by Paulo Coelho
My only way out now was to get the Germans to take me to Paris. And so I decided to meet with Franz's friend, first sending a note explaining who I was and requesting his help to realize my dream of returning to the city where I had spent much of my life. I had lost the weight I'd gained during that long and dark period; my clothes never made it to Holland and, even if they arrived now, they would no longer be welcome. The magazines showed that the fashion had changed, so my "benefactor" had bought me all new things. Not of Parisian quality, of course, but at least the seams didn't rip at the first movement.
When I entered the office, I saw a man surrounded by every luxury denied to the Dutch: imported cigarettes and cigars, libations from the four corners of Europe, cheeses and charcuterie that had been rationed in the city's markets. Sitting behind a mahogany desk with gold filigree was a well-dressed man, more polite than any of the Germans I had ever met. We exchanged pleasantries and he asked me why it had taken me so long to visit him.
"I didn't know you were expecting me. Franz..."
"He told me you would come one year ago."
He got up, asked what I would like to drink. I chose aniseed liqueur, which the consul served himself in Bohemian crystal glasses.
"Unfortunately, Franz is no longer with us; he died during a cowardly attack by the French."
From the little I knew, the rapid German onslaught in August 1914 had been held at the Belgian border. The idea of reaching Paris quickly, as the letter I had been entrusted with read, was now a distant dream.
"We had everything so well planned! Am I boring you with this?"
I asked him to continue. Yes, I was bored, but I wanted to get to Paris as soon as possible and I knew I needed his help. Ever since I'd arrived in The Hague I had to learn something extremely difficult: the art of patience.
The consul noted my look of ennui and tried to summarize what had happened as much as possible. They had sent seven divisions to the West and advanced onto French territory with speed, getting as far as fifty kilometers from Paris. But the generals had no idea how the General Command had organized the offensive, and that brought a retreat to where they were now, close to a territory bordering Belgium. For practically one year, they hadn't been able to move without soldiers on one side or the other being massacred. But no one surrendered.
"When this war is over, I'm sure that every village in France, no matter how small, will have a monument to their dead. They keep sending more and more people to be sliced in half by our cannons."
The expression "sliced in half" shocked me, and he noticed my air of disgust.
"Let's just say that the sooner this nightmare is over, the better. Even with England on their side, and even though our stupid allies--the Austrians--have their hands full trying to halt the Russian advance, we will win in the end. For this, however, we need your help."
My help? To stop a war that, according to what I'd read or heard at the few dinners I attended in The Hague, had already cost the lives of thousands? What was he getting at?
Suddenly I remembered Franz's warning, which reverberated inside my head: "Do not accept anything Kramer might propose."
My life, however, could not get any worse. I was desperate for money, with no place to sleep and debts piling up. I knew what he was going to propose, but I was sure I could find my way out of the trap. I had already escaped many in my life.
I asked him to go straight to the point. Karl Kramer's body stiffened and his tone changed abruptly. I was no longer a guest to whom he owed a bit of courtesy before addressing more important matters; he began to treat me as his subordinate.
"From your note, I understand you wish to go to Paris. I can get you there. I can also get you an allowance of twenty thousand francs."
"That's not enough," I replied.
"This amount will be adjusted as the quality of your work becomes apparent and the probationary period is completed. Don't worry; our pockets are lined with money when it comes to this. In return, I need any sort of information you can get in the circles you frequent."
Frequented, I thought to myself. I didn't know how I would be received in Paris after a year and a half; especially when the last news anyone had of me was that I was traveling to Germany for a series of shows.
Kramer took three small flasks from a drawer and handed them to me.
"This is invisible ink. Whenever you have news, use it, and send it to Captain Hoffmann, who is in charge of your case. Never sign your name."
He took a list, scanned it up and down, and made a mark next to something.
"Your codename will be H21. Remember that: You will always sign 'H21.' "
I wasn't sure if it was meant to be funny, dangerous, or stupid. They could have at least chosen a better name, and not an abbreviation that sounded like a seat number on a train.
From the other drawer he took twenty thousand francs in cash, and handed me the stack of notes.
"My subordinates, in the front room, will take care of details like passports and safe-conducts. As you might imagine, it is impossible to cross a border during a war. So the only alternative is to travel first to London and, from there, to the city where, soon, we shall march under the imposing--but foolishly named--Arc de Triomphe."
I left Kramer's office with everything I needed: money, two passports, and safe-conducts. When I crossed the first bridge, I emptied the bottles of invisible ink--it was something for children who like to play war but never imagined they would be taken so seriously by adults. Next I went to the French consulate and asked the charge d'affaires to contact the head of counterespionage. He responded with disbelief.
"And why do you want that?"
I said it was a private matter and I would never speak with subordinates about it. I must have seemed serious, since soon I was on the telephone with his superior, who answered without revealing his name. I said I had just been recruited by German intelligence, gave him all the details, and asked for a meeting with him as soon as I got to Paris, my next destination. He asked my name, and said he was a fan of my work and that they would be sure to contact me as soon as I reached the City of Light. I explained that I did not yet know in which hotel I would be staying.
