The Red Dancer

by Richard Skinner

  Wiener Deutsches Tageblatt, December 1906

  The new Art of the Dance, which Mata Hari for the moment more feels than expresses, is still waiting for its great exponent.

  Arbeiter Zeitung, December 1906

  If she had not had the advantage of ‘nude publicity’, she would not have been a success.

  Deutsche Zeitung, December 1906

  Isadore Duncan is dead! Long live Mata Hari!

  Neue Wiener Journal, December 1906

  13

  Berlin, 1907

  Are we still living in the times of Louis XVI, who arranged a majestic and enthusiastic reception for a foreign ambassador who turned out to be none but a Marseilles shopkeeper?

  François de Nion, La Prensa

  He was a short, slim man, his thinness emphasised by the way his dark-blue serge suit hung loosely from his shoulders. His face was younger than his years and she imagined it had always been that way. He had the most extraordinary eyes. They bulged slightly and were brilliant blue, drawing in everything around him. When she looked into his eyes, the rest of his face grew vague. Two taller men stood silently behind him.

  ‘Good afternoon, madame. My name is Traugott von Jagow. I work for the city police.’ His French was excellent.

  ‘Good afternoon. My name is Mata Hari.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, madame,’ he said.

  ‘Is this a social or professional call?’

  He smiled. She made her question sound like an insult. He glanced around the dressing room. It was small and cramped, with mirrors along one wall and clothes hanging from hooks in the walls, the door and from hat-stands. Two trunks, open by her feet, were half-spilling on to the floor.

  ‘I hope you are comfortable. Our shabby theatres are old and are hardly the most salubrious.’

  ‘I’ve been in worse places than the Metropole, I can assure you,’ she said.

  ‘And the Hôtel Cumberland?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Bon.’ He almost bowed. ‘As to your question, it is my misfortune that my call has to be professional. I’m sure the manager of this music hall has informed you that, in Germany, we have the regrettable duty of inspecting the costumes worn by all foreign artistes, such as yourself.’

  He waved his hand, as though brushing away a fly.

  ‘Normally, I would designate this repugnant duty to one of my least senior officers, but, with so esteemed a guest in our country, I felt that nothing else would suffice except to perform this inspection personally.’

  ‘I’m honoured that you should take the time.’

  ‘With such a reputation, madame, it’s the least I can do. I’ve heard of your performances at the Folies Bergère and Trocadéro in Paris. They precede you.’

  ‘You’re too kind. And what do you think you will find in my chest, Herr von Jagow?’

  There was a hint of a smile on his face. ‘I’m sure there are many joyous and exotic messages from the Orient in your chest, madame, and I’m sure they are all legal. May I?’

  ‘Please.’ She opened her arms.

  He signalled to the two men standing behind him. They searched a trunk each, lifting the veils, sarongs, skirts and shawls and gently prodding underneath. All the while, she looked at von Jagow, who held her gaze. She couldn’t tell if he was in awe of her or disgusted with her. The two men finished, saying they had found nothing. Von Jagow nodded to dismiss them.

  ‘Everything appears to be in order, madame.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘How long will you be staying in Berlin?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I have no engagements following this as yet and I would like to explore your wonderful city, so I may stay for a few weeks. I will do as my impulse tells me.’

  ‘Please allow me the honour of showing you the sights. My office has a motor car which we use for special guests. It is very comfortable.’

  She assented with a smile.

  ‘Excellent. Tomorrow morning perhaps?’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, then bowed in a quick, jerky movement. ‘Goodnight, madame and good luck.’ He turned and strode out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Mata Hari took her time undressing, pausing to hang up each article of clothing while she considered how best to deal with von Jagow. She could tell by his bearing that he was an important city official and that, if there was a future for herself in Berlin, she would have to get along with him. For now, though, she decided it would be best to wait and see.

  Standing naked, she sorted through her travelling baggage and found her saffron-coloured sarong. The silk was embroidered with red flowers on golden vines. She twirled this around her thighs and tied it in a loose-fitting knot which just concealed her pubis. She stood straight and then pulled the knot – the sarong fell to the ground. Satisfied, she twirled the sarong again around her body and tied it with the same knot.

