by Paulo Coelho
But I do not want to rush my own story; life is moving very quickly and I have struggled to keep up with it since that morning I arrived in Berlin.
The theater was surrounded. The show was interrupted during a moment of great concentration, when I was giving my best despite being out of practice. German soldiers took the stage and said that all performances in concert halls were canceled until further notice.
One of them read a statement aloud:
"These are the words of our kaiser: 'We are living a dark moment in the history of our country, which is surrounded by enemies. We shall need to unsheathe our swords. I hope we may use them well and with dignity.' "
I couldn't understand a thing. I went to the dressing room, slipped my robe over what little clothing I had on, and saw Franz enter the door, panting.
"You need to leave or you'll be arrested."
"Leave? And go where? Besides, don't I have an appointment tomorrow morning with someone from the German Ministry of Foreign Affairs?"
"Everything is canceled," he said, doing nothing to conceal his concern. "You're lucky you're a citizen of a neutral country--that's where you should go immediately."
I thought about everything in my life, except returning to my home country, the one place that had been so difficult to leave.
Franz took a wad of marks from his pocket and placed them in my hands.
"Forget about the six-month contract we signed with the Metropol-Theater. This was all the money I was able to scrounge from the theater safe. Leave immediately. I'll take care of sending your clothes later, if I'm still alive. Because, unlike you, I've just been called up by the military."
I understood less and less.
"The world's gone mad," he said, pacing.
"The death of a relative, no matter how close, is no good reason for sending people to their deaths. But the generals rule the world and they want to continue what we didn't finish when France was shamefully defeated more than forty years ago. They think they're still living back then and decided amongst themselves to avenge their humiliation. They want to keep France from gaining strength, and there's every indication that with each passing day, it really is growing stronger. That's why this is happening: Kill the snake before it becomes too strong and strangles us."
"Are you saying we're heading for war? Is that why so many soldiers were traveling a week ago?"
"Exactly. The game of chess has become more complicated because our rulers are bound by alliances. It's too tiresome for me to explain. But right now, as we speak, our armies are invading Belgium, Luxembourg has already surrendered, and now they are moving toward the industrial regions of France with seven well-armed divisions. While the French were enjoying life, we were looking for a pretext. While the French were building the Eiffel Tower, our men were investing in cannons. I don't believe all this will last very long; after some deaths on both sides, peace always wins out. But until then you'll have to take refuge in your own country and wait for everything to calm down."
Franz's words surprised me; he seemed genuinely interested in my well-being. I drew near and touched his face.
"Don't worry, everything is going to be fine."
"It's not going to be fine," he replied, tossing my hand aside. "And the thing I wanted most is lost forever."
He took the hand he had so violently brushed away.
"When I was younger, my parents made me learn piano. I always hated it, and as soon as I left home, I forgot it all, except one thing: The most beautiful melody in the world will become a monstrosity if the strings are out of tune.
"I was in Vienna, completing my mandatory military service, when we had two days of R & R. I saw a poster of a girl who, even without ever seeing her in person, immediately aroused something no man should ever feel: love at first sight. When I entered the crowded theater and bought a ticket that cost more than I earned in a whole week, I saw that everything inside me that was out of tune--my relationships with my parents, the army, my country, the world--suddenly harmonized just by watching this girl dance. It wasn't the exotic music, or the eroticism onstage and in the audience, it was the girl."
I knew who he was talking about, but didn't want to interrupt.
"That girl was you. I should have told you all this earlier, but I thought there would be time. Today I am a successful theater manager, perhaps because of everything I saw that night in Vienna. Tomorrow I will report to the captain in charge of my unit. I went to Paris several times to see your shows. I saw that, no matter what you did, Mata Hari was losing ground to a bunch of people who didn't deserve to be called 'dancers' or 'artists.' I decided to bring you to a place where people would appreciate your work; and I did all of it for love, only for love...an unrequited love, but what does that matter? What really counts is being close to the one you love; that was my goal.
"One day before I could work up the courage to approach you in Paris, an embassy official contacted me. He said you kept company with a deputy who, according to our intelligence service, would be the next minister of war."
"But that's all over now."
"According to our intelligence service, he will return to the position he occupied previously. I'd met with that embassy official many times before--we used to drink together and frequented the Paris nightlife. On one of those nights, I drank a little too much and talked about you for hours on end. He knew I was in love and asked me to bring you here, because we were going to need your services very soon."
"My services?"
"As someone who has access to the government's inner circle."
The word he was trying to say, but didn't have the courage to voice, was "spy." Something I would never do in all my life. As I'm sure you remember, honorable Mr. Clunet, I said as much during that farce of a trial: "A prostitute, yes. A spy, never!"
"That's why you have to leave this theater straightaway and go directly to Holland. The money I gave you is more than enough. Soon this journey will be impossible. Or, more terrible yet, if it were still possible, that would mean we'd managed to infiltrate someone into Paris."
I was quite frightened, but not enough to give him a kiss or thank him for what he was doing for me.
I was going to lie and say I would be waiting for him when the war was over, but honesty has a way of dissolving lies.
