The Red Dancer

by Richard Skinner

  Prison photograph of Mata Hari on the eve of her execution.

  30

  Vincennes, Paris, 1917

  PARIS, OCT. 15. Mata-Hari, the dancer, was shot this morning. She was arrested in Paris in February, and sentenced to death by Court-martial last July for espionage and giving information to the enemy. Her real name was Marguerite Gertrude Zelle. When war was declared she was moving in political, military and police circles in Berlin, and had her number on the rolls of the German espionage services. She was in the habit of meeting notorious German spy-masters outside French territory, and she was proved to have communicated important information to them, in return for which she had received several large sums of money since May, 1916.

  The Times, 16 October 1917

  Sergeant Célestin told me that I was one of the firing party the night before the execution. He said if I was going to see any action, I needed to be hardened up. I asked who the other eleven were. He said they were all chasseurs à pied from other divisions here in the barracks. The Captain had told him to choose either wounded men or young men because it might be the only action we ever saw. I felt sick. The Sergeant told me to look at him. His face is big and round. He’s built like an ox but has the tongue of a lark – always talking. He said it was natural to feel all churned up over something like this. Every man who had ever been in a firing squad was sick to the stomach with it and if they said anything different, they were lying. I asked if I could choose not to do it. No, he said. You’re a soldier, it’s your job, just think of it like that. He told me to get my rifle and go over to the canteen at 20:00. He punched me on the shoulder and left. I smoked a cigarette.

  The others call me le gosse because I’m the youngest in the whole of the regiment. I don’t like it, but when I tell them to stop, they just laugh. They all know I’m not twenty yet. My real name’s Jean, identification number 5793. I signed up in June with Gaston and Angel at the recruiting office in Nation. This was after the disaster at Chemin des Dames. The recruiting officer asked me how old I was and I said twenty, but the truth is I’m not sure. Because I didn’t have a birth certificate, the officer said he couldn’t send me for training just yet because it was against the law. He told me to wait a bit. Gaston and Angel are both older than me and were sent straight to Picardie and I ended up here, at Vincennes, in the 4th Regiment of Zouaves. The Colonel turned a blind eye to my age because the war was going badly. Shit, the only reason we joined up was to stick together. The last time I heard from Angel was three months ago, Gaston five.

  We all grew up in Nation. It’s near Vincennes, so I’ve always known about the barracks. You heard stories of desertions and reprisals. The soldiers came into the local bars on Saturday nights, which was their night off once a month. Mainly, they used to go to Little Louis’s bar on rue Amelot – he imported English cigarettes for them. He didn’t charge too much; if he did, he knew the soldiers would go to another bar. You never saw the same soldier’s face twice. Little Louis looked after me, gave me work unloading the beer barrels. Sometimes I slept in the cave, but mostly I slept at Angel’s place. His mother didn’t mind. Louis used to be a boxer and he’s always punching people. In a playful way, I mean. Behind all the bottles above the bar are photos of him in shorts and gloves, ready to punch someone just out of the photo. Louis has always said that I must be the son of a welder because my eyes are pale blue with flecks of red in them. He said that all welders have eyes like mine, but the truth is I’m not sure what my father did. My mother died bringing me into the world. Her name was Jeanne – I was named after her. I never knew my father and, by the sounds of it, neither did she. The old women who hang around Louis’s say he was from Italy originally, but I don’t believe a word – half of everything they say is made up and the other half makes no sense. People pity me when they hear I’m a foundling, but it’s normal for me. How can you miss something you never had in the first place?

  Anyway, I went over to the canteen with my rifle just like Sergeant Célestin said. It was dark. All the tables had been cleared except for one and I found out later that no one else was allowed in that night. The others were there already; I’d seen one or two of them around. I nodded to Corporal Estrangin. Sergeant Célestin was sitting on the table with his feet on a chair. There was a bottle of brandy open on the table and about twenty glasses. Packs of cigarettes too, English ones. Where d’you get these? I asked him. Captain’s orders he said and threw me one. A pack for each man. Shit, English cigarettes! I opened the pack and lit one. It tasted good.

  Sergeant Célestin told everyone to shut up and listen. Everyone did. He said he hated the sales Boches just like everyone else, but he hated the whole lying lot of our officers even more for not knowing how long this fucking war was going to last and for lying about the numbers of casualties. But most of all, he hated Clemenceau. The dirty bastard was doing a terrible job and, if he had his way, it would be Clemenceau that they were going to shoot tomorrow, not some second-rate dancer. But that’s neither here nor there, he said. You have a job to do, no matter how much you dislike it and if anyone failed to carry out their orders, he would personally see to it that his life wouldn’t be worth living. Only that morning the Captain had told him that this dancer was personally responsible for the deaths of 50,000 French soldiers. So forget any feelings you have about shooting a woman and think about those dead. And besides, everyone knows she’s just a jumped-up putain. But, because it’s a woman you’re going to shoot, the Captain has ordered one blank to be issued among the twelve bullets. So, you’ll never know if your bullet was the one. Got that. Everyone murmured something. Bon, let’s have a drink. Brandy was poured into everyone’s glass and we all drank.