  From her Gladstone bag, she took out several pieces of jewellery and placed them on the dressing table. She attached bracelets, made of filigree, on each wrist, upper arm and just below each knee. She put in the earrings – yellow garnets dropped on tiny silver chains. Covering her breasts, she put on a yellow cloth bodice, cupped with seashells, and clasped its hooks behind her. She placed a choker around her neck and straightened the beads hanging on threads from the ribbon. Finally, she took a casque of worked gold out of a felt bag and placed it in her hair.

  As she was finishing dressing, there was a knock at the door. One of the cabaret dancers came in holding a large bouquet of orange flowers. They glowed in the dark room like Chinese lanterns.

  ‘These just came for you! Aren’t they beautiful?’ the dancer said.

  Mata Hari took them. The petals had black spots and left orange dust on her fingers when she touched them. She put the bouquet down and opened a little envelope. Inside, there was a card:

  A great but diffident admirer of yours who, in order to watch you, has stayed two days longer in Berlin than he intended, ventures with great deference to ask you to accept the accompanying flowers as a sign of his admiration.

  Alfred Kiepert, Lieutenant in the Second Company of the Eleventh Westphalian Hussars Regiment.

  ‘Well, who is it?’ the dancer said.

  ‘Lieutenant Kiepert. Do you know him?’

  ‘Kiepert? Are you joking? He’s only one of the richest landowners in Berlin. He has a huge estate just outside the city!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, you’re so lucky!’ the dancer said.

  You can scarcely credit the mystic frenzy produced by her lascivious attitudes. Her nervous tremors, her violent contortions, were terribly impressive. There was in the performance something of the solemnity of an idol, something of the loathsome horror of a writhing reptile. From her great sombre eyes, half-closed in sensuous ecstasy, there gleamed an uncanny light, like phosphorescent flames. She seemed to embrace an invisible being in her long shapely arms. Her braceleted legs were glossy and well moulded, they so quivered through excessive effort that it seemed the tendons must burst through the enveloping skin. To witness the spectacle was to receive the impression that one had actually been present at the metamorphosis of a serpent taking a woman’s form.

  An anonymous spectator, Berlin 1907

  *

  After the performance, Mata Hari sat on her trunk, breathing heavily and trembling slightly. It was always some minutes before she could recover from a dance. There was a knock on her door. Without waiting for a response, the door opened and the stage manager told her in his faltering French that she had a visitor. He asked if he should show the man in. Mata Hari nodded and stood up.

  When the stage manager beckoned, a soldier appeared, dressed in a dark-blue jacket decorated with red epaulettes and bands of yellow chenille. His cream jodhpurs were stretched taut over his thighs and, even in the dim light, she could see his knee-high black leather boots shine. He held his hussar’s cap, also banded with chenille, to his chest. She had n
ever seen such a magnificently dressed soldier.

  Sensing her appreciation, the soldier clicked his heels. ‘Lieutenant Alfred Kiepert, at your service, madame.’ He took her hand and clumsily kissed it.

  ‘Thank you for the flowers, Lieutenant. How did you know that tiger lilies were my favourite?’

  Kiepert looked confused for a moment. ‘I didn’t,’ he said.

  ‘Are you a good guesser then?’

  ‘I must be!’ he laughed awkwardly. He fiddled with his cap and took a deep breath. ‘May I invite you to Adlon’s for dinner?’

  She saw that his hair was damp with sweat and his cheeks flushed. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or two. But he was very rich.

  ‘I would be delighted,’ she smiled. ‘Give me a few minutes to get ready.’

  The restaurant was almost full. Several officers, with uniforms the same as Kiepert’s, sat smoking cigars and talking. Beside each of the officers sat a woman, dressed in evening wear and listening. Clouds of smoke gathered above the tables.

