"...beer! They say it's in honor of the kaiser, but I am absolutely certain the entire collection serves only one purpose: to warn us to be careful. Ten years ago they arrested a Jewish spy who guaranteed war would be knocking at our doors again. But nowadays they swear the poor guy is innocent, and all because of that damn writer, Zola. He's managed to divide our society. Now half of France wants to free him from Devil's Island, where he should stay forever."
He ordered two more glasses of anise, drank his with haste, and then said he was very busy, but, should I be staying in town longer, I ought to visit my country's pavilion.
My country? I hadn't seen any windmills or wooden shoes.
"Actually, they gave it the wrong name: It's the Pavilion of the East Indies of Holland. I haven't had time to go--I'm sure it's there for the same reason as all the other overly expensive installations--but I've heard it is very interesting."
He got up. Taking out a calling card, he pulled a gold pen from his pocket and crossed out his second name, a sign that he hoped we might one day become closer.
He left, bidding farewell with a formal kiss on the hand. I looked at the card. According to tradition, it had no address. I wasn't about to start accumulating useless things, so as soon as he was out of sight, I crumpled it and threw it away.
Two minutes later I went back to get the card; that was the man to whom the consul's letter was addressed!
Part II
Slender and tall, with the lithe grace of a wild animal, Mata Hari has black hair that undulates strangely and transports us to a magical place.
The most feminine of all women, writing an unfamiliar tragedy with her body.
A thousand curves and movements combine perfectly with a thousand different rhythms.
The lines from these newspaper clippings seem like pieces of a broken teacup, telling the story of a life I no longer remember. As soon as I get out of here, I will have the clippings bound in leather, each page with a gold frame. They shall be my bequest to my daughter, as all my money was confiscated. When we are reunited, I will tell her about the Folies Bergere, the dream of every woman who has ever wished to dance before an audience. I will tell her how beautiful Madrid de los Austrias is, as are the streets of Berlin, the palaces in Monte Carlo. We will tour the Trocadero and the Cercle Royal, a
nd we will go to Maxim's, Rumpelmeyer's, and all the other restaurants that will rejoice at the return of their most famous customer.
Together, we will go to Italy and delight to see that damned Diaghilev on the verge of bankruptcy. I will show her La Scala in Milan and say proudly:
"Here is where I danced Bacchus and Gambrinus by Marceno."
I am sure that what I am going through now will only add to my reputation; who wouldn't want to be seen as a femme fatale, an alleged "spy" full of secrets? Everyone flirts with danger, so long as that danger does not really exist.
Perhaps she will ask me:
"And what about my mother, Margaretha MacLeod?"
And I will reply:
"I do not know who that woman is. All my life I've thought and acted like Mata Hari, the woman who has been and always will be the fascination of men and the envy of women. Ever since I left Holland, I've lost all sense of distance and danger--neither scares me. I arrived in Paris with no money and no proper wardrobe, and just look at how I've moved up. I hope the same happens to you."
And I will talk about my dances--thankfully, I have pictures showing most of the movements and costumes. Contrary to what the critics who never understood me said, when I was onstage I simply forgot about the woman I was and offered everything to God. That is why I was able to undress so easily. At that moment, I was nothing, not even my body. I was just movements communing with the universe.
--
I will always be grateful to Monsieur Guimet. He gave me my first chance to perform, at his private museum, and in very expensive clothes he had imported from Asia for his personal collection, although it did cost me half an hour of sex and very little pleasure. I danced for an audience of three hundred people, including journalists, celebrities, and at least two ambassadors--one from Japan and one from Germany. Two days later, it was all the papers could talk about, this exotic woman who had been born in a remote corner of the Dutch empire and brought the "religiousness" and "disinhibition" of people from distant lands.
The museum stage had been decorated with a statue of Shiva--the Hindu god of creation and destruction. Candles burned in aromatic oils and the music left everyone in a kind of trance, except me--after having carefully examined the clothes I'd been entrusted, I knew exactly what I planned to do. It was now or never, a single moment in my heretofore miserable life, one where I was always asking for favors in exchange for sex. I was used to it by then, but it is one thing to get used to something, another to be satisfied. Money was not enough. I wanted more!
When I started dancing, I knew I needed to do something that only the dancers in cabarets did, without bothering to give any meaning to it. I was in a respectable place, with an audience who was eager for new things but lacked the courage to visit the certain kinds of places where they might be seen.
The clothing was formed of veils layered one on top of the other. I removed the first one and no one seemed to pay much notice. But when I removed the second, then the third, people began to exchange glances. By the fifth veil, the audience was totally focused on what I was doing, caring little about the dance but wondering how far I would go. Even the women, whose eyes I met now and then between movements, did not seem shocked or angry; it must have excited them as much as it did the men. I knew that were I in my country, I would be sent to prison immediately, but France was an example of equality and freedom.
When I got to the sixth veil, I went over to the Shiva statue, simulated an orgasm, and cast myself to the ground while removing the seventh and final veil.
For a few moments I did not hear a single sound from the audience--from where I was lying, I could not see anyone, and they seemed petrified or horrified. Then came the first "Bravo," spoken by a female voice, and soon the whole room rose for a standing ovation. I got up with one arm covering my breasts and the other extended to cover my sex. I bowed my head in appreciation and walked off the stage to where I had strategically left a silk robe. I returned, continued to give thanks for the unceasing applause, and decided it was better to leave and not come back. This was part of the mystery.
I noticed, however, that one person did not applaud, only smiled. Madame Guimet.
Two invitations arrived the next morning. One was from a Madame Kireyevsky, asking if I might repeat the same dance performance at a charity ball to raise funds for wounded Russian soldiers, and the other from Madame Guimet, who invited me for a walk along the banks of the Seine.