Guimet looks at him and I wonder if Clunet realizes he hasn’t been invited.
The three of us walk across the Place d’Iena and Guimet produces a key from his suit pocket. Before us is a two-storied building that stands opposite a life-size statue of George Washington on his horse.
“They installed that five years ago,” Guimet says with distaste.
I read the statue’s inscription. “A GIFT OF THE WOMEN OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA IN MEMORY OF THE BROTHERLY HELP GIVEN BY FRANCE TO THEIR FATHERS IN THE FIGHT FOR INDEPENDENCE.”
“Have you visited America?” I look at Washington’s raised sword. He never visited Paris in his lifetime.
“New York.” He smiles at a pleasurable memory. “There’s no finer city in the world.”
I’m surprised by his answer. “You found New York more appealing than Paris?” I can still remember my first glimpse of Paris, her wide boulevards, her sparkling lights. Everywhere I went there was something new to see. And the women . . . they were all dressed like starlets in lacy Callot Soeurs gowns and Paul Poiret dresses.
“Absolutely,” Guimet says. “There are buildings so tall in New York that some people are afraid to ride the elevators to the top. The entire city is magic.”
Perhaps someday I will visit New York. A city of magic.
He pushes open a pair of double doors and we step into a round library so beautifully designed that I hold my breath just entering. It’s a domed cathedral of light and space. The patterned wooden floors are polished to a sheen, and eight graceful columns rise toward the second floor. Everywhere you turn there are books, leather-bound and encased in glass.
“My God, this must have cost a fortune,” Clunet says, stepping into the center of the room, marveling at the spectacular glass skylight in the ceiling.
“A small one,” Guimet concedes.
“Indah,” I say for Guimet’s benefit. In Malay it means, “beautiful.”
Guimet leads us to the stairs and motions for us to follow behind him. Viewed from the second story, the entryway floor becomes a starburst of mahogany and pearl. I look at the priceless works of art assembled in this building and I imagine all the countries Guimet must have visited to create such a dreamlike, enchanting space—India, Java, China, Japan. His library is breathtaking. I study him in the soft light with new appreciation. A man capable of executing so many fine details to fulfill his own desire to create a cathedral to Asian art must be a gentle, tasteful lover. Clunet said Guimet was married once. I wonder what became of his wife, whether she died or ran away like I did.
We stand at the wooden balustrade and Guimet clears his throat. “Edouard, do you still have my lapis necklace in your office?”
“Of course.”
“Will you retrieve it for me?”
“Certainly. Tomorrow—”
“Actually, I would like to have it now.”
Clunet frowns. “Very well. Mata Hari, shall we—”
“I believe that Mata Hari is quite comfortable here. No need for her to join you.”
Both men look in my direction and I weigh the choice in front of me. Clunet holds my gaze for several moments and I wonder if he’s instructing me to say no. Or is he willing me to stay?
“I’m sure there are many treasures in this enchanting library that Monsieur Guimet would like to share with me,” I tell him. “I see many intriguing books that I would like to know more about. You take care of business, Monsieur Clunet. I’ll find my way home.”
I look at Guimet and he smiles.
*
When we’re finished, Guimet reclines on his bed and stares at the ceiling, breathing deeply. “I had no idea,” he keeps saying. “No idea . . .”
I run my hands over cotton sheets so fine they feel like silk. This is where I belong.
*
As I dress the following morning in the cavernous luxury of Guimet’s bedroom, he asks what I will require to enhance my performance when I dance at the unveiling of his museum. “Anything,” he stresses, as he tightens the blue sash of his silk robe. “Tell me what you need and I will give you absolutely anything.”
Countless things I need leap to mind. But I limit my request to statues I’ve seen in Hindu temples and heavy bronze incense holders that are common in Java. “Also,” I say, “I will need a set of Javanese gamelan. Eight instruments. And a flute and zither as well.” It’s a tall order. But Guimet appears unfazed.
“Consider it done.”
Chapter 2
My Dance Is a Sacred Poem
This time I am the one who is early. I wait for Clunet in the foyer of my run-down building. I rent my tiny room from a man who beats his wife. The carpets stink of urine and mold. I force myself to take a deep breath. After tonight, when Guimet and his guests meet the “Star of the East,” perhaps I’ll never have to live with the scents of poverty again.