We are sitting in the restaurant of the Hotel de Crillon. He’s dressed in a blue suit and I realize I could search a dozen cities and never find a man as good looking as Givenchy. But the man is in love with himself. Whomever he marries must be willing to worship him.
Before the wine has even arrived Givenchy is asking why I must go. I remind him that I’m performing at the Kursaal and he talks over me as if this doesn’t matter. “What can Madrid offer that Paris doesn’t? Can Madrid appreciate a French sensation? I ask you again, what about my needs?”
His self-absorption is both exasperating and comical. I imagine his childhood. Nannies tripping over themselves to give him toys, sweets, pony rides. “I’ll send you telegrams,” I promise.
We eat our dinner in silence.
Guimet, however, is practically joyful. We sit across from each other in Maxim’s and over roasted duck he tells me what to expect in Madrid.
“The Spanish are not like Parisians. They run hot, like the Italians,” he says. When I ask him to explain, he tells me, “It’s the way they dance, the way they talk. It’s in their blood. Or maybe it’s in their food.” He laughs.
“It sounds like you enjoy Spain.”
“More than any other country in Europe.”
I imagine being as well traveled as him. Where would I want to go if I had already seen everything? Back to Java. To the beaches and hills and my friendship with Mahadevi.
“If you have time, see the museums,” he suggests. “The Prado especially. Edouard is going with you, correct?”
“Yes.”
“He’ll know where to take you.”
“He’s been to Madrid?”
“A dozen times, I should think. His business takes him everywhere.” He sips his wine and watches me thoughtfully. “He likes you.”
“Of course he does. I make him money.”
“It’s more than that.” He puts down his glass. “He enjoys your company, Mata Hari. If I had the time to return to Madrid, I’d go with the both of you.”
I try to picture it. The three of us traipsing across Spain. It would be museums and fine dining and the theater every night. I wouldn’t even have time to perform!
“Perhaps when you return, we’ll go on a trip.”
“That would be lovely.”
“I’ve always wanted to go on safari,” he admits. “I have friends who have been. They tell me that the savannah is unlike any other place on earth. It gets into your soul. It’s a very long journey, but I’ve never known anyone to regret it.”
I can’t imagine traveling so far away from the people I love. Even if Edouard came with me, I couldn’t do it. But I smile, because I know it will never come to pass. Guimet may go, but he won’t take a woman he hardly knows so far away or for so long. A trip like that is an investment. You take a woman you want to marry. Not some casual lover.
“But why don’t we talk about that when you return?” He raises his glass to me. He isn’t distressed at all that I’m leaving. Instead, he’s excited on my behalf. “The world deserves to experience rare things of beauty,” he says, and at the end of the meal he hands me a gift. It’s an Egyptian necklace. Perhaps he’s glad I’ll be away from Jeanne and Givenchy. “The scarabs in the center are three thousand years old.”
He fastens it around my neck and I feel like Cleopatra. I tell him this.
“I doubt she was as exquisite as you.”
*
The next morning at the train station I show the necklace to Edouard. In the bright spring light the scarabs, set in gold filigree against agate and jade, appear brilliant. He looks from the necklace to me. “He must like you,” he says drily.
And even though he is being blasé, I feel delighted. Rudolph wanted me, but he never liked me. He never liked anyone, including himself.
The train pulls into the station and Edouard rises. “Our adventure begins,” he says.
A porter takes our luggage and my pulse races as we pass by coach and enter the first-class car. Edouard sinks into one of the oversize chairs—I have never seen seats this large on a train—and takes a newspaper from a stand, looking as comfortable as he does in his own office. I notice that a few of the women in first class are glancing my way; they recognize me from the papers. Several minutes pass before the sound of a whistle tells me we’re about to leave. Slowly, the train pulls away from the Gare de Lyon and I’m so excited that my nose is practically pressed against the glass.
Edouard lowers his newspaper. When I catch him watching me, I take out my compact but he doesn’t look away. “Have your parents tried to contact you?” he asks.
I snap my powder case shut and study my reflection in the window. My hair is pulled back beneath the veil of my hat, and in my yellow dress chosen by Jeanne de Loynes I feel like I actually belong in first class. Thinking of Jeanne pricks me with guilt: I should have returned at least one of her calls. “My parents are gone,” I tell him.
“Gone where?” he prods.