Mata Hari's Last Dance(45)

“What are all those shoes for?” I ask.

“The Pantoffeln? Children find presents in them on Nikolaustag.”

“In The Netherlands we put out klompen: wooden shoes.”

“The Netherlands?”

I hesitate; that was careless. “Yes. My family—we settled there. After India.”

The general nods and I focus on the Black Forest pines decorated with lights. I look at cinnamon cookies on red platters, spiced biscuits in the shape of snowmen. I ask von Schilling the names of everything: Zimsterne, Spekulativs, Stube.

“How many languages do you speak?” he asks me.

“If my Spanish was better, six.”

“That’s impressive, especially for a woman. You would enjoy meeting Elsbeth Schragmuller. She has a doctorate in political -science. She’s also a very unusual woman. She could develop your talents. There’s a good deal of money to be made at this juncture in time. I will introduce you.”

In the twinkling lights, our breaths are a pair of ghosts haunting the space between us. I let him slip his hand into my muff and I ask for some Spekulativs.

*

It’s been eight months since I’ve last spoken to Edouard. I cancel my performances—I have no desire to dance. Still, he doesn’t appear. I wait for him to bang down my door or at least phone and demand to know what I’m doing. I plan how I’ll tell him that there’s more money to be made in being a mistress than in dancing, but he doesn’t materialize, doesn’t even call. I consider sending him a telegram, something cryptic, forcing him to come to me. But what if it doesn’t work? What if he’s only interested in Pearl Buttons now? Immediately, I pick up the phone and dial. It rings several times before I’m put through.

“Von Schilling.”

*

Six months after our stroll through the Ratsplatz, the general holds up a newspaper at the breakfast table. He reads the headline out loud. “Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, assassinated in Sarajevo.” There’s a new light in his eyes. He is excited about this. “The Austro-Hungarians will blame the Serbs,” he predicts.

“How terrible.” I recall the archduke’s marriage and the outrage it caused—the heir to the Hapsburg throne marrying a lady-in--waiting! It wasn’t as if she had no royal blood at all, but all of Europe was consumed by the scandal. I calculate the dates; their marriage lasted fourteen years. How sad to think of it ending in such tragedy. “Who do you think will raise their children, now that they’re gone?” I muse.

The general stares at me. “What does it matter?” He folds the newspaper and rises from the table. “There’s going to be war, Mata Hari. Focus on what is important.”

After this, he is relentless in mentioning Elsbeth Schragmuller. To appease him, I agree to go to the Palasthotel to meet with her. I dress in red, from my long silk skirt to my wide-brimmed hat. Schragmuller is a short woman; when she recognizes me, she marches across the lobby, and despite her green skirt and simple blouse, she moves like a man, stomping across the marble floor without any grace whatsoever. I feel embarrassed for her and suggest we walk outside, where there will be fewer spectators.

“You are a dancer,” she says.

“Yes. Eastern dance.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit Java,” she discloses, holding my gaze.

Java, not India. I understand by her tone that Elsbeth Schragmuller is telling me she knows my story is false and I put myself on guard. “Is that so? Why?”

“I’m fascinated by Hinduism,” she says. “Such an extraordinary religion. Are you Hindu?” she asks.

Do I believe that life is a cycle of birth, death, and rebirth, governed by Karma? “I don’t know,” I say, unwilling to share myself with her. I do believe in Karma. It’s a Sanskrit word that literally means action. Every action will have an equal reaction. It can happen immediately or at some time in the future. Good actions will create good reactions. Bad actions will bring bad consequences.

“You’ve worn the mask for so long you’re not sure anymore.” Without giving me a chance to respond, she offers, “I’d like to visit Prambanan. Though I doubt I will.” She glances up at me. “The world is changing, Mata Hari.”

“How so?” I decide I will let her do the majority of the talking.

“Look around.” She indicates the men and women leisurely strolling in the gardens. “Are any of these people preparing for the future? Or are they taking a pleasant stroll through life, spending what they earn, living for today, worrying nothing for tomorrow?”

I look at her. “What should they be doing, in your opinion?”

“Peace never lasts, Margaretha.”

Her use of my real name startles me.

“Anyone who reads history knows this. Yet these people act as if the good times are going to last forever. They should be reading. Talking about things that matter.”

I’m curious. “How do you know they aren’t? This is only one activity in their day.”

“Look.” She gestures to a group of men sitting on a bench, talking excitedly. A newspaper is spread out over the lap of the man in the middle. “Horse races,” she says, and I hear the disgust in her voice, the disdain.

“But you’re preparing,” I say cautiously. She has been talking to me about guns, planes, and ships.