Mata Hari's Last Dance Read Online Free PDF Page B

keys.
    â€œYou’re giving your car to a stranger?” I ask, astonished at his lack of concern.
    â€œThe man’s a valet, M’greet. It’s his job to watch cars.”
    I blush and say, “Of course.” But as we walk away I keep turning around.
    *    *    *
    Inside Le Bon Marché the air is lightly perfumed—lavender and vanilla, I think. And suddenly it’s my thirteenth birthday again and my father has taken me to the finest dress shop in Leeuwarden. Find her a dress that’s fit for the queen , he says, and the shop girl is more than happy to oblige. But here, in this shop, there are so many exquisite items to look at that I feel slightly overwhelmed. I linger by the front window, where there are rows of shawls. Each looks as soft and rich as butter. I delicately brush them with my fingertips, and feel intoxicated.
    â€œChoose,” Edouard tells me, gesturing expansively. “You need four or five ensembles for this engagement, minimum.” Then he sighs, and says almost to himself, “A Rothschild event waxes on for days.”
    I try on a dozen different dresses, hats, cashmere shawls. I am one of the women on the Champs-Élysées. I hold up a gleaming string of pearls. “These?” I ask, although he has said nothing about my lack of jewels. “Every woman needs pearls.”
    Edouard nods his approval and the shopkeeper asks, “Would madam like to try this matching bracelet?”
    *    *    *
    That evening I don’t go back to Montmartre. I return directly to my elegant apartment on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. I unlock my new life and stand on my private balcony to gaze out over Paris while I wait for Guimet to arrive. The air is chilly and the sun is setting but I have wrapped myself in cashmere and I feel deliciously warm and safe. I will leave my old possessions in that miserable rented room. They belong to the past. I have no desire to claim them.

Chapter 4
    Looking for Fame
    I have lived in Paris for more than a year, yet in all that time I never realized that a few minutes of travel could take me from Notre Dame to Baron Henri de Rothschild’s château. It’s the most beautiful building I’ve ever seen, hidden from the road by a thick bed of trees and protected from outsiders by a great stone wall. Edouard’s car pulls into the circular drive and I see reporters crowding the columned steps of the estate.
    â€œAre they here for me ?”
    â€œThey’re certainly not waiting to hear my opinion on international law,” Edouard says drily.
    I bite my lower lip.
    He places his palm on my knee. “You’ll be fine.” He steps out and opens my door; then the barrage of questions begins.
    â€œIs it true that you were born on the Malabar Coast?”
    â€œYes,” I say, before I’m even out of the car. “In the city of Jaffnapatam.”
    â€œIs this how you spell it?” A reporter thrusts a notebook under my nose. He’s wearing a card that says Press in the hatband of his fedora.
    â€œExactly.”
    I get out and a second reporter maneuvers through the crowd. Heis wearing a bright yellow bow tie. “So tell me, Mata Hari, what is required of a temple dancer?”
    â€œThe most sacred festivals require the ability to charm snakes,” I say. “It is dangerous work. My mother—”
    â€œWhat makes you different from Isadora Duncan?” someone else shouts.
    Edouard pushes several reporters out of the way and we climb the steps of the château. At the front door he turns to the crowd: “As she’s said, her mother danced at Kanda Swany, and yes, she died giving birth in a temple. Now if you’ll excuse us, she has a dance to perform.”
    â€œTell me about India,” Bowtie persists, and the crowd of men surge, pushing us against the door. “When will you be returning?”
    â€œNever,”