  Sergeant Célestin put a box on to the table and handed round rags, oil and barrel sweeps. We all started taking our rifles to bits and cleaning each part. The others asked Sergeant Célestin about the trial. They all called him Célestin. I could never do that – Sergeant Célestin, or just plain Sergeant, but never just his first name. Anyway, someone asked if it was true she danced naked and had sex with twenty men a night. Everyone laughed. Wouldn’t you like to know, the Sergeant said and everyone laughed again. Someone said something about a new invisible ink and someone else said yes, that was one of the things she was convicted for. Where is she from? someone asked. Somewhere tropical, the Sergeant said. Someone shouted as though he was introducing her at the Folies Bergère – ‘She’s a Lotus-Eater! A High Priestess! Madame Mata Hari!’ What the fuck’s a lotus-eater? I thought and drank another brandy. It made my head explode. ‘Easy on it, gosse.’ Sergeant Célestin tapped me on the shoulder. ‘We don’t want you shooting the Captain tomorrow morning now, do we?’

  At 04:30 hours, a bell rang and the Sergeant came into the dormitory shouting at us to get up, but I was already awake. The dormitory was not the one I usually slept in – all twelve of us had been placed in it for one night only. My head had a little black cloud in it from the brandy. I got up with the others and put on my uniform. It’s known as ‘horizon-blue’. No one spoke as we filed out and congregated by the armoury room. The Sergeant opened the door from the inside and let us in. He handed our rifles back to us and told us to line up outside. We marched across the inner court and the polygon to the rifle-range and stood at ease. It was just light, not too cold. The clouds in the sky were low, with a little bit of mist. They didn’t help how my head was feeling but, by then, my stomach was worse. The klaxon in the factory on the other side of the embankment sounded for the morning shift. It used to make pistons and axles, but it made munitions now. The Sergeant walked up and down in front of us and told us he was expecting every man to carry out his duty without a hitch. ‘Remember what I said last night, lads,’ he said; ‘think of all those dead.’ I wanted him to shut up, he was only making it worse. Then our Captain and the Colonel arrived in their longcoats and kepis and talked with him for a couple of minutes. The Sergeant kept on nodding his head and looking in our direction. I couldn’t hear wha
t they were saying, but I thought it must be about me. All of a sudden my stomach felt awful and I had to swallow three or four times before it passed.

  By 05:15 I could hear murmuring in the crowd of spectators behind me. Then I heard cars approaching. Sergeant Célestin ordered us to attention. The guy standing next to me was breathing heavily. I wished he’d stop, but I couldn’t say anything. Everybody stood still for a few moments while we waited and, when a bugle sounded, I saw her. She was treading over the puddles in the mud – the cars must have got stuck further back. She had on a long black coat and a triangular black hat. There was a nun with her. We all knew these nuns; we called them the Sisters of Mercy. She told the nun to hold her hand tightly. In front of her was Major Julian from the barracks who must’ve gone to get her. Behind her was a pastor, a doctor with his bag and old Maître Clunet wearing his medal. I knew him from the papers. He was a lawyer for actresses and the like and always wore his medal. He was crying. So was the nun. Shit. Behind them, I could just make out the newspaper men and their cameras. How they got wind of this is beyond me. To the nun she said, ‘Embrace me quickly and let me be. Stand to the left. I shall be looking at you. Goodbye.’ Clunet, the nun and everyone else were all pulled to one side while she walked right past us with her head held high. God, she was beautiful. I’d never seen a woman like her before. She carried herself like a princess. When she looked at us, my stomach started up like a mixer. Anyway, she was tied to the post and Major Julian offered her a blindfold, but she turned it down. Then the greffier read out the court’s verdict and the nun went down on one knee in the mud. Old Clunet was still crying and I kept swallowing. Sergeant Célestin ordered us to get ready and aim and I raised my rifle and looked down the barrel at her. She was standing so still it made me tremble. I swallowed and aimed straight at her heart. She looked so small against the bank of earth behind her and I prayed I had the blank. The Sergeant raised his sword and looked at the Colonel, then swiped the air and shouted ‘Fire!’ I squeezed the trigger. The recoil jolted my shoulder and she slumped to the ground. The sound of our rifles volleyed around the barracks, then everything was quiet. Not even a bird sang. Sergeant Célestin walked up to her and raised his pistol to her ear and fired a single shot. Her head wobbled under the impact and blood sprinkled in the air. I felt sick and fought hard to stay upright. The doctor came forward. He undid her clothes and, after examining her, announced that she was dead. He said ten bullets had passed through her body and another right through her heart. Shit! Shit! My vision went all blurry and that’s the last I can remember.

