Mata Hari's Last Dance (20 page)

“This is a woman who is accustomed to getting what she wants: men and money. She uses her charm and her fame to convince the world that she is harmless, but do not be fooled. She must not get what she wants this time because she has betrayed France. She has taken money and given information to our enemy that has cost French soldiers their lives. She must not walk free. Make no mistake. Margaretha Zelle is guilty of treason!”

*    *    *

I'm taken directly from the courtroom to a car. I'm not given the chance to converse with Edouard or talk to any of the reporters who wait for me outside of the Palais de Justice.

In my cell I can't sleep. I am too numb.

After my son's death, I stopped talking. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. I don't remember what I dreamed about, or what kept me occupied during the day. I stared at the white ceiling for long periods of time, thinking about Norman and where he was, if he would recognize me when I got to heaven, and if he did, whether he'd still be a boy or a man. My servant, Laksari, stayed by my bedside, talking to me about my daughter, urging me to spend time with my little girl. Now, as I stare at the bars of my cell, I wonder if I will see Norman before I see my daughter again.

*    *    *

I am returned to the Palais de Justice the next morning and there are a thousand people crowding the marble steps, yet I am so distressed I can barely hear them calling my name. Inside the courtroom the trial resumes at eight o'clock. It's Edouard's turn to speak in my defense.

He calls the only witness who has agreed to speak on my behalf: Henri de Marguerie. We spent one evening together and haven't seen each other in more than a decade.

“You're military?”

“I was a pilot.”

I allow him to continue complimenting me as we cross the dance floor.
An orchestra replaces the string quartet and the new musicians strike up a waltz. He tells me about his family in London. I tell him about my time in Bombay. Then the musicians abandon Johann Strauss and begin playing a more scandalizing tune; I learned the accompanying dance my first week in Paris. The handsome aviator raises his eyebrows at me, asking if I'm willing to accept his invitation.

Henri speaks kindly about me but it is apparent that none of the judges are interested in the warm memories of a long-retired aviator who bedded a woman easily at a party, and Mornet makes short work of him.

“Before spending the evening with you did Miss Zelle ask about your military affiliation?”

“I was retired—”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

In no time, it's Edouard's turn to deliver a summation and I feel like a passenger on the
Titanic
.

“Margaretha Zelle, better known to the world as Mata Hari, is one of the most photographed women of our time. Her image has appeared on everything from cigarettes to packages of tea. How can any person in this courtroom today believe that she could be a successful spy for the Germans? What man would trust her with secrets—a dancer, an actress, a
courtesan
? My client stands on trial today not because of secrets divulged—for we have heard no compelling evidence that she had access to
any
sensitive information—
but rather, for the number of men she's taken to her bed. Of this, we have heard ample evidence. Can you condemn her for the life she's chosen to lead, one of financial and moral promiscuity? Yes, but you cannot convict her of treason. Is Margaretha Zelle guilty of making poor decisions? Yes. Is she guilty of seduction? Most certainly. But is she guilty of treason against the nation of France? Absolutely not.”

*    *    *

After the judges withdraw, we are instructed to wait. I lean over in my chair and Edouard takes me in his arms. “They're going to find me guilty,” I predict.

“If that's the case, we will appeal,” he says. “Immediately.”

I start to weep. “If they deny the appeal?”

“Then we will submit another one,” Edouard whispers into my ear. “Pray for a quick end to this war, M'greet. When it's over, this country will regain its sanity and everyone will see that the only thing you're guilty of is being a foolish woman.”

It hurts to hear him call me foolish. But it's true. I should have married him. I should have left Berlin with him when he asked me to leave. If I had done that simple thing, none of this—none of it—would have happened. Vadime de Massloff never would have loved me; he was a foolish distraction. The weight of this realization hits me hard and I bury my head in his chest. “I love you, Edouard,” I say.

His arms tighten around me. “I love you, too, Margaretha Zelle.”

*    *    *

It takes the judges forty minutes to reach a verdict. They file back into the courtroom one by one and refuse to meet my gaze. I decide that I am not going to cry in this room again.