"Don't worry; it is precisely our job to find out these sorts of things."
Life had become interesting again, though I wouldn't discover how interesting until later on. To my surprise, when I arrived back at the hotel, there was an envelope asking me to contact one of the directors of the Royal Theatre. My proposal was accepted, and I was invited to perform the historical Egyptian dances to the public, provided they involved no nudity. I thought it was too much of a coincidence, but I did not know if it was help from the Germans or the French.
I decided to accept. I divided the Egyptian dances into Virginity, Passion, Chastity, and Fidelity. Local newspapers spun praise, but after eight performances I was once again bored to death and dreaming of the day I would make my big return to Paris.
In Amsterdam, where I had to wait eight hours for a connection that would take me to England, I decided to take a little walk. Again I ran into the beggar who had sung those strange verses about Thea. I was going to continue on my way, but he interrupted his song.
"Why are you being followed?"
"Because I am beautiful, seductive, and famous," I replied.
But he told me it wasn't those kinds of people who were after me, but two men who, as soon as they'd noticed he'd seen them, mysteriously disappeared.
I couldn't remember the last time I talked to a beggar; it was unacceptable for a lady of high society, though those who envied me still considered me an artist or a prostitute.
"It may not seem it, but here you're in paradise. It may be boring, but what paradise isn't? I know you are likely in search of adventure, and I hope you'll forgive my impertinence, but people are usually ungrateful for what they have."
I thanked him for the advice and went on my way. What kind of paradise was this, where nothing, absolutely nothing, inte
resting happened? I was not looking for happiness, but what the French called la vraie vie, a true life, with its moments of inexpressible beauty and deep depression, with its loyalties and betrayals, with its fears and moments of peace. When the beggar told me I was being followed, I imagined I was playing a much more important role than any of the ones I had played before: I was someone who could change the fate of the world, make France win the war while I pretended I was spying for the Germans. Men think God is a mathematician, but He is not. If anything, God would be a chess player, anticipating His opponent's next move and preparing His strategy to defeat him.
And that was me, Mata Hari, for whom every moment of light and every moment of darkness meant the same thing. I had survived my marriage, the loss of custody of my daughter--though I'd heard, through third parties, that she kept one of my photos glued to her lunch box--and at no point did I complain or stand still in one place. As I was throwing stones with Astruc on the coast of Normandy, I realized that I had always been a warrior, facing my battles without any bitterness; they were part of life.
My eight-hour wait at the station passed quickly, and soon I was back on the train that took me to Brighton. When I landed in England I was subjected to a quick interrogation; apparently, I was already a marked woman, perhaps because I was traveling alone, perhaps for being who I was, or, what seemed most likely, the French secret service had seen me enter the German consulate and warned all its allies. No one knew about my telephone call and my devotion to the country where I was headed.
I would make a lot of trips over the next two years: traveling across countries I'd never before visited, returning to Germany to see if I could get my things, and being harshly interrogated by British officials even though everyone, absolutely everyone, knew I was working for France. I continued to meet the most interesting of men while dining in the most famous restaurants, and finally, I crossed glances with my one true love, a Russian who had been blinded by the mustard gas used so indiscriminately in this war and for whom I was willing to do anything.
I risked everything and went to Vittel because of him. My life had taken on new meaning. Every night when we would go to bed, I used to recite a passage from Song of Songs.
At night, in my bed, I looked for the one my soul loves; I looked for him, but could not find him.
So I will rise and go around the city; in the streets and in the squares I will look for the one my soul loves; I looked for him, but could not find him.
The watchmen who go around the city found me; I asked them: have you seen the one my soul loves?
I stood aside and then I found the one my soul loves; I held him close and wouldn't let him go.
And when he writhed in pain, I would stay up all night nursing his eyes and the burns on his body.
The moment I saw him sitting there on the witness stand, saying he would never fall in love with a woman twenty years his senior, the sharpest of swords pierced my heart; his only interest was in having someone to tend his wounds.
And from what you told me later, Mr. Clunet, it was that fateful pursuit of a pass to allow me to go to Vittel that aroused the suspicions of that damned Ladoux.
From here, Mr. Clunet, I have nothing to add to this story. You know exactly what happened, and how it happened.
And on behalf of all that I've suffered unjustly, the humiliations I am forced to endure, the public defamation I suffered before the judges of the Third War Council, and the lies on both sides--as if the Germans and the French, who are killing each other, couldn't leave a woman whose greatest sin was having a free mind in a world where people are becoming increasingly closed-off well enough alone--on behalf of all this, Mr. Clunet, if my final appeal to the president is refused, I ask you, please, to save this letter and deliver it to my daughter, Non, when she is old enough to understand everything that has happened.
