Behind the Curtain

by Kara n Star

Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge belongs to Bazziekins :) Charles Zidler belongs to...himself.

Author's Note: Kara and Nita are back...mwahaha!

Chapter One: Running Low

Boredom was one of the truly unbearable aspects of life.

There were a few other things that he couldn't stand: tea parties, insects, mathematics, and silk. But really, above all things, boredom.

And though one may try to deny it, his life had been boring.

In case the reader has yet to fully grasp how boring, allow the narrator to draw it out for you.

Bbbbbbbbbbbbboooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnngggggggg.

Yes, that boring.

It wasn't that Harold Zidler was a boring young man. He didn't even look the part of boring, with his happy youthful face that seemed always fixed in a mischievous smile and a full head of flame-red hair.

But the proper English society that surrounded him was most certainly boring, and this left him only one option.

To escape.

His father insisted that he come to work at the family bank, the most tedious job that Harry could possibly imagine.

"You're nearly twenty-five, Harold!" his father had exclaimed. His tone had been, as always, perfectly refined, but the annoyance shone through in his clear blue eyes. "You should be working by now!"

"I'm not sure it's right for me," Harry had said delicately.

Translation: No way in hell.

And then one day, a gift bestowed by the angels fell upon him in the form of a letter from his cousin Charles.

Now, Charles wasn't exactly a...favorite in the Zidler family. He'd always been a rebellious one with a love for alcohol, swear words, and women that even twenty years in a rigid society couldn't rid him of. When he'd turned twenty-one, he'd fled London to Montmartre, France, with dreams of taking part in the fabulous Bohemian Revolution.

Harry had wanted nothing more than to join him, and now it looked as though he had the chance.

The letter spoke of a fabulous nightclub that Charles had just opened, 'truly, a nightclub of dreams...exotic, filled with the most beautiful women imaginable, with fine costumes and racy dance numbers, a million different fantasy for the preferences of every man'.

He included in smaller print under his lavish descriptions that his dream nightclub hadn't exactly grown as beautiful as he hoped it would yet. Rather, it had few dancers and was practically falling apart, and was in need of another owner.

'And the man I have in mind for that position, my dear cousin, is you.'

And so, despite the wishes of his family, Harry went.

~*~

Marie was not a beautiful woman exactly, or at least not in the classic sense. Her face possessed the ever-alert, ever-menacing air of a jungle cat, her nose was a bit crooked, and her teeth were decidedly British—not straight and not white enough. She drank and cursed like a sailor, smoked cigars, and had dreadfully bad grammar. But when she was made-up—lips reddened, cheeks tinted a delicate pink to contrast with that perfect skin, eyes darkened to accentuate that chocolate brown color, and reddish blonde hair curled and upswept dramatically, she'd without a doubt pass for a woman of great beauty. Her voice was that of a Cockney; it was easily disguised while in intimate meetings with rich men but not so easily covered up in the bustle of backstage.
Maybe bustle wasn't the right word. Not here at this pathetic excuse for a nightclub, this thing that Charles Zidler called the Moulin Rouge. It was supposed to be, as he'd pitched to her one day on the cold street corner, both of them chomping on cigars (which she KNEW was a bad habit. . .) "a glittering nightclub with beautiful women and beautiful clothing, beautiful music and beautiful alcohol. So, Marie, how's it sound? You wanna be the Queen of Hearts?"
He was referring to that little birthmark at the corner of her left eye, the one that men always remarked looked exactly like a heart. Marie finished the cigar and ground it beneath her boot heel, stared that crazy man in the eye, and grinned. "Sounds good, Charlie. When ya want me there?"
And that was that. He brought her to that "nightclub" that looked more like a shack, complete with dust and mice. "THIS is it?!" She'd shrieked. "Your glittering magical Moulin Rouge? Bloody hell, Charlie!"
"Just you wait, Marie, just you wait."

She waited. She waited while the hammers hit boards day after day, night after sleepless night. She waited for the costumes, most of which she had to make herself with the help of those silly gits Charlie called dancers. She waited for the musicians, who were a bunch of shoddy half-rate violinists. Marie waited for everything Charles promised her, which didn't come.
And then she couldn't wait anymore! "I want to quit this bloody place, Charlie! Where's those men you promised me? Where's that money that was supposed to be jingling in my pocket by now? Huh, Charlie? My pockets ain't jingling!" For effect, she shook the skirt of her dress. Only petticoats rustled.
But when he promised her a new management, a man by the name of Harold who just happened to be his cousin, did she decide to wait. Because maybe if Charles couldn't pull off this Moulin Rouge thing (she'd come to dread opening night with a frightening intensity) then his cousin could and she'd have money in her pockets for some more cigars.
Her stash was running low.