Disclaimer: Characters from Moulin Rouge belong to good ol' Baz, and songs are courtesy of the splendiferous Billy Joel. There's also a very obscure reference to The Monkees TV show. Hey, stop laughing at the back! The Monkees is high class entertainment.

Maybe.

A/N: Just call this my little ode to Mr Joel.

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Fingers spilled over the keys, splashing notes off the walls that reverberated in the glasses of the customers. The pianist poured himself into the tiny, slightly off-key piano, and nobody noticed. There was a certain gentle wistfulness to his playing that was perfect for a seedy bar, where dreams were started and finished but never lived. Lovers met and broke up, deals were made and broken, drinks bought and thrown into faces. And throughout it all, the music continued, never breaking and never quite forming a coherent tune.

Christian had never considered himself a great pianist. His mother had instructed him in the basics of the instrument, but he'd rather neglected his practice in favour of spinning poetry out of thin air. He'd thought that he'd forgotten it all but now found he could recall all those lessons with perfect clarity. He could practically feel the crisp folds of his mother's dress next to him on the stool, smell her musty-sweet perfume, and hear her soft voice saying, now, Christian, this is the Moonlight Sonata.

The job had been Satie's, after the abrupt close of Spectacular, Spectacular; at nights, he sat where Christian now sat and played for the punters, taking the odd request, prompting the odd sing-along. Christian had never been in the mood for visiting the bar when Satie had started, but over the summer, he'd wandered down in the evenings and found himself smiling. Satie's piano had been pushed outside and joined by a clarinet, a trumpet and a guitar; he'd played jaunty summer tunes into the balmy nights.

By the time autumn had set in, though, Satie had moved on. He was conducting fairly regularly now and wanted to devote more time to it; the rest of Zidler's orchestra had broken apart, finding new jobs and lives. In fact, Christian seemed to be the only person left who still clung to the Moulin Rouge. So, concerned with his friend's despondency, Satie had recommended him to the manager. Christian auditioned for him, playing a few halting scales. He hadn't thought he'd been much good, but the manager had snapped open a cigar for Christian and declared him hired. After all, what Christian lacked in raw musical talent he made up for in his looks, his rare smile and his quiet presence. And anyway, it didn't matter what he played, as long as it faded into the background. As long as it filled the gaps in conversation, then the manager was happy and allowed Christian to keep all of his tips.

Playing in an autumn that slowly faded into winter was a very different experience to playing in the summer. In the summer, the bar's clientele had spilled out into the street, the music loud and the sounds of girlish laughs high. But in the winter, Christian found himself playing for a bar full of men lavishing the type of love to a glass of cognac that they should have been sharing with their families at home.

It had seemed like such a good idea at first, he mused to himself. Take a job, earn a little money and get out of the garret more. He even felt a quiet sense of joy, as melodies soared through him, and he realised that playing could give him a similar sensation to that of writing. The pain of his love's death had faded from a bright, evergreen flush of grief, to a yellow-tinged melancholy. He missed her – of course he did – but, really, what else could he do? He'd written their story, pinned up all around his walls at home, but that was all. No publisher would touch it. Who cared about the ravings of a lost bohemian, they asked. No one would even look at the tatty manuscript, so he'd pinned it back up around his home again and stared at it.

Perhaps it was better this way. The idea of some unknown stranger picking through their story, judging its characters and situations before tossing it back on the shelf, was more painful than Christian would have cared to admit. It seemed almost profane to think of their story as a piece of his own work – it was something they had created, they had lived – and yet it was a piece of his own work. To have it critiqued in the book reviews would have been painful, whether the reviews be good or bad.

Taking the job was supposed to elevate that – instead it taught him something else. Not only could he play the piano, but he was rather good. Gradually, over the long Parisian nights, his playing improved. He remembered snatches of Beethoven and mixed them with Rachmaninoff, because nobody at the bar knew the difference between them, and if they did, well… They weren't listening anyway.

This had been comforting at first, because even if he made mistakes, nobody reproached him. But time went by, and Christian found himself no longer reciting other people's work, but conjuring his own. Half remembered fragments of Spectacular, Spectacular mixed with songs that came to him as he played; he even had the hidden pleasure of playing their secret song, knowing that nobody knew how much this song meant.

And then his own complete songs had arrived.

Arrived, rather than created. The notes flowed from his fingers and the words poured from his lips, unasked for but not unwanted. He felt relieved – his Muse was still with him. Perhaps her physicality had gone, but she was still there, hidden in smoke and the dregs of the customers' liquor. She whispered in his ear, ran a finger up his spine and taunted him with her presence. He sang to her, uncaring that the place was crowded, and that a large bald man was regarding him curiously in the mirror behind the bar. He wanted to lose himself for just a moment, wallow back in her arms.