Once I was on a beach in Normandy with my then agent, Monsieur Astruc. I've seen him only once since I came back to Paris, and he said the country was undergoing a wave of anti-Semitism and he could not be seen in my company. He told me about a writer, Oscar Wilde. It was not hard to find the play he had mentioned, Salome, but no one had dared invest a single cent into putting on what I was about to produce. Though penniless, I still knew influential people.
Why do I bring this up? How did I wind up interested in the work of this English writer who spent his last days here in Paris, was buried without any friends to attend the funeral, and whose only crime was to have been the lover of a man? Would that this were also my condemnation, because I have been in the beds of famous men and their wives, all in the insatiable pursuit of pleasure. No one ever accused me, of course, because then they would be my witnesses.
But back to the English writer, now cursed in his country and ignored in ours. During my constant travel, I read a lot of his work for the theater and discovered that he had also written stories for children.
A student wishes to ask his beloved to dance, but she refuses, saying she would only accept if he brought her a red rose. It so happened that in the place where the student lived, all the roses were yellow or white.
The nightingale heard the conversation. Seeing his sorrow, she decided to help the poor boy. First, she thought of singing something beautiful, but soon concluded that it would be much worse--in addition to being alone, he would be melancholy.
A passing butterfly asked what was going on.
"He is suffering for love. He needs to find a red rose."
"How ridiculous to suffer for love," said the butterfly.
But the nightingale was determined to help him. In the middle of a huge garden there was a rosebush full of roses.
"Give me a red rose, please."
But the rosebush said it was impossible, and for him to find another--its roses were once red, but now they had become white.
The nightingale did as she was told. She flew far away and found the old rosebush. "I need a red flower," she asked.
"I'm too old for that" was the answer. "The winter has chilled my veins, the sun faded my petals."
"Just one," begged the nightingale. "There must be a way!"
Yes, there was a way. But it was so terrible that she did not want to tell.
"I'm not afraid. Tell me what I can do to get a red rose. A single red rose."
"Come back at night and sing the most beautiful melody that nightingales know while pressing your breast against one of my thorns. The blood will rise through my sap and color the rose."
And the nightingale did that that night, convinced it was worth sacrificing her life in the name of Love. As soon as the moon appeared she pressed her breast against the thorn and began to sing. First she sang of a man and a woman who fall in love. Then how love justifies any sacrifice. And so, as the moon crossed the sky, the nightingale sang and the most beautiful rose of the rosebush was being crimsoned by her blood.
"Faster," said the rosebush at one point. "The sun will rise soon."
"The nightingale pressed her breast closer still and at that moment the thorn reached her heart. Still, she continued to sing until the work was complete.
Exhausted, and knowing she was about to die, she took the most beautiful of all the red roses and went to give it to the student. She arrived at his window, set down the flower, and died.
The student heard the noise, opened the window, and there was the thing he had dreamed of most in the world. The sun was rising; he took the rose and raced off to the house of his beloved.
"Here's what you asked of me," he said, sweating and happy at the same time.
"It is not exactly what I wanted," answered the girl. "It is too big and will overshadow my dress. Besides, I have received another proposal for the ball tonight."
Distraught, the boy left and threw the rose into the gutter, where it was immediately crushed by a passing carriage. And he returned to his books, which had never asked him for anything he could not provide.
That was my life; I am the nightingale who gave everythin
g and died while doing so.
Sincerely,
Mata Hari
(Formerly known by the name chosen by her parents, Margaretha Zelle, and then forced to adopt her married name, Madame MacLeod, and finally convinced by the Germans, in exchange for a measly twenty thousand francs, to sign everything as H21.)
Part III
PARIS, OCTOBER 14, 1917
Dear Mata Hari,
Although you do not yet know it, your request for pardon was denied by the president. Therefore, early tomorrow morning I will go to meet you and this shall be the last time we will see each other.
I have eleven long hours before me and I know I will not be able to sleep a single second tonight. Therefore, I am writing you a letter, which will never be read by the person for whom it was intended, but I plan to present it as a final piece of evidence in the investigation; even though this may be absolutely useless from a legal standpoint, I hope to at least recover your reputation while I am still alive.
I do not intend to prove my incompetence with this defense, because I was not in fact the terrible lawyer that you often accused me of being in your many letters. I just want to relive--if only to absolve myself of a sin I did not commit--my ordeal of the past few months. It is an ordeal that I have not lived alone; I was in every way trying to save the woman I once loved, though I never admitted it.
This is an ordeal that is being lived by the entire nation; these days there is not a single family in this country who has not lost a son at the battlefront. And because of that, we commit injustices, atrocities, things I never imagined happening in my country. As I write this, several battles with no end are being waged just two hundred kilometers from here. The biggest and bloodiest of them began with a naivete on our part; we thought two hundred thousand brave soldiers would be able to defeat more than a million Germans who marched with tanks and heavy artillery toward the capital. But despite having resisted bravely, despite massive bloodshed and thousands of dead and wounded, the war front remains exactly where it stood in 1914, when the Germans initiated the hostilities.
