"I was in Vienna, completing my mandatory military service, when we had two days of R & R. I saw a poster of a girl who, even without ever seeing her in person, immediately aroused something no man should ever feel: love at first sight. When I entered the crowded theater and bought a ticket that cost more than I earned in a whole week, I saw that everything inside me that was out of tune--my relationships with my parents, the army, my country, the world--suddenly harmonized just by watching this girl dance. It wasn't the exotic music, or the eroticism onstage and in the audience, it was the girl."
I knew who he was talking about, but didn't want to interrupt.
"That girl was you. I should have told you all this earlier, but I thought there would be time. Today I am a successful theater manager, perhaps because of everything I saw that night in Vienna. Tomorrow I will report to the captain in charge of my unit. I went to Paris several times to see your shows. I saw that, no matter what you did, Mata Hari was losing ground to a bunch of people who didn't deserve to be called 'dancers' or 'artists.' I decided to bring you to a place where people would appreciate your work; and I did all of it for love, only for love...an unrequited love, but what does that matter? What really counts is being close to the one you love; that was my goal.
"One day before I could work up the courage to approach you in Paris, an embassy official contacted me. He said you kept company with a deputy who, according to our intelligence service, would be the next minister of war."
"But that's all over now."
"According to our intelligence service, he will return to the position he occupied previously. I'd met with that embassy official many times before--we used to drink together and frequented the Paris nightlife. On one of those nights, I drank a little too much and talked about you for hours on end. He knew I was in love and asked me to bring you here, because we were going to need your services very soon."
"My services?"
"As someone who has access to the government's inner circle."
The word he was trying to say, but didn't have the courage to voice, was "spy." Something I would never do in all my life. As I'm sure you remember, honorable Mr. Clunet, I said as much during that farce of a trial: "A prostitute, yes. A spy, never!"
"That's why you have to leave this theater straightaway and go directly to Holland. The money I gave you is more than enough. Soon this journey will be impossible. Or, more terrible yet, if it were still possible, that would mean we'd managed to infiltrate someone into Paris."
I was quite frightened, but not enough to give him a kiss or thank him for what he was doing for me.
I was going to lie and say I would be waiting for him when the war was over, but honesty has a way of dissolving lies.
Pianos should never go out of tune. The true sin is something different than what we've been taught; the true sin is living so far removed from absolute harmony. That is more powerful than the truths and lies we tell every day. I turned to him and kindly asked him to leave, as I needed to get dressed. And I said:
"Sin was not created by God; it was created by us when we tried to transform what was inevitable into something subjective. We ceased to see the whole and came to see just one part; and that part is loaded with guilt, rules, good versus evil, and each side thinking it's right."
I surprised myself with my words. Maybe fear had affected me more than I thought. But my head felt far away.
"I have a friend who is the German consul in your country. He can help you rebuild your life. But be careful: Like me, it's quite possible he will try to get you to help our war effort."
Once again he avoided the word "spy." I was an experienced enough woman to escape these traps. How many times had I done it in my relationships with men?
He led me to the door and took me to the train station. Along the way we passed a huge demonstration in front of the kaiser's palace, where men of all ages, fists clenched in the air, shouted:
"Germany above all!"
Franz accelerated the car.
"If someone stops us, keep quiet and I'll handle the conversation. But if they ask you something, just say 'yes' or 'no.' Look bored and don't dare speak the enemy's language. When you get to the station, show no fear, not under any circumstances; continue to be who you are."
Be who I am? How could I be true to myself if I didn't even know exactly who I was? The dancer who took Europe by storm? The housewife who humiliated he
rself in the Dutch East Indies? The lover of powerful men? The woman the press called a "vulgar artist," despite, just a short time before, admiring and idolizing her?
We arrived at the station. Franz gave me a polite kiss on the hand and asked me to take the first train. It was the first time in my life I had traveled without luggage; even when I arrived in Paris I was carrying something.
As paradoxical as it may seem, this gave me an enormous sense of freedom. Soon I would have my clothes with me, but in the meantime, I was assuming a role life had thrust upon me: that of a woman who has absolutely nothing, a princess far from her castle, comforted by the fact that soon she will return.
After buying my ticket to Amsterdam, I found I still had a few hours until the train departed. Despite trying to appear discreet, I noticed everyone was looking at me, but it was a different kind of look--not of admiration or envy, but curiosity. The platforms were buzzing and, unlike me, everyone seemed to be carrying their entire homes in suitcases, bundles, and carpetbags. I overheard a mother telling her daughter the same thing Franz had told me shortly before: "If a guard appears, speak in German."
They weren't exactly people who were thinking of going to the countryside, but possible "spies," refugees returning to their countries.
I decided not to speak to anyone and to avoid all eye contact, but even so, an older man approached and asked: "Won't you come dance with us?"
Had he uncovered my identity?
"We're over there, at the end of the platform. Come!"