The Spy

·

Dear Mr. Clunet,

I do not know what will happen at the end of this week. I have always been an optimistic woman, but time has left me bitter, alone, and sad.

If things turn out as I hope, you will never receive this letter. I’ll have been pardoned. After all, I spent my life cultivating influential friends. I will hold on to the letter so that, one day, my only daughter might read it to find out who her mother was.

But if I am wrong, I have little hope that these pages, which have consumed my last week of life on Earth, will be kept. I have always been a realistic woman and I know that, once a case is settled, a lawyer will move on to the next one without a backward glance.

I can imagine what will happen after. You will be a very busy man, having gained notoriety defending a war criminal. You will have many people knocking at your door, begging for your services, for, even defeated, you attracted huge publicity. You will meet journalists interested to hear your version of events, you will dine in the city’s most expensive restaurants, and you will be looked upon with respect and envy by your peers. You will know there was never any concrete evidence against me—only documents that had been tampered with—but you will never publicly admit that you allowed an innocent woman to die.

Innocent? Perhaps that is not the right word. I was never innocent, not since I first set foot in this city I love so dearly. I thought I could manipulate those who wanted state secrets. I thought the Germans, French, English, Spanish would never be able to resist me—and yet, in the end, I was the one manipulated. The crimes I did commit, I escaped, the greatest of which was being an emancipated and independent woman in a world ruled by men. I was convicted of espionage even though the only thing concrete I traded was the gossip from high-society salons.

Yes, I turned this gossip into “secrets,” because I wanted money and power. But all those who accuse me now know I never revealed anything new.

It’s a shame no one will know this. These envelopes will inevitably find their way to a dusty file cabinet, full of documents from other proceedings. Perhaps they will leave when your successor, or your successor’s successor, decides to make room and throw out old cases.

By that time, my name will have been long forgotten. But I am not writing to be remembered. I am attempting to understand things myself. Why? How is it that a woman who for so many years got everything she wanted can be condemned to death for so little?

At this moment, I look back at my life and realize that memory is a river, one that always runs backward.

Memories are full of caprice, where images of things we’ve experienced are still capable of suffocating us through one small detail or insignificant sound. The smell of baking bread wafts up to my cell and reminds me of the days I walked freely in the cafés. This tears me apart more than my fear of death or the solitude in which I now find myself.

Memories bring with them a devil called melancholy—oh, cruel demon that I cannot escape. Hearing a prisoner singing, receiving a small handful of letters from admirers who were never among those who brought me roses and jasmine flowers, picturing a scene from some city I didn’t appreciate at the time. Now it’s all I have left of this or that country I visited.

The memories always win, and with them comes a demon that is even more terrifying than melancholy: remorse. It’s my only companion in this cell, except when the sisters decide to come and chat. They do not speak about God, or condemn me for what society calls my “sins of the flesh.” Generally, they say one or two words, and the memories spout from my mouth, as if I wanted to go back in time, plunging into this river that runs backward.

One of them asked me:

“If God gave you a second chance, would you do anything differently?”

I said yes, but really, I do not know. All I know is that my current heart is a ghost town, one populated by passions, enthusiasm, loneliness, shame, pride, betrayal, and sadness. I cannot disentangle myself from any of it, even when I feel sorry for myself and weep in silence.

I am a woman who was born at the wrong time and nothing can be done to fix this. I don’t know if the future will remember me, but if it does, may it never see me as a victim, but as someone who moved forward with courage, fearlessly paying the price she had to pay.

·

On one of my trips to Vienna I met a gentleman who had become a roaring success in Austria among men and women alike. He was called Freud—I can’t remember his first name—and people adored him because he had restored the possibility that we are all innocent. Our faults were actually those of our parents.

I try to see now where mine went wrong, but I cannot blame my family. Adam and Antje Zelle gave me everything money could buy. They owned a hat shop and invested in oil before people knew of its importance, which allowed me to attend a private school, study dance, take riding lessons. When people started to accuse me of being a “woman of easy virtue,” my father wrote a book in my defense—something he should have never done. I was perfectly at ease with what I was doing, and his words only drew more attention to their accusations of prostitution and lying.

Yes, I was a prostitute—if by that you mean someone who receives favors and jewelry in exchange for affection and pleasure. Yes, I was a liar, one so compulsive and out of control that I often forgot what I’d said and had to expend great mental energy to cover my blunders.

