“Gone out of my life. Why? What does it matter?”
“It matters a great deal. They will to try to contact you,” he says. “Sooner rather than later. This applies to anyone you’ve ever owed money to. Anyone you’ve ever considered a relative. You’ve gained considerable fame, M’greet, and people will start to come out of the woodwork. I’ve seen it happen.”
“That’s absurd. How would they know me? I’m Mata Hari now.”
He looks at me as if he isn’t sure how a person can be so foolish. “Your picture is in every paper. Every word you speak is published alongside your photo. You believe your own blood won’t recognize you?” He tips his newspaper at me. “Prepare yourself.”
“You make it sound as though I’m going into battle,” I say. Then I think of Rudolph and just as quickly shut him out of my mind. “So what is the name of our hotel?” I ask.
“La Paz.” He opens his paper and my photo is there next to Bowtie’s article: MATA HARI ABANDONS FRANCE.
*
I open the doors to my balcony at La Paz and inhale the scent of saffron. Guimet was right. The food, the people, even the weather—all of it is marvelously different from France. “This is exactly what I need.” I toss my hat on to my bed, feeling exuberant. “Let’s go out tonight, Edouard!”
“Sorry. Other plans. And you have a contract for fifteen performances. Get some rest.” He leaves and I wonder if she is blonde.
Fine. I will enjoy the city alone. I have never seen Madrid, and why should Edouard be the only one to have fun? There must be handsome men in this city. Perhaps some Spanish officers. When I tell the hotel concierge what I’m looking for, he grins. “There aren’t many women as truthful as you are.” He directs me to a part of town lined with jewelry stores and bars: an ingenious combination.
*
The cabdriver takes me through the Barrio de Salamanca to Serrano Street. It’s the most exclusive part of the city. “No poor people here,” he tells me. I can see why. Everything seems costly and reserved, like old titled men. The area doesn’t have the same feeling as Paris, where everything feels sharp and modern. Old growth trees line the roads. There are more carriages here than cars. But the wealth is unmistakable. It’s in the cut of people’s suits as they pass and the dark beauty of the horses as they trot through the streets. The chestnut trees are in bloom and everything smells wonderful.
The cabdriver lets me out on Serrano Street. There are businesses and bars, as the concierge promised. I walk a little ways, taking in the feel for the city. There are very few women here. But there are a number of single men.
I see Eliodoro before he sees me. Leather boots, gold watch, three gold rings. He’s not an officer, which is disappointing, but there’s something about him I like when our eyes meet.
“Se?orita.” He tips his hat to me.
“Se?or.”
We spend the evening together, drinking, dancing, then drinking some more. When he leans across the table at Las Noches to kiss me, I don’t stop him. On the dance floor behind us, women are doing far more scandalous things.
“Come home with me,” he says.
I refuse. “I don’t even know you.”
“Then let’s at least enjoy the night air.”
I agree to this and as we walk the streets he tells me about his life in Madrid. His ornery wife, his three difficult children, his business trading oil. He has no interest in my life or in knowing anything about me. He simply wants to talk and I let him. When I return to La Paz at six the next morning, Edouard is pacing outside my room.
“Where have you been?”
I turn my key. “Out.” I give him a sly smile and hope it infuriates him.
“We leave in ten minutes,” he says. “I’ll be waiting in the lobby.”
*
From the passenger seat of our rented car I roll up my knee-high stockings and yawn. “Have you ever been to the Kursaal?”
“Yes.” Edouard glances at me and his eyes rest on my necklace. “Something new?”
I touch the cold stones; they feel solid, permanent. “You like it?” A small keepsake. “From last night.”
He doesn’t respond, and I don’t make further conversation. When we arrive at Tetuan Street, Edouard parks the car; there is no valet.
The Kursaal is more beautiful than I imagined, with towering Greek columns and laurel designs. We enter the building and I am swept away: the high ceilings, the chandeliers, the dramatic scenes from Spanish literature decorating the walls. I move closer to one of the paintings to see if I can recognize its source but am interrupted by a man who steps directly in front of me.
“Mata Hari? It is! Welcome, welcome!” He embraces me with kisses and I laugh.
“Mata Hari, this is Ramón,” Edouard says. “The owner of the Kursaal.”
“Ramón,” I say. “So lovely to meet you.”