The Spy

by Paulo Coelho

  "If your friend likes, I can show him one or two authentic Javanese dances. If he doesn't like them, I'll be back on the train that same day."

  "But, Madam..."

  "Miss."

  "You asked for only a one-way ticket."

  I took some money from my pocket and showed him I had enough to return. I also had enough to go, but letting a man help a woman leaves him vulnerable. This is the dream of all men, according to the officers' mistresses in Java.

  He relaxed and asked my name so he could write a letter of referral to Monsieur Guimet. I had never thought of that! A name? My real name would lead to my family, and the last thing France wanted was to create a situation with a neutral nation because of a woman who was desperate to escape.

  "Your name?" he repeated, pen and paper in hand.

  "Mata Hari."

  The blood of Andreas's wife was baptizing me again.

  I couldn't believe what I was seeing. A giant iron tower stretched to the heavens, yet wasn't on any of the city's postcards. Lining both banks of the Seine were distinctive buildings in the style of China, Italy, and other of the world's most illustrious countries. I tried to find Holland, but could not. What represented my country? The old windmills? Heavy wooden shoes? Neither of those had a place among all these modern things--marvels I couldn't believe existed were announced on the posters mounted on circular iron bases.

  "Look! Lights that turn on and off without needing to use gas or fire! Only at the Palace of Electricity!"

  "Go up the stairs without moving your feet! The steps do it for you." This one was under a drawing of a structure that looked like an open tunnel, with handrails on both sides.

  "Art Nouveau: fashion's latest trend."

  There was no exclamation point on that one, just a photograph of a vase with two porcelain swans. Below it was a drawing of what looked to be a metal structure similar to the giant tower, with the pompous name Grand Palais.

  Cineorama, Mareorama, Panorama--all promised moving images that could transport visitors to places where they'd never before dreamed of going. The more I looked, the more lost I got. And also the more full of regret; I might have taken a bigger step than my legs could stretch.

  The city teemed with people, walking from one end of the banks to the other. Women dressed with an elegance I'd never seen in my life, and the men seemed busy with important matters, but whenever I turned back, I noticed their eyes were following me.

  Though French was taught in school, I was very insecure. With a dictionary in hand, I approached a young woman who must have been more or less my age and asked, with great difficulty, how to find the hotel the consul had reserved for me. She looked at my luggage and clothes and, though I was wearing the best dress I'd brought back from Java, continued on her way without answering. Apparently foreigners were not welcome, or Parisians thought they were superior to all other peoples of the earth.

  I repeated my attempt two or three times, and the reply was always the same, until I grew tired and sat down on a bench in the Jardin des Tuileries. This was a dream I'd had since childhood; just making it here was almost achievement enough.

  Should I turn back? I debated with myself for a while, knowing how difficult it would be to find the place to sleep. Then fate intervened: A strong wind blew, and a top hat came knocking right between my legs.

  Picking it up carefully, I stood to hand it to the man running to meet me.

  "I see you have my hat," he said.

  "Yes, your hat was drawn to my legs," I replied.

  "I can see why," he said, not disguising a clear attempt to seduce me. Unlike the Calvinists of my country, the French had a reputation for being completely and utterly liberated.

  He reached out to take the hat, but I put it behind my back and extended my other hand, where the hotel address was written. After reading, he asked me what it was.

  "A friend of mine lives there. I came to spend two days with her."

  I couldn't say I was on my way to have dinner with her, because he saw the luggage beside me.

  He said nothing. I figured the place must be so low as to be not worth criticizing, but his reply was a surprise:

  "Rue de Rivoli is just behind this bench where you are seated. I can carry your suitcase, and there are several bars along the way. Would you have an anise liqueur with me, Madame..."

  "Mademoiselle Mata Hari."

  I had nothing to lose. He was to be my first friend in the city. We walked toward the hotel and, on the way, we stopped at a restaurant where the waiters wore long aprons down to their feet and dressed as though they had just left a formal gala. They smiled for practically no one, except for my companion, whose name I've forgotten. We found a table tucked away in a corner of the restaurant.

  He asked me where I came from. "The East Indies," I explained. "Part of the Dutch empire, and where I was born and raised." I commented on the beautiful tower, perhaps the only one like it in the world, and unwittingly awakened his wrath.

  "It will be dismantled four years from now. This World's Fair has cost the government coffers more than our two most recent wars. They want us to think that, from now on, we'll have a union of all the countries of Europe and finally live in peace. Can you believe that?"

  I had no opinion, so I preferred to keep quiet. As I said before, men love to explain things, and they have opinions on everything.

  "You should have seen the pavilion the Germans built. They tried to humiliate us. It was this huge thing, in poor taste, full of installations with machinery, metallurgy, miniature ships said to soon dominate all the seas, and a giant tower filled with..."

  He paused as if preparing to say something obscene.

  "...beer! They say it's in honor of the kaiser, but I am absolutely certain the entire collection serves only one purpose: to warn us to be careful. Ten years ago they arrested a Jewish spy who guaranteed war would be knocking at our doors again. But nowadays they swear the poor guy is innocent, and all because of that damn writer, Zola. He's managed to divide our society. Now half of France wants to free him from Devil's Island, where he should stay forever."

