Mata Hari's Last Dance by Michelle Moran Page A

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?”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œIt depended on . . . ?”
    â€œI don’t know. How I woke up feeling this morning.”
    I slap his shoulder gently, too excited to be insulted. I have never been to a gala dinner. Above us, the stars look like small chips of ice. It’s a magical night.
    â€œShall we?” he asks.
    We’re at the steps of the palace. Inside, music is playing and I can see the lights of magnificent chandeliers. The high, sweet laughter of the women floats down the steps to us.
    *    *    *
    It’s as if the king decreed only the most beautiful people in Spain could be invited. We dine from a table that’s impossibly long, set with crystal and china on brocade tablecloths. There is electricity in the palace, but our dinner is served by candlelight. We are seated near a couple who boast that they arrange the king’s meetings: secretaries of the most glorified kind. They inform us that the gala is held each year and that china and linens are never used twice.
    â€œCan you imagine?” I whisper to Edouard.
    â€œYou’d need a house just for the china.”
    We dance together when the dinner is through in a space that’s so large you can’t see from one end to the other. The musicians are arranged high on a stage. Midway through the evening new players come in to relieve them. Around midnight, I follow Edouard to a table where drinks are being served and a man in a crisp black military uniform approaches him. They speak, laughing at each other’sjokes, and it is quite a while before I realize who he is. Both men turn to me, and King Alfonso says, “Ah, and you must be Mata Hari.”
    I stare at Edouard, trying to fathom how he could possibly be acquainted with the king of Spain. Obviously, there’s a great deal I don’t know about him. “Yes,” I say, at a loss. Do I bow? Curtsy? What were other women doing? Before I can puzzle it out, the king is already speaking.
    â€œYour dancing has made news all across Madrid. I was hoping to see some of it for myself. Will you be returning someday?”
    â€œI certainly hope so.”
    â€œMost definitely,” Edouard says.
    â€œGood. You are always welcome in Spain.”
    He leaves and I look at Edouard. “The king of Spain?”
    â€œYou think you’re the only one who dines with royalty?” he says, with a studied air of mystery.

Chapter 8
    Will You Dance Nude in Berlin?
    B erlin is a blue-gray contrast to our red-hot days in Madrid. Le Metropol is a towering structure, as beautiful as the Kursaal, but it lacks the same heat and passion. The outside boasts five enormous pillars draped with fifty-foot green swaths of cloth that advertise the latest shows. Today See Mata Hari as Salome! waves in the breeze. I catch Edouard’s eye and we share a smile.
    Inside, we are taken to a dressing room. I find wine, flowers, and chocolates waiting for me. There is also a white bathrobe, my name embroidered in black lettering. I whisper, “Do they think I won’t know it’s mine if it isn’t labeled?”
    Edouard laughs. But before he can reply, Hilda Schweitzer appears to take us on a guided tour. She is the owner’s wife, but I’m disappointed that Heinrich Schweitzer isn’t escorting us himself. On the train, Edouard told me that Heinrich Schweitzer had invested his entire life’s savings in Le Metropol. I admire his passion.
    As we follow Madame Schweitzer, I realize