Mata Hari's Last Dance

by Michelle Moran

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “This type of thievery might happen again?”

  He spreads his hands. “This is war, Mata Hari.”

  We watch each other. “Please book my passage,” I say.

  * * *

  For three days in a row I wait outside of her school without seeing her. Is she ill? Has he moved her? Did something else happen? Girls walk down the steps of the schoolhouse arm in arm, chatting with each other, making plans. I search their smiling faces, and none of them look like Non. But on the fourth day, when I see a solemn dark-haired girl walking alone, I know that it’s her. All of the other girls are carefree; there’s a misery in this young girl’s face that makes her look older than her years.

  My heart beats too quickly. I could call to her, reveal myself. But what would I say? And where would I go to spirit her away? I’m still waiting for my own passage to France. I have no papers for my daughter. The old woman waiting for her across the street would scream for help. And then what? Would we run? Would Non want to leave with me?

  A thousand scenarios pass through my head. In the end, I simply watch her while she walks away, committing every detail of my daughter to memory. The way her hair falls in dark curls down her back, her slender waist, her blue school uniform. I drink her in until she disappears from sight.

  * * *

  A newspaper has been delivered and waits outside my room at the hotel where I’m staying until I can sail for Paris. The lead story describes a French cavalry unit dressed in blue feathers, red caps, and newly polished brass buckles. As they rode their horses into battle they mocked the British soldiers they were meant to aid. “Cowards!” they yelled. “You English are not fighters. We will show you how it is done.” Two hundred Frenchmen armed with lances charged into machine-gun fire. “Not one of them asked us what the Germans were fighting with,” an English soldier is quoted. “And not one of them came back.”

  I think of von Schilling. He would say, “This is why Deutschland will prevail.” And I feel a true jolt of fear. What if France doesn’t prevail? What will happen to us? What will happen to The Netherlands?

  I go downstairs and gather a copy of every newspaper in the lobby, then read them from front to back in my room. Milk shortages in Paris. Not enough petrol in the south of France. Then a small article buried deep in Le Figaro about a man from Normandy caught with invisible inks and working for the Germans. What if I could use invisible ink to communicate with Non? Where would I find such a thing? And how would she know how to decipher it?

  I phone the consulate and learn my ship won’t leave for Paris for one more week. I will spend every afternoon outside the yellow schoolhouse, secretly watching Non.

  * * *

  I am eager to leave Amsterdam for Paris. I will apologize to Edouard. I will tell him whatever he wants to hear. That he was right, that he’s always been right, that it was foolish of me to insist on staying in Germany. Then I will ask him to renew his efforts to bring Non home to me, whatever the cost. I want him to come with us to New York. This is where we will finally find refuge. I’m certain of this after reading an article about the generosity of the Americans:

  GIVES $18,000 CHECK TO HELP ARMENIANS

  Stranger First Decided on $5,000 but Tale of Suffering Caused Him to Increase Amount.

  A well-dressed but unassuming man walked modestly into the office of the American Committee for Armenian and Syrian Relief, 708 Fifth Avenue, Manhattan, the other day, and inquired for the secretary. He named a Middle West State as his home, and said he had been thinking about making a contribution on “Armenian Sunday,” October 22, to help the Armenian refugees in Turkey, but had concluded, from what he had read in the newspapers, that money is badly needed now.

  “I can give $5,000.” He said, “but I would like to hear something about the facts.”

  The assistant secretary of the committee, Walter Mallory, summarized the situation in accordance with information which had been received in recent letters and cablegrams. One of the facts stated by Mr. Mallory is that there are about a million Armenian and Syrian Christian refugees in Turkey and Persia, largely women and children, nearly all of whom are destitute. Deported from their homes by Turkish soldiers, many thousands are suffering for lack of the bare necessities of life. Then he began to tell of sacrifices which contributors to the relief fund had made.

  The visitor listened to the story of a minister in Ohio who had written that from a salary of $80 a month his wife and himself would contribute $40 a month for six months.

  “Well,” said the stranger, “if they can make a sacrifice like that I think I can give $10,000.”

  On the way to the office of Charles R. Crane, the treasurer, the donor was told of an old woman who wrote she had no money, but would give her old paisley shawl—an heirloom which had been in the family many years and had once been her mother’s. He listened also to a letter from the mother of a little girl, 4 years old, who had earned 2 cents sweeping the sidewalk. She wanted to give 1 cent to the Belgian babies and the other to the starving Armenians.

  “If other people are willing to give up things,” commented the stranger, “I ought to be willing to do the same. I think that every one ought to help save this old Christian race. I believe I can give $15,000.”

  Before he entered the treasurer’s office the stranger seemed to make some mental calculations and when he wrote out his check it read $18,000.00. “Under no circumstances is my name to be made public,” said the stranger, so the treasurer, to keep faith, personally deposited the check in the bank.

  When I board the Zeelandia, I am one of four hundred ­people. The other passengers walking the gangplank with me seem reserved. Before the war we all would have greeted each other warmly, maybe invited each other to drinks after dinner. But everyone is suspicious now: of traitors, of enemies, of anyone with more. I can sense the other passengers watching me warily. A woman by herself, no husband or even children in tow. What must I look like to them? A widow maybe. The war has certainly made enough of them.

