by Paulo Coelho
Why was he giving this lecture? It was time to yawn and return to playing the "dumb woman."
Adolphe Messimy--former minister of war and now a deputy in the National Assembly--rose from the bed and began to put on his clothes with all his medals and awards. He had a meeting with his old battalion and could not go dressed as a simple civilian.
"Though we loathe the English, they are right about one thing: It's more discreet to go to war in those horrible brown uniforms. We, on the other hand, feel we must die with elegance, in red trousers and caps that just scream to the enemy: 'Hey, point your rifles and cannons over here! Can't you see us?' "
He laughed at his own joke. I also laughed to please him, and then began to get dressed. I had long since lost any illusion of being loved for who I was and now accepted, with a clean conscience, flowers, flattery, and money that fed my ego and my false identity. For certain, I'd go to my grave one day without ever knowing love, but what difference did it make? For me, love and power were the same thing.
However, I wasn't foolish enough to let others realize that. I approached Messimy and gave him a loud peck on his cheek, half of which was covered by whiskers similar to those of my ill-fated husband.
He put a fat envelope with a thousand francs on the table.
"Don't misunderstand me, Mademoiselle. Given that I was just speaking of the country's progress, I believe it's time to help the consumer. I'm an officer who earns a lot and spends little. So I need to contribute something, stimulate consumption."
Again, he laughed at his own joke. He sincerely believed that I loved those medals and his close relationship to the president, whom he made a point to mention every time we met.
If he realized it was all fake, that--for me--love obeyed no rules, perhaps he would pull away and later punish me. He wasn't there just for the sex, but to feel wanted, as a woman's passion could truly arouse the feeling that he was capable of anything.
Yes, love and power were the same thing--and not just for me.
He left and I got dressed leisurely. My next encounter was late at night, outside Paris. I would stop by the hotel, put on my best dress, and go to Neuilly, where my most faithful lover had bought a villa in my name. I thought of also asking him for a car and driver, but figured he would be suspicious.
Of course, I could have been more--shall we say--demanding of him. He was married, a banker with a fine reputation, and the newspapers would have had a ball if I insinuated anything in public. Now they were only interested in my "famous lovers," completely forgetting the extensive body of work I had struggled so hard to create.
During my trial, I heard that someone had been there in the hotel lobby, pretending to read a newspaper but actually watching my every move. As soon as I'd go out, he would rise from his seat and discreetly follow me.
I strolled down the boulevards of the most beautiful city in the world. I saw the overflowing cafes and the increasingly well-dressed people walking from one place to another. As I heard violin music issuing from the doors and windows of the most sophisticated places, I thought how life had been good to me after all. There was no need for blackmail, all I had to do was know how to manage the gifts I'd received and I could grow old in peace. Besides, if I said a word about a single man with whom I'd slept, the others would flee my company for fear of also being blackmailed and exposed.
I had plans to go to the chateau my banker friend had had built for his "golden years." Poor thing; he was already old, but didn't want to admit it. I would stay there for two or three days riding horses, and by Sunday I could be back in Paris, where I'd go straight to the Longchamp Racecourse and show all those who envied and admired me that I was an excellent horsewoman.
But why not have a nice chamomile tea before night fell? I sat outside a cafe while people stared at the face and body that was on various postcards scattered throughout the city. I pretended to be lost in a world of reverie, with an air of someone who had more important things to do.
Before I even had the chance to order something, a man approached and complimented my beauty. I reacted with my usual look of ennui and thanked him with a stiff smile, then turned away. But the man did not move.
"A nice cup of coffee will salvage the rest of your day."
I said nothing. He motioned to the waiter and asked him to take my order.
"A chamomile tea, please," I said to the waiter.
The man's French had a thick accent that could have been from Holland or Germany.
He smiled and touched the brim of his hat as if bidding farewell even though he was greeting me. He asked if I would mind if he sat there for a few minutes. I said yes, in fact I would mind. I would rather be alone.
"A woman like Mata Hari is never alone," said the newcomer. The fact that he recognized me struck a chord that can resonate very loudly in any human being: vanity. Still, I did not invite him to sit.
"Maybe you are looking for things you haven't yet found," he continued. "Because after being named the best dressed in the whole city--I read that in a magazine recently--very little remains for you to conquer, isn't that right? And suddenly, life turns into utter boredom."
By the looks of it, he was a devoted fan; how else would he know about things that appeared only in women's magazines? Should I give him a chance? After all, it was still far too early to go to Neuilly for my dinner with the banker.
"Are you having any luck finding something new?" he persisted.
"Of course. I rediscover myself at every turn. And that is what's most interesting in life."
This time, he did not ask again; he simply pulled up a chair and sat down at my table. When the waiter arrived with my tea, he ordered a large cup of coffee for himself, making a gesture that indicated: I'll get the bill.
"France is heading for a crisis," he continued. "And it will be very difficult to come out of this one."
