Ramón kisses Edouard’s cheeks and tells us both how excited he is. “You have no idea, the anticipation. No idea! Come, I want to show you the theater. Then we can meet the dancers.”
He takes us on a tour of the Kursaal. Everything about it is -enormous—the chandeliers, the ballroom, sweeping flights of lushly carpeted stairs. Nearly every wall that isn’t painted is mirrored. When the sun sets, I think, the chandeliers will be absolutely dazzling. In a mirrored hallway carpeted in red velvet a long line of dancers are waiting. “Two dozen of the most beautiful women in Spain.” They are taller than Jeanne’s dancers, and though I wouldn’t think it possible, even more beautiful. They press around me, telling me their names, hoping to make an impression, eager for me to remember them. “We’ve heard so much about you,” they say. And, “Everyone in Madrid is in awe of your talent.”
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.”