  The maître d’ nodded briefly to Kiepert and showed them to a table for two towards the rear of the restaurant. As they followed him, several people nodded or raised their glasses. Mata Hari smiled back, without knowing who they were.

  Once seated, Kiepert leaned across to her. ‘Madame, your Dance of the Seven Veils tonight was an exquisite experience.’

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Please call me Alfred.’

  A waiter appeared from nowhere. Kiepert ordered a bottle of Vernis Mordore Dore and a caviar hors d’oeuvre.

  When the champagne arrived, Kiepert insisted on opening it himself. There was a loud pop. He filled their glasses, spilling some, and toasted the Kaiser.

  ‘And to the Crown Prince!’ she said.

  Kiepert laughed. ‘We call him “Little Willie”, you know.’

  ‘Have you met him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I would love to meet him,’ she smiled.

  ‘Maybe I can arrange it for you. Let me try.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something about me that few people know.’

  He leaned forward. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m the daughter of King Edward and a Hindu princess.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s been necessary to be discreet, for the sake of my father, but since I found out, I’ve traced my family tree all the way back to Azo IV.’

  ‘My God!’ Kiepert said. His round face went red with excitement.

  ‘Yes, it’s true. Azo IV founded the House of Zelle in 1000 ad. Then, in the sixteenth century, my family split into the British Royal House of Guelph and the German Hohenzollerns. So, you see, the Crown Prince and I could be related.’

  ‘Amazing! I’ll drink to that.’ He guzzled his glass of champagne and quickly poured another.

  *

  After dinner, they walked to one of Kiepert’s apartments, on the Nacodstrasse. Inside, he was still flushed and excited. She kissed him slowly and told him to wait for a few moments, then went into his bedroom. She took off her turquoise satinette dress, her lace cache-corset and stockings. Hanging on a piece of string inside her dress was a small sponge. She took it off and, lying back in his big bed, inserted it into herself. She called to Kiepert. He tore his clothes off and jumped into bed. Within seconds, he was inside her. His head was buried in her neck and he was moaning on top of her. She pushed on his shoulders to slow him down – he was hurting her – but he took no notice. A few minutes later, he shuddered and slumped on her. Then he fell asleep.

  Kiepert left early the following morning, but told her she could remain in the apartment as long as she wished. He had some business to attend to on his estate and would be back in a few days. She thanked him. When he had gone, she telephoned the Cumberland and arranged to have her things sent over. Then she called von Jagow, who arranged to pick her up at two o’clock.

  Von Jagow arrived punctually and was waiting by a motor car when she stepped out on to the street. He announced that it was the newest hand-made Benz Motorwagen and that, like Berlin itself, it was a wonderfully modern machine. He ushered her into the rear cabin and ordered the driver to take them on a tour of the city. The driver released the handbrake and the car sped away. Von Jagow inquired after her health and told her that the morning papers had been positively ecstatic about her performance. She thanked him and looked around the cabin. The entire interior was padded in olive-green buttoned quilting. The pull-down blinds on the windows were purple. The driver in the open cabin up front was wearing a peaked cap and goggles.

  As they drove down Unter den Linden, von Jagow pointed out the Brandenburg Gate. The car passed underneath the gate, then crossed the river. Barges and smaller boats steamed up and down. He showed her the Reichstag and the old university, where he had been a student. The domes and steeples were black with grime. As they rounded a corner at speed, a startled student crossing the street had to jump clear. The driver swerved, then pumped the rubber horn angrily. Mata Hari looked through the rear window and saw the student get to his feet. His books were strewn across the road.

  They crossed the river again and entered a residential area made up of massive houses and apartment blocks, all partially hidden by huge trees. Von Jagow explained that they were reserved exclusively for the diplomats, civil servants and military personnel working in Berlin. She was looking at the impressive buildings when von Jagow tapped on the glass partition and the car came to a halt by the pavement.

  ‘Let’s look inside this one, shall we?’ von Jagow said as he opened the door.

  Mata Hari glanced out and saw a huge lime-stucco house. She counted four floors and several windows.

