The Red Dancer

by Richard Skinner

  When he arrived, he came straight into the bedroom. He was carrying a briefcase and his expression was crestfallen.

  She sat up. ‘What’s the matter, Alfred?’ she asked.

  ‘Things are difficult,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Things are difficult because you are French and I am German.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. I don’t mind that you are German.’

  ‘That’s not it.’

  ‘What then? Please, Alfred, tell me.’ She sensed that he was trying to be determined about something.

  ‘My family have insisted that I should break with you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If I don’t, they will disinherit me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Please try to understand.’ He put the briefcase on a table and opened it. ‘Perhaps this will show you the degree of my regret.’

  She frowned at him. ‘What is this, Alfred? I thought I pleased you.’

  ‘You did, but I can’t see you any more.’

  She looked at the briefcase. There were neat piles of banknotes inside.

  ‘There’s 300,000 marks. Take it, please,’ he said.

  14

  The Green House, 1908

  Two and a half years ago I made my first appearance at a private performance at the Musée Guimet. Ever since that memorable date ladies, styling themselves ‘Eastern Dancers’, have sprung out of the ground and honour me with their imitations. I would feel highly flattered with this mark of attention, if these ladies’ performances were accurate from a scientific and aesthetic point of view. But they are not.

  Mata Hari, The Era, 1908

  Viktor Sokolov knew his journey from St Petersburg had been announced to Russian agents based in Berlin. His imminent arrival would have been telegraphed by his superiors in St Petersburg. The Russian military kept an office in Berlin, and it was the office’s job to protect emissaries such as himself, whether they were in transit or staying for a period of time. The German authorities knew of this office – it was an open secret in the city – but as long as peace prevailed, they raised little protest.

  When his train had pulled into Friedrichstrassebahnhof, Viktor carried his small suitcase and his diplomatic pouch outside, where he queued for a taxi. He told the driver to take him to the Russian Embassy. He had an appointment with the Consul, with whom he had been instructed to leave his diplomatic pouch. The Mont Blanc fountain pen he had been given, however, was to be kept with him at all costs. Viktor checked the inside pocket of his jacket: the pen was safe. He sat back and realised how tired he was. His journey had taken two days. He’d had nothing to do except look at the snow melting in the flat, bleak landscape.

  At the Embassy, he was met by an assistant to the Consul and shown to the Consul’s office on the first floor. The Consul was a rotund man, with greased hair and round spectacles. He smiled and said, ‘Welcome back to Berlin, Viktor.’ They embraced. The Consul then opened a safe behind a picture hanging on the wall, and deposited Viktor’s diplomatic pouch inside.

  They sat and talked about St Petersburg. The Consul asked how life was in the city, Viktor answered that everything was fine. The Consul said he missed St Petersburg, but was enjoying life in Berlin. He said it was very civilised. One could buy so many fine things here. He showed Viktor his new ‘wristwatch’, made by Cartier, a Frenchman. It was the latest fashion. Viktor admired it. The Consul asked Viktor how long he would be staying, Viktor replied that he didn’t know. The Consul nodded sagely and told him that a room had been booked for him at the Adlon Hôtel.

  Viktor’s superiors in St Petersburg had told him that there was a leak somewhere within this Embassy. Information from files deposited in the Consul’s safe was known to have been passed on to German agents. Viktor was certain that the documents in the diplomatic pouch contained nothing important. The pen he was carrying, on the other hand, was something entirely different. But he still wasn’t sure if his superiors thought the Embassy’s staff, or the various couriers passing through Berlin, were to blame. During his two days on the train, Viktor realised that his journey had been set up to ascertain this. Either way, he was under suspicion as much as the Embassy staff. Viktor had been told not to divulge too much to the Consul about his instructions and he had no intention of disobeying. He thanked the Consul and asked if a taxi could be ordered.

