Mata Hari's Last Dance(71)

Many have gathered to witness my death, yet as I walk to the field behind the chateau 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.





Epilogue


Customers are trying on coats, asking questions about the furs, demanding different cuts. The woman wearing the expensive rings—who’s already been here six times this week—is demanding another cup of tea, sinking back into one of the soft leather couches, expecting the staff to fetch her refreshments.

“More biscuits, madam?” Of course.

“More tea?” Yes, and be certain it’s hot this time.

It’s unlikely that Ring Woman will buy anything from Joossens today; still, the biscuits and tea have to be produced. The shop girl is on her way to refill the woman’s cup for a fourth time when she sees him, standing near the winter hats.

“Jeanne MacLeod?” he asks, startling her. He is wearing a green bow tie. It should look ridiculous, but he wears it with style—he looks to be twenty, maybe twenty-five.

She tries to place him. A friend of her father’s? A previous customer? He holds out his hand and she shakes it.

“Ancel Dupond. I was a friend of your mother’s.”

She nearly drops the teacup and saucer she’s holding. She inspects the man more closely. There are fine lines around his eyes. Now, as she studies him, she decides he’s closer to thirty-five. She realizes the implication of his words. “Was? Why do you say was?”

“I’m sorry. You don’t know?” He takes the teacup from her as it begins to rattle in its saucer. He guides her to a couch. He sets the china on a table and asks, “You’re Jeanne Louise MacLeod, am I right?”

“My mother called me Non. That’s what I prefer to be called.”

“Is there somewhere we can go to talk?”

“Miss,” her customer calls, waving bejeweled fingers. “I’m still waiting for hot tea.”

“It’s right there,” Non says. “Feel free to get up and pour it.” She turns to her mother’s friend. “Why don’t we go across the street?” She retrieves her coat from the back room and puts on her hat. When she leaves Joossens with Ancel Dupond, she has no intention of returning.

As they make their way to the coffeehouse, Ancel recognizes Mata Hari in the girl: the same dark beauty and a similar willfulness, too. He wonders how this girl’s father has managed to control her.

In the bright light of the coffeehouse Ancel orders coffee for both of them and waits for the girl to ask questions. He has some of his own. What was it like to be raised by a man who didn’t want you? Were you aware of how badly your mother yearned for you?

“My mother is dead?” Non asks.

“Yes. I’m very sorry.” Ancel reaches into his bag and retrieves an article. It’s not one he wrote, but it’s a kind and melancholic piece that describes the trial and Mata Hari’s execution. He feels uncomfortable watching Non while she reads it, so he stares across the coffeehouse at a pair of women laughing together over their porcelain cups. There can be such joy in the world, he thinks. And so much sorrow. When he looks back, Non’s eyes are red. She’s so young. Sixteen? Seventeen? Mata Hari told him her age but he can’t remember and it would be rude, now, to ask.

“This is so terrible,” she whispers, trying not to cry. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? I’ve been working. I was saving money to visit Paris and find her.”

“I’m very sorry.” All he can offer her are words. He takes out a folder. Inside is everything he’s ever written about Mata Hari. His article covering her debut at Guimet’s library, her triumph at the Kursaal, the lies he published about her time in Berlin.

He pushes it toward Non.

“What is this?”

He hopes he isn’t making a mistake. But this was what Mata Hari had wanted. “Your mother’s press,” he says. “Whatever your father’s told you about her, she loved you deeply.”

“How do you know?” There’s an edge in her voice. She mistrusts her mother, but at the same time she’s looking for reasons to love her.

“Because I was one of the last people to see her.”

A woman arrives with their coffee but Non doesn’t drink. She stares at the steam rising into the air, visible and then gone forever. “My father never told me she was in prison,” she says flatly.

“For a long time, very few people knew.” Though surely, Rudolph MacLeod was one of them.

“You knew.”

“I’m a reporter for Le Figaro. It was my job to know.”

“Was she mistreated?”