  ‘What a strange colour. Won’t we disturb the residents?’ she asked with surprise.

  ‘Don’t worry, madame,’ von Jagow smiled; ‘this one is owned by the city police. Please, let me show you around.’

  As she stepped out of the car, a gust of wind blew in the treetops, making the leaves rustle. She held on to her hat and looked either way down the wide street. There was no one about. The noise of the trees increased the impression she had of being away from the city centre. Von Jagow told the driver to wait, then led her to the entrance, which was covered by a portico. Taking a key from his waistcoat pocket, he unlocked the door and waved her inside.

  The hallway was painted in a deep forest-green. It smelled fresh inside, as though the house was tended to regularly. Von Jagow closed the door behind him and led her through the rooms on the ground floor. There were two reception rooms, one lemon-yellow and one orange, a magnolia dining room with a table that could seat up to twelve people and a book-lined study with burgundy walls.

  The kitchen was an antiseptic white. The thick wooden work surfaces had been scrubbed clean; glistening pots and pans hung from hooks on the wall. Standing isolated in the centre was the oven. The hotplates were spotless. It was more like a kitchen for a hotel than a house.

  Upstairs, there was a dove-grey reception room with a fireplace large enough for two firedogs. At the other end of the room were a raised platform and a patterned screen. Padded chairs were placed along the walls. A set of doors led through to an adjoining snug, with a smaller fireplace and a card table. Further down the corridor, von Jagow showed her the first of the bedrooms. Each of the rooms, he explained, was named according to its colour and all in all the house could sleep up to thirty guests.

  Presently, they came back down the stairs to the hallway. Mata Hari was amazed. She had never before been inside such a luxurious house.

  ‘Why are you showing me all this?’

  His blue eyes twinkled. ‘Do you like it?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, very much.’

  ‘Would you like to live here when you are in Berlin?’

  She didn’t know where this was leading.

  ‘Don’t worry, madame, it’s an honest question,’ he said.

  ‘I would love to stay here, yes.’

  ‘Then you ca
n.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you are a famous artiste, and because you could be very helpful to me. You have many imitators now, but I want the real thing.’ He opened his arms and indicated the high-ceilinged hallway. ‘All this can be yours, in return for a small favour.’

  ‘Favour?’

  ‘Yes, a favour. Several favours, actually.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All I ask is that you make yourself at home here and, from time to time, entertain some people.’

  ‘Soldiers?’

  Von Jagow chose his words carefully. ‘Yes, soldiers. But other people also.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Oh, diplomats, couriers, that kind of thing. People who have certain “information” I need.’

  Mata Hari considered his proposition. She looked at him and he returned her gaze, without flinching.

  ‘I could show you great wealth and comfort, if you were willing,’ he said.

  She remembered how poor she had been when she had first arrived in Paris. She remembered Guillomet, the painter, who had said he could only use her with her clothes on; Alice, who was probably still staying at the Régence Hôtel. She remembered the lawyer, Heijmans, and the naked photograph of herself that had left her so powerless. She thought of MacLeod and his accusation that she was an upstart; his cruel temper. And then she thought of Non, whom he had stolen from her, and wondered what she looked like now.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Bon,’ he smiled, ‘you’ve made a wise decision, madame. Let me take you to Adlon’s to celebrate. We’ll have fresh trout and the most delicious white wine you have ever tasted.’

  Late the next morning, Kiepert telephoned to say he had returned to Berlin and would see her in an hour. She replaced the heavy receiver and slid out of bed.

  Kiepert’s bathroom was panelled in mahogany. There was an ottoman against one wall and a wicker chair in the other corner with a bidet next to it. Built at one end of the deep, long bath was a mahogany cabin. When she turned on the taps inside, the water came out of a nozzle above her, so that she could stand while she washed herself. Kiepert had called it a douche. She had never used one before and spent a long time soaping every inch of her body. When she had dried herself, she put on a transparent white negligée trimmed with marabou feathers and scented her hair with rose pomade. She puffed up the pillows and lay in bed, waiting for Kiepert’s return.