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Click hereThe soft rustle of keyboards being touched, books opened, pages folded over, it is all but quiet. Yet it is very peaceful in the university library. A stilled day too, the third week of the summer break, the campus practically deserted. It's just me and a few other students that still have to finish their work.
It's my final year and I am going to graduate. The only thing needed is to finish my thesis, which is practically done. My dissertation on the social unrest which lead to the outbreak of the first world war just needs it's last chapter. The chapter about Mata Hari. Though her involvement in the war was not significant enough to prevent the war breaking out had she not been present on the stage, she has made a lasting memory and her name is well known all around the world.
The first woman that danced on stage in the nude. One of the signs that society was starting a change and the values and codes of old were fading and losing their grip on the world, her performances caused an outbreak of public horror and admiration, with every show fully booked and people lining up outside the theatres to catch a glimpse of her.
Born in holland, the mistress of many high officer or rich public figure, she roamed the world and performed her dances and became the most famous performer in the world. Her affection was sought after and many suitors were turned down, for she had an expensive taste. It was clear that her presence had an enchanting effect on the men around her, probably for a large part contributed to her alledged promiscuity. The reason why her first and only husband divorced her and took her daughter away from her. The battlefields had been drenched in blood for 3 years when she was executed, accused of espionage.
All these facts were easily found when typing her name into a search engine, numerous titles of books appeared where she was referenced in, parts of her story told as they coincided with other, more significant events of the years prior to the first acts of war, or to picture the atmophere in those days.
Her career started in Paris, the second time she sought her fortune there, the first one leaving her broke and lonely, forcing her to move back to her country of birth. But the neutral Netherlands could not offer her solace for long, she returned to Paris and met a director, monsieur Guimet. She had taken dancing lessons and performed as an eastern dancer, named 'Lady mcLeod'. Monsieur Guimet was director of an museum of Asian art and was very impressed. A few months later, a performance was announced by 'Mata Hari', the first naked dance in a public environment.
Her name became an instant brand, which with great speed travelled around the world ahead of her. The offers for performances came by the hundreds, the world was at her feet. Suitors were lining up and she chose the wealthiest ones to look after her. For years she had a good life, was adored and admired and settled in France, close to Paris in a small castle.. Over time her performances died to almost nothing, only dancing for a very small, select party.
But then her lover went bankrupt and could not provide for her anymore and she was forced to start dancing again to see to her own needs. In those days she travelled between Paris and Berlin and in Berlin she was recruited by intelligence services and instructed in the use of invisible ink. After a perilous journey to Paris and falling head over heels with a russion officer, who unfortunatly was not financially stable enough to afford her, she found herself invited for lunch by a french diplomate. At the end of the lunch, which ended in a room of the hotel where they had their meet, she agreed that she would gather information for the french government.
On a trip from Madrid to the Netherlands, the ship docking at Falmouth, she was arrested by british intelligence officers who had mistaken her for a german spy. After intensive interogations, she was sent back to Spain, her intentions called out as being 'un-neutral'. She returned to Madrid and left for Paris almost immediatly, spending a last month living her lifestyle as before. But then was arrested and imprisoned in France. Accused, tried and found guilty of espionage for Germany, she was executed on the 15th of October, 1917 at 06:15 in the morning. And thus the life of the famous Mata Hari was ended.
With a deep sigh I pull my eyes away from the book in front of me, fold my hands behind my head and lean backwards, letting my eyes aimlessly drift over the cold, tl-lighted ceiling. Letters dance in front of my eyes after an hour of intensive reading. The book had something strange about it. The paper feels different, the thick leather cover looks as if it was picked up in a hurricane, battered with dust and debry, grinding off the letters are seemingly embued in the sheep skin wrapping. And then tossed back to the soils of the earth. But the pages look as if they have never been turned before. Pristeen, no folds, tears or smudged edges. Strange because everywhere in the book are little scribbles, letters so small they are impossible to decypher. I take the book in my hands and browse through the pages until I find the passage of Mata Hari. My memory doesn't fool me, there is a small scribble there too. I tilt the page so the light from the big windows falls onto the page and am able to make out a date and a few words. '13-02-1957 1st attempt made'. The rest of the words are unreadable without a lense.