"She comes to me when I'm feelin' down," he sang, remembering her voice, murmuring to him in the early morning, the sun just caressing their skin. "Inspires me without a sound."


At least he thought he remembered it. Sometimes, it occurred to him that it was just a dream; that all he'd done since arriving in Paris was play in bars like this and sing of love, convincing himself of the tragedy. But no; his Muse was there, smiling at him, stroking his hair, calling him her Orpheus. "She touches me and I get turned around."

And then the melody changed again. The Muse, Eurydice, was with him and he was subject to her whimsical love of music and poetry. No single tune held his attention long enough, which would normally have frustrated Christian. He needed time to play the whole song, write it down and make alterations. But he could not argue with his Eurydice; after all, he had been the one to lose her to the Underworld. Perhaps this was punishment; give the poet his music, but he cannot possess it. Perhaps it was not really his, but the world's.

(My gift is my song)


"I'm young enough to still see the passionate boy I used to be," he murmured. "But I'm old enough to say I got a good look at the other side."

"Barman! A drink for the pianist!"

Christian nodded his thanks to the woman whose brassy voice had nearly caused the barman to drop the glass he was polishing. She winked at Christian and adjusted her fur collar.

"I want to try to make the world brand new," he continued, as the drink was brought over to him. "While the night is still young."  Christian took a quick sip and wrinkled his nose when he realised it was brandy. It was a drink he tried to get used to but couldn't quite like. 

(It was her drink and you would give galleons of the stuff to her if it could tempt her back)

He downed the brandy and already felt the liquor slow his fingers. The bar was hazy with smoke, and he could catch glimpses of the Muse's hair, tossing and curling in an unfelt wind. Someone dropped a glass, and in its dying tinkle he caught a faint echo of her laugh.

"Here I am again in this smoky place," he sang, shutting his eyes. The bar stayed with him, behind his closed eyelids in a phosphorescent glow. Eurydice moved between the chairs and tables, hands trailing idly across the heads of the customers, as though she blessed them.

Christian laughed to himself. A beer before work and a glass of brandy had made him drunk. He supposed it was reassuring – there had been a time when even a whole bottle of Absinthe did nothing but give him a headache. At least now he could see her, even if she was almost indistinguishable from the Green Fairy.

"With my brandy eyes," he continued, opening his eyes and watching the bar as the punters ignored him. "I'm talking to myself."

"You were the one. You were the one."

He looked up from the piano, and she was gone. Christian felt a twinge of sadness at this, although it was expected. Muses, Sirens, even Eurydice – they didn't belong to the mortal world. They were creatures of the Underworld, moving through dreams and drunken, drug-filled mists, briefly touching the inspired few on their fevered crows.

He saw now that there had been no hope for Satine – how could a Siren and a Muse be safe with Orpheus? Even in death, she could not be safe. Christian had an idea that he was binding her to him, forcing her away from the afterlife and condemning her to the life of a shade on earth.

"Here I go again looking for your face." He'd followed strange women across Paris because they had one of Satine's features - a flash of red hair, sapphire eyes, pale skin, long legs… It was useless, he knew. But in his dreams, he followed them, and at their door they turned, and it was her smiling face that giggled and said "You found me!" In the warm light of day, they turned and their strange faces frowned at him before shutting the door.

"And I realize that I should look for someone else. But you were the one."

"C'etait toi."

He whispered the last phrase, and for a moment, allowed his hands to rest over the keys placidly. The bar continued its prattle and chatter without him. He was suddenly tired of it all, tired of the way his work fell on deaf ears. At the Moulin Rouge, his music was the soundtrack of the summer, and it was as if life had simply been created for him, for that moment; to wake up next to his lover and hear his words resounding across a theatre. He'd heard the actors reciting their lines in cafes and bars – once, he'd even seen his opus scrawled across the side of a building:  The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return.

Satine's death had ended all that. The cafes and theatre were silenced and the graffiti quietly cleaned off. It was quite silly and egotistical to miss all that, he knew, but writing had been his opium and without it he was numb. Satine was dead, and he'd thought that that would be the end. He thought that he would stay alive long enough to write their story, and then – oblivion.

But there were still things left unsaid, images and ideas that he needed to express. It would take a lifetime to say it all, and perhaps that was what Satine wanted. Perhaps she had seen that all he needed was a time to reflect, to remember, and then the Muses would speak again and he would recite their words to the world until his tongue was stopped by old age and death.