Just that afternoon, I had heard exactly the opposite. But it seems every man has an opinion on the economy, a subject that did not interest me in the least.
I decided to play his game for a bit. I parroted everything Messimy had told me about what he called la belle epoque. He showed no surprise.
"I am not just talking about an economic crisis; I am speaking of a personal crisis, a crisis of values. Do you think people have already grown accustomed to the possibility of having long-distance conversations on that invention brought over by the Americans for the Paris World's Fair? It's now on every corner in Europe.
"For millions of years, man spoke only to what he could see. Suddenly, in just one decade, 'seeing' and 'speaking' have been separated. We think we're used to it, yet we don't realize the immense impact it's had on our reflexes. Our bodies are simply not used to it.
"Frankly, the result is that, when we talk on the telephone, we enter a state that is similar to certain magical trances; we can discover other things about ourselves."
The waiter returned with the bill. The man stopped talking until he had moved away.
"I know you must be tired of seeing these vulgar strip-tease dancers on every corner, each saying she's the successor of the great Mata Hari. But life is like that: No one learns. The Greek philosophers...Am I boring you, Mademoiselle?"
I shook my head and he continued.
"Forget about the Greek philosophers. What they said thousands of years ago still applies today. So it's nothing new. Actually, I would like to make you a proposition."
Another one, I thought.
"Here they no longer treat you with the respect you deserve, so maybe you would like to perform in a place where they know you as the greatest dancer of the century? I am talking about Berlin, the city where I'm from."
It was a tempting proposition.
"I can put you in touch with my manager--"
But the newcomer cut me off. "I'd prefer to deal directly with you. Your agent is of a race we--neither the French nor the Germans--don't like very much."
It was a strange business, this hatred for people just b
ecause of their religion. I saw it with the Jews, but even earlier, when I was in Java, I heard about the army massacring people just because they worshipped a faceless god and swore that their holy book had been dictated by an angel to some prophet whose name I also can't remember. Someone had given me a copy of this book once, called the Koran. It was just to appreciate the Arabic calligraphy, but still, when my husband arrived home, he took away the gift and had me burn it.
"My partners and I will pay you a handsome sum," the man added, revealing an intriguing amount of money. I asked how much it was in francs and was stunned by his reply. I desired to say yes immediately, but a lady of class does not act on impulse.
"There you will be recognized as you deserve. Paris is always unjust with its children, especially when they cease to be a novelty."
He did not realize he was insulting me, even though I had been thinking that same thing while I was walking. I remembered the day on the beach with Astruc, who would not be able to participate in the agreement. However, I could do nothing that would scare off the prey.
"I'll think about it," I said drily.
We bid each other farewell and he told me where he was staying, saying he would await my reply until the following day, when he had to return to his city. I left the cafe and went straight to Astruc's office. I confess that seeing all those posters of people just finding their fame made me feel a tremendous sadness. But I could not go back in time.
Astruc welcomed me with the same courtesy as always, as if I were his most important artist. I recounted the conversation I'd had and said that no matter what happened, he would receive his commission.
The only thing he said was: "But right now?"
I didn't quite understand. I thought he was being slightly rude to me.
"Yes, now. I still have much, much more to do onstage."
He nodded in agreement, wished me happiness, and said he didn't need his commission, suggesting that perhaps it was time I start saving my money and stop spending so much on clothes.
I agreed and left. I thought he must still be shaken by what a failure the debut of his theater had been. He must have been on the verge of ruin. Of course, putting on something like Rite of Spring, and with a plagiarist like Nijinsky in the lead role, was just asking for the crosswinds to smash one's ship.
The next day I contacted the foreigner and said I accepted his offer, but not before making a series of absurd demands that I was ready to forgo. But to my surprise, he merely called me extravagant and said he agreed to everything, because true artists are like that.
Who was the Mata Hari who embarked that rainy day from one of the city's many train stations? She didn't know what her next step was, or what her destination held in store, only trusted that she was going to a country where the language was similar to her own, and so she would never get lost.
How old was I? Twenty? Twenty-one? I couldn't have been older than twenty-two, though the passport I was carrying with me said I was born on August 7, 1876. As the train made its way to Berlin, the newspaper showed the date July 11, 1914. But I did not want to do the math; I was more interested in what had happened two weeks earlier. The cruel attack in Sarajevo, where Archduke Ferdinand lost his life along with his elegant wife, her only guilt being that she was by his side when a crazy anarchist fired the shots.
In any event, I felt completely different from all the other women in that car. I was an exotic bird traversing an earth ravaged by humanity's poverty of spirit. I was a swan among ducks who refused to grow up, fearing the unknown. I looked at the couples around me and felt completely vulnerable; many men were around me, but there I was, alone, with no one to hold my hand. True, I had turned down many proposals; I had had my experience with that--suffering for someone undeserving and selling my body for the supposed security of a home--in this life and didn't intend to repeat it.
