The Red Dancer

by Richard Skinner

  The glasses had indeed arrived when the proprietor had said they would and in enough time for the Major to order two days of full-equipment training. All artillery and rifle fire had ceased in order to pacify the German front lines. It had worked: there had been no night-time exchange of fire for the past few nights. Hogg waited.

  When the tap on his shoulder came, he climbed up the ladder and crawled over the rampart through the breach in the wire. He fanned out to the right, as in training. He could hear the faint sounds of others slithering as quietly as possible over the mud and into the bomb craters, where they halted for two minutes. Then, when all the men were spread out in a line, they crawled quietly out of the craters towards the first enemy trenches.

  When Hogg reached the rise, a dozen flares went up and, suddenly, it was as bright as day. Hogg blinked and looked to either side of him. He saw five men fall; then he saw that every German gun emplacement was manned and firing. He ducked and rolled over on to his back, breathing hard. More flares went up. He felt a warmth in his chest and had the sensation of being drunk. He realised he’d been hit and closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, it was still night. More flares went up and he realised no time at all had passed. Chandler’s face came into view, looking down at him. He saw Chandler’s lips moving, but he couldn’t hear a word. Chandler was crying. All Hogg could hear was the sound of his own breath, which gurgled when he breathed in; then Chandler disappeared. All he could see now were the flares rising brightly. He imagined them rising for ever and falling into a different land, one that was clean, dry and quiet. His eyes closed.

  25

  Vittel, France, 1916

  Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot; her nose was rather flattened, and her mouth, with its thick lips, stretched almost from ear to ear, revealing yellow and uneven teeth. Her hair was dyed, but this did not prevent streaks of grey from being visible. In short, she bore little resemblance to the seductive dancer who, some twelve years before, had dragged a host of admirers in her wake.

  Robert Boucard, 1916

  When I awoke, I couldn’t see anything and, for a while, I didn’t know if I was dead or alive. But gradually, I felt my chest and legs and wiggled my toes and realised that my body at least was unharmed. I was in a rock-hard bed that smelled of menthol. Sunlight was shining on my face and I could hear footfalls echoing around me. There were low murmurings nearby and faraway conversations, all in French. I reached up to my eyes and felt a bandage around them and, with that, I knew I was alive. I said my name aloud, in Russian. ‘My name is Vadime de Massloff, of the First Regiment of the Special Imperial Russian air force!’ Someone answered me in French. ‘Hey, no need to shout, mon ami, we can all hear you. You’re surrounded by a dozen blessés. Get a nurse, someone; the Russian bear is awake.’ I asked the voice what day it was. Thursday the fifth, he said. What month? July.

  The man next to me was called Favourier, a poilu who loved to talk. He had been injured at Verdun, a bomb-blow to the chest that had left him with one lung. He told me that I had been brought in two days previously, the day after him. There had been so many wounded at Verdun that all the hospitals there were full. Everyone had been brought a hundred kilometres to here, a makeshift field hospital just outside Vittel. It was still in the Zone of the Armies, he said, so it wasn’t entirely safe. I asked about the menthol. ‘It’s not menthol,’ he said; ‘it’s anise. They used it when they made absinthe.’ He explained that the hospital used to be an absinthe factory before the government banned it and that all the beds in the hospital were stacked absinthe crates, which still reeked of anise. He laughed and told me not to worry – the smell was good for the fever.

  He asked what had happened to me. I told him I had been at Verdun too, on reconnaissance. I had been flying over German lines to take aerial photographs of their trench systems. It was dangerous work avoiding their anti-aircraft battery and passing through the plumes of smoke from artillery fire. I had taken the last photograph during one sortie when I saw a large smoke cloud ahead. As I passed through it, I had to lift my goggles to turn the aircraft around. The smoke smelled like a bon-bon, or perfumed soap, and I realised that it was a cloud of gas, not smoke. I quickly put my goggles back on and straightened up, but it was too late. Seconds afterwards, there was the dreadful itching and stinging sensation in my eyes. I knew I was safely behind our lines so I tried to land. I remember the bumps as the wheels hit the ground. I also remember thanking God that I had cotton-wool in my mouth, which was soaked in my own urine to stop the gas entering my lungs. Favourier said it must have been mustard gas, because of its smell. ‘You were lucky,’ he said, ‘too long in that gas cloud and you would’ve been a dead man.’

