Disclaimer….The characters, words and story plus all other indicia belong
to Craig Pearce, Bazmark, and the great almighty Bazza himself.
Unfortunately, I do not own Christian!! sigh
'A story about a time, a story about a place, and a story about the people, but above all things this is a story about love, a love that will live forever. The End.' Christian sighed and pulled the final page of his manuscript from the typewriter. The last page was put into place and Christian looked back at his typewriter. After what he had just put into words, his typewriter felt like an old friend. Like him, it had been new and pure when he arrived in Paris, and in a way the machine had lived it with him; Christian ran his fingers along the once tidy surface of its wooden base, now flawed, smelling of Absinthe from his first night as a bohemian (The Argentinean had spilt his drink on the keys, but Toulouse was very obliging and refilled his glass straight away). His fingers wandered further until he reached a ridged section, where what seemed like a hundred tiny notches had been chipped out of the wood. It was deliberate, he had made a notch for every time he kissed her, so that whenever he was stuck for inspiration, he could run his hand along there and think of her. Of course, he had started doing this when he first met her, when she was still…alive. He began to count the notches, like a blind man reading an amazing story in Braille, no longer feeling sorrow that it was over, but joy because it happened. 96, 97, 98, 99; 99 kisses. 99 moments where it felt like they were the only two people in the world. But then he remembered; he had forgotten to make the last notch. When he looked back, it was the only kiss filled with sorrow.
After she had gone, flown away after opening night, he had cried over her body. Harold and the girls had gone to take the most difficult curtain call of their lives and they were alone. He knew for sure that she was gone, all of the light had gone out of her; and her hand was clasping his so tightly that he could not pull himself away, and yet, he did not want to blemish the porcelain skin of the cold hand, he did not want to hurt her, even in death. So, like a true gentleman, he raised the hand which held his so tightly, and kissed it, gently sliding her hand from his own and laying her arm by her side. He wanted to stay with her, to make sure that they treated her with respect when they came to take her away. But he could not stay there a second longer; he desperately wanted to get out of there, so he rose and turned on his heel, ready to leave the Moulin Rouge forever. Before he left he heard Zidler's great voice boom out over the audience. "It is with a heavy heart that I tell you now, our beloved diamond has lost her sparkle forevermore, and so, the Moulin Rouge will close its doors forever, as of tonight. The girls and I would like to thank you for patronage and support".
With that, a huge mix of clapping, crying out and disappointed chatter erupted in the audience, and he could see the silhouettes of Harold and his girl's bow, then they charged offstage, many of the girls crying. "It is over, girls. Go home and get some rest, come back tomorrow morning and I will have references made up for all of you. Satine's Funeral will be next week, on the hill above the city; she always loved it there, she used to go there in the mornings with Christian and see the sunrise over the city every morning. You are all invited; she would have wanted it that way." And with that, Christian departed for his garret, where a bottle of Absinthe was waiting.
He had not intended to go to the funeral, but the next Friday morning he found his legs taking him to the hill above Montmatre, walking until he reached a group of sombre figures, all in black. All of the girls, even Nini, were in very reserved dresses with lace veils. Zidler and Marie were also dressed in very solemn, austere clothes. He stood a good deal away until the priest left and the crowd began to dissipate. Christian approached the casket, and stared blankly at it. It meant nothing to him, and he found that quite unnerving. Harold saw and approached him, and was about to say something to him when he turned and stormed down the hill. Once back in his room he sat on the bed and cried an ocean of salty tears, wondering why. Days turned into months, and he spent the time either moping or asleep, only venturing outside for food, and then he ate very little. One day, when he was looking for his copy of Great Expectations, he found a crocheted shawl, and it could only belong to one person. It was then that he remembered Satine's dying words – "tell our story, Christian". The words echoed in his head and he went to his typewriter, which he had bought back from the pawnbroker in town the day before, and he started writing, writing their story.
It had been difficult, he thought to himself as he drew out his pocket knife and carved another chip from the typewriter, the last he would ever make for her. At that point, he heard the sound of cracking plaster and a kind of rupturing noise, followed by a thud, and turned to see the Argentinean lying on his bed, unconscious. Soon, Toulouse's head popped through the roof and said…
'Oh, hewwo Cwistian, how are you? Sowwy about the Argentinean, I'w be down to get him in a minute.' Christian, still in a state of shock looked up at his ceiling. Now he had two holes in his roof. He could hear Toulouse's tiny legs bounding down the stairs, and he paced over to the door and unhooked the latch. Toulouse pushed the door open, and thankfully he wasn't dressed as a nun, otherwise Christian would have had a serious case of dejavu.