  He ordered two more glasses of anise, drank his with haste, and then said he was very busy, but, should I be staying in town longer, I ought to visit my country's pavilion.

  My country? I hadn't seen any windmills or wooden shoes.

  "Actually, they gave it the wrong name: It's the Pavilion of the East Indies of Holland. I haven't had time to go--I'm sure it's there for the same reason as all the other overly expensive installations--but I've heard it is very interesting."

  He got up. Taking out a calling card, he pulled a gold pen from his pocket and crossed out his second name, a sign that he hoped we might one day become closer.

  He left, bidding farewell with a formal kiss on the hand. I looked at the card. According to tradition, it had no address. I wasn't about to start accumulating useless things, so as soon as he was out of sight, I crumpled it and threw it away.

  Two minutes later I went back to get the card; that was the man to whom the consul's letter was addressed!

  Part II

  Slender and tall, with the lithe grace of a wild animal, Mata Hari has black hair that undulates strangely and transports us to a magical place.

  The most feminine of all women, writing an unfamiliar tragedy with her body.

  A thousand curves and movements combine perfectly with a thousand different rhythms.

  The lines from these newspaper clippings seem like pieces of a broken teacup, telling the story of a life I no longer remember. As soon as I get out of here, I will have the clippings bound in leather, each page with a gold frame. They shall be my bequest to my daughter, as all my money was confiscated. When we are reunited, I will tell her about the Folies Bergere, the dream of every woman who has ever wished to dance before an audience. I will tell her how beautiful Madrid de los Austrias is, as are the streets of Berlin, the palaces in Monte Carlo. We will tour the Trocadero and the Cercle Royal, a
nd we will go to Maxim's, Rumpelmeyer's, and all the other restaurants that will rejoice at the return of their most famous customer.

  Together, we will go to Italy and delight to see that damned Diaghilev on the verge of bankruptcy. I will show her La Scala in Milan and say proudly:

  "Here is where I danced Bacchus and Gambrinus by Marceno."

  I am sure that what I am going through now will only add to my reputation; who wouldn't want to be seen as a femme fatale, an alleged "spy" full of secrets? Everyone flirts with danger, so long as that danger does not really exist.

  Perhaps she will ask me:

  "And what about my mother, Margaretha MacLeod?"

  And I will reply:

  "I do not know who that woman is. All my life I've thought and acted like Mata Hari, the woman who has been and always will be the fascination of men and the envy of women. Ever since I left Holland, I've lost all sense of distance and danger--neither scares me. I arrived in Paris with no money and no proper wardrobe, and just look at how I've moved up. I hope the same happens to you."

  And I will talk about my dances--thankfully, I have pictures showing most of the movements and costumes. Contrary to what the critics who never understood me said, when I was onstage I simply forgot about the woman I was and offered everything to God. That is why I was able to undress so easily. At that moment, I was nothing, not even my body. I was just movements communing with the universe.

  --

  I will always be grateful to Monsieur Guimet. He gave me my first chance to perform, at his private museum, and in very expensive clothes he had imported from Asia for his personal collection, although it did cost me half an hour of sex and very little pleasure. I danced for an audience of three hundred people, including journalists, celebrities, and at least two ambassadors--one from Japan and one from Germany. Two days later, it was all the papers could talk about, this exotic woman who had been born in a remote corner of the Dutch empire and brought the "religiousness" and "disinhibition" of people from distant lands.

  The museum stage had been decorated with a statue of Shiva--the Hindu god of creation and destruction. Candles burned in aromatic oils and the music left everyone in a kind of trance, except me--after having carefully examined the clothes I'd been entrusted, I knew exactly what I planned to do. It was now or never, a single moment in my heretofore miserable life, one where I was always asking for favors in exchange for sex. I was used to it by then, but it is one thing to get used to something, another to be satisfied. Money was not enough. I wanted more!

  When I started dancing, I knew I needed to do something that only the dancers in cabarets did, without bothering to give any meaning to it. I was in a respectable place, with an audience who was eager for new things but lacked the courage to visit the certain kinds of places where they might be seen.

  The clothing was formed of veils layered one on top of the other. I removed the first one and no one seemed to pay much notice. But when I removed the second, then the third, people began to exchange glances. By the fifth veil, the audience was totally focused on what I was doing, caring little about the dance but wondering how far I would go. Even the women, whose eyes I met now and then between movements, did not seem shocked or angry; it must have excited them as much as it did the men. I knew that were I in my country, I would be sent to prison immediately, but France was an example of equality and freedom.

  When I got to the sixth veil, I went over to the Shiva statue, simulated an orgasm, and cast myself to the ground while removing the seventh and final veil.

  For a few moments I did not hear a single sound from the audience--from where I was lying, I could not see anyone, and they seemed petrified or horrified. Then came the first "Bravo," spoken by a female voice, and soon the whole room rose for a standing ovation. I got up with one arm covering my breasts and the other extended to cover my sex. I bowed my head in appreciation and walked off the stage to where I had strategically left a silk robe. I returned, continued to give thanks for the unceasing applause, and decided it was better to leave and not come back. This was part of the mystery.

