Mata Hari's Last Dance(70)

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 Chateau 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.