The door swings open and there is Edouard: a drink in one hand, a cigar in the other. There is an expectant hush behind him, as if he were in the middle of a joke and I interrupted the punch line. It’s an uncomfortable feeling.
“M’greet!” Edouard steps back. “You came.” His smile is genuine. “I’m glad.” The party turns to look at me, a woman arriving alone in a black dress and a mink stole. They are a refined group: ladies wearing ancestral pearls and men that smell of expensive business deals. Edouard picks up a spoon and taps his glass. “I would like to introduce a guest.”
I feel my cheeks warm. “Edouard, please.”
He clears his throat. “May I now have the pleasure of announcing Mademoiselle M’greet MacLeod.”
I feel the color drain from my face. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard this name.
“She is my client and a most talented dancer.”
I am frightened to look up; will they recognize me like the taxi driver did? When I do, all their faces are still welcoming. No one at this party reads stories about Mata Hari. But they trust Edouard’s judgment, and I am ushered in warmly.
They crowd around me, Edouard’s grandpere in his black silk jacket, and his grandmere, with her strong perfume. They want to hear about Edouard as a businessman, they want to tell me stories from his childhood, and how Aunt Adorlee met Uncle Geoffrey on the dance floor to the song “L’Amour Venge.” It is the most wonderful evening I’ve spent since I was a young girl and had a family. When it’s time to go home, Edouard walks me out to his car. He smells like pine needles and brandy.
“I know why you came,” he says as he opens the car door. “You were lonely.”
I am mortified; hanging the embarrassing truth out like a girl’s private laundry. “I wasn’t!” I lie.
“Yes, you were.” He is smiling. “I also know you didn’t encore. The Odéon called before you arrived.” He hesitates. “They fired you.”
I don’t believe it. “Fired me? He can’t do that. Encoring isn’t in the contract.” I feel myself becoming enraged. I need that money for my daughter. “Edouard. I want that money. The full amount.”
“I don’t—”
“I will never dance for the Odéon again!”
“All right.”
“And I want you to sue him for breach of contract.”
*
That night, alone and furious in my apartment, I allow myself to remember Rudolph. I conjure him sitting at the table waiting for me.
“You’re home so early,” I said. “I—”
“Where have you been?”
“I visited a temple with Sofie.” I hurried my words.
His face went red. “Goddamn it!” He pulled his arm back and hit me. “I told you to stay in this house!” I backed up toward the stairs. He grabbed my hair, jerking my head toward his. “You think you can defy me?” He twisted my arm behind my back and shoved me into the wall, crushing me with his weight. “Do you think I don’t see how you look at other men, you little hoer?” He pushed me up the stairs and into the bedroom, throwing me on the floor.
The next thirty days stretched impossibly long.
When the blood didn’t come, I had to acknowledge the horrible reality.
I was carrying Rudolph’s child.
Chapter 12
I Should Have Heeded the Danger
1905
When I see him across the lobby of the Plaza Athénée, I’m sure I’m mistaken. I stop and stare. He is sitting across from a woman I recognize. She is one of my dancers from my time at the Odéon. Audrey? Annique? Whatever her name, she is laughing, tossing back her head, touching invisible pearls at her neck. Across from her, hanging on every word, is Bowtie. His fedora with its Press card is in his lap. His notepad is out and he’s writing furiously. Before I can stop myself I cross the lobby. The sharp click of my heels makes several people turn.
“Mata Hari!” Bowtie stands. A deep flush creeps along his cheeks. He hasn’t interviewed me in months.
“What a surprise to see you here,” I say drily.
The blonde smiles at me from her chair. It is the smile that women reserve only for their competition.
“Yes. Well, Annique,” he nods toward the pretty blonde, “is opening her own show at the Odéon this week.”
The Odéon!
Annique nods. “Nice to see you, Mata Hari.”
There is nothing nice about it. Bowtie shifts his eyes from me to her and I can see the wheels spinning in his head. “Ladies, this is such a lucky meeting,” he says. “Perhaps you’d care to tell Le Figaro your plans, Mata Hari? Will you be in attendance?”
“What is being performed?” I ask, as my entire body goes hot.
“Cleopatra,” Annique says, without the barest hint of shame.
Bowtie is absolutely beside himself with glee. “Didn’t you play Cleopatra in Madrid?” he asks, with false surprise. “The Odéon has two Cleopatras meeting by chance at the Plaza Athénée. Extraordinary. Two Cleopatras in one room!”