'I'm so sowwy to intwude on you whiwe you are gweiving, but I do think you've had wong enough. I mean, wife does go on, Cwistian.' Toulouse looked around the room and spied Christian's manuscript, lying on the table next to his typewriter. 'I do say, Cwistian, at weast you have kept yoursewf busy! What is it, a new pway for me?' Toulouse went over to the table and scanned the first page. Christian decided he'd better tell him before he started on him about moping. After all, good bohemians don't mope, they "dwink".
'Just before she died, Satine told me to write our story, and that's it.' He said, gesturing towards the thick wad of paper. 'It's not very good, but I'm going to take it to the publishers tomorrow anyway.'
'Oh Cwistian, it is vewy, vewy good. But I must insist you wite in into a pway for me first; I don't want them awl to wead the book before they see the pway! It would spoiwl the ending'
'But Toulouse, it's very private, and I wouldn't want people watching it, I mean, I'm not even sure I want it published.'
'Oh, Wubbish. Of course you want it pubwished! Isn't that why you came to Pawis? To wite about Twuth, Beauty, Fweedom and Wuv, and become the firwst ever Bohemian wevoloutionawy to be pubwished?'
'Yes Toulouse, of course I did, I just can't, it wouldn't be right'
'But Cwistian, it IS wite, she towd you to tew your storwy, and peoplwe arwen't gowing to wead it if it isn't pubwished!'
'Yes, Toulouse, you are right. I will go into town tomorrow, I was going to the paper to see if there are any openings anyway.'
'You arwen't going to become one of THEM, arw you?'
'One of what?'
'You know,' Toulouse lowered his voice to a whisper 'A jouwrnawist! Awl that borwing powitics and news and things – its tewwible!'
'No, Toulouse! I would never do that! I was going to put my name down as a freelance. You know the sort, reviewing night clubs and interviewing celebrities and the like. After all, the rent won't pay itself, even in this end of town.'
'Oh that's wonderfuwl Cwistian, you'wl be abwle to weeview your own show!'
'Yes, I suppose I could, if I write it into a show, that is.'
'You must! I insist; and I'm coming into town with you tommowwow, I have some new paintings I am sewwing to some bourgeoisie pig up town. I haven't towd him I think that, since he pays me vewy good money!'
Christian looked from Toulouse, to the unconscious Argentinean on his bed, and back to a smiling Toulouse again and thought to himself 'It's good to be back.'
The next morning Christian rose and actually got out of bed before the sun cast a shadow on his garret. He shaved off the beard that had grown through his neglect to his own personal hygiene. He bathed, freshened up and put on his best suit. He knocked on the door to Toulouse's studio, only to be answered by Baby Doll, although he didn't recognise her at first, her usual blonde wig gone, mousey brown being her natural colour, wavy locks falling about her shoulders. It was then that he noticed she was only wearing one of Toulouse's old sheets, which was worn so thin it left nothing to the imagination. Christian quickly turned around and blurted 'I'm so sorry, Baby Doll, I didn't want, that is to say I didn't mean to disturb you, If you could please tell Toulouse I am ready to go into town whenever he wants to come and, ah get me.'
'Firstly, Christian, my real name is Amelia, secondly you shouldn't be embarrassed, I was the one who came to the door dressed in an old sheet, thirdly Toulouse is getting dressed and will be down in a minute, and lastly you are far too polite for your own good!'
'I'm sorry, my nanny in London always told me to knock twice, wait patiently and if anyone answered the door without any clothing on, even if you were married to them, you should turn around and give your apologies. And funnily enough, she had this expression, something about a spoon full of sugar, I think. And this really amazing carpet bag, she could pull things out of it and-'
'That's Ok, I forgive you!
After his little encounter with 'Amelia' as she was now called and the handkerchief she liked to call a sheet, Christian was very careful knocking on doors forevermore. Toulouse soon emerged and charged into Christian's room.
'I'm so sowwy I was wate, I was pweviouswy engaged with an urgent matter.'
'Oh, so you are going to marry her, are you?'
'Whatever do you mean, Cwistian, I was simpwy finishing a work of art!'
'So that's what they call it these days, Toulouse.'
'Oh, Cwistian, you caught me out. But Ameewiea weally is a wuvely girwl!'
'I'll take your word for it, let's go into town before you get yourself into trouble'
And with that they both left and walked out of their beloved 'village of sin' and into the more proper parts of Paris, with paved streets and fences around every tree. "I haven't really been outside Montmatre since I came to Paris, there was no need. I ate at the stalls along the road or at the café downstairs.'
