Now he is the one who is weeping.
We sit like this, holding each other’s hands in silence, sobbing quietly, until he asks me where I’ve come from.
“Paris. It’s not the same though. You wouldn’t recognize her now.”
“Nothing will be when this war is finished. All of Europe will be burning rubble.”
“Let’s go to America,” I say.
Vadime tightens his grip. “Honestly?”
“Yes. New York. Look at these Americans.” I keep my voice low. “There’s no war on American soil. They aren’t starving in the streets. Look how healthy they are.”
“How? How can we get to New York?”
“I’ll make all the arrangements,” I promise him.
“When?”
As soon as I have the money, I think.
*
By the sixth of November I am in Madrid. I book a room at La Paz and recall Edouard in his silk evening gown, smoking cigars on the balcony of his room in this very hotel. I’ve made so many foolish mistakes in my life. But I will not be reckless or imprudent with Vadime.
I have saved every mark I received from Cramer. When Ladoux sends my payment, I will have enough money to support both of us in America. I will have enough capital to begin a new campaign to contact Non. I dare to dream that the three of us will be a family.
The leaves have started to turn on the trees, and I am pleased to learn that even this far south November still feels crisp. I worry about Vadime as I roam the streets of Madrid; I am so impatient to see him yet I must linger here for three weeks. That is when my papers will be ready, Commandant Ladoux will forward them to me, and I’ll sail for Amsterdam. After that I should be only a short time in Belgium—it will not take me long to find a military man to charm secrets out of while we’re in bed. I’ve promised Vadime I will be by his side at Christmas. A nurse has been reading the letters I’ve been writing to him and sending me his replies; the notes are not penned in his hand, but I recognize his voice, his words. He promises he will wait for me. But God, the time passes slowly! I want to board that ship to Amsterdam and be done with all of this business. I am finished with my life in Europe, of this I have never been more certain.
*
The room I’ve been given on board ship is tiny: a bed, two chairs, a wooden table.
But I don’t complain because I’m not truly present on this vessel; my heart is in a military hospital in Vittel. When I am not in my room writing to Vadime, I walk the deck taking the fresh air and keeping to myself. I am propping up my feet in the cozy reading room and writing to Vadime when I overhear another passenger say the ship is making a brief stop in England. I add this to my letter.
*
“You.” A British soldier is looking at me. “What is your name?”
As soon as the ship docked at Falmouth we passengers were instructed to gather at the muster station. Several uniformed men have boarded and demand to see our passports.
“You don’t read the papers?” I say flirtatiously. I want to lighten the mood; the other passengers look grim.
“This is not the time to be flippant,” he warns. “Tell me your name.”
“My name is Mata Hari.”
He looks me up and down, then motions for the other men to come over. They confer in whispers, then one of them says, “Clara Benedix, you will be coming with us.”
I glance at the other passengers, wondering who Clara Benedix is and what she has done. Then I realize that he is addressing me.
“You are mistaken,” I say. “My name is Mata Hari.” The only Clara I’ve known was blonde and never had to worry over money. Her father rescued her from the Haanstra School for Girls after she agreed to marry the man he had chosen for her. “I am a dancer.”
“And I’m the queen of England,” he says. “You are coming with us.”
I look around at the other passengers, waiting for them to confirm my identity. They know who I am. They must. Not one of them says a word. “You can’t take me off of this ship,” I say defiantly.
“We’re not,” the officer replies. “We’re taking you to your cabin.”
I sit on my bed while the soldiers search through my tiny cabin, tearing apart my luggage. One of the men leaves and returns with a woman. She has severe features and introduces herself as Janet Grant. She orders the men to leave.
“Thank you,” I tell her, vastly relieved. “This is ludicrous—”
“Strip.”
I think I’ve misheard. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“They tell me you claim to be Mata Hari. So this shouldn’t be difficult for you—I said strip. That means remove your clothes. I am here to perform a body-cavity search.”
I do as she says and her hands explore every part of me. Not even Rudolph was able to make me feel so violated. When she’s finished, she turns her back to let me dress.
“Why bother?” I snap, but my voice is shaking. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“This is my job.”