To ease the doldrums left by the ice and snow blanketing the Midwest, the subdivision book club chose When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris. Described as a youthful Woody Allen, Sedaris has crafted five previous books, many of which have hit the New York Times best seller list.

One reviewers attested that Naked and Me Talk Pretty One Day produced  laughter so hard that tears streamed down his cheeks.  He remembered biting his tongue because, ‘laughing hysterically out loud for no apparent reason on the subway in New York tends to make people nervous!’

Such is not the case with the twenty-two first-person essays in Engulfed.   Just ‘not interesting, rambling, missing a beat, cobbled together from disconnected anecdotes’ are a few of the reader’s comments.

“Keeping Up,” the second essay in Engulfed, begins with an American couple bickering outside the writer’s office window in Paris. Evidently the wife had made outrageous claims about her ability to understand the French language.  But when native speakers use slang or ask unexpected questions, she finds herself at a loss and her husband becomes derisive.

Sedaris goes on to speculate that a geographical argument might be at the root of their discord.  Claiming to know his way around from a previous visit, the husband, Phillip, refuses to pull out the map and look like a tourist.

From their disagreement Sedaris jumps to those between himself and his long-time boyfriend, Hugh Hamrick.  Evidently Hugh’s long legs and uncanny capability of blending in with the locals often leaves his traveling companion (Sedaris) eating dust. (The author claims that Hugh deviously calls ahead to ascertain what style and color of coat is most popular in their host country.)

Next, we hear of the painters most extraordinary sense of direction.  After glancing at a map just once, Hugh can locate their hotel without a wrong turn.  An hour later, Hugh will be standing in the lobby directing strangers to their destinations.  To further emphasize his point, Sedaris remembers that Hugh was suggesting shortcuts to gondoliers before their Venice trip had ended.

In desperation to view a real Australian dingo, Sedaris attempts to follow Hugh through the twists and turns of the Taronga Zoo in Australia.  “Why they look just like dogs.  Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Sedaris asks an embarrassed Japanese woman, because Hugh has, once again, disappeared into the crowd.

This stream-of-consciousness essay ends with the author’s farewell speech to Hugh.  Attempting to make a clean start, Sedaris vows to rid himself of all mementos:  photos and birthday gifts ranging from a tan belt to the mechanical pig covered in real pig skin, a professional microscope, on to the 17th century painting of a Dutch peasant changing a diaper.

But when the author pictures himself leaving in a van, he remembers that he doesn’t drive.  Renting another apartment is out of a question because he can’t talk to a real estate agent.  Dealing with sums of money over $60 causes him to sweat.  Five minutes in a bank and his shirt is soaked through.  Ten minutes later and he’s stuck to his seat.

Even at the age of 50, the author claims to be afraid of everybody and everything.  He doesn’t know how to turn up the heat, send an e-mail, retrieve messages from the answering machine or do anything creative with a chicken for dinner.

At the end of eight pages, the author concludes that he’s so pathetic that Hugh has every right to run from him.  After 30 minutes of pure rage, the self-deprecating author is  happy to see his partner again!

Cute – certainly, Quirky-undoubtedly, Funny-not in my book.  While some of the writer’s anecdotes might produce a quiet smile, no evidence could be found of belly laugh material.

Pushing subject matter aside, Sedaris is regarded by his fans as a gifted writer. His strengths can be found in the ability to find a story in even the most mundane and recount it with a certain witty style and simplicity.  Even if the stories aren’t truly auto-biographical Sedaris certainly relies on keen observation and a particularly effective way of relating stories and thoughts.

Or maybe just a pampered and promiscuous woman manipulated by the head of French Intelligence who needed an attention-grabbing case to prove the worth of his bureau and save his reputation?

How about a child/woman, indulged from early on by her doting father,  searching for a reliable man to love and support her in the style to which she had become accustomed?

Fleeing from a disastrous early marriage and the death of one of her two children, Margaretha Geertruida Grietje Zelle joined the circus as an equestrian.

It soon became evident to the owner that dancing was her real talent. “Her languid, graceful style of moving, her dark eyes and luxurious hair, telegraphed her sexuality to any male in her presence.”

At a time when the dancers at the Moulin Rouge flaunted only their knickers and breasts, Zelle thought nothing of discarding everything during the course of a performance except her jeweled bra. How scandalous in the early 20th century just before WWI?

Also, about this time, she adopted the stage name of Mata Hari (meaning sunrise or eye of the day) and suggested that her mother had been an Indian temple dancer or that she had grown up in a Java jungle.

A six-month contract to dance at the Metropole left her marooned in Berlin when war broke out (August, 1914) and her fur coats and money were seized. Reported to be recruiting spies, the German consul to Holland, Karl Kroemer, awarded her 20,000 francs and the code name H21.

Since taking money from a man for services rendered never troubled Mata, she poured out the invisible ink and went on her way. Traveling through Britain to avoid the front-line of fighting, the free-spirited exotic dancer was “thoroughly searched and nothing incriminating was found, she is regarded by police and military to be not above suspicion”.

Suspicion of what is the question?

According to a British Intelligence report, she “speaks French, English, Italian, Dutch and probably German. Handsome, bold type of woman”.

Could fluency in four, maybe five languages be the answer?

In Pat Shipman’s 2007 biography of Mata Hari, Femme Fatale, he argues, “The problem was not what Mata Hari said, but who she was”. Could a wealthy, well-educated, foreign-appearing woman traveling alone who openly admitted to having a lover be trusted? Apparently not in that day and time.

Often rumors found their way into her dossier. “One suspects her of having gone to France on an important mission that will profit the Germans.”

Back in Paris, two secret police steamed open her letters, questioned waitresses, porters and hairdressers. All information pointed to her life of promiscuity but not espionage.

Her mad life continued until Zelle faced off with the ambitious head of French Intelligence, Captain Georges Ladoux, over a travel permit. Ladoux viewed her as a prostitute. Mata thought him narrow-minded and coarse. Her promise to spy for France ended their battle of words.

Contending that the dancer’s notoriety made her a poor candidate for clandestine activities, Shipman states that she was frequently the center of attention with her comings and goings often reported in gossip columns. But in the case of Josephine Baker (see previous post), her celebrity status paved the way for espionage. Another similarity: neither lady shied away from exposing their feminine attributes for all to see.

A warrant issued for Mata’s arrest in February, 1917, contended that she had traded French secrets instead of German maneuvers in North Africa for one million francs. Subsequently tried and found guilty, Mata was shot by an early morning firing squad on October 15, 1917.

Was it a witch hunt conducted by small-minded men?

Were the rumors magnified by the anti-German spy mania prevalent in France with the Kaiser’s troops at its border?

Did Captain Georges Ladoux exploit Mata Hari to enhance his career?

Was she a resourceful courtesan who exchanged sexual favors and war secrets at the same time for money?

You be the judge!

(All quotations have been taken from Femme Fatale by Pat Shipman.)