The Red Dancer

by Richard Skinner

  ‘Good,’ Jacques shouted.

  This wasn’t as hard as she thought. She smiled and relaxed her body. She looked down the slope and saw the hollow groove rising and dipping ahead of her. The trees either side whipped by. Her nose and cheeks were numb with cold. She raised her head – the sky was too blue. It seemed unreal.

  Just then, she hit something and her left leg dragged. She waved her arms as she tried to bring her skis together. She leant heavily on her right leg and started to veer left. She didn’t want to go that way – the piste was ahead of her. Her left leg caught the snow again and skittered. She leant even more heavily on her right leg to stop herself from falling. The snow became much rougher, splattering on to her face and goggles. I’m off piste, she thought. Some trees flew by. Somehow she managed to bring her skis together and now tried to avoid the trees. Another flew by. Then the trees disappeared and the slope got steeper. She had to stop before she picked up more speed. She saw something out of the corner of her eye. Another person. It was Jacques. Oh, thank God, she thought. He was shouting at her, but she couldn’t hear anything. Her eyes locked on to the slope. Suddenly it fell away from under her skis and she was flying. She could hear nothing except the wind. The whole world had gone silent. As she somersaulted, her stomach rose out of her mouth and she thought of her son, Norman. Through her goggles, she saw whiteness and snatches of blue. Norman. Norman. She hit the ground and the breath left her body.

  From the foyer of the Hotel Europa, the Empfangsdame stood by the window, looking out on to the street. The sky was deep violet and darkness was gathering in the village. She turned on the overhead light and returned to her seat behind the reception desk. Many of the guests had already returned from the mountains, but one or two were still to come.

  She went through the orders for breakfast and checked to see if any guests were leaving in the morning. The Christmas season was nearly over and many of her rooms would remain empty until Easter. She should remember to tell Eva to give them a good clean.

  Business was good and her hotel was attracting more customers each year. It had been a wise decision to invest in the hotel. The first thing her customers saw when they entered the Hotel Europa was a poster of a woman skiing downhill. She was wearing a long green dress. It said: ‘LES VERTIGES DE L’GE D’OR’.

  When the clock struck six, the Empfangsdame became worried. It was dark outside now. All of her guests had returned except two: Madame Mata Hari and her instructor, Jacques. As was required by law, they had filled out the log book that morning with details of their whereabouts and when they would be returning, which was an hour ago. It wasn’t good to be out on the mountain in the dark. Perhaps they had stopped at a bar for a glühwein. If they had, Jacques ought to have told her – he should know better.

  At quarter to seven, she decided to alert the École des Guides. She shouted at the cook to keep an eye on reception and picked up the log book. She walked on the packed snow to the school, situated further up the street towards the gondola station. Inside, the duty guide had just started the night watch. She informed him of the lateness of their return and showed him the log book. The guide nodded and told her a search party would be sent out.

  When Mata Hari opened her eyes, there was darkness all around and she thought she was dead. It was totally silent. Her face was cold. When she heard her own breathing, she realised she was still alive. Thank God. Tears welled up in her eyes and she began to sob.

  ‘Madame?’

  She stopped crying and raised her head. ‘Jacques?’

  ‘I’m over here. Are you hurt?’

  Her mind travelled over her body. Legs. Arms. She thought she was all right. She put her palms on the snow and pushed herself up. Her face was still cold, her cheeks numb. She shivered. She felt dizzy and her head throbbed.

  ‘I think I’m all right,’ she said.

  ‘I’m over here.’

  His voice was ten or so metres down the slope from her. To her left and behind her, she sensed a huge and forbidding presence. She looked in that direction, but could see nothing in the darkness. Then she realised it was the mountain. She sat on the snow and slid slowly down towards him. Her boot hit something. She reached out.

  ‘There’s a ski stuck upright in the snow.’

  ‘Grab it,’ he said.

  She pulled it out and carried on sliding down. The snow was cold to sit on and she realised her tears had frozen.

  ‘You’re near me now.’