  As he was checking in at the Adlon Hôtel, Viktor was greeted by two German officers he’d met on a previous visit to Berlin. He was struck by the coincidence. He shook their hands and accepted an invitation to join them for a drink in the lounge bar. To refuse would have been inappropriate, and therefore suspicious. There were several German military men in the bar, as well as a few Frenchmen. They were all drinking vermouth. Someone asked him what he was doing in Berlin and he answered as vaguely as he could. One of the officers ordered a pepper vodka for Viktor.

  There followed a discussion about entertainment for the coming evening. Someone suggested a cabaret at the Metropole, another a casino. They asked Viktor, a visitor to the city, for his preference and Viktor sensed that they were eager to impress him. Meanwhile, a German captain informed everyone that he had just spoken to Mata Hari on the telephone and she had agreed to make up the party. Everyone seemed to settle for that as a solution; more vodka and vermouth were ordered.

  Viktor had heard of the woman. The headlines from German newspapers were telegraphed every day to St Petersburg. He knew that she was Indian, that she was a celebrated dancer and that she was very beautiful, but little else. He was curious to meet her.

  They carried on drinking and talking for another hour, at which point Mata Hari arrived. She was dressed from head to foot in white lace, with a fox-fur wrap around her shoulders. The animated conversation amongst the group of officers died down while she was introduced to those she didn’t know, including Viktor. She had very dark hair that was braided and clipped back into extravagant curls. She smiled at him. Her large oval eyes were olive-dark and regarded him lazily as she returned Viktor’s greeting. He felt his neck tingle. Despite himself, Viktor was indeed impressed.

  She turned to the group. ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, ‘may I suggest that we adjourn to my rooms where we can all continue our revelries. I promise I can furnish you all with an evening’s entertainment better than any cabaret in the city. And, what’s more, I guarantee the freedom afforded by the privacy of my rooms . . .’

  There was a low murmur of assent among the men – they needed no further persuasion. On his way out, Viktor arranged for his suitcase to be taken to Mata Hari’s rooms.

  He travelled to her apartment in a motor car with his two officer friends. They drove out of the city, to an area he didn’t know. He was told it was the Wilhelmstrasse district. The long, tree-lined roads were quiet and impressive. Huge villas and mansions were set back in calming foliage. Their destination was a lovely large house, with a curious green exterior. As Viktor walked to the front door, he noticed that every window was lit. Once inside, Mata Hari gathered her guests in the hallway and announced that a late buffet would be served shortly in the first-floor reception room, which allowed her guests time to settle in their rooms.

  Viktor was shown up the central stairs. A valet led the way, carrying Viktor’s suitcase, which had arrived a few moments after Viktor. The place was enormous: two corridors led off each landing and, looking down them, Viktor could see several doorways. His room on the fourth floor was very fine, small but tastefully lit and painted cherry-red.

  The valet placed Viktor’s case on the bed and produced a form from inside his waistcoat. He explained that Viktor should check the contents of the case and sign the baggage receipt to verify that nothing was missing. It was a requirement for all foreign diplomats staying as guests, he said. Viktor nodded and opened his suitcase. Searching through it, he could find nothing amiss. The valet smiled and handed Viktor the receipt, which Viktor signed with the Mont Blanc pen. The valet asked for the pen t
o sign it himself. Viktor hesitated. He would draw too much attention if he refused, so he offered the pen up without fuss. The valet turned and leant on the dressing table while he added his signature, then handed the pen back. He thanked Viktor and left. Viktor checked the pen, looking at the brown marbling and unscrewing the barrel to find the piece of paper inside. Satisfied it was the same one, he put it back in his jacket pocket and decided to freshen up before heading downstairs.

  When Viktor entered the first-floor reception room, the buffet was already under way. The room was very warm. Some of the guests were standing in pairs around the fireplace, others were seated in groups of armchairs, talking and eating. A waitress stood behind a long table, which displayed an array of cold meats and salads. Viktor chose some pork and bread sauce and found his German acquaintances.

