The 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.