I cannot blame my parents for anything, except perhaps for having given birth to me in the wrong town. Leeuwarden, a place most of my fellow Dutchmen will have never even heard of, is a town where absolutely nothing happens and every day is the same as the last. Early on, as a teenager, I learned that I was beautiful from the way my friends used to imitate me.

In 1889, my family’s fortune changed—Adam went bankrupt and Antje fell ill, dying two years later. They did not want me to have to go through what they went through, and sent me away to school in another city, Leiden, firm in their objective that I have the finest education. There I trained to become a kindergarten teacher while I awaited the arrival of a husband who would take charge of me. On the day of my departure, my mother called me over and gave me a packet of seeds:

“Take this with you, Margaretha.”

Margaretha—Margaretha Zelle—was my name, and I detested it. Countless girls had been given the name Margaretha because of a famous and well-respected actress.

I asked what the seeds were for.

“They’re tulip seeds, the symbol of our country. But, more than that, they represent a truth you must learn. These seeds will always be tulips, even if at the moment you cannot tell them apart from other flowers. They will never turn into roses or sunflowers, no matter how much they might desire to. And if they try to deny their own existence, they will live life bitter and die.

“So you must learn to follow your destiny, whatever it may be, with joy. As flowers grow, they show off their beauty and are appreciated by all; then, after they die, they leave their seeds so that others may continue God’s work.”

She placed the packet of seeds in a small bag that I had watched her stitch carefully for days despite her illness.

“Flowers teach us that nothing is permanent: not their beauty, not even the fact that they will inevitably wilt, because they will still give new seeds. Remember this when you feel joy, pain, or sadness. Everything passes, grows old, dies, and is reborn.”

How many storms must I weather before I understand this? At the time, her words sounded hollow; I was eager to leave that suffocating town, with its identical days and nights. And yet today, as I write this, I understand that my mother was also talking about herself.

“Even the tallest trees are able to grow from tiny seeds like these. Remember this, and try not to rush time.”

She gave me a kiss goodbye, and my father took me to the train station. We barely spoke on our way there.

·

All the men I’ve known have given me joy, jewelry, or a place in society, and I’ve never regretted knowing them—all except the first, the school principal, who raped me when I was sixteen.

He called me into his office, locked the door, then placed his hand between my legs and began to masturbate. At first I tried to escape, saying, gently, that this wasn’t the time or place. But he said nothing. He pushed aside some papers on his desk, laid me on my stomach, and penetrated me all in one go, as if he were scared that someone might enter the room and see us.

My mother had taught me, in a conversation laden with metaphors, that “intimacy” with a man should take place only when there is love, and when that love is for life. I left his office confused and frightened, determined not to tell anyone what had happened, until another girl brought it up when we were talking in a group. From what I could tell, it had already happened to two of them, but to whom could we complain? We risked being expelled from school and sent back home, unable to explain the reason. So we were forced to keep quiet. My solace was knowing I wasn’t the only one. Later, when I became famous in Paris for my dance performances, these girls told others and, before long, all of Leiden knew what had happened. The principal had already retired, and no one dared confront him. Quite the opposite! Some even envied him for having been the beau of the great diva of the time.

From that experience, I began to associate sex with something mechanical, something that had nothing to do with love.

Leiden was even worse than Leeuwarden; there was the famous training school for kindergarten teachers, and a bunch of people who had nothing better to do than mind other people’s business. One day, out of boredom, I began reading the classified ads in the newspaper of a neighboring town. And there it was: Rudolf MacLeod, an officer in the Dutch army of Scottish descent, currently stationed in Indonesia, seeks young bride to get married and live abroad.

There was my salvation! Officer. Indonesia. Strange seas and exotic worlds. Enough of conservative, Calvinist Holland, full of prejudice and boredom. I answered the ad, enclosing the best and most sensual picture I had. Little did I know that the ad had been placed as a joke by one of the captain’s friends. My letter would be the last of sixteen to arrive.

He came to meet me dressed as if he were going to war: in full uniform, with a sword hanging to the left, and his long whiskers coated in pomade, which somewhat hid his ugliness and lack of manners.

At our first meeting, we talked about trivial matters. I prayed for him to return, and my prayers were answered; a week later he was back, to the envy of my girlfriends and the despair of the school principal, who possibly still dreamed of another day like the one before. I noticed Rudolf smelled like alcohol, but did not pay it much mind. He was likely nervous in my presence, me a young woman who, according to all my friends, was the most beautiful in the class.

He asked me to marry him on our third and final meeting. Indonesia. Army captain. Voyages to faraway places. What more could a young woman want from life?