'You're not missing much, Cwistian. It's awl too pwerfect once you weeve the viwwage, its awl high societwy. You know the type, siwverware and fine parties. Very borwing. Much the same as what you weft to come here, I suppose.'
'Yes, quite. My father was a gentleman, a landlord, dealt in property. Still does, as far as I know. Although I suppose Stephen will have taken over now. Stephen is my brother, we're twins. He got all of the practicality and cleverness and I got all the whimsy, or so it would seem.' The two walked until they came to a long line of buildings, in one of the main streets of Paris. Here they parted, Toulouse trekking to the other end of town to se his buyer and Christian made his may to the publishing house using directions the Toulouse had written on a piece of canvas from his studio, as Christian had used all of his paper on the manuscript. He walked along the neat, soulless streets until he reached a huge building with a large brass plaque next to the entrance that read "lĕ Eiffel du Publish". Christian straightened his tie, checked that the sting fastening the brown paper parcel was secure, and he strode up the large granite steps and through the doors into a great space filled with desks and the sound of typewriter keys clacking. He approached what looked like the main desk and lent over it, to see a slight girl with her hair pulled into a tight bun and rectangular glasses framing her large, round, dark blue green eyes. She spoke in a professional (if somewhat diminutive) voice, and as she spoke, he recognised her accent as British, the last thing he expected. 'Hello sir, how may I help you?'
'Yes, I'd like to submit a work for publication, a bio-' Christian nearly said biography, but was that really it, in fact he wasn't quite sure what it was. It wasn't a novel, because he believed in truth, and it was too much of a story to be a biography.
'Well, I don't exactly know what it is, just a story, I guess' The girl looked at him sympathetically, as if she knew exactly what his problem was. 'I can have a look at it if you like, and submit it in the most appropriate Genre, if you want to leave it with me.'
'That would be wonderful' said Christian, dumbstruck at her...her confidence for one so young. But he couldn't talk, he was only 21, barely of age himself. He handed her the manuscript, muttering 'Thankyou' as he did.
'If you'd like to leave your address, I will send a letter after I have submitted it, and you can come back and check on your progress'
'Yes, thankyou, very much' she handed him a name and address card with a pen, he filled it in, and said goodbye. Only it wasn't goodbye, it was Orevoi.
Oooohhhh – what do yo think? More to come if you like it and tell me.
'A story about a time, a story about a place, and a story about the people, but above all things this is a story about love, a love that will live forever. The End.' Christian sighed and pulled the final page of his manuscript from the typewriter. The last page was put into place and Christian looked back at his typewriter. After what he had just put into words, his typewriter felt like an old friend. Like him, it had been new and pure when he arrived in Paris, and in a way the machine had lived it with him; Christian ran his fingers along the once tidy surface of its wooden base, now flawed, smelling of Absinthe from his first night as a bohemian (The Argentinean had spilt his drink on the keys, but Toulouse was very obliging and refilled his glass straight away). His fingers wandered further until he reached a ridged section, where what seemed like a hundred tiny notches had been chipped out of the wood. It was deliberate, he had made a notch for every time he kissed her, so that whenever he was stuck for inspiration, he could run his hand along there and think of her. Of course, he had started doing this when he first met her, when she was still…alive. He began to count the notches, like a blind man reading an amazing story in Braille, no longer feeling sorrow that it was over, but joy because it happened. 96, 97, 98, 99; 99 kisses. 99 moments where it felt like they were the only two people in the world. But then he remembered; he had forgotten to make the last notch. When he looked back, it was the only kiss filled with sorrow.
After she had gone, flown away after opening night, he had cried over her body. Harold and the girls had gone to take the most difficult curtain call of their lives and they were alone. He knew for sure that she was gone, all of the light had gone out of her; and her hand was clasping his so tightly that he could not pull himself away, and yet, he did not want to blemish the porcelain skin of the cold hand, he did not want to hurt her, even in death. So, like a true gentleman, he raised the hand which held his so tightly, and kissed it, gently sliding her hand from his own and laying her arm by her side. He wanted to stay with her, to make sure that they treated her with respect when they came to take her away. But he could not stay there a second longer; he desperately wanted to get out of there, so he rose and turned on his heel, ready to leave the Moulin Rouge forever. Before he left he heard Zidler's great voice boom out over the audience. "It is with a heavy heart that I tell you now, our beloved diamond has lost her sparkle forevermore, and so, the Moulin Rouge will close its doors forever, as of tonight. The girls and I would like to thank you for patronage and support".