“Margaretha Zelle, also known as M'greet MacLeod, also known as Mata Hari, the judges of this tribunal find you guilty of espionage against the country of France.”

“What shall the sentence of the accused be?” the prosecutor asks.

“The sentence of the accused shall be death by firing squad.”

Chapter 21

What Legacy Can I Leave Her?

I
nside the Conciergerie, I'm moved to a new cell: It's called the Slaughterhouse. Two women join me: one a convicted murderess, the other a young girl also charged with espionage. We rarely speak to one another. Instead, we keep to ourselves and sleep as often as we can, trying to dream away our misery. I can dream while I'm awake now. Today, it is August in The Hague, and the pink azaleas are in bloom.
“Tell me about our lives in Java,” I say. “Tell me again.”

“
It's going to be magnificent,” Evert promises, sprawling on the clean cotton sheets. “We'll buy a house by water so clear you can see to the bottom.”

“And our children?” I feel perfectly safe with him.

“We
're going to have three of them. Two boys and a girl. We'll name the boys Evert and Hans. And the girl shall be—”

“Not M'greet.
” I say, decisive. For the first time I know my future.

“But M'greet's a lovely name.”

“I like the name Antje.” Our family will be cradled in tropical nights and sands the color of eternity.

He runs his fingers through my hair. “Whatever you wish.”

*    *    *

As I sit on my cot I stare at my hands: The fingers painted with henna in Java, the wrists that Guimet's silver bangles adorned. I look at the arms that held Norman and Non. I study my feet. Someday soon they are going to walk their last. The court hasn't said when I am going to die. Someone will simply come one morning and take me away. Unless I win an appeal.

*    *    *

On the last day in September, Sister Léonide tells me that I have a visitor: Edouard Clunet has arrived. “Are you willing to see him?” she asks.

My cellmates stare at me, stricken. There is only one reason that one of us would be allowed an official visitor. My voice trembles when I ask her to please, show him in.

I can hear his footsteps. I believe I would recognize his gait if he were walking among thousands. Sister Léonide brings him a chair—not the stool that the bribed guards offer illicit visitors—and he sits. We stare at each other through the bars. Then he tells me what I already know.

“They rejected your appeal.”

“So this is how the show ends,” I say. “The last dance.” Edouard buries his head in his hands and cries. I try to be brave for us both. “It's all right.”

“I wanted to take care of you,” he whispers, gaining control of his emotions.

“I know. And I should have let you.”

He takes my hand through the prison bars. “This is an abomination of justice. What has the world come to?” He is devastated.

“Buddha said, ‘In life there is suffering because of the imperma
nent nature of things,' ” I offer, holding on tightly. I imagine Edouard going home this evening to his aubergine chair, taking a brandy while his pretty wife reads to him from
Le Figaro
. That was the role I should have played. Not this. We could have created a family. For so many years I believed I offered the world “the dance of destruction as it leads to creation.” Now I understand the truth: I confused the order of things. I created pain; I danced to my own destruction.

I feel the pinpricks of hot tears. “I'm going to miss you so much,” I tell him.

He rests his head against the bars. “I do not think I can bear this.”

*    *    *

It should be crisp and clear this early in October, but beyond my cell window there is only rain. I dream constantly of the sun. Of beaches and water and warm temple stones. I sit on the edge of my metal bed and remember my first weeks in Java, when anything seemed possible. That's what's so wonderful about beginnings. They promise everything: love, happiness, eternity. I wonder what eternity is truly like, and whether Marie Antoinette thought about this more than a hundred years ago when she was sitting here, waiting to be taken to the guillotine from this very prison. Did she hope there would be a last-minute reprieve? Did she agonize over what was to become of her son? I think about my daughter living in Amsterdam and I wonder what she will make of her life. Will she be happy? Can there ever be happiness for a child whose mother abandoned her? I hope so. With Rudolph, I was once foolish enough to believe I could make us both happy. Now I know that people must make their own happiness.