  A minute later, he saw Mata Hari come into the room and he watched as she mingled with her guests. She had changed her clothes. She was now wearing a coral-pink silk dress and a magenta shawl. Her bare arms were pale and slender and her open neck was flushed with the heat. Her hair was pinned up into a conch and her diamond earrings glittered in the firelight. Viktor couldn’t take his eyes off her. She spoke to each of her guests for a moment, before moving on.

  When she approached Viktor, he nodded to her and said how beautiful she looked. She smiled and thanked him. She told him that the evening’s entertainment was about to start and that he should find himself a seat. Viktor nodded. Her eyes lingered on him before moving on to inform the others.

  The party arranged the chairs into rows and sat down. A large screen was stretched across one end of the reception room, behind which Viktor could hear people getting ready. The waitress came round with a tray of small glasses filled with schnapps. Smiling, she offered one to Viktor, who took it. The drink smelled of peaches. It reminded him of his father’s dacha, with its peach trees in summer. One of his German friends sitting next to him knocked the schnapps back in one. Viktor sipped his, the alcohol burning his tongue and warming his stomach.

  When everyone was settled in their seats, the electric lighting was hastily dimmed, then switched off altogether. Voices died down. Clusters of candles on either side of the screen were the only illumination. Two women folded the screen up to reveal four or five women in costume, standing still on a small stage. Nearby sat two East Indian men with instruments: one was a kind of upright guitar; the other was a set of small timpani. Viktor saw Mata Hari, standing to one side of the stage, give the musicians a nod.

  The music began. It was unlike anything Viktor had heard before: slow and sedative. The women started dancing. Their languorous movements were hypnotic to watch. In the half-light, Viktor slowly realised that the women were wearing nothing under their costumes. The tightly-fitting bodices were thin and gauzy. He could see their full breasts and dark nipples, and their black pubic hair. Viktor found himself shocked, but aroused. Nothing like this could ever happen in St Petersburg. He drank his peach schnapps and strained to get a better view.

  The next morning, Viktor woke to see his room wildly disordered. His clothes were strewn over the floor, a chair was overturned and the bedclothes were horribly dishevelled. He had a splitting headache. He thought back over the night before. All he could remember was dinner and the cabaret afterwards – the half-dressed women appearing from behind a silk screen. He tried to concentrate, pinching his nose and rubbing his temples, but could recall nothing after that.

  Suddenly, he remembered the fountain pen and felt a surge of panic. He looked around the room and saw his jacket on the floor by the dressing table. He jumped out of bed and went through the pockets: the pen was still there. Thank God. He slumped to the floor and sighed heavily. He looked down at himself, naked in a wrecked room. What did he think he was doing? It was time to leave. He quickly dressed and threw things into his suitcase. On his way out, he saw none of the guests or the staff. The place appeared to be empty.

  Within two hours, Viktor was sitting on a train bound for Brussels. Two things struck him. Firstly, he was shocked at how long he had slept. When he had left the apartment in Wilhelmstrasse, it was past 4:00 p.m. Even the worst hangovers had never kept him asleep that long and his headache felt as if it was the consequence of more than just alcohol.

  Secondly, he realised that his room had been ransacked, but made to look like the results of an eventful night. He had somehow managed to extricate himself from a potentially disastrous situation. Anything could have happened after he lost consciousness, but the pen was safe. That was the most important thing. Viktor realised he had been very lucky. All the same, he wished he could recall what had happened after the cabaret.

  His train would arrive in Brussels the following morning at 7:30 a.m. Once there, he promised himself he would find a quiet hotel room and lie low for a few days. He would see no one. Then, he would board another train, this time for Paris, which was his ultimate destination. His instructions were to travel leisurely to Paris, via Berlin and Brussels, and to spend some days in each city in order to attract as little attention to his movements as possible. This was exactly what he intended to do. His head still throbbed. He settled down in his seat and slept.