“You’re going to marry a man twenty-one years your senior? Does he know you’re no longer a virgin?” asked one of the girls who had had the same experience with the school principal.

I didn’t answer. I returned home, he respectfully asked my family for my hand, and they took a loan from the neighbors for the trousseau. We were married on July 11, 1895, three months after reading the ad.

·

“Change” and “change for the better” are two very different things. If it weren’t for dance and for an officer named Andreas, my years in Indonesia would have been a never-ending nightmare. My worst nightmare now would be to go through it all again. A distant husband who was always surrounded by other women, the impossibility of running away and returning home, the loneliness that came from being forced to spend months indoors because I didn’t speak the language, not to mention being constantly kept tabs on by the other officers.

What should have been a source of joy for any woman—the birth of her children—would become a nightmare for me. After I recovered from the pain of childbirth, my life was filled with meaning the first time I touched my daughter’s tiny body. Rudolf improved his behavior for a few months, but soon he returned to what he liked best: his local lovers. According to him, no European woman could compete with an Asian woman, for whom sex was like a dance. He told me this without any shame, perhaps because he was drunk, or perhaps because he deliberately wanted to humiliate me. Later, Andreas shared that, one night when the two of them were on a meaningless expedition from nothingness to nowhere, Rudolf said in a moment of alcoholic candor:

“I’m afraid of Margaretha. Have you noticed how the other officers look at her? She could leave me at any moment.”

It was this sick logic, one that turns men afraid of losing someone into monsters, that made him grow even worse. He called me a whore because I wasn’t a virgin when I met him. He wanted to know the details of every man he imagined I’d once had. Sobbing, I told him the story of the principal in his office. Sometimes he’d beat me, saying I was lying, and other times he masturbated and demanded more details. Given that it had been a nightmare for me, I was forced to invent these, not quite understanding why I was doing it.

He went so far as to send a servant with me to buy something that looked like the school uniform I’d worn when he met me. Whenever he was possessed by some unknown demon, he’d order me to wear it. He took the most pleasure from reenacting the rape scene; he would lay me down on the desk and penetrate me violently as I cried out, so all the servants could hear and assume that I loved it.

Sometimes I had to behave like a good little girl, who endured the rape; other times he made me scream for him to be more violent, like I was a whore and liked it.

Gradually I lost sight of who I was. My days were spent caring for my daughter, shuffling about the house with a vacant look on my face. I concealed the scratches and bruises under extra makeup, but I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone.

I fell pregnant again. I enjoyed a few days of immense happiness caring for my son, but he was soon poisoned by one of his nannies, who never even had the opportunity to explain her actions; the other servants killed her the same day the baby was found dead. In the end, most said it was deserved retaliation, as the nanny had been constantly beaten, raped, and burdened by endless working hours.

·

Now I had only my daughter, a house that was always empty, a husband who never took me anywhere for fear of being betrayed, and a city so beautiful it felt oppressive; here I was in paradise, living my own personal hell.

Then one day, everything changed. The regiment commander invited the officers and their wives to a local dance performance meant to honor one of the island’s rulers. Rudolf could never say no to a superior. He asked me to buy something expensive and sensual to wear. I understood the reason for “expensive,” which spoke more to his possessions than my own personal endowments. But if—as I learned later—he was so afraid of me, why would he want me to dress sensually?

We arrived at the venue. The women looked at me with envy, the men with desire, and I noticed that that excited Rudolf. It looked like the evening would end badly, with me being forced to describe what I had “imagined doing” with each of the officers as Rudolf penetrated and beat me. By any means possible, I had to protect the only thing I had left: myself. And the only way I was able to do that was by striking up a long conversation with Andreas, whose wife watched me with terror and amazement. I kept my husband’s glass full, hoping he would fall over drunk.

I would like to finish writing about Java here, this instant; when the past dredges up a memory capable of opening old wounds, suddenly other wounds appear and make the soul bleed more deeply, until you have to kneel down and cry. But I cannot stop until I bring up the three things that would change my life: my decision, the dance we watched, and Andreas.

My decision: I could no longer accumulate problems and live so far beyond the limits of human suffering.

As I thought about this, the group that was preparing to dance for the local ruler began to take the stage, nine people in total. Instead of the frenetic, joyful, and expressive rhythms I had seen on my few visits to the city’s theaters, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. At first I was bored to death, but was then overtaken by a kind of religious trance, as the dancers let themselves get carried away by the music and assumed impossible poses. In one, their bodies bent forward and backward, forming an extremely painful S; they remained there until, suddenly, they’d snap out of their stillness like leopards ready to ambush.