  The next few days were filled with interminable boredom and pain in my eyes, particularly my left eye. I found out how difficult it is to remain lying down for days on end. The nurses were busy, too busy to stay by my bedside for more than a few moments, and I passed the time listening to Favourier. My ears became my eyes. Every so often, someone would touch my toes and tell me his name and I would reply. By the time I’d put names to all the different voices, there would be a new voice and a new name to learn. Many died, most were sent back to the front. Only a few were sent home and everyone was jealous when they said goodbye. They took letters to post and promised to return belongings. The nights were the worst. Surrounded by the sleeping, I heard private miseries being uttered, or subdued crying. In reality, no one slept very well or for very long, but everyone left alone the men who chose the night-time for grieving.

  I didn’t tell Favourier anything about Mata Hari; she was the one thing I wanted to keep for myself. I carried a photograph of her tucked inside my sheepskin on every sortie I flew. I had met her in Paris, in April – just three months previously. I had been spending a few days there before being sent out to Verdun. Two acquaintances of mine, officers in the French air force, had told me they had a lunch appointment with Mata Hari. They wanted to introduce her to me; they said she loved meeting officers of all nationalities. I waited in the Jardin des Tuileries one warm afternoon, and I soon saw them walking among the trees and symmetrical paths towards me. She was wearing a white flannelette dress and a wide-brimmed hat. She was as beautiful as a gypsy, with long dark hair and huge eyes. As my friends introduced us, she held out her hand, which I took. It was warm and soft. The Frenchmen treated her with grave respect, as though she were untouchable, but I could see by her expression that she was timid and craved love. I’d thought about her a lot since then – too much probably.

  After four weeks in the hospital, the nurses removed my bandages. The room was too bright. The sunlight shone from the coiffes of the nurses, obscuring their faces, and the walls were blocks of burning white. I still couldn’t see out of my left eye, so I was given a patch for it. Favourier immediately christened me ‘the Russian pirate’. He asked me if he was as handsome as people said. I looked at his blond hair, sunburnt face and clear eyes and told him he was ugly as hell. He laughed. Later that day, a letter came for me. It was from her. She wrote that she had only just heard I was in hospital and was making arrangements to come to Vittel. She asked me to keep her visit a secret, as she didn’t want any undue attention. Of course Favourier grilled me about the letter, but I said nothing. Her letters to me at the front line had kept me going through the worst days, but the prospect of seeing her was almost too much to bear. A few days later, I was deemed fit enough to be moved upstairs, where inpatients stayed before being sent back. The nurses said they needed the bed. I told Favourier not to worry, that I’d be back to see his ugly mug soon.

  I spent August walking in the grounds of the factory, where the wormwood plants had grown wild and unkempt, and playing vingt-et-un with Favourier. Sometimes I tried to read the French newspapers, but my French is not so good and, anyway, the news was too depressing. The doctors kept checking my left eye and telling me it wasn’t healed enough for me to resume flying. Late in the month, when the sunlight was at i
ts strongest, I stayed indoors and watched the shadows move round the room. One hot afternoon, a nurse came with a telegram for me. It was from her again. She was expected in Vittel within twenty-four hours! I was to meet her in the morning. I couldn’t believe it. The nurse was standing over me, smiling. She asked me if I wanted a haircut for the big occasion and produced a comb and a pair of scissors from her pocket. I took off my patch and leant my head back. My fine black hair fell in little clumps.

