Free Mata Hari's Last Dance by Michelle Moran

I’m not wearing one of my Javanese sarongs, but I can see that she’s heard stories and she’s imagining me in a sheath of silk. “Very pleased to meet you,” she says.
    â€œThe pleasure is all mine,” I assure her.
    â€œShall we take some coffee?” Regina asks, and when we are all seated at the kitchen table, I ask her how Callot Soeurs came to be and she tells me the story.
    â€œOur mother taught us lace making,” Regina says, “and then Marie trained as a dressmaker with Raudnitz and Company. We started off small. Adding lace to lingerie, that sort of thing. But as we became more skilled our clientele grew and soon enough we were able to establish this shop.”
    â€œWas your mother ambitious?” I ask.
    â€œYes.” Regina sips her coffee thoughtfully. Then she adds, “She pushed us. All of us.”
    Her sisters nod.
    â€œIt all began with her,” Marie agrees. “A few years ago, Madeleine came to us, and I can only hope we get to keep her for a little while longer.”
    â€œWe all know she’s biding her time and that one day she will become one of our fiercest rivals,” Regina says.
    Madeleine blushes, but there’s no malice in Regina’s statement.
    â€œI expect that’s how you must feel about Mata Hari,” Regina adds, addressing Jeanne. “You discover a wonderful new talent and then—” She snaps her fingers. “Someone else wants to take it away.”
    Jeanne wraps her arm around my shoulders. “No one is stealing Mata Hari,” she declares. Her tone is light.
    Regina wags her finger. “Just wait.”
    â€œI suppose it’s inevitable, isn’t it?” Jeanne sighs and the sisters look at me.
    â€œWe were hoping that Jeanne would bring you,” Marie admits. “Ever since Le Figaro photographed your debut at Guimet’s, Madeleine has been wanting to sketch you. I think she was expecting you to show up wearing one of your sarongs.”
    â€œI save them for very special occasions,” I say.
    â€œI understand.” Madeleine waves away any concern, looking, perhaps, slightly embarrassed. “But perhaps—if you don’t have any pressing engagements—you would be willing to model for us today? It won’t take much time,” she assures me.
    â€œAnd you can wear one of Madeleine’s exotic creations,” says Marie, as if sweetening the deal.
    I look at Jeanne. What are our plans for the rest of the day?
    â€œOf course she can,” Jeanne says. “That’s why we’re here.”
    I feel a surge of gratitude toward her. Why is she so kind to me? Perhaps she sees in me a younger version of herself?
    Madeleine rises and asks us to follow her into a brightly painted room filled with bolts of fabric and a dozen sewing machines. Several chairs are arranged around a soft white rug where I imagine previous models have stood.
    â€œIf you could take off your gown and gloves, I’ll get the materials for the design I want you to wear,” Madeleine says and leaves for a moment. Jeanne seats herself to watch as I undress. I smile at her in my undergarments.
    â€œIt’s going to be such a great shame to lose you,” she says.
    I keep the mood light. “I don’t think you will lose me to Madeleine.”
    â€œThen it will be to someone much more infuriating. And I dare say a man.”
    Madeleine returns with an armful of nearly translucent fabric in a soft mint green. “Have you ever modeled before?” she asks, as she arranges a loose sheath around my body, tucking it in here and pinning it there.
    â€œI haven’t.” The material is soft as a whisper.
    â€œIt is the opposite of dancing. Simply stay still.”
    It takes nearly an hour for Madeleine to create her vision, and when she’s done, I’m standing barefoot on the carpeted floor wearing a stylized version of an Indian sari in loose tulle.