I read the passage, finding the story slightly off, a different view on Mata Hari shown, depicting her as a victim of circumstances, a pawn used in a foul play, the prey of a sexual being that thrived on volnurability. Odd, because after reading the report of her interogator, who showed his attraction to her in between the lines, I was convinced that she was in fact spying for Germany, playing both sides of the field. But the passage questions the motives of captain Bouchardon, his interest in her body denied, his feelings vengeful, eventually coaxing her to admit to the charges. That statement, the yes to his final question was underlined several times in the original document. There was no way out for Mata hari, or Griet as she was called by those that knew her as a child.
I read the passage again and again, each time the content seems to shift and change a little, shifting my prejudgemental view on Mata Hari. Some sentences stick in my mind and keep bouncing back into my thoughts.. 'Her last performance was in the bar of the hotel she resided in, forced to dance before the guests in order to pay the bill of her quarters. She was arrested that night'. 'No attempts were made, not even those that called themselves her friends, to warn her of her inescapable fait'. "Freedom was promised if she gave in to the request of Captain Bouchardon, but she rejected his repituous avances'. More and more the conviction finds root in my mind that Mata Hari was a victim, a victim of foul play and lust, on which neither she could get a grip. Cornered and not even aware of it, a scape goat, used as a pawn in a greater game.
I put the book down and slide my thumbs under my glasses, rubbing the lids and the corners of my eyes. It dazzles me all a bit, the shift of opinion feels unnatural, as if it was forced upon me, embedded in my mind from the outside, replacing what history saw as the truth about this mysterious woman. I keep my eyes closed for a few seconds as I try to order the thoughts that tumble in my mind. The suspicion has rooted and I'm finding it impossible to hold on to my previous convinctions.
I turn and look around the livrary, suddenly aware of the sun, casting its orange rays as it descends into the horizon. It still gets dark early, even though spring has started announcing itself. I look at my watch, the digital hands indicating 10 to 5, the library will close soon. I catch the date with a shock, tue 12-2 2013.. Tomorrow it will be 96 years to the day that she was arrested, even the weekday is the same. 'Wait..'. I take the book in my hands again and quickly find the passage. I look closely at the date again, then punch it into a search engine, the answer not a surprise, only comfirming my suspicions. In 1957, the date of her arrests was on the same weekday as well.
I pick up the book and quickly walk over to a corner of the libvrary, where a few lenses have been set up, reading aids to help those suffering from bad eyes or forgetfulness, leaving their reading glasses at home. I place the book under the magnifier and start to decypher the scribbles in the margin. I discover 3 more dates, all on the 13th of february, just the year is each times different. 1963, 1974 and 1985. I feed each date into the pc and find out they all are on the same weekday as that fatal night for Mata Hari. Under the lense I discovered something else, all words are in the same handwriting. Tghere is more to this book as meets the eye. I close the book and look at the cover, reading the tile out loud.
"Mysterious Women in History"
'a travel through time in the presence of the most tantalising and seductive women in history'
I smile, the title covers exactly the content of the book. I look at the index and find a few interesing names. Cleopatra, Maria Magdalena, Joanne of Arc.. Intriguing women indeed. Suddenly I hear the soft gong, the sign that the library will be closing in a few minutes. I start to put my things into my bag, then walk to the bookcase where I found the reference of Mata Hari. It's at the end of one of the corridors, almost forming a niche with two columns on either side of the path.
From the side, the raus of the sun fall onto the pillars and suddenly I stop in my pace. The way the light forms above the pillars is strange, eerie almost, seemingly forming a transluscent arch to connect the two solitary columns, creating what looks like a portal. I look closer, move in slowly and can see the shape taking place, is if it is see-through, yet undeniably present. With my eyes peeled to the strange phenomena, I slowly walk forwards, feeling a tingle in my spine with each step I take. I take a deep breath, close my eyes automated and step under and through the transluscent portal and am sucked into darkness.