They were all painted blue and dressed in sarongs, the typical local attire. Across their chests, they wore a silk ribbon meant to emphasize the men’s muscles and cover the women’s breasts. The women, in turn, wore handcrafted tiaras decorated with precious stones. Moments of tenderness alternated with imitations of battles, where the silk ribbons served as imaginary swords.

I grew increasingly entranced. For the first time I understood that Rudolf, Holland, my slain son, all of these things were part of a world that had died and was being reborn, like the seeds my mother had given me. I looked to the sky and saw the stars and the palm leaves. I was ready to let myself be swept away to another dimension and another space when Andreas’s voice interrupted:

“Do you understand everything?”

I thought I must, because my heart had stopped bleeding and was now beholding beauty in its purest form. Men, however, always need to explain something, and he told me this kind of ballet came from an ancient Indian tradition that combined yoga and meditation. He failed to understand that dance is a poem, one where each movement represents a word.

With my mental yoga and my spontaneous meditation interrupted, I found myself obliged to engage in any kind of conversation so as not to appear impolite.

Andreas’s wife was watching him. Andreas was watching me. Rudolf was watching me, Andreas, and one of the leader’s female guests, who returned his courtesy with a smile.

We talked for a while, despite the dirty looks coming from the Javanese because none of the foreigners were respecting their sacred ritual. Perhaps that is why the show came to a close earlier than expected, with all the dancers filing out in a procession, eyes fixed on their fellow countrymen. None of them looked at the white barbarians with their well-dressed wives, their raucous laughter, their Vaseline-coated beards and mustaches, and their terrible manners.

After I filled his glass once more, Rudolf walked toward the Javanese woman who had smiled, and she looked at him without any fear or intimidation. Andreas’s wife came over, grabbed his arm, smiled in a way that said “He’s mine,” and pretended to be most interested in her husband’s pointless commentary about the dance.

“All these years I have been faithful to you,” she said, suddenly interrupting the conversation.

“You are the one who commands my heart and my actions, and, God is my witness, every night I ask for you to return home safe and sound. If I had to give my life for yours, I would do it without any fear.”

Turning to me, Andreas excused himself and said he had to leave, that the ceremony had been very tiring for everyone. But his wife said she would not budge; she said it with such authority that her husband did not dare make another move.

“I waited patiently for you to understand that you are the most important thing in my life. I followed you to this place. While beautiful, it must be a nightmare for all the wives, including Margaretha.”

She turned to me then, her big blue eyes pleading for my agreement, for me to follow in that ancient tradition women had of always being one another’s enemy and accomplice. But I didn’t have the courage to nod.

“I fought for our love with all my might, but today it’s run out. The stone that weighed on my heart is now a rock that will no longer let it beat. And my heart, with its last breath, told me there are other worlds beyond this one, worlds where I don’t have to always beg for the company of a man to fill these empty days and nights.”

Something told me that tragedy was coming. I asked her to calm down; she was very dear to everyone in that group, and her husband was a model officer. She shook her head and smiled, as if she’d already heard it many times. And she continued:

“My body can keep breathing, but my soul is dead. I cannot leave here, nor can I make you understand I need you by my side.”

Andreas, an officer of the Dutch army with a reputation to preserve, was visibly uncomfortable. I turned and began to walk away, but she dropped her husband’s arm and held on to mine.

“Only love can give meaning to something that, on its own, has none at all. It turns out I don’t have that love. So what reason is there to go on living?”

Her face was right next to mine; I tried to smell for alcohol on her breath, but there was none. I looked in her eyes and also saw no tears. Perhaps they had all dried.

“Please, I need you to stay, Margaretha. You are a good woman, one who lost a child. Though I’ve never been pregnant, I know what that means. I’m not doing this for me, but for all those women who are prisoners in their alleged freedom.”

Before any of us had time to stop her, Andreas’s wife slid a small pistol from her purse, pointed it to her own heart, and fired. Though much of the noise had been absorbed by her evening gown, people turned our way. At first they must have thought I had committed the crime, as, seconds earlier, she was clinging to me. But soon they saw the look of horror on my face and Andreas kneeling, trying to stanch the blood carrying away his wife’s life. She died in his arms, her eyes displaying nothing but peace. Everyone drew near, including Rudolf, the Javanese woman having taken off in the opposite direction, afraid of what might happen with so many armed and drunken men. Before people began to ask what had happened, I asked my husband if we could leave right away; he agreed without saying a word.