  His voice was close. She heard him shivering and saw his dark shape on the ground.

  ‘Stick the ski in the snow again,’ he said.

  She pushed it into the snow as far as she could. It was difficult to get it in very deep.

  ‘Give me your hand,’ he said.

  She reached out towards his dark form and searched for his hand. When she found it, he clasped hers tightly and then squeezed it.

  ‘You’ve been unconscious for hours. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m cold.’

  ‘Can you feel my leg? It hurts, but I can’t do it.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The left.’

  His trousers were covered with snow. She touched his left leg at the knee and gently felt his shin. He screamed out. She leant forward and realised that his left foot was pointing the wrong way. She swallowed bile and broke out into a sweat.

  ‘Jacques?’

  He was breathing hard. ‘Merde!’ he said. ‘I’ve been shouting out but no one can hear us. We’re too far up.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘They’ll send a party out.’ His teeth were chattering.

  ‘But how will they find us? It’s so dark.’

  ‘Listen. I need you to do what I tell you. All right?’

  Whatever had risen to her mouth was gone now. She nodded.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Get that ski and start digging a hole into the mountain side with it. We have to build a bivouac.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Never mind. Just start digging a hole big enough for us both. I’m freezing.’

  When she started digging, he told her not to stop talking to him. It was important for him to stay awake, he said. He asked her questions about her life. Where was she from? Holland, she said. He told her he’d never been to Holland. What was it like? She said it was flat. When she realised they were on a mountain, she laughed a little, then stopped. She carried on digging. Her head throbbed with the effort. He asked her about her family. She told him that her father was a hat-seller, that she hadn’t seen him for years. Why not? he asked. She replied that he’d published a book about her without her consent. It was a horrible book. She thought about Java, about the heat and the dense foliage, the strange bird sounds. So long ago.

  ‘Which city have you enjoyed living in the best?’ he asked.

  ‘Paris.’

  She thought about what she could be doing at that moment in Paris. She could be having a warm bath, with perfumed water and a soft sponge. She could be eating escargots wrapped in jambon. She could be strolling in the Jardins du Luxembourg. She stopped digging and started to laugh. The digging was taking so long it was absurd. She couldn’t help laughing – it felt good.

  ‘Madame!’ he shouted. ‘You must keep digging!’

  Finally, with a great deal of effort, she finished. He told her that she must drag him inside, no matter how much he yelled. She pushed the ski into the snow as far as she could and picked him up under his arms. The strength had left her body. She dug her heels into the snow and began pulling him, but he was too heavy.

  ‘Again!’ he shouted.

  She pulled with all her strength and immediately he screamed. It was hard to ignore, but the second time she pulled him he didn’t scream as much. Little by little, she managed to haul him across a metre of snow to the hole. He used his arms to drag himself in. He told her to crawl inside after him.

  ‘Now unbutton your coat and l
ie on top of me,’ he said.

  She did so, settling on him. He was shivering worse than before. His buckle dug into her. She could feel his breath on her face. He put his arms around her, inside her coat. They remained huddled and said nothing. He groaned occasionally. She rested her head on his shoulder and began quietly to cry.

  The first group of six guides was sent out at 7:20 p.m. and returned to the school at 11:15. It had been dark for six hours and in winter, as all the guides were taught, missing people had to be found before dawn to stand a more than reasonable chance of survival. But Jacques would know what to do. They all knew him well.

  The search party leader, Wim, told the five new guides who had just arrived to get their skis, torches and stretchers ready. He would lead them out in fifteen minutes. Wim left the school and trotted down the street towards the town centre. He was going to try Hans Herzog, the town’s dowser, but he didn’t want the others to know; he would never live it down.

  Wim’s father had always sworn by dowsing. He used the rod to find all sorts of things, not just water. He had once found a gold pendant on the shores of Lac Léman. The museum in Basle had dated it to pre-Christian times. They had asked his father’s permission to exhibit it, but he had declined and it remained on the mantelpiece right up until he died. Now Wim had it. He wore it round his neck for luck.