The man next to me, Franz Olav, seemed worried as he looked out the window. I asked what the matter was, but he didn't answer; now that I was under his control, he no longer had to answer anything. All I had to do was dance and dance, even if I was no longer as flexible as I was before. But with a little practice, and thanks to my passion for riding horses, surely I would be ready in time for the premiere. France no longer interested me; it had sucked the very best from me and cast me aside, preferring Russian artists or those born in places like Portugal, Norway, Spain, who repeated the same trick I had used when I arrived. Show them something exotic from your homeland, and the French, always eager for something new, will certainly believe it.
Merely for a short time, but they will believe just the same.
As the train rumbled into Germany, I saw soldiers marching toward the western border. There were battalions and more battalions, gigantic machine guns, and cannons pulled by horses.
Again I tried to make conversation: "What is going on?"
But all I got was a cryptic reply:
"Whatever is going on, I want to know that we can count on your help. Artists are very important at this moment."
He couldn't have been talking about the war, as nothing had been published about it yet--the French papers were much more worried with reporting the latest salon gossip or complaining about some chef who had just lost a government medal. Though our countries hated each other, this was normal.
When a country becomes the most important in the world, there is always a price to pay. England had an empire on which the sun never set, but ask anyone which city they would rather see, London or Paris. I have no doubt the answer would be the city crossed by the River Seine, with its churches, boutiques, theaters, painters, musicians, and--for those a bit more daring--world-famous cabarets like the Folies Bergere, Moulin Rouge, Lido.
You had only to consider what was more important: a tower with a dull clock and a king who never appeared in public or a gigantic steel structure that was the largest vertical tower in the world and which was becoming well known across Europe by the name of its creator, Gustave Eiffel. Or what about the monumental Arc de Triomphe, or the Champs-Elysees, which offered up all the best things money could buy? England also hated France with all its might, but this was no reason for it to prepare its warships.
However, as the train traversed German soil, troops and more troops headed west. I urged Franz again, and received the same cryptic answer.
"I'm ready to help," I said. "But how can I, if I don't even know what this is about?"
For the first time he unglued his eyes from the window and turned to me.
"I don't know. I was hired to bring you to Berlin, to make you dance for our aristocracy, and then one day--I don't have the exact date--go to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. It was one of your admirers there who gave me the money to hire you, though you're one of the most expensive artists I've ever met. I hope the risk pays off."
Before I bring this chapter of my life to a close, my dearest, detested Mr. Clunet, I would like to speak a bit more about myself, because that was why I began writing these pages, which have turned into a record where, in many parts, my memory may have betrayed me.
Do you really think--in your heart--that if they were to choose someone to spy for Germany, France, or even Russia, they would choose someone who was constantly watched by the public? Does that not seem utterly ridiculous to you?
When I took that train to Berlin, I thought I had left my past behind. With each kilometer, I moved farther away from everything I had experienced, even the good memories like the discovery of what I was capable of doing onstage and off and the moments in which every street and every party in Paris were a great novelty. Now I understand that I cannot run from myself. In 1914, instead of returning to Holland, it would have been very easy to change my name again, find someone to take care of what was left of my soul, and go to one of the many places in this world where my face was unknown to start anew.
But that meant living the rest of my life split in two: as a woman who could be anything and one who was never anything, one who wouldn't have even
a single story to tell her children and grandchildren. Though at the moment I am a prisoner, my spirit remains free. While everyone is fighting a never-ending battle to see who will survive amid so much bloodshed, I don't need to fight anymore, only wait for people I've never met to decide who I am. If they find me guilty, one day the truth will come out, and a mantle of shame will be draped over their heads, and that of their children, their grandchildren, their country.
I sincerely believe that the president is a man of honor.
I believe that my friends, always gentle and willing to help me when I had everything, are still by my side now that I have nothing. The day has just dawned, and I can hear birds and noise from the kitchen downstairs. The rest of the prisoners are sleeping, some afraid, some resigned to their fate. I slept until the first ray of sun, and that ray of sun, though it did not enter my cell, only showed its strength in the sliver of sky I can see, brought me hope for justice.
I don't know why life made me go through so much in so little time.
To see if I could withstand the hard times.
To see what I was made of.
To give me experience.
But there were other methods, other ways to achieve this. It did not need to drown me in the darkness of my own soul or make me cross through this forest filled with wolves and other wild animals without a single hand to guide me.
The only thing I know is that this forest, however frightening it may be, has an end, and I intend to reach its other side. I will be generous in victory and will not accuse those who lied so much about me.
Do you know what I am going to do now, before I hear the footsteps in the corridor and the arrival of my breakfast? I am going to dance. I am going to remember every musical note and move my body to the rhythm, because it shows me who I am--a free woman!
Because that's what I always sought: freedom. I did not seek love, though it has come and gone. Because of love, I have done things, things I shouldn't have, and traveled to places where people were lying in wait for me.