With that, a huge mix of clapping, crying out and disappointed chatter erupted in the audience, and he could see the silhouettes of Harold and his girl's bow, then they charged offstage, many of the girls crying. "It is over, girls. Go home and get some rest, come back tomorrow morning and I will have references made up for all of you. Satine's Funeral will be next week, on the hill above the city; she always loved it there, she used to go there in the mornings with Christian and see the sunrise over the city every morning. You are all invited; she would have wanted it that way." And with that, Christian departed for his garret, where a bottle of Absinthe was waiting.
He had not intended to go to the funeral, but the next Friday morning he found his legs taking him to the hill above Montmatre, walking until he reached a group of sombre figures, all in black. All of the girls, even Nini, were in very reserved dresses with lace veils. Zidler and Marie were also dressed in very solemn, austere clothes. He stood a good deal away until the priest left and the crowd began to dissipate. Christian approached the casket, and stared blankly at it. It meant nothing to him, and he found that quite unnerving. Harold saw and approached him, and was about to say something to him when he turned and stormed down the hill. Once back in his room he sat on the bed and cried an ocean of salty tears, wondering why. Days turned into months, and he spent the time either moping or asleep, only venturing outside for food, and then he ate very little. One day, when he was looking for his copy of Great Expectations, he found a crocheted shawl, and it could only belong to one person. It was then that he remembered Satine's dying words – "tell our story, Christian". The words echoed in his head and he went to his typewriter, which he had bought back from the pawnbroker in town the day before, and he started writing, writing their story.
It had been difficult, he thought to himself as he drew out his pocket knife and carved another chip from the typewriter, the last he would ever make for her. At that point, he heard the sound of cracking plaster and a kind of rupturing noise, followed by a thud, and turned to see the Argentinean lying on his bed, unconscious. Soon, Toulouse's head popped through the roof and said…
'Oh, hewwo Cwistian, how are you? Sowwy about the Argentinean, I'w be down to get him in a minute.' Christian, still in a state of shock looked up at his ceiling. Now he had two holes in his roof. He could hear Toulouse's tiny legs bounding down the stairs, and he paced over to the door and unhooked the latch. Toulouse pushed the door open, and thankfully he wasn't dressed as a nun, otherwise Christian would have had a serious case of dejavu.
'I'm so sowwy to intwude on you whiwe you are gweiving, but I do think you've had wong enough. I mean, wife does go on, Cwistian.' Toulouse looked around the room and spied Christian's manuscript, lying on the table next to his typewriter. 'I do say, Cwistian, at weast you have kept yoursewf busy! What is it, a new pway for me?' Toulouse went over to the table and scanned the first page. Christian decided he'd better tell him before he started on him about moping. After all, good bohemians don't mope, they "dwink".
'Just before she died, Satine told me to write our story, and that's it.' He said, gesturing towards the thick wad of paper. 'It's not very good, but I'm going to take it to the publishers tomorrow anyway.'
'Oh Cwistian, it is vewy, vewy good. But I must insist you wite in into a pway for me first; I don't want them awl to wead the book before they see the pway! It would spoiwl the ending'
'But Toulouse, it's very private, and I wouldn't want people watching it, I mean, I'm not even sure I want it published.'
'Oh, Wubbish. Of course you want it pubwished! Isn't that why you came to Pawis? To wite about Twuth, Beauty, Fweedom and Wuv, and become the firwst ever Bohemian wevoloutionawy to be pubwished?'
'Yes Toulouse, of course I did, I just can't, it wouldn't be right'
'But Cwistian, it IS wite, she towd you to tew your storwy, and peoplwe arwen't gowing to wead it if it isn't pubwished!'
'Yes, Toulouse, you are right. I will go into town tomorrow, I was going to the paper to see if there are any openings anyway.'
'You arwen't going to become one of THEM, arw you?'
'One of what?'
'You know,' Toulouse lowered his voice to a whisper 'A jouwrnawist! Awl that borwing powitics and news and things – its tewwible!'
'No, Toulouse! I would never do that! I was going to put my name down as a freelance. You know the sort, reviewing night clubs and interviewing celebrities and the like. After all, the rent won't pay itself, even in this end of town.'
'Oh that's wonderfuwl Cwistian, you'wl be abwle to weeview your own show!'
'Yes, I suppose I could, if I write it into a show, that is.'
'You must! I insist; and I'm coming into town with you tommowwow, I have some new paintings I am sewwing to some bourgeoisie pig up town. I haven't towd him I think that, since he pays me vewy good money!'