  Oh, poor little gosse, can’t stand up for a pretty woman! Hey gosse, did the recoil knock you over? They kept it up all that night, drinking and laughing at me because I had passed out. I thought about telling them where to go but it’s no use, it would just make it worse. I just drank and kept quiet. Corporal Boffi was the only one who didn’t laugh – he has kids of his own, not like the others. They’re all small-time crooks and thugs, especially Kléber – he’s a pure sadist. We stayed in the canteen. Some played cards, others picked their teeth and everyone drank the wine Sergeant Célestin had got in specially. I asked Estrangin what happened after I’d passed out. He told me that no one came forward when an official asked if anyone wanted to claim her body. Imagine that, he said. I didn’t tell him I could imagine it very well – I’ve always been on my own in this world. He saw two gendarmes load the coffin on to the wagon and sit smoking on it as it was wheeled away. If your body’s not claimed, he said, it gets given over for medical research. I imagined her body being carved up on some slab and took a drink of wine. Shit. She was too beautiful to deserve that. Donnay said he’d heard rumours that she wasn’t dead at all. He’d heard that all the bullets were blanks and the coffin she was taken away in was perforated with airholes. Everyone was in on it – the Colonel, Clunet, the doctor, everyone. She was going to be buried in a shallow grave and, after a few hours, they were going to dig her up again and then she would run away with that guy she wouldn’t name at her trial – Monsieur M—y. He was slurring his words. Isn’t that supposed to be Malvy? someone said. No, no, it’s not him, Boffi said, it was another Minister – Messimy at the War Department. Kléber nudged me. Maybe she’s going to run away with you, eh, gosse? he laughed. I could see the gap between his front teeth and felt like smashing his face in. Boffi told him to lay off and poured some more wine into my glass. Drink up, he said. Chardolot said that maybe she would be pardoned when the war was over and everyone was dead and gone. Look at Dreyfus, he said, only the other month that Schwartzkoppen lay dying in a Berlin hospital shouting that Dreyfus was innocent all along. Maybe the same will happen to her. It’s a bit late for that, someone said, and everyone laughed. My head was spinning. I drank some more wine and turned to Estrangin and asked him why wasn’t a beautiful lady like that sent to Devil’s Island instead of being shot? Estrangin shrugged. It’s the war, he said, they wanted to make an example of her. But what if she’s innocent like he says? He just shrugged again. Kléber nudged me and breathed wine fumes into my face. You’re in love with the exotic dancer, aren’t you, gosse? he laughed, and emptied his glass. Donnay looked like a cushion that’s had the stuffing knocked out of it. Chardolot was still arguing with some others about whether or not she was guilty. Estrangin said he had to go. I was seeing double of everything so I put my head on my arms. I wondered if my mother had been as pretty as Mata Hari. The next thing I remember is Sergeant Célestin picking me up and lifting me on to his back. He carried me to the dormitory. I asked him if my rifle had the blank in it. He said he wasn’t going to tell me and, besides, it was better if I didn’t know. He told me to forget about the whole thing. ‘C’est un grand nom, mais c’est rien,’ he said and flung me on to my bed. If he noticed that I’d called him by his first name, he didn’t mention it, just left without another word.

  Author’s Note

  Although this book is a work of fiction, it was necessary to draw on many sources for detail about Mata Hari’s life. In particular, I am indebted to the following biographies: Mata Hari by Major Thomas Coulson, Mata Hari by Ronald Millar, Inquest on Mata Hari by Bernard Newman, and The Murder of Mata Hari by Sam Waagenaar.

  I also wish to thank Axel Libeert and Marie Mandi for their support and especially for De Naakte Waarheid, Jon Cook and Russell Celyn Jones for their kind words of encouragement, and James Mckenzie for his warm friendship and his unerring critical eye.

  Special thanks are due to all at Faber, particularly Jon Riley for the faith he showed in this book, and Lee Brackstone for his infallible editorial suggestions.

  And, lastly, to Christine, for the walks and talks.

  Acknowledgements

  My gratitude goes to Lucy Caldwell, Chloé Esposito, Essie Fox and Esther Freud for their kind words. I wish to thank all at Faber, in particular Andrew Benbow, my editor Lee Brackstone, Kate Burton, Angus Cargill, Nicci Cloke, Joey Connolly, Catherine Daly, Walter Donohue, Ian Ellard, Ruth O’Loughlin and Stephen Page. Special thanks to my Faber Academy co-tutor Joanna ‘JayBeeze’ Briscoe for her friendship and support. And, finally, my thanks and love, as ever, to J.

  Also by Richard Skinner

  The Mirror

  The Mirror comprises two novellas of art and devotion, of religious and creative fervour.

  In a Venetian convent in 1511, Oliva, a young novice, is about to take the veil. But when she agrees to sit for a renowned portrait painter, he brings with him a provocative manner and a diabolical object: a mirror. And reflections can be dangerous.

  Erik Satie – composer, dandy, eccentric – has just died. Told he must take a single memory into the afterlife, he finds himself in limbo, in a community of the deceased, looking back on his fifty-nine years for their most precious moments. How will he choose his own legacy before the silent whiteness descends?

  These two stories contemplate the eternal – one examining a life only just beginning; the other a life lived without compromise as it reaches its close.<
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  ‘Skinner’s writing is beautiful, striking and precise. [These] are fascinating, playful novellas. I loved them.’ SJ Watson, author of Before I Go to Sleep

  ‘The story trickles out daintily at first before building to a torrent; Skinner’s elegant prose is restrained and increasingly hypnotic. These two narratives are linked by one eternal question: why are we here?’ Financial Times