Pianos should never go out of tune. The true sin is something different than what we've been taught; the true sin is living so far removed from absolute harmony. That is more powerful than the truths and lies we tell every day. I turned to him and kindly asked him to leave, as I needed to get dressed. And I said:
"Sin was not created by God; it was created by us when we tried to transform what was inevitable into something subjective. We ceased to see the whole and came to see just one part; and that part is loaded with guilt, rules, good versus evil, and each side thinking it's right."
I surprised myself with my words. Maybe fear had affected me more than I thought. But my head felt far away.
"I have a friend who is the German consul in your country. He can help you rebuild your life. But be careful: Like me, it's quite possible he will try to get you to help our war effort."
Once again he avoided the word "spy." I was an experienced enough woman to escape these traps. How many times had I done it in my relationships with men?
He led me to the door and took me to the train station. Along the way we passed a huge demonstration in front of the kaiser's palace, where men of all ages, fists clenched in the air, shouted:
"Germany above all!"
Franz accelerated the car.
"If someone stops us, keep quiet and I'll handle the conversation. But if they ask you something, just say 'yes' or 'no.' Look bored and don't dare speak the enemy's language. When you get to the station, show no fear, not under any circumstances; continue to be who you are."
Be who I am? How could I be true to myself if I didn't even know exactly who I was? The dancer who took Europe by storm? The housewife who humiliated he
rself in the Dutch East Indies? The lover of powerful men? The woman the press called a "vulgar artist," despite, just a short time before, admiring and idolizing her?
We arrived at the station. Franz gave me a polite kiss on the hand and asked me to take the first train. It was the first time in my life I had traveled without luggage; even when I arrived in Paris I was carrying something.
As paradoxical as it may seem, this gave me an enormous sense of freedom. Soon I would have my clothes with me, but in the meantime, I was assuming a role life had thrust upon me: that of a woman who has absolutely nothing, a princess far from her castle, comforted by the fact that soon she will return.
After buying my ticket to Amsterdam, I found I still had a few hours until the train departed. Despite trying to appear discreet, I noticed everyone was looking at me, but it was a different kind of look--not of admiration or envy, but curiosity. The platforms were buzzing and, unlike me, everyone seemed to be carrying their entire homes in suitcases, bundles, and carpetbags. I overheard a mother telling her daughter the same thing Franz had told me shortly before: "If a guard appears, speak in German."
They weren't exactly people who were thinking of going to the countryside, but possible "spies," refugees returning to their countries.
I decided not to speak to anyone and to avoid all eye contact, but even so, an older man approached and asked: "Won't you come dance with us?"
Had he uncovered my identity?
"We're over there, at the end of the platform. Come!"
I followed him blindly, knowing I would be better protected if I mixed with strangers. I soon found myself surrounded by Gypsies and, instinctively, clutched my purse closer to my body. There was fear in their eyes, but they did not seem to give in to it, as though they were accustomed to having to change expressions. Clapping their hands, they had formed a circle, and three women danced in the middle.
"Do you want to dance, too?" asked the man who had brought me there.
I said I had never danced in my life. He insisted, but I explained that, even if I wanted to try, my dress did not allow me freedom of movement. He seemed satisfied, began to clap his hands, and asked me to do the same.
"We are Roma from the Balkans," he said to me. "From what I've heard, that's where the war started. We have to get out of here as soon as possible."
I was going to explain that no, the war hadn't started in the Balkans, and that it was all a pretext to ignite a powder keg that had been ready to explode for many years. But it was better to keep my mouth shut, like Franz recommended.
"...but this war will come to an end," said a woman with black hair and eyes, much prettier than her simple clothes might suggest. "All wars come to an end. Many will profit at the expense of the dead, and, in the meantime, we will keep on traveling far away from the conflicts while the conflicts insist upon pursuing us."
Nearby, a group of children played, as if travel was always an adventure and none of this was important. For them, dragons were in constant battle, and knights fought one another while dressed in steel and armed with large lances. It was a world where, if one boy didn't chase after another, it would be an extremely dull place.
The Gypsy woman who had spoken to me went to them and asked them to quiet down, because they shouldn't be so conspicuous. None of them paid any attention.
A beggar, who seemed to know every passerby on the main street, sang:
The caged bird may sing of freedom, but it will still live in prison.
Thea agreed to live in the cage, then wanted to escape, but no one helped, because no one understood.
I had no idea who Thea was; all I knew was I had to get to the consulate as soon as possible to introduce myself to Karl Kramer, the only person I knew in The Hague. I had spent the night in a third-rate hotel, afraid someone would recognize me and kick me out. The Hague was teeming with people who seemed to be living on another planet. Apparently, news of the war had not yet reached the city, stuck at the border along with thousands of other refugees, deserters, French citizens fearing reprisals, and Belgians fleeing the battlefront, all seemingly waiting for the impossible.