  On 1 September, I left the hospital a little early and took my time walking along the quiet, tree-lined streets into the town centre. In a café in the main square, I ordered a glass of spa water. There were many civilians sitting outside in the square, enjoying the sunshine. I sat with my arms folded, feeling nervous but calm. Somewhere out of sight, a church bell struck eleven times. I paid and crossed the square. Down a side street, I came to a small park. In one corner, I saw a wooden shed and a bench nearby, where a woman was sitting. It was her. When I walked over to her, she stood up and touched my face. She asked me how my eye was. I said I didn’t know. Her lovely dark eyes looked at me, openly. I smiled and said that we always seemed to be meeting in parks. And then she said a curious thing. She said that parks were the only place away from prying eyes.

  She had taken a room at the Grand Hotel, on the periphery of the town. The hotel was isolated in its grounds and surrounded by small trees shaped into cones. We walked slowly up the curved steps to the main entrance. Her room was lined with walnut and painted in a soothing green. Through the window, the lawns sloped down to a line of poplar windbreaks and, beyond it, you could see the Vosges mountains. Somewhere among the mountains was the front line. It seemed a lifetime away. She was standing by me, the light shining off her pale yellow dress. She asked me what I was thinking and I kissed her. Her mouth opened to me and I put my arms around her. She took off her dress for me, watching me all the time. Sheets of silk and mousseline fell from her until she stood naked, except for her brassière. Her hips and legs were smooth and round. She pulled back the covers of the bed and slipped inside. I took off my uniform and placed it on a chair, then slipped into bed beside her. I could feel her warmth on my body, as she pushed me back and spread herself over me. She kissed my wounded eye. Her hand on my waist was like an electric shock. She smiled and said I was too thin. She rolled on to her back. Her dark hair fell open on the pillow and she smelled of strange, delicate flowers.

  Later, much later, we lay side by side and looked at the ornate ceiling. She said she had known she would see me again after we had first met; she didn’t know why exactly – it was just a feeling. ‘You looked so impressive in your uniform,’ she said. I asked her to describe it to me. She said I had had a black cap with a shiny peak and a gold emblem in its centre. My dark-blue jacket had a white ring of chenille around each cuff and down one side of the buttons. My trousers were also blue. I wore two medals, one shaped as a cross and pinned to my uniform, the other a round golden disc hanging from a green ribbon. Not bad, I said. She laughed and told me she had an eye for detail. Then, after a while, she said my expression that day had been both sad and proud. It had intrigued her. I asked her how she had managed to get to Vittel – it must have been difficult to arrange. She said a friend of hers had warned her that a permit was necessary to travel to Vittel and that she should see a certain Captain Ladoux, who was authorised to grant such a permit. So she did. At his office, she told him she had applied to the Red Cross to become a nurse and care for me. After listening to her case, this Captain Ladoux had agreed to grant her the permit. She leaned over me and opened the bedside-table drawer. ‘See for yourself,’ she said. I read the piece of paper she handed me.

  The restriction of personal liberty within the army zone is a measure which we enforce upon our own nationals, but we do not feel justified in recommending a similar course against neutrals whose friendship we desire to promote. Such a ruling, for example, would prevent Mata Hari, the prominent young Dutch artiste, from undertaking the highly meritorious mission she proposes to perform for the benefit of one of our wounded heroes. Captain Ladoux, Chief of the French Intelligence Service.

  I was amazed and impressed. I said her reputation must really count for something. She shrugged and said that once she had an impulse, she acted on it quickly. I asked her if I was one of her impulses. She kissed me again and again, saying that I was, but a good one and a correct one, at last. We stayed in her bed for two days.

  *

  When we eventually ventured outside, it was to a restaurant. As we walked to the town centre, she sensed my nervousness and asked what the matter was. I said that I didn’t have any money to pay for the meal. She squeezed my arm and told me not to worry – it wasn’t my money she was after.

