Mata Hari's Last Dance by Michelle Moran Page B

that Le Metropol is more of a resort than a theater. She points out cafés, a luxury spa, and a three-story ice arena within the building.
    â€œIt is the only indoor ice arena in Germany,” she says with pride.
    â€œAn indoor ice arena?” Edouard whispers to me. “Is there a shortage of cold weather in Germany?”
    Finally, she takes us into the theater, a circular room with several hundred seats and a gilded ceiling painted with angels. A dozen women are waiting for us on the stage: my dancers. They are tall, like me, but blonde, and many of them have blue eyes. I will stand out. Even if we are all dancing together, no one will ask which is Mata Hari.
    *    *    *
    I’m in high spirits when we arrive at the Hotel. It is icing on my cake to learn that the crown prince of Prussia is also a guest. And that he has requested to meet me. “The future kaiser,” I crow to Edouard as we make our way across the lobby.
    â€œDon’t gloat; it’s unbecoming. He’s too young for you and engaged to be married.”
    â€œI have an official summons.” I ignore his lack of enthusiasm. “Do I have time to change? What do I wear to meet a prince? I think a—”
    â€œMata Hari!”
    I cover my chest with my hand as a reporter appears from behind a potted plant. “My God, you scared me.”
    â€œAre you here to meet the crown prince of Prussia? Will you dance nude in Berlin? How long will you be here?”
    I say, “Go to the lounge in forty minutes.”
    The reporter looks at Edouard, but he is stone-faced. “What happens in forty minutes?” he asks me.
    â€œYou’ll see.”
    *    *    *
    I make my way down to the lounge within the hour, wearing a cream Paul Poiret dress and white pearls, feeling invincible. The prince isyoung, but he is also tall and confident. He greets me in German and I reply in kind. This pleases him immensely and he gestures toward a sofa. As soon as I sit we are surrounded by handsome men in uniform. A hotel employee is summoned and wine appears. The prince offers to pour me a glass and as soon as I raise it to my lips we are photographed.
    â€œGet them out of here!” the prince shouts, but it’s too late. The photograph has been taken. “Always these journalists.” He is shaking his head. “Don’t you tire of them?”
    I feign exasperation. “Absolutely.”
    â€œI can’t go anywhere without being spied upon.”
    â€œI hope you will come to my show,” I say.
    â€œOh, you may be certain of it.”
    But the prince doesn’t come that night. I don’t see him until my third performance. And that presents a problem, because Alfred Kiepert is already waiting for me in the hall. He is dressed in his officer’s uniform and looks irresistible. I’ve invited him back twice since my opening, when I spotted him in the audience. It’s a shame I have to turn him away tonight. But there is no question of disappointing the heir to the German throne.
    *    *    *
    There is no other way to see Berlin than on the arm of a crown prince. I am convinced of this as he accompanies me to dinner at the Hotel Kaiserhof. It’s the grandest hotel in all of Europe. Over two hundred rooms and a ballroom so beautiful that it will hurt to leave it. But we have not come to dance. After a long day of shopping and sightseeing, the crown prince wishes to eat.
    We sit across from each other in the hotel’s glittering new restaurant and I worry that I’m a fraud among so many wealthy people. Though surely some of these women with their long cigarette holders and heavy furs must have married into their money. All of them can’t be titled heiresses. I look around the room and try to pick out which ones might be like me. Definitely the blonde with her low-cut dress—if not, why would she wear such a