In what seems an eternity and the shortests of moments, I am spat out into the light again, dizzy, fluttering my eye lashes against the bright light that suddenly shines into my eyes. As they get used to the brightness, I start to look around, expecting to find myself on the floor of the library, fainting because of an unknown reason. But the surroundings have changed completely. I'm sitting on a bench at the foot of the Eiffeltower, the sun shining brightly, at the peak of its climb into the blue sky. Dazzled I start to look around, finding the people passing clothed in a strange way. Long skirts and dresses, layered over eachother, almost every man I see wearing a hat or cap, the women walknig aorund with little umbrella's to guard themselves from the sun.
Immediatly I miss the white noise of traffic. There are almost no cars and the ones I see pass in the distance, are early century modelled. As iof Paris was changed into the setting of the earlu 20th century. 'This can't be true.. what is happening? What happened?'. Completely confused, unable to get up from the bench, I stay seated and let the sudden change sink in, but finding it impossible to wrap my mind around it. I am in Paris, there is no doubt with the massive iron structure in front of me. But the time is ocmpletely off. It is as if I am in Paris pre world war one.
And with that thought I start to think the unimaginable. After pinching myself hard, I discrad the idea of being asleep and dreaming, or in an unconscious state, leaving me to conclude I must be in a different time. With that conclusion made, I find myself strong enough to stand up and carefully, still a little dizzy, I walk over to a newsstand at the foot of the tower. I pick up one of the newspapers and look at the date. '12-02-1917'. In disbelief I shake my head and let the paper drop to the floor, turn and walk away, being treated with a scolding of the vendor.
Aimlessly I start to walk, following the rue de Sorbonne towards the Seine, then turning left and following the south bank. Thoughtlessly I walk through the crowd on the banks, drawing unnoticed attention in my clothes. I'm the flower on the shit pile. But the looks and remarks are not penetrating into my conscious mind, my thoughts solely focussed on how I got here. That arch formed by the light, the dates coinciding with eachother, the book in my hand as I stepped through. Maybe there are unexplained happenings in the world and this is one of them.
When reaching the Pont des Invalides, I cross the caged in river and find myself at the Arc de Triomph, the towerting building set in the middle of a large round about, as large as I recall from my own visits to the city. I start to follow the Champs Elyséés, drawn by the people that crowd the wide street. I walk slowly, now more aware of my surroundings, looking at the facades of the houses, stores and hotels. I turn my head from left to right, letting more and more impressions sink into my mind, pushing the thoughts of wonder back in my mind.
Across the street I suddenly see a hotel with a familiar name and my heart starts bouncing in my chest. The Elysées Palace Hôtel. That is where Mata Hari was arrested, on the 13th. Tomorrow. With an overwhelming rush, the story of those last days of freedom for Mata Hari storm my thoughts. My conviction of her being a victim has no replaced all other thoughts and an idea starts to form in my head. 'What if someone told her that she was about to be arrested.. What if someone helped her escape.. Maybe there is a way for her to escape the unescapable.. I'm here, now.. and I know what will happen..'
Thoughts race through my head as I am frozen in my step, people bumping into me are unseen and unfelt, the noise on the street fading in to a murmur, a decision made in my mind. As soon as the decision is made, I run across the street and slip into one of the narrow alleys that hug the hotel. I walk further back until I find a courtyard, clean laundry dangling down, easy to reach when I extend my arms. Looking around myself carefully, making sure I am not seen, I steal a pair of pants and a shirt off the wash lines and quickly change my outfit in a dark, shadowed corner. Then I start to walk around the hotel and the connected streets, familiarising myself with the lay out, the hidden corners and possible paths of escape.
The passing of a street peddler, provides me with food, quickly taking a bread and an apple of the cart, his wares displayed beautifully to take without being noticed. I look at the clock of a nearby church, noticing the time and sunchronising my watch. It will be a few more hours before her performance begins and quietly I hide in one of the scarse gardens in the center of the vibrant city.
It's dark outside, just a sliver of the moon visible through the shards of clouds, the stars almost completely blocked from view. Perfect.. Parallel to the Champs Elyséés, I wlak through a narrow alley towards the back of the hotel. The noise from the main artery of Paris, boucnes off the walls of the buildings, cascading into the alley. The back of the hotel is surrounded by a high wall, but in my exploration of the surrounding area, I spotted a tree with overhanging branches. In the dark and silence of the backwat, I climb into the tree and let myself fall down on the other side, landing without a sound. I quickly find the service entrance, hearing it fall shut and smelling the food that was just deposited in the waiste bins. I put my ear to the door and listen carefully, pulling it open and quickly slipping in as it is silent on the other side. Nerveously I run through the corridor, find the servants staircase at the back and quickly run up to the third floor.