  When Wim came to Herzog’s house, he saw lights on inside. He banged on the front door. Herzog wasn’t trusted by the townsfolk. He kept to himself too much for people’s liking. But Herzog and Wim’s father had been on many dowsing expeditions together. A short, elderly man with white hair answered the door. His expression remained the same as Wim explained what had happened. Without a word, Hans waved him inside. From a bookshelf, he took down a large-scale map of the mountain and spread it on the table. He asked Wim to show him where exactly. Wim indicated a circle on the higher slopes.

  Hans opened a cupboard and took out a thin, L-shaped piece of metal, pencils and a ruler. He lit a gas-lamp and placed it on the map. Sitting down over the map, he held the piece of metal in his right hand and sat still. Wim watched the rod: it remained still. A minute passed. Hans continually changed its position very slightly when, all of a sudden, it swung of its own accord and pointed across the valley. Hans drew a line on the map in that direction and picked up the rod again. He held it still for a few minutes more and, this time, the rod aligned itself up the east slopes. He drew another line and pointed to where they crossed. He told Wim to look there.

  Nearly two hours later, Wim and the other guides were fanned out, skiing by torchlight, when one of them shouted. Wim skied across the slope to where the guide was crouching and saw a bivouac. He held the flame up and saw Jacques and the woman inside. He whistled for the stretchers and then talked to them. Jacques’s nose was blue, but he was smiling. The woman was weeping. It was 1:40 a.m.

  20

  Neuilly-sur-Seine, Paris, 1912–14

  From the first, we saw with stupefaction that Mata Hari did not know how to dance. It was all sacred nonsense. She was just a big decorative savage.

  Monsieur Antoine, Director of the Opéra in

  Monte Carlo

  My name is Aurore Bessy. I’m twenty-two years old and unmarried. I was Mata Hari’s maid for two years. My mother knew a dressmaker in Paris who worked for Madame Mata Hari, and whenever she came to collect the dresses, she was by all accounts very gracious. My mother heard from her friend that Mata Hari had bought a villa in Neuilly and was looking for staff, so my mother’s friend suggested me to Madame. When she heard that my name was Aurore, she asked to see me. I went to the villa one bright winter morning in 1912 and we sat in the drawing room and talked. I noticed she had a portrait of herself in costume hanging on the wall. She was beautiful. After just a few minutes, she asked me if I knew what her name meant. I shook my head. She said it was Malay for ‘dawn’, just like my name in French, and for this reason she wanted me to accept a job with her. She said it was a good omen. I was very glad to accept her offer and moved in the following day. My mistress was kind to me from that first day and I felt very friendly towards her.

  The Villa Remy, as it was called, was number 11 rue Windsor in Neuilly, a leafy suburb of Paris between the Bois de Boulogne and the Seine. The front gate of the villa, with double doors, opened on to a small courtyard. The house was built in the Normandy style. The plaster walls were criss-crossed with wooden beams that were painted black. It was made to look like an English Tudor house. The ground floor had two large rooms, both facing the garden, and a small kitchen. Upstairs had three bedrooms and two bathrooms. My room was high up in the attic, tiny but warm. There was a very big garden with huge trees and a high wall surrounding it entirely. There was a patio and benches along the wall.

  At the other end of the garden were the stables where my mistress kept three Indian thoroughbreds. Her favourite was called Cacatöes. I remember because my mistress had to spell it for me. She was very proud of these horses and the interior of the stables was lined with red plush. She used to ride side-saddle in the Bois, wearing her riding jacket and either a chapeau melon or a top hat. She looked so grand in her get-up and her picture often appeared in society magazines. She used to go to the races as well. At Easter, she went to the Auteuil races to see the Grand Prix, and in June she went again to see the Grand Steeple Chase. She once confided in me that, before she became famous, she used to ride horses in the Cirque Molier.