*    *    *

Sister Léonide announces another official visitor. It's Bowtie, holding an envelope in his hands. We watch each other through the bars
in silence; there is no more need for artfulness between us. Bowtie's eyes fill with genuine tears.

“No use in crying,” I say gently. “It's not going to change anything.”

He hands me the envelope. “As promised.”

Inside is my daughter's address and a current photo of her. I experience a rush of emotions gazing at her image: She looks so like me and yet I can see that she is kinder and so very innocent. I hope Rudolph doesn't ruin her.

“Thank you,” I whisper, running my finger over her hair, her wholesome dress, her face. We will never meet again in this world. Everything she'll ever believe about me will come from papers like
Le Figaro
.

Bowtie sits in the chair Sister Léonide brought him and watches me.

“One last interview?” I say, for old times' sake. I'm surprised when he takes out his pad of paper and a pen. “What do you want to talk about?” he asks.

I think about it for a while. “Poppies,” I say. I've been remembering a poem I read in
Punch
magazine a couple years ago. I recite it for him:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

For several long minutes he is at a loss for words; together we listen to one of my cellmates sob.

“Are your parents still alive?” he asks quietly, with embarrassment.

“No.” I check myself. “I'm not certain. My father may be.” I tell Bowtie about him. What he would say to me when I was a child.
White is a nice color, M'greet, but it's not your color. Your color is red. Because red is passion. It's life.

“Do you regret your career?”

I've thought about this a great deal in the Conciergerie. If I had it all to do over again, would I have taken those lessons with Mahadevi? Do I regret touring France, and Spain, and even Germany? “Not entirely.” If I had never danced, I would not know Edouard.

“What I regret most is losing my daughter. I thought there would be time for us to reunite . . . I dreamed that we'd escape this war, that I'd bring her to live with me in New York where we would be safe.” I look him in the eye. “I've lived almost forty years,” I tell him, “and I've made enormous sums of money. A lifetime of jewels, apartments, furs. But now, in the end, what do I have left that matters? What legacy can I leave her?”

“A lock of your hair,” he says quietly. “Your memories.”

“Could you tell her how breathtaking Java is?”

“Whatever you wish.”

I tell him my best memories of that faraway place. I tell him about
jungles and rare flowers and dancing with Mahadevi until the sky turned pink at dawn.

When Sister Léonide tells us that our visit is almost over, Bowtie requests a pair of scissors and she complies without question. I cut off a long lock of hair. I fold it into the envelope and give it to him. A gift for my daughter.

*    *    *

“Mama, Mama, wake up!”

“Oh, Non, liefste, it's too early—”

“No, Mama. Something's wrong!”

I'm jolted awake. Someone is shaking my shoulder. My God, it's Bouchardon. It's happening. It's real.

“Get dressed,” he says.

Immediately I feel like I'm going to be sick.

He leaves my cell and his footsteps disappear down the hall. The other women are staring at me, their eyes haunted. One day he will come for them as well.

They watch me dress. A black hat, a black skirt, and a long dark blouse. Sister Léonide arrives and she walks me to the last car I will ever ride in. The drive to Château de Vincennes is a heartbeat. A group of reporters and military officers are already waiting for me. Bowtie is among them. And now I see Edouard.

Many have gathered to witness my death, yet as I walk to the field behind the château all is silent. Then I hear Edouard shouting my name and I run.

I embrace him until my guards force us to part.

They escort me to a wooden stake in the ground. As they tie my hands I feel as if I'm watching myself from a distance. I am offered a blindfold, but I refuse. I can hear Edouard weeping. I want to be strong for him. I want him to be the last person I see on this earth.

Twelve men take a stance across from me. They aim their rifles at my chest. I look one last time at Edouard. I remember him as he was on the day we met, tossing that rose out of his car. I conjure the day in the museum when he posed like the statue of Charles V. I appreciate for the final time how hard he labored to deliver Non home to me. I will miss him.

God, how I will miss him.