will you be returning someday?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Most definitely,” Edouard says.

“Good. You are always welcome in Spain.”

He leaves and I look at Edouard. “The king of Spain?”

“You think you're the only one who dines with royalty?” he says, with a studied air of mystery.

Chapter 8

Will You Dance Nude in Berlin?

B
erlin is a blue-gray contrast to our red-hot days in Madrid. Le Metropol is a towering structure, as beautiful as the Kursaal, but it lacks the same heat and passion. The outside boasts five enormous pillars draped with fifty-foot green swaths of cloth that advertise the latest shows. Today
See Mata Hari as Salome!
waves in the breeze. I catch Edouard's eye and we share a smile.

Inside, we are taken to a dressing room. I find wine, flowers, and chocolates waiting for me. There is also a white bathrobe, my name embroidered in black lettering. I whisper, “Do they think I won't know it's mine if it isn't labeled?”

Edouard laughs. But before he can reply, Hilda Schweitzer appears to take us on a guided tour. She is the owner's wife, but I'm disappointed that Heinrich Schweitzer isn't escorting us himself. On the train, Edouard told me that Heinrich Schweitzer had invested his entire life's savings in Le Metropol. I admire his passion.

As we follow Madame Schweitzer, I realize that Le Metropol is more of a resort than a theater. She points out cafés, a luxury spa, and a three-story ice arena within the building.

“It is the only indoor ice arena in Germany,” she says with pride.

“An indoor ice arena?” Edouard whispers to me. “Is there a shortage of cold weather in Germany?”

Finally, she takes us into the theater, a circular room with several hundred seats and a gilded ceiling painted with angels. A dozen women are waiting for us on the stage: my dancers. They are tall, like me, but blonde, and many of them have blue eyes. I will stand out. Even if we are all dancing together, no one will ask which is Mata Hari.

*    *    *

I'm in high spirits when we arrive at the Hotel. It is icing on my cake to learn that the crown prince of Prussia is also a guest. And that he has requested to meet me. “The future kaiser,” I crow to Edouard as we make our way across the lobby.

“Don't gloat; it's unbecoming. He's too young for you and engaged to be married.”

“I have an official summons.” I ignore his lack of enthusiasm. “Do I have time to change? What do I wear to meet a prince? I think a—”

“Mata Hari!”

I cover my chest with my hand as a reporter appears from behind a potted plant. “My God, you scared me.”

“Are you here to meet the crown prince of Prussia? Will you dance nude in Berlin? How long will you be here?”

I say, “Go to the lounge in forty minutes.”

The reporter looks at Edouard, but he is stone-faced. “What happens in forty minutes?” he asks me.

“You'll see.”

*    *    *

I make my way down to the lounge within the hour, wearing a cream Paul Poiret dress and white pearls, feeling invincible. The prince is
young, but he is also tall and confident. He greets me in German and I reply in kind. This pleases him immensely and he gestures toward a sofa. As soon as I sit we are surrounded by handsome men in uniform. A hotel employee is summoned and wine appears. The prince offers to pour me a glass and as soon as I raise it to my lips we are photographed.

“Get them out of here!” the prince shouts, but it's too late. The photograph has been taken. “Always these journalists.” He is shaking his head. “Don't you tire of them?”

I feign exasperation. “Absolutely.”

“I can't go anywhere without being spied upon.”

“I hope you will come to my show,” I say.

“Oh, you may be certain of it.”

But the prince doesn't come that night. I don't see him until my third performance. And that presents a problem, because Alfred Kiepert is already waiting for me in the hall. He is dressed in his officer's uniform and looks irresistible. I've invited him back twice since my opening, when I spotted him in the audience. It's a shame I have to turn him away tonight. But there is no question of disappointing the heir to the German throne.

*    *    *

There is no other way to see Berlin than on the arm of a crown prince. I am convinced of this as he accompanies me to dinner at the Hotel Kaiserhof. It's the grandest hotel in all of Europe. Over two hundred rooms and a ballroom so beautiful that it will hurt to leave it. But we have not come to dance. After a long day of shopping and sightseeing, the crown prince wishes to eat.

We sit across from each other in the hotel's glittering new restaurant and I worry that I'm a fraud among so many wealthy people. Though surely some of these women with their long cigarette hold
ers and heavy furs must have married into their money. All of them can't be titled heiresses. I look around the room and try to pick out which ones might be like me. Definitely the blonde with her low-cut dress—if not, why would she wear such a thing? Perhaps she's a mistress. Or maybe she's made herself into a second wife? There's a man with a woman who wears rings on each finger and a diamond necklace that dips into her cleavage. She wasn't born into this world—I'd stake money on it. So I'm not the only one.

“What do you like best about Berlin?” the prince asks.

There is so much I have enjoyed I have to weigh my answer carefully. We did so many things today. I have now ridden on Berlin's electric trams and taken coffee in the most famous of shops. I'm the owner of a new fur hat and three rings, one diamond, the other two emerald. Everywhere we went, on nearly every street, I saw billboards using electric advertising. “Berlin is the city of the future,” the prince said. If this is true, then the future is all moving type and flashing lights. “I believe I liked the Esplanade best,” I say.

He grins and it makes him look so youthful. “Me, too.”

I order the pot roast. He orders the pork. When Bowtie finds us again, we're toasting to the wonder that is Berlin.

*    *    *

On the train back to Paris, I finish reading a review aloud to Edouard. “ ‘Mesmerizing Mata Hari was a most entrancing Salome. Her interpretation was bewitching.' ” I hold up the
Berliner Tageblatt.
“And here is the best part.” There is a photo of the prince and me in an expensive shop on the Unter den Linden. “For the scrapbook.” I fold the paper carefully. “Isn't it wonderful? I love Berlin. And Berlin loved me.”

“It isn't wonderful for him,” Edouard says. “Or, I imagine, his fiancée.”

“Why are you so sour?” I hug my fur stole closer to me, comforted by the warmth. “Are you jealous?”

He ignores my question. “I've arranged a contract for you to perform
Samson and Delilah
. Three weeks. At La Cigale.”

“Excellent. I want to buy another fur coat. Givenchy would buy one for me but he was so terse in his last telegram that I want to make him wait—”

“M'greet, are you saving any money?”

“Why? What for?”

He is so astonished that it takes him several moments to reply. “For when this—all of this—is done.”

Now I'm the one who's shocked. “Why should it be done? This is my life, Edouard.”

“Be serious, M'greet. The public is fickle. Novelty wanes and someday this will all be over.”

“Fine. Then I'll take a lover,” I say, and watch his expression.

We don't speak to each other for the rest of the trip.