The passage in the book offered information I didn't expect, her room number, the name of the hotel, even the time of herreturn after her performance were printed maticulously, leaving me no room for error. I know I am 5 minutes ahead of her, knowing her dance will end in a few minutes and she will retire to her room. Scanning the numbers on the doors, i dfind her room at the end of the corridor, number 323. I jiggle the handle and with luck I manage to unlock it, swaying it open gently. I slip inside and hide behind the closet near the door to her bathroom.
I control my breathing, my heart is pulsing in my chest, driven on by the surge of adrenaline pumped into my veins. Then I hear the handle jiggled, voices in the corridor. The door swings open and the light in the room is turned on. A few words at the door, then the voices toning down, soft clicks on the wooden floor of the quite. I peak around the cupboard, sucking in my breath as I see Mata Hari walk into her room. Her beauty and the air of sexuality surrounding her, take my breath away, even in the robe she put around her naked body.
I watch closely as she walks over to the coffee table, sliding the robe off her body while she leans in and takes a cigarette from the silver box sat on tip of it. With a heavy lighter, she sets the cigarette alight, inhales the sharp smoke deeply and exhales, her eyes closed, her face slightly distorted, the hint of a dispaired look. Mesmerised by her prsence, I forget to breath silently and suddenly I see her freeze, the soft whisper of my breath betraying me. Taking her body reaction as my cue, I step out from behind the cupboard, seeing her jolt in fear.
"Griet.., Griet Zelle? Dat bent U, nietwaar?"
Adressed in dutch , her eyes widen, her look shocked, her lips moving while uttering unheard words. Fear sparking in her face, her body moving back slowly, her naked body wrapped in her arms, hiding her intmate parts from me.
"Please, listen to me.. I know you are frightened, but I am here to warn you..."
I step into the room and start closing in on her, her arms extended in defense, her mouth opening to let out a chilling cry. Quickly I step in, grab one hand and pull her to me, placing my free hand over her mouth, imprisoning her in my arms, pressing her naked body against me as I prevent her to call for help.
"I a here to warn you. In 15 minutes you will be arrested, suspected of espionage. I'm here to take you away. Do you understand me?"
Her eyes are still as big as her face allows, but I see the content of my message sinking in, stirring her ability to take decisions. Slowly she nods her head, her mouth still covered by my hand. The tension in her arms weakens until she rests her body against me willingly. Slowly I take my hand from her mouth, keeping it close to muffle any cry she might let out in a moment of carelessness.
"Arrested? I've been waiting for it... Will you take me away?"
"Yes.. be quiet and put your robe back on.. I have a plan.."
Her voice is soft but urgent, the desperation clear in her eyes, the clinging pressure of her body against me, signing me her fear. She untangles herself from my embrace, slips on her robe and tightens it around her. Her pleading eyes lock in with mine and quickly I take her hand, bringing her to the door. I open the door on a crack and look into the corridor. Empty.. Quickly I step outside, pulling her with me, then charging down the corridor to the staircase in big strides. I feel her tug on my arms, struggling to keep up with my speed. So be it for now.. We descend quickly and the path to the service door is free, allowing us to slip outside into the dark night without being noticed. From the inside, the door in the wall leading to the alley can be opened and dragging Mata Hari with me, I step outside.
I chose a winding path, turning corner after corner, listening carefully for the first signs of her escape noticed, knowing the police will invade the hotel in moments. I turn corner after corner, Mata Hari is hanging on to my hand, just her breathing from the fast walked is heard, her head continously turning backwards, her mind filled with fear of being caught. Then I hear the first, sharp sound of a whistle, calling all unifroms to the hotel. I hear running footsteps in the alley, coming towards us and in a desperate attempt to hide, flee into a courtyard, finding a shack and slamming the door shut behind us. The running feet pass the courtyard, accompanied by high pitched, urgent whistles.