  On board, I keep to myself. No one trusts a woman alone. If I speak with a married man, it’s because I’m interested in seducing him. If I chat with a woman, she will want to know about my children. No one is safe, so I sit in my room or on the hard metal chairs of the windy deck and read the papers. It’s gloomy reading. How many soldiers have died in this ridiculous war? How many women and children have starved? I keep reading and reading, but there’s never any answer.

  * * *

  When the ship sails into port, I’m the first one down the gangplank. I don’t want to see the bittersweet reunions or the tears of the women returning, widowed, to their mothers’ homes. At dockside, I hail a cab. A freezing bitter wind is blowing and I curse the German soldiers who seized my furs. As we drive down Rue Danton I am shocked: Paris has become a stranger to me. Planes fly overhead, making low, ominous sweeps. I look out the car window and the streets are desolate. The cafés and shops are empty. I see women gathered around papers nailed to posts. Some of them are doubled over, wailing.

  “What are they reading?” I ask the driver.

  “Names. Those who are crying have sons and husbands who aren’t coming home.”

  He passes Boulevard Voltaire. I’m unnerved by the silence of the thoroughfare, by all of the white flowers hung over closed doors. We stop at the entrance to the Grand Hotel. I hand him a generous tip and he carts my remaining luggage, fifteen pieces, into a glittering foyer. Inside the hotel the war doesn’t exist. I allow myself to imagine that Edouard is just around the corner, coming to tell me our rooms are ready. I act lighthearted as I check in and am given a suite on the second floor. But as I stand alone, gazing out over Paris, my heart aches. There’s a radio in my room and I turn it on. It’s all news of the war. I should eat, but I want to find Edouard.

  I know I could call, but I want to hear his voice. I want to see his
face.

  I walk the three blocks from my hotel to his office. In the streets, I see the same patterns again and again on women’s dresses. They’ve been made from sacks. Flour companies have taken to embroidering pretty patterns on their cotton bags so women can turn them into clothes when they are empty. I haven’t purchased a new dress in months, but now I feel wealthy.

  I reach Edouard’s office and knock. His secretary answers.

  “Mata Hari.” She makes no move to let me inside. “I don’t believe Monsieur Clunet will want to see you,” she says.

  “That is not your decision to make,” I reply, affronted. I am ready to say more when she shocks me into silence.

  “He is married, madam. He’s a respectable man now and does not require your services anymore.”

  She shuts the door and for several moments I can’t breathe. I press my back against the door to keep from sliding to the pavement. Married? It has to be the blonde from Berlin. Pearl Buttons. The thought of them together, living in a house, talking about the war over coffee at breakfast, makes me physically ill.

  * * *

  I return directly to the Grand Hotel. I order dinner in bed. I stay in my blue silk robe all the following day. When I hear the bellboy leaving newspapers outside my door, I don’t rise to fetch them. I don’t even turn on the radio for news. I don’t care what’s happening anymore. I stay in bed for days.

  After a week, I feel the strength to get up and get dressed.

  I go downstairs, to the ivory-colored foyer.

  There is no war or heartache in the Grand. In one of the back rooms is a piano, a black Steinway. A young man is playing and immediately I’m reminded of Evert. The double-breasted uniform decorated with medals. His high cheekbones and blue sapphire eyes. “You’re a beautiful pianist,” I say.

  “Thank you.”

  “Russian?” I ask.

  “Is my French that bad?”

  “No, I have a good ear.” I motion for him to slide down the bench; then I sit next to him and pick up his tune. We play together.

  “You are Mata Hari.”

  For some reason, I’m disappointed. “Yes.”

  “Vadime de Massloff,” he introduces himself. “An army captain.”

  “What are you doing in Paris?”

  “I have two weeks off before I return.”

  “I didn’t realize holidays were allowed in the middle of a war,” I say, flirting. We keep playing together, our fingers brushing on the ivory keys.

  “Depends on how long you’ve been fighting.” He sounds a thousand years old. I’m guessing he’s twenty-three or twenty-four. Just a few years older than Norman would have been, if he had survived.

  “Where did you learn to play?” he asks.

  In Leeuwarden. “Around.” I stop playing. “Would you like to take a walk with me?”

  He nearly leaps out of his chair. I give him my arm and allow him to lead me along the Grand Boulevard, where we can admire the shops. No one has told the storefront decorators that a war is being fought.

  “So is your family in Russia?” I ask.

  “Yes. My family leads a hard life there.”

  Meaning they are poor. “Do they have a trade?”

  “Yes. They are shop owners.” I indicate a café and we go inside. “But the men in my family all serve their country. We are military men.” He is proud.

  We order coffee and sit across from each other. There are other men in the café, some injured and some probably on leave. What must it feel like to be granted leave from hell, knowing eventually you’ll have to go back? To come to Café de la Paix while your comrades are flying missions over Berlin, being shot down, wounded, maimed. And then to return a week later and fly those same missions. It must be unbearable.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asks.

  I consider lying to him. “War. How uncertain life is.”