  By the time we reached Les Nuages, the light was beginning to fade. We were shown to a table by the maître d’. The doors and windows in the restaurant had been opened up to let in the late summer air and the restaurant was only half-full. When we had settled, the maître d’ handed us two menus and said how pleased he was to see Madame again. He bowed and left. I asked with some surprise if she had been here before and she said that, yes, she had been here in 1911, to take the waters – she had had a little arthritis in her knees after all her dancing. Did it work? I asked. Not really, she smiled. She went on to tell me that during her stay, she had seen a fortune-teller, who had warned her that the thing for which she was famous would one day come to an end. I remarked that the prediction was so vague, it could mean almost anything. She shook her head and said she had taken the old woman’s words to heart; indeed, she told me that she had decided to stop dancing altogether. When I asked why, she sighed, saying that she didn’t like dancing as much as she used to. In fact, she hated it. She went on to explain that she’d had some bad notices when she was performing Lucia di Lammermoor in The Hague two years previously – bad enough for the show to be taken off. She had been so distraught she hadn’t danced since. I said she should dance in Paris, where they still loved her, but she took my hands and repeated that she didn’t want to dance ever again. She was tired of it. She wanted to go somewhere far away from the war. She told me she would soon have enough money for the both of us and asked me to come away with her. She was looking at me so intently when she said this that I believed she meant it. I realised this was the moment when I had to say either yes or no, that after this moment, the course of my life would alter. I looked her in the eye and said that nothing in the world would make me happier than to be with her.

  We left the restaurant in a hurry and went to her hotel room. There, we undressed each other and made love quickly, almost brutally. All my thoughts and feelings were centred on a spot somewhere in my lower back. She said nothing throughout; she seemed shy. She held on to me. Afterwards, we lay quietly. I asked her why she hadn’t let me take off her brassière. She blushed and said that she was ashamed of her breasts. I asked why. She mentioned a painter, long ago, who had been less than kind about them and, ever since, she had been self-conscious. I could see by her expression that she felt exposed. I touched her breasts through the muslin for a long time before pushing the material up and kissing her. She held on to my head and sighed. After a while, her breathing became deep and regular. I thought she was asleep, but when I looked up, I saw that she was staring out of the window into the night. She looked like a child, not a woman who had just turned forty. I thought about her former husband, of whom she had told me many stories. I didn’t know much else about her; she was mysterious to me, but I wanted to protect her. She turned her head to me and smiled. Unable to stop myself, I asked her if she would marry me. At first, she didn’t respond, but lay absolutely still. Her eyes seemed to shine, taking in all the light there was in the room, and her mouth was agape. It was several moments before she uttered a quiet ‘Yes’. ‘When the war’s over, let’s do it,’ I said. And then she broke into a smile and hugged me. ‘Yes, yes,’ she said.

  I went back to the hospital the following morning: I had t
o show my face. A nurse scolded me for missing my appointments and sent me up to the doctors’ offices. A doctor there examined my eye for half an hour, shining lights into it and asking me to follow his finger. He told me that my eye was nearly healed and that I would be reassigned soon. I went downstairs and found Favourier. He wanted to know where I’d been. I winked and said wouldn’t he like to know. He laughed. I asked him how he was. So-so, he replied. He was being invalided out – a grand blessé with a full pension. So the war’s over for me, he smiled. I patted him on the leg but couldn’t say anything. Favourier understood. Then he asked me if I’d heard about the new aerodrome. I didn’t know what he meant. Some captain or other had been looking for me, he said, to give me my new posting. There was an aerodrome being built at Contrexéville, not far from Vittel. Reconnaissance had already started as part of a new offensive.

  In the evening, I arranged to see Mata Hari. We met in the park, by the small shed, and wandered around as I told her about my new posting. She seemed very interested in hearing the details and asked me many questions. I was touched by her concern for me; it was pleasing to have her suddenly so involved in my life. As the daylight faded once again, she asked me if I still wanted to marry her. I turned her to me and replied that I did. I took her in my arms and looked out over the green lawns, which seemed to glow greener in the half-light. We stayed still for several moments. I said softly that I had to go: it was Favourier’s last night in the hospital and I had promised to be back. She nodded. As I was leaving, she stopped me and said she had been thinking: she thought I was right that she shouldn’t give up dancing. She had spoken to her agent about the matter and he was busy trying to secure a performance for her soon. But afterwards, she said, ‘We’ll be together, won’t we?’ I said we would.