  I noticed, however, that one person did not applaud, only smiled. Madame Guimet.

  Two invitations arrived the next morning. One was from a Madame Kireyevsky, asking if I might repeat the same dance performance at a charity ball to raise funds for wounded Russian soldiers, and the other from Madame Guimet, who invited me for a walk along the banks of the Seine.

  The newsstands were not yet plastered in postcards of my face, and there were no cigarettes, cigars, or bath lotions with my name. I was still an illustrious unknown, but I had made the most important step; each member of the audience had left enthralled, and this would be the best publicity I could ask for.

  "It's a good thing that people are ignorant," Madame Guimet said, "because nothing you performed belongs to any Eastern tradition. You must have hatched each step as the evening wore on."

  I froze, and wondered if her next comment would be about the fact I had spent the night--one simple, single, unpleasant night--with her husband.

  "The only ones who would know that, however, are those deathly boring anthropologists who learn everything from books; they'll never be able to give you away."

  "But I..."

  "Yes, I believe you went to Java and you know the local customs, and perhaps you were the lover or wife of some officer in your army. Like all young women, you dreamed of one day making it big in Paris; that's why you ran away at the first opportunity and came here."

  We kept walking, now in silence. I could go on lying--I'd done it my entire life, and I could lie about anything, except for what Madame Guimet already knew. Better to wait and see where this conversation was going.

  "I have some advice for you," said Madame Guimet, when we started across the bridge that led to the gigantic metal tower.

  I asked if we could sit. It was difficult for me to concentrate as we walked among the crowds of people. She agreed, and we found a bench on the Champ de Mars. Some men, serious and pensive, tossed metal balls and tried to hit a piece of wood; the scene was ludicrous to me.

  "I spoke with some friends who attended your performance, and I know that tomorrow the newspapers will have you up on a pedestal. But don't worry about me; I won't say a word to anyone about your 'oriental dance.' "

  I continued listening. I couldn't argue about anything.

  "My first piece of advice is the hardest, and it has nothing to do with your performance. Never fall in love. Love is a poison. Once you fall in love, you lose control over your life--your heart and mind belong to someone else. Your existence is threatened. You start to do everything to hold on to your loved one and lose all sense of danger. Love, that inexplicable and dangerous thing, sweeps everything you are from the face of the earth and, in its place, leaves only what your beloved wants you to be."

  I remembered the look in the eyes of Andreas's wife before she shot herself. Love kills suddenly, leaving no evidence of the crime.

  A boy went up to a pushcart to buy ice cream. Madame Guimet used that to launch into her second piece of advice.

  "People say life is not that complicated, but life is very complicated. What's simple is wanting an ice cream, a doll, or to win a game of petanque like those men over there--fathers, with responsibilities, sweating and suffering as they try to get a stupid metal ball to hit a little piece of wood. Simple is wanting to be famous, but staying that way for more than a month or a year, especially when that fame is linked to one's body, is what is hard. Simple is wanting a man with all your heart, but that becomes impossible and complicated when that man is married with children and wouldn't leave his family for anything in this world."

  She took a long pause. Her eyes filled with tears, and I realized she was speaking from experience.

  It was my turn to talk. In a single breath I told her that yes, I had lied; I wasn't born, nor had I been raised, in the Dutch East Indies, but I knew the place well, not to mention the suffering of the women
who went there in search of independence and excitement but found only loneliness and boredom. As faithfully as possible, I tried to reproduce Andreas's wife's final conversation with her husband, seeking to comfort Madame Guimet without revealing I knew she was talking about herself in all the advice she gave me.

  "Everything in this world has two sides. People who were abandoned by the cruel god called love are also culpable, because they look into the past and wonder why they made so many plans for the future. But if they searched their memories even more, they would remember the day the seed was planted, and how they tended it, fertilized it, and let it grow until it became a tree that could never be uprooted."

  Instinctively, my hand went to the place in my bag where I kept the seeds my mother gave me before she died. I always carried them with me.

  "When a woman or a man is abandoned by the person they love, they are focused on their own pain. No one stops to wonder what is happening to the other person. Might they also be suffering, having left behind their own heart to stay with their families because of society? Every night they must lie in their beds, unable to sleep, confused and lost, wondering if they made the wrong decision. Other times, they feel certain it was their duty to protect their families and children. But time is not on their side; the more the moment of separation grows distant, the more their memories are purified of the difficult moments and turn into a longing for that paradise lost.

  "The other person can no longer help himself. He becomes distant, he seems distracted during the week, and on Saturdays and Sundays he comes to the Champ de Mars to play ball with his friends. His son enjoys an ice cream, and his wife watches as the elegant dresses parade before her, a sad look in her eye. There's no wind strong enough to make the boat change direction; it stays in the harbor, venturing only among still waters. Everyone suffers; those who leave, those who stay, and their families and children. But no one can do anything."