But if the parts of his file were ultimately greater than the whole, to Dunbar the whole was something very special. Indeed, now and again on cool evenings it almost seemed as if the thing were alive —a breathing extension of the woman herself, right there with him in that room. It could be frightening.

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

DUNBAR'S files: little towers of brown or buff folders, bound with red ribbon and tagged with black adhesive tape. In all there must have been thousands of individual entries, some most intimate, some even obscene. Dunbar's notations are found along the margins of the field reports. The photographs are scattered throughout.

Although originally intended to chronicle the dancer's relationship with Spangler, the earlier entries actually predate their Madrid affair by several months. Actually, the first reports concerned her movements in October of 1913, a relatively quiet period. After appearing twice at La Scala in Milan (once as Venus in Marenco's Bacchus and Gambrinus) she had returned to a simple existence in Neuilly-sur-Seine. She kept a stable of horses, and was often seen riding in white or brown habit along the lanes of the Bois de Boulogne. She worked intermittently on three Javanese dances, and corresponded with Sergei Diaghilev concerning a performance with Nijinsky in Monte Carlo. She also slept with several men, including Nicholas Gray.

Dunbar's files contained a copy of her farewell note to Gray: two dry pages written on the eve of her departure for Madrid. The tone of the note was apparently optimistic—after a long hiatus she was enthusiastic about performing again, particularly in Madrid, where she had always been loved. Of course there was no mention of Spangler at this point, since she could hardly have known he would be waiting.

According to Dunbar's files, Spangler approached her in Madrid, in the lobby of the Ritz, on the morning of her third day there. In fact it was night, about eight o'clock; and rather than in the lobby he met her on a patio. Nor was there anything close to a tearful reunion. He merely stepped out of the shadows and spoke her name. The newspaper under his arm carried her photograph on the cover. For a moment she hardly recognized him. His hair seemed lighter than she remembered, his complexion vaguely darker.

His approach, as before, was casual. "How are you, Margaretha?" First in German, then in English. "Yes, how are you?"

She shrugged, tearing at the leaf of a potted palm. "Surprised."

"But not unpleasantly, I hope?"

"No."

They moved to the edge of the patio and a view of taller palms in black relief against the sky. He hadn't yet touched her, but the fix of his eyes seemed tangible enough.

"How did you find me?"

He smiled, tossing the newspaper at her feet.

"Not too difficult."

"But what are you doing here?"

"This and that. Although at present I'm between engagements, so to speak."