  My duties around the place were straightforward enough. I served my mistress’s meals, did all the laundry, polished the silver and attended to her guests. There were a lot of guests. My mistress wasn’t usually pernickety, not like some I had before her, but for some reason I never could fathom, she was very particular about her morning coffee. She insisted that none of the staff could have any until she’d taken hers. Every morning between nine and ten, I would make it and bring a cup to her bedroom. Her bed was in the centre on a raised platform, shrouded in mauve canopies. You had to walk up a few steps to it. When I got back down to the kitchen, I used to shout at everybody, ‘Le jus est prêt!’ and we would all sit around the table and drink it.

  There were four of us in all: me, the groom Eric, the cook Marthe and the gardener Hippolyte. I was the only one who had a room in the villa, the others left every evening. Eric only came indoors for meals and was always quiet when he did. He was older than the rest of us and you got the feeling that he was waiting to retire. Marthe was only thirty, but she was old before her years. She was a stickler for discipline and thought of herself as the head of the house. Hippolyte was a year younger than me and cheeky with it. The day he started working here, he came through the back door whistling. He never took Marthe seriously and always made faces behind her back. But he was a beautiful gardener and took great pride in it. He knew all the Latin names of flowers and butterflies and birds and could reel them off just like that. Though I’d never show it, I liked him a lot.

  He used to walk me round the garden and show me what he’d done. He pointed out the arbutus, syringas and guelder-roses in the flowerbeds near the patio. Along the walls, he had espaliered the honeysuckle and clematis. Down by the stables was a quince tree that he pruned back in the winter. In the south corner, he showed me the rosary that he’d prepared. He pointed to the roses in turn: white, blush, white musk and damask. My mistress used to say that the only thing she loved above horses was flowers and she spent hours talking with Hippolyte in the garden, planning what to plant for the following season. My mistress had a real soft spot for him and he knew it. He used to brag about it. But the thing he loved the most wasn’t a flower or tree. It was a small statue my mistress had placed in a far corner, among the rhododendrons. She told me it was a ‘Siva’. It had six arms and sat cross-legged and was always smiling.

  During my first summer at Neuilly, the summer of 1912, my mistress had a lot of evening recitals for her friends. She danced for them, sometimes accompanied by a single Asian man playing a strange-looking guita
r, sometimes on her own. She always made sure there was a full moon rising for these recitals. I remember the actress Cécile Sorel coming once. What a shock we all got seeing her in our own garden!

  Another time there was a General Méssimy come to watch. He looked very grand in his red and blue uniform. Eric, Hippolyte and I would put out chairs for the guests and then I’d hurry upstairs to help my mistress with her costume. What beautiful clothes she had. I always enjoyed helping her dress so I could feel the lovely cloth in my own hands. She wore long bejewelled robes and tulle veils that trailed down to the ground. She wore brass bands on her arms and legs, and earrings. Oh, she was a picture when she was all dressed up! Eric and Hippolyte had usually gone home by the time her guests were settled, whereupon she would introduce her Magic Flower Dance. I peeked from an upstairs room and watched her twirl and throw herself about in the air. I’d read in the papers about the meaning of such dances but I could never see it myself. But it was pleasant enough to watch.

  Come the autumn my mistress received an invitation to travel to Monte Carlo to see the head of the Ballets Russes. She said she would perhaps meet Nijinsky while she was there. It should have been good news, but she was agitated because she’d already had one bad experience in Monte Carlo. The director of the opera there, Monsieur Antoine, had been staging a play that featured a ballet danced by Cleopatra in the final act. My mistress had been invited to perform it. During rehearsals, Monsieur Antoine complained about her conduct and sacked her. My mistress was outraged and sued him. It was all nonsense of course and she won her case, but she couldn’t forget how she had been treated. On the morning of her departure, I helped her choose a dress to wear. Eventually, we settled on her red velvet dress. She said it made her feel like Lillie Langtry. Red was her favourite colour. She once told me how, when she was a young girl, she had worn a red dress to school, which had caused quite a scandal. I think she enjoyed it – it was in her nature to be the centre of attention. When we had finished packing her valises, I wished her bonne chance and off she went.