When we got home, I went straight to my bedroom and began to pack my clothes. Rudolf fell onto the sofa, completely drunk. The next morning, after he awoke and ate a hearty breakfast served by the staff, he came to my room and saw the suitcases. It was the first time he broached the subject.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“To Holland, on the next ship. Either that or heaven, as soon as I get the same opportunity that Andreas’s wife had. You decide.”

He was the only one used to giving orders. But the look in my eyes must have changed, because, after a moment’s hesitation, he left the house. When he returned that night, he said we really did need to make use of the leave to which he was entitled. Two weeks later we set off on the first ship to Rotterdam.

I had been baptized with the blood of Andreas’s wife and, through that rite, I was freed forever, though neither of us knew how far this freedom would reach.

·

Part of what precious time I have left—though I still have great hopes of being pardoned by the president, as I have many friends among the ministers—was taken today by Sister Laurence, who brought me a list of items that were in my luggage when I was arrested.

With all the care in the world, she asked what she should do with it, should the worst-case scenario present itself. I asked her to leave me alone, and said that I would return to it later, because at the moment I have no time to waste. But if the worst scenario does indeed become the only one, she can do whatever she wants. In any event, I am copying everything down here, for I believe that everything will turn out for the best.

Most of this was confiscated by the Hôtel Meurice in Paris, because they thought—wrongly, of course—that I wouldn’t have the money to pay for my stay. How could they think that? After all, Paris was always my preferred destination; I would never leave them to think of me as a swindler.

·

I was not asking to be happy; I was asking only to not be as unhappy and miserable as I felt. Perhaps, if I’d had a bit more patience, I would have left for Paris under different circumstances. But I could no longer stand the recrimination of my father’s new wife, my husband, a child who cried all the time, or the small town filled with provincial people still prejudiced against me even though now I was a married and respectable woman.

One day, I took a train to The Hague and went to the French consulate without anyone knowing—something that demands great intuition and skill. The drums of war were not yet beating, and entering the country was still easy; Holland had always remained neutral in the conflicts that ravaged Europe, and I had confidence. I met with the consul, and after two hours in a café, during which he attempted to seduce me and I pretended to fall into his trap, I got a one-way ticket to Paris. I promised to wait for him there until he could escape for a few days.

“I know how to be generous with those who help me,” I hinted. He got the message and asked what I could do.

“I’m a classical dancer to oriental music.”

Oriental music? That piqued his curiosity even more. I asked if he could get me a job. He said he could introduce me to a very powerful man in the city, Monsieur Guimet, who, in addition to being a great art collector, loved everything from the East. When was I ready to depart?

“This very day, if you can arrange a place for me to stay.”

He realized he was being manipulated. I was just another one of those women who venture to the city of dreams in pursuit of wealthy men and an easy life. I sensed he was starting to pussyfoot. He was listening but, at the same time, observing my every move, word, and gesture. Contrary to what you might think, I—who had been behaving like a femme fatale—was now acting like the most modest person in the world.

“If your friend likes, I can show him one or two authentic Javanese dances. If he doesn’t like them, I’ll be back on the train that same day.”

“But, Madam…”

“Miss.”

“You asked for only a one-way ticket.”

I took some money from my pocket and showed him I had enough to return. I also had enough to go, but letting a man help a woman leaves him vulnerable. This is the dream of all men, according to the officers’ mistresses in Java.

He relaxed and asked my name so he could write a letter of referral to Monsieur Guimet. I had never thought of that! A name? My real name would lead to my family, and the last thing France wanted was to create a situation with a neutral nation because of a woman who was desperate to escape.

“Your name?” he repeated, pen and paper in hand.

“Mata Hari.”

The blood of Andreas’s wife was baptizing me again.

·

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. A giant iron tower stretched to the heavens, yet wasn’t on any of the city’s postcards. Lining both banks of the Seine were distinctive buildings in the style of China, Italy, and other of the world’s most illustrious countries. I tried to find Holland, but could not. What represented my country? The old windmills? Heavy wooden shoes? Neither of those had a place among all these modern things—marvels I couldn’t believe existed were announced on the posters mounted on circular iron bases.

“Look! Lights that turn on and off without needing to use gas or fire! Only at the Palace of Electricity!”

“Go up the stairs without moving your feet! The steps do it for you.” This one was under a drawing of a structure that looked like an open tunnel, with handrails on both sides.

“Art Nouveau: fashion’s latest trend.”

