Mata Hari's Last Dance Read Online Free PDF Page A

—I know this because Laksari is translating as we pass them by. There is absolutely nothing of Leeuwarden here. In Yogyakarta one can see reflections of The Netherlands in the way the officers’ wives dress, in the foods offered in the market—but this is a world of its own. We pass through a rivervalley with thatched-roofed houses on stilts. The houses climb up the tiered slopes and sweep down into rice paddies.
    â€œThey allow ducks to eat the rice?” I ask, watching the emerald-throated birds bob and nibble.
    â€œThe ducks do not eat the rice,” Laksari corrects me. “They eat the insects that hurt the rice.”
    We wind along palm-fringed roads and listen to women singing in the fields while men at the warungs—tiny shops—call out to us to buy fresh coconuts. The andong takes us through a small grove of heavenly smelling pine to where bamboo houses nestle against the hills. They are covered by twisted magenta garlands. Laksari tells me the funnel-shaped flowers are called ipomoea.
    When the andong driver announces, “Nearly there, my ladies,” we are transported back in time. Before our eyes an ancient temple rises from the jungle floor, partially obscured by abundant flora and twisting vines. Dutch soldiers work in complete silence, laboring to clear off the lush vegetation; it appears as if the verdure wishes to reclaim the terraces that rise, one above another, as the temple ascends to the sky. I breathe deeply and believe I am inhaling the wisdom of a thousand years.
    â€œI am sure you know Borobudur was built by the Shailendra dynasty. And that it took eighty years of labor to build,” I say to Guimet, tracing my finger over his chest.
    In my memory, Sofie, Laksari, and I walk to the base of the holy place and I touch the wall. It is made of basalt. On the first level, inside, are friezes illustrating the stages of life.
    We go inside and the temperature drops. It is cool and the air smells of soil, of the earth itself. Sofie points to images depicting Greed, Ignorance, Envy. According to Buddhists, she says, you reach enlightenment by overcoming desire. If you are a slave to earthly desires, you will never achieve Nirvana, the ultimate ­enlightenment . . . heaven, I suppose.
    Slowly, we make our way to the top of Borobudur, an ascent that elevates us, delivers us so close to the heavens that you can view volcanoes jutting through the forest canopy.
    At the topmost level of the pyramid we discover the meditating stone Buddhas. They are sitting in quiet bliss, feet crossed one over the other, palms outward, contemplating the world from inside stone bells. At first glance they look identical; closer inspection reveals subtle differences in the placement of their hands. In the very center rests the largest bell pointing toward Nirvana.
    â€œAh. Nirvana,” says Guimet, startling me back into the present. He cups my breast and jiggles it in his hand.
    *    *    *
    I search the papers later that morning and I find my review under the headline SACRED DANCES OF BRAHMANISM I read it as quickly as I can, holding my breath.
    â€œThis is different from any dancing I have seen in Paris,” said M. Mollier, who spoke to the director of the Guimet Museum, an establishment devoted to art pertaining to religions of the extreme East, and where lectures are given to students twice a week.
    Different from anything he has seen.
    The article continues:
    â€œThe dance begins in slow rhythms and gradually becomes highly impassioned. The costume is purely Indian, disclosing the skin, which is profusely ornamented with jewels and slender gold chains. The feet are bare, and in her improvisations derived from the ‘Mantras,’ or sacrificial incantations, she often works herself up to a pitch of excitement and frenzy that may be more readily imagined than described. The dance symbolic of worship to the three deities of Brahmanism,