Christian looked from Toulouse, to the unconscious Argentinean on his bed, and back to a smiling Toulouse again and thought to himself 'It's good to be back.'
The next morning Christian rose and actually got out of bed before the sun cast a shadow on his garret. He shaved off the beard that had grown through his neglect to his own personal hygiene. He bathed, freshened up and put on his best suit. He knocked on the door to Toulouse's studio, only to be answered by Baby Doll, although he didn't recognise her at first, her usual blonde wig gone, mousey brown being her natural colour, wavy locks falling about her shoulders. It was then that he noticed she was only wearing one of Toulouse's old sheets, which was worn so thin it left nothing to the imagination. Christian quickly turned around and blurted 'I'm so sorry, Baby Doll, I didn't want, that is to say I didn't mean to disturb you, If you could please tell Toulouse I am ready to go into town whenever he wants to come and, ah get me.'
'Firstly, Christian, my real name is Amelia, secondly you shouldn't be embarrassed, I was the one who came to the door dressed in an old sheet, thirdly Toulouse is getting dressed and will be down in a minute, and lastly you are far too polite for your own good!'
'I'm sorry, my nanny in London always told me to knock twice, wait patiently and if anyone answered the door without any clothing on, even if you were married to them, you should turn around and give your apologies. And funnily enough, she had this expression, something about a spoon full of sugar, I think. And this really amazing carpet bag, she could pull things out of it and-'
'That's Ok, I forgive you!
After his little encounter with 'Amelia' as she was now called and the handkerchief she liked to call a sheet, Christian was very careful knocking on doors forevermore. Toulouse soon emerged and charged into Christian's room.
'I'm so sowwy I was wate, I was pweviouswy engaged with an urgent matter.'
'Oh, so you are going to marry her, are you?'
'Whatever do you mean, Cwistian, I was simpwy finishing a work of art!'
'So that's what they call it these days, Toulouse.'
'Oh, Cwistian, you caught me out. But Ameewiea weally is a wuvely girwl!'
'I'll take your word for it, let's go into town before you get yourself into trouble'
And with that they both left and walked out of their beloved 'village of sin' and into the more proper parts of Paris, with paved streets and fences around every tree. "I haven't really been outside Montmatre since I came to Paris, there was no need. I ate at the stalls along the road or at the café downstairs.'
'You're not missing much, Cwistian. It's awl too pwerfect once you weeve the viwwage, its awl high societwy. You know the type, siwverware and fine parties. Very borwing. Much the same as what you weft to come here, I suppose.'
'Yes, quite. My father was a gentleman, a landlord, dealt in property. Still does, as far as I know. Although I suppose Stephen will have taken over now. Stephen is my brother, we're twins. He got all of the practicality and cleverness and I got all the whimsy, or so it would seem.' The two walked until they came to a long line of buildings, in one of the main streets of Paris. Here they parted, Toulouse trekking to the other end of town to se his buyer and Christian made his may to the publishing house using directions the Toulouse had written on a piece of canvas from his studio, as Christian had used all of his paper on the manuscript. He walked along the neat, soulless streets until he reached a huge building with a large brass plaque next to the entrance that read "lĕ Eiffel du Publish". Christian straightened his tie, checked that the sting fastening the brown paper parcel was secure, and he strode up the large granite steps and through the doors into a great space filled with desks and the sound of typewriter keys clacking. He approached what looked like the main desk and lent over it, to see a slight girl with her hair pulled into a tight bun and rectangular glasses framing her large, round, dark blue green eyes. She spoke in a professional (if somewhat diminutive) voice, and as she spoke, he recognised her accent as British, the last thing he expected. 'Hello sir, how may I help you?'
'Yes, I'd like to submit a work for publication, a bio-' Christian nearly said biography, but was that really it, in fact he wasn't quite sure what it was. It wasn't a novel, because he believed in truth, and it was too much of a story to be a biography.
'Well, I don't exactly know what it is, just a story, I guess' The girl looked at him sympathetically, as if she knew exactly what his problem was. 'I can have a look at it if you like, and submit it in the most appropriate Genre, if you want to leave it with me.'
'That would be wonderful' said Christian, dumbstruck at her...her confidence for one so young. But he couldn't talk, he was only 21, barely of age himself. He handed her the manuscript, muttering 'Thankyou' as he did.
'If you'd like to leave your address, I will send a letter after I have submitted it, and you can come back and check on your progress'
'Yes, thankyou, very much' she handed him a name and address card with a pen, he filled it in, and said goodbye. Only it wasn't goodbye, it was Orevoi.
Oooohhhh – what do yo think? More to come if you like it and tell me.