For the first time I was happy to have been born in Leeuwarden and hold a Dutch passport. My Dutch passport had been my salvation. As I waited to be searched--glad not to have any luggage--a man I didn't even get a good look at tossed me an envelope. It was addressed to someone, but the officer in charge of the border saw what had happened. He opened the letter, closed it, and then handed it to me without comment. Immediately thereafter, he called over his German counterpart and pointed toward the man, who had already disappeared into the darkness:
"A deserter."
The German officer ran after him; the war had barely started and already people were beginning to flee? I saw him raise his rifle and point it toward the running figure. I looked the other way when he fired. I want to live the rest of my life believing he managed to escape.
The letter was addressed to a woman and I thought perhaps he was hoping I would put it in the mail when I got to The Hague.
I will get out of here, no matter the price--even if it is my own life--for I might be shot as a deserter if they catch me on the way. It would seem the war is starting now; the first French troops appeared on the other side and were immediately wiped out by a single burst of gunfire fired on the captain's orders. Supposedly, this will all end soon, but even so, there is blood on my hands, and I will never be able to do what I've done a second time; I cannot march with my battalion to Paris, as everyone notes with excitement. I cannot celebrate the victories that await us, because this all seems mad. The more I think, the less I understand what is happening. No one says anything, because I believe no one knows the answer.
Incredible as it may seem, we still have postal service. I could have used it, but from what I've heard, all correspondence passes through censors prior to being sent. This letter is not to say how much I love you--you already know this. Nor is it to speak of the bravery of our soldiers, a fact known throughout Germany. This letter is my last will and testament. I am writing under the same tree where, six months ago, I asked for your hand in marriage and you said yes. We made plans; your parents helped with the trousseau, I looked for a house with an extra room, where we could have our first, long-awaited son. Now I am in the same place after three days spent digging trenches while covered from head to toe in mud and the blood of five or six people I had never seen before, who never did me any harm. They call it a "just war" to protect our dignity, as if a battlefield were any place for that.
The more I watch the first shots and smell the blood of the first casualties, the more I am convinced that human dignity cannot coexist with this. I must end now because they just called for me. But as soon as the sun sets, I am leaving here--for Holland or my death.
I think that with each passing day I will be less able to describe what is happening. Therefore, I prefer to leave here tonight and find a good soul to post this envelope for me.
With all my love,
Jorn
As soon as I arrived in Amsterdam the gods conspired for me to find one of my hairdressers from Paris, wearing a war uniform, on the platform. He was known for his technique for applying henna to women's hair so that the color always looked natural and pleasing to the eye.
"Van Staen!"
He looked toward the sound of my cry; his face was overcome with bewilderment, and, immediately, he started to turn away.
"Maurice, it's me, Mata Hari!"
But he continued to hurry away. I was outraged. A man to whom I'd paid thousands of francs was now running from me? I began walking toward him, and his pace quickened. I quickened mine as well, and he started to run, until a gentleman who had witnessed the whole scene took him by the arm and said, "That woman is calling your name!"
He resigned himself to his fate. He stopped and waited for me to approach. In a low voice, he asked me not to mention his name again.
"What are you doing here?"
He
told me then that in the early days of the war he'd decided to enlist to defend Belgium, his country, while imbued with patriotic spirit. But as soon as he heard the crack of the first cannons, he immediately crossed to Holland and sought asylum. I feigned a certain disdain.
"I need you to do my hair."
In fact, I desperately needed to regain some self-esteem until my luggage arrived. The money Franz had given me was enough to keep me going for one or two months while I thought of a way to return to Paris. I asked where I could stay--temporarily, since I had at least one friend there, and he would help me until things calmed down.
One year later, I was settled in The Hague, thanks to my friendship with a banker I'd met in Paris. He'd rented a house for me where we used to meet. At one point, he stopped paying the rent without saying exactly why, but perhaps it was because he considered my tastes, as he'd once told me, "expensive and extravagant." In reply, I told him: "Extravagant is a man ten years my senior wanting to regain his lost youth between the legs of a woman."
He took that as a personal insult--which was my intention--and asked me to move out of the house. The Hague had already been a dreary place when I'd visited as a child; now--with rationing and the absence of nightlife due to the war raging in neighboring countries with increasing fury--it had turned into an old-age home, a nest of spies, and a massive bar where the wounded and deserters went to drown their sorrows and get into brawls that usually ended in death. I tried to organize a series of theatrical performances based on ancient Egyptian dances--since no one knew how they danced in ancient Egypt and the critics couldn't dispute its authenticity, I could do this easily. But theaters had little in the way of audiences and no one accepted my offer.
Paris seemed like a distant dream. But it was the only true north in my life, the only city where I felt like a human being and everything that means. There, I was allowed both what was accepted and what was sinful. The clouds were different, the people walked with elegance, and conversations were a thousand times more interesting than the dull discussions in The Hague's hair salons, where people hardly spoke for fear of being heard by someone and reported to the police for denigrating and undermining the country's neutral image. For a while, I tried to inquire about Maurice Van Staen. I asked a few school friends who had moved to Amsterdam about him, but he had seemingly vanished from the face of the earth with his henna techniques and his ridiculous fake French accent.