There was no exclamation point on that one, just a photograph of a vase with two porcelain swans. Below it was a drawing of what looked to be a metal structure similar to the giant tower, with the pompous name Grand Palais.

Cinéorama, Mareorama, Panorama—all promised moving images that could transport visitors to places where they’d never before dreamed of going. The more I looked, the more lost I got. And also the more full of regret; I might have taken a bigger step than my legs could stretch.

The city teemed with people, walking from one end of the banks to the other. Women dressed with an elegance I’d never seen in my life, and the men seemed busy with important matters, but whenever I turned back, I noticed their eyes were following me.

Though French was taught in school, I was very insecure. With a dictionary in hand, I approached a young woman who must have been more or less my age and asked, with great difficulty, how to find the hotel the consul had reserved for me. She looked at my luggage and clothes and, though I was wearing the best dress I’d brought back from Java, continued on her way without answering. Apparently foreigners were not welcome, or Parisians thought they were superior to all other peoples of the earth.

I repeated my attempt two or three times, and the reply was always the same, until I grew tired and sat down on a bench in the Jardin des Tuileries. This was a dream I’d had since childhood; just making it here was almost achievement enough.

Should I turn back? I debated with myself for a while, knowing how difficult it would be to find the place to sleep. Then fate intervened: A strong wind blew, and a top hat came knocking right between my legs.

Picking it up carefully, I stood to hand it to the man running to meet me.

“I see you have my hat,” he said.

“Yes, your hat was drawn to my legs,” I replied.

“I can see why,” he said, not disguising a clear attempt to seduce me. Unlike the Calvinists of my country, the French had a reputation for being completely and utterly liberated.

He reached out to take the hat, but I put it behind my back and extended my other hand, where the hotel address was written. After reading, he asked me what it was.

“A friend of mine lives there. I came to spend two days with her.”

I couldn’t say I was on my way to have dinner with her, because he saw the luggage beside me.

He said nothing. I figured the place must be so low as to be not worth criticizing, but his reply was a surprise:

“Rue de Rivoli is just behind this bench where you are seated. I can carry your suitcase, and there are several bars along the way. Would you have an anise liqueur with me, Madame…”

“Mademoiselle Mata Hari.”

I had nothing to lose. He was to be my first friend in the city. We walked toward the hotel and, on the way, we stopped at a restaurant where the waiters wore long aprons down to their feet and dressed as though they had just left a formal gala. They smiled for practically no one, except for my companion, whose name I’ve forgotten. We found a table tucked away in a corner of the restaurant.

He asked me where I came from. “The East Indies,” I explained. “Part of the Dutch empire, and where I was born and raised.” I commented on the beautiful tower, perhaps the only one like it in the world, and unwittingly awakened his wrath.

“It will be dismantled four years from now. This World’s Fair has cost the government coffers more than our two most recent wars. They want us to think that, from now on, we’ll have a union of all the countries of Europe and finally live in peace. Can you believe that?”

I had no opinion, so I preferred to keep quiet. As I said before, men love to explain things, and they have opinions on everything.

“You should have seen the pavilion the Germans built. They tried to humiliate us. It was this huge thing, in poor taste, full of installations with machinery, metallurgy, miniature ships said to soon dominate all the seas, and a giant tower filled with…”

He paused as if preparing to say something obscene.

“…beer! They say it’s in honor of the kaiser, but I am absolutely certain the entire collection serves only one purpose: to warn us to be careful. Ten years ago they arrested a Jewish spy who guaranteed war would be knocking at our doors again. But nowadays they swear the poor guy is innocent, and all because of that damn writer, Zola. He’s managed to divide our society. Now half of France wants to free him from Devil’s Island, where he should stay forever.”

He ordered two more glasses of anise, drank his with haste, and then said he was very busy, but, should I be staying in town longer, I ought to visit my country’s pavilion.

My country? I hadn’t seen any windmills or wooden shoes.

“Actually, they gave it the wrong name: It’s the Pavilion of the East Indies of Holland. I haven’t had time to go—I’m sure it’s there for the same reason as all the other overly expensive installations—but I’ve heard it is very interesting.”

He got up. Taking out a calling card, he pulled a gold pen from his pocket and crossed out his second name, a sign that he hoped we might one day become closer.

He left, bidding farewell with a formal kiss on the hand. I looked at the card. According to tradition, it had no address. I wasn’t about to start accumulating useless things, so as soon as he was out of sight, I crumpled it and threw it away.

Two minutes later I went back to get the card; that was the man to whom the consul’s letter was addressed!