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 Espa?a Ca?i, 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.”