He wanted to create something beautiful, a Platonic ideal of a song, a poem, a novel. He wanted to be quoted and discussed by the critics. He wanted his music and words to be so powerful that they could bring back the dead. He wanted someone to touch him on the shoulder and say thank you. For years I've searched for the words I need to say and you've just given them to me. Thank you. And he would smile back at them. There would be nothing left to say.

He wanted a kaleidoscope of colour to erupt from his fingers and turn the music into a carnival.

The customers all jumped and spun around as Christian's fingers smashed against the piano, left hand pounding out a single definitive chord, his right hand sailing up and down the keys, a fast, hot, syncopated riff that made several people cheer, despite its frequent off-key notes; the bald man still watching Christian through the mirror smiled and raised his glass, looking somewhat relieved.

Christian smiled to himself, as the manager behind the bar gaped at his handsome but not too talented piano player. Christian's hands slowed, and a song he had heard before – had Satie written it? – a song that brought him back to slow summer evenings, sitting underneath a blue night sky and listening to the bar echo with the voices of its patrons, began to emerge from the piano strings.

"It's nine o'clock on a Saturday – the regular crowd shuffles in," he sang, hearing several delighted cries from the regulars, who'd sung the song into those iridescent summer evenings. "There's an old man sitting next to me, making love to his tonic and gin."

"He says son, can you play me a memory? I'm not really sure how it goes. But it's sad, and it's sweet, and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man's clothes."

By now, several loud drunken voices rose up, singing along with Christian, reminding him of the Cockney pubs back home that he'd passed, hearing strains of "Knees Up, Mother Brown" and the "Lambeth Walk" echoing across London. It was the same, and yet here in Paris it seemed so much more profound; a joining of voices and spirits, worries forgotten as the Muses danced on the tables.

Christian could barely hear himself as the chorus rolled around and every voice in the place burst out.

"Sing us a song, you're the piano man; sing us a song tonight. Well, we're all in the mood for a melody, and you got us feeling alright."

The manager called last orders, perhaps hoping that this would return the customers to their usual gossip, but it seemed to inflame them even more; the alcohol and music flowed together, which did not surprise Christian. After all, the Green Fairy did nothing but sing, did she not?

Satie's song was lost as customers sang different verses and choruses, vying for the loudest voice, until only snatches could be heard.

Now John at the bar is a friend of mine – sing us a song – practicing politics – believe this is killing me – sounds like a carnival – what are you doing here – probably will be for life

Christian smiled a little sadly as the customers began to put on their coats and say good night. "Yes, they're sharing a drink called loneliness, but it's better than drinking alone," he sang, gazing at the smoke, slowly dancing up to the ceiling, tracing out the form of a woman in its columns. He'd touched them, yes: maybe not in any serious or important way – it hadn't even been his song – but he felt it was a start nonetheless.

"All the words have been spoken," he sang to the smoke, seeing the ghost woman turn and wink at him. "And the prophecy fulfilled. But I just can't decide where to go." She danced, slowly, provocatively, and Christian had the feeling that she wasn't dancing to this song, but to one he would write in the future.

"Yes, it's been quite a day, and I should go to sleep." The customers were filtering out now, the bar staff wearing their own coats to clean the tables haphazardly with dry cloths. Usually, Christian too would be putting on his coat, shutting the piano lid and hurrying out. Tonight though, the Muse still danced.

"But tomorrow I will wake up and I'll know that I've got to begin again."

He sighed as the smoke woman smiled and winked once again, blowing a kiss whilst she dissipated in the manager's waving hands as he said goodnight to the leaving staff. He looked expectantly at Christian as the pianist stared at the keys, touching them faintly in a goodbye.

"And so it goes, and so it goes… And you're the only one who knows."

Christian glanced at the saucer that served to hold his tips. Resting on top of the loose change and odd note from an extremely appreciative customer was a thin white card, looking as brittle and fragile as bone. Carefully, Christian picked it up, holding it between his thumb and index finger.

In a swirling cursive that tried to be fancier than the cheap paper it was printed on, were the words High Class Music Publishers.

Turning the card over, his heart thumping, Christian read the neat blocked letters someone had written in black ink.

If these songs are your own, you've got real talent. Come see me at 9 tomorrow morning. And then an address.

Christian turned the card back over. He'd never heard of High Class Music Publishing, and it wasn't really what he wanted to do – songs were all well and good, but the need for prose ran through his bloodstream like fevered kisses in the quiet of the night.

But at least it was a start, he thought, shutting the piano lid and shoving his tips into a coat pocket. He walked out into the dark night and sang under his breath.

C'etait toi

~ Fin ~

Songs (in chronological order):

She's Got A Way

The Night Is Still Young

C-Etait Toi (You Were The One)

("Christian's Riff") Scenes From An Italian Restaurant

Piano Man

Got To Begin Again

And So It Goes