  “Let’s not think about war, then,” he says in the way that only young people can. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

  He smells like rainwater and musk. I lead him to my room and his strength becomes my new shelter in this world.

  * * *

  During the next two weeks we are inseparable. I learn about Va­­dime’s family in northern Russia and I tell him about my childhood in Leeuwarden. He’s surprised to learn I’m not from India.

  “So all of those dances?”

  “I learned them in Java,” I confess.

  It’s still exotic to him. India, Java . . . both are entire worlds away from machine guns and trenches. We don’t speak about war. In my suite in the Grand we don’t open a single newspaper. Europe may be crumbling beneath our feet or sliding into the sea, but neither of us wants to know.

  * * *

  I dream of Evert, and in the dream he is sailing away. The significance isn’t lost on me: In two days Vadime will return to his unit. I do not want to feel the pain of loss before it is necessary, but it’s almost impossible to ignore. I focus on enjoying the moments, but in the dance hall, outside the café, in my suite—all I can think about is vanishing time.

  On our last day in Paris together, I wake early and dress while Vadime’s still in bed. Downstairs in the lounge I order a gin and tonic.

  “Excuse me, Mata Hari?” A waiter stops at my table. “The man across the room has asked me to deliver this.”

  He hands me a card. It reads JEAN HALLURE, LIEUTENANT. I search my memory. The Kursaal. He was the musician who had gotten so drunk we’d had to cancel our rehearsal. A lifetime ago. That afternoon, Edouard and I went to the museum. I squeeze my eyes shut against the memory. I don’t want to think about that day. I don’t want to think about Edouard being married. I look at Lieutenant Hallure and he tips his hat to me. The years have been good to him: He is tan; his hair is still thick and dark. He also looks sober.

  “Jean.” I hold out my hand as he approaches my table.

  “Mata Hari,” he says, kissing it. “After all these years, what a surprise.”

  “A delightful one. Are you really a lieutenant? What brings you to the Grand?”

  “I am—discharged. My hearing is not so good anymore. What are you doing in Paris?”

  I tell the shortest version of my story. “I met a man,” I say.

  “Let me guess. An officer?”

  Of course. “Vadime de Massloff. But his leave is up tomorrow.”

  “Where is he going?”

  “Vittel.”

  “That’s not bad. I’d call it a resort.”

  “Until they send him to the front,” I counter. “I’m hoping to visit him.”

  “Has the government given you permission?”

  I stare at him. Why would I need permission to visit a French town?

  “There’s an airbase in Vittel,” he explains, glancing at my drink. “You can’t drop in for a social call.”

  “He didn’t tell me that.” Do I have any contacts left in Paris? I have more in Berlin.

  “I can ring the Secret Service and tell them Mata Hari is looking for a pass.”

  I think he is joking. But he takes out a pen from his vest pocket and writes down an address. Then he reaches over and tucks it into my brassiere, an intimacy that gives me chills.

  “When the time comes.” He winks. “Tell them Jean Hallure sent you.”

  * * *

  Vadime takes off his scarf and wraps it around my neck, holding the ends down and pulling me toward him. “Will you think of me when I’m gone?”

  “Of course.” I feel my throat close. “And you’ll be fine,” I say, convincing myself.

  “I want to come back to you.” He stands at the door, ready to go. “I love you, Mata Hari. I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you performing Salome.”

  “You never told me that.”

  He shrugs, emb
arrassed. “There were men going back stage to see you. I knew I’d never be invited, so I didn’t try.”

  “I’m sure I would have.” My face warms and my eyes fill with tears. “Come back, Vadime.”

  “I will.”

  When he leaves, I don’t retreat to my room. I haven’t lost him. When the war is finished and the broken pieces of Europe slip back together, he’ll return to me.

  * * *

  I fill my days with trips to museums and dinners with men who don’t interest me. Ambassadors, police chiefs, military men of various ranks. I don’t phone Edouard or Givenchy to tell them that I’ve returned to Paris. If they care about me, they will find me. I’m preparing to go out to dinner with a new acquaintance when the concierge stops me as I am leaving the Grand.

  “Madam, if you would come back inside for a moment? A telegram has arrived.”

  The look on the concierge’s face is grave and immediately I’m unsettled. I follow him across the lobby and he hands me a slip of paper. I take it with trembling hands. My eyes scan so quickly I can barely understand the contents. I see “Vadime” and “hospital in Vittel.” I read it again, slower this time, and the world stops.

  Vadime has been seriously injured. He may be blind.

  Chapter 16

  Welcome to the French Secret Service

  I’m from The Netherlands, Commandant. We are neutral. My passport allows me to travel to any nation. How many of your people can do that?”

  Commandant Ladoux studies me from across his desk. I have gone to the address Jean Hallure gave me, to the heart of the French Secret Service, and have offered to bring them information. Spain, Germany, Belgium, England—wherever they want me to go. All I am asking for is a million francs in return. Enough to get myself and Vadime out of France. I want to take him far from this horrible war to America, where it is safe. I want us to live in New York. We can start over in that city of magic.

  The Commandant nods slowly and my heart leaps.

  “For that sum, significant information must be produced. Information that will benefit France.”