  In Brussels, Viktor found a small hotel just off La Grand’ Place. For two days, he tried to enjoy his walks around the city, but was prevented from doing so by the thought of how close he’d come to real danger. He didn’t dare think about what would have happened if he’d lost possession of the pen.

  On his last evening in Brussels, he went to the Théâtre de la Monnaie to see a revue. His French was excellent, but not good enough to understand some of the jokes and double entendres. He left the theatre with the rest of the audience, which gradually thinned out, so that he found himself walking alone back to his hotel through the narrow, half-lit streets. He was booked on the morning train to Paris and was going over the journey in his mind when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Viktor turned around and saw a man standing with his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. It took Viktor a few moments to realise it was the valet from the house in Berlin.

  ‘Good evening, monsieur,’ the valet said.

  Viktor stared at him.

  ‘I have something of yours,’ the valet continued. He held up a brown Mont Blanc fountain pen. Viktor looked at it. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out exactly the same pen. He tried to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

  ‘Trust me, the pen I have is yours. If you unscrew the barrel, you’ll find the draft of the treaty intact.’ He handed the pen to Viktor.

  Viktor took it, unscrewed the barrel and pulled out a piece of rice paper. He carefully unfolded it. Sure enough, it was the treaty. The valet took the false pen from Viktor and put it in his pocket. ‘Now we each have what belongs to us,’ he said.

  ‘Who do you work for? The Germans?’

  ‘They think so, but in fact I’m a free agent. The details of the treaty will now go to the highest bidder.’

  Viktor broke out in a cold sweat. He closed his eyes. He was trying to comprehend what all this meant, but was failing to do so.

  ‘By the way,’ the valet said, ‘if you are in Berlin again, try to avoid the house in Wilhelmstrasse. Have you never heard of it before?’

  Viktor shook his head slowly.

  ‘It’s called the “Green House”. Have you heard of a man called Steiber?’

  Viktor shook has head again. He was way out of his depth.

  ‘Well, it was his legacy to the German police. It’s constructed entirely of secret panels, revolving mirrors and tapped telephones. It hasn’t been used much since Bismarck, but the German police seem to have rediscovered it. They must think there’s going to be a war.’

  The valet waited until this had sunk in, then said, ‘Goodnight, monsieur,’ and walked quickly away.

  Viktor watched him disappear round a corner. He looked at the piece of rice paper in his hands. It had tiny inscriptions on it. He pictured the other pen in the valet’s overcoat. Thi
s is the end, he thought, and shivered.

  15

  Juju

  juju n. 1 an object superstitiously revered by certain West African peoples and used as a charm or fetish. 2 the power associated with a juju. [C19: prob.< Hausa djudju evil spirit, fetish]

  In West Africa, every tribe strives to make its art unique, since it embodies that tribe’s values and beliefs and creates its self-identity. Despite this striving for differentiation, however, all tribes do in fact produce some similar forms of art. Scarification, body-painting and ceremonial dancing, for example, are common throughout the tribes from Sierra Leone, Ghana and Togo and round the Gulf of Guinea to the Democratic Republic of Congo. But the art form most common to all these tribes is sculpture.

  African sculptures have been made from almost anything – stone, metal, ivory, pottery, terracotta, raffia and mud – but they are usually made from wood and turned into masks, small figures or tools. The masks, often half-human, half-animal, are used in tribal dances and religious ceremonies to represent ancient spirits or ancestors. Some are tied to the face with raffia head coverings; others are larger and rest on the head or shoulders. A small number have handles attached so that they can be held up to the face.

  Wooden figures, too, are used for ritualistic or religious purposes. They are thought to embody spirits, or are believed to be sites of spiritual forces. They are also used for their healing powers, or as protection against evil. Among the Yoruba tribe, for instance, a wooden figure is kept until adulthood by a child who has lost his or her twin.