Well, I just recently watched the televised version of Cabaret, oh the treasures one can find on youtube, and I fell in love with Alan Cumming's portrayal of the Emcee. And I was inspired to write this little thing. I'm thinking of adding a second part, told in the Emcee's point of view, but this can stand by itself.
Disclaimer: I don't own Cabaret.
I loved him.
That's right.
Loved.
Past tense.
Why did I love him? Well, I'm not even sure of that myself. He was handsome, definitely, but I suppose that's more of a reason for why I was attracted to him. Being attracted to someone and loving them isn't the same thing. No, it's not the same at all. Although, I suppose you have to be attracted to someone before you love them, right? Perhaps not. Well, at least a little bit. Oh, I don't know. Maybe it was his charisma that drew me to him. Then again, that was one of the only things he had, his charisma. He was so perfectly marvelous.
I remember how we met. It wasn't one of those love-at-first-sight types of things. No, not even close. It had been my first night working at the Kit Kat Club. I was just a young woman, born and raised in Berlin, who never even had any options to run out of, forced into a job as a showgirl. I thought the whole thing rather bleak.
I had been so nervous my first night performing. I'd been sure I was going to vomit, and my entire body, scantily clad as it were, was shaking uncontrollably. I couldn't even pay attention to my cue to go on, and one of other girls had to pull me on stage with her. The lights were blinding, the brassy music blaring, and I went through the rehearsed movements without any real thought. And then, the music lowered along with the lights, except for several spotlights, one of which was focused on me. I heard a voice say my stage name and a couple of whistles shot through the room; a pair of hands slid down my arms, a crotch pressed up against my rear, and that voice said a few more words before I was released. I had been unprepared for that, to say the least.
Of course, the other showgirls had forgotten to mention how charming the master of ceremonies was. He was, to put it lightly, overly friendly on the stage. I couldn't bear to even look in his direction for the duration of the show. But back in the dressing room, when everyone was changing and chatting away about their plans for the next day, I saw him. He was sitting bare-chested before a mirror, a cigarette in one hand, taking off his makeup: white face powder, black eyeliner, and dark, red lipstick. He caught sight of me in the reflection and smiled in an almost playful manner, raising his eyebrows.
"You're the new girl," he said. I only nodded my head once in response. I wasn't exactly sure how to act before him. Again, he smiled, and he turned around on the stool upon which he sat. "You got a name, sweetheart?"
"You know my name," I muttered, looking away. He gave a short laugh.
He took a long draw from the cigaretter and exhaled a cloud of bluish grey smoke. "I know your stage name, Ginger. But ah, I want to know your real name."
I glanced back at him for a moment before saying, "I need to go." I made for the exit, but he got up from the stool. At once, I stopped in my tracks. He was intimidating.
"Hey now, I'm not going to bite," he said, coming toward me. It wasn't until my back was pressed to a wall that I realized I had been making a slow retreat. He leaned a shoulder against the wall beside me, crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at me. "Unless you're into that sort of stuff, if you know what I mean." He winked at me.
One corner of my mouth rose in a small smile. Although I was nervous, there was something undeniably alluring about him. To this day, I still don't know what it was. He was so pale, and he had track marks on his arms; black hair that wasn't long or short, and a small, gold hoop in one ear. He was more beautiful than handsome, androgynous really, although that might have been because of the lipstick. Maybe it was that smile, that wicked smile that seemed to say, "Come here, and I'll show you a good time."
He did.
That night.
In an apartment above the club.
Why did I let him? To be honest, I have no idea. I'd never had a good time in my life, not really. I wanted to know what it felt like. It was perfectly marvelous, and I can't say that I regret it, because I don't. If I regret anything, it's that I loved him.
Loved.
Past tense.
Not anymore.
I found out that I wasn't the only girl to be claimed by him. It was a game he played; to try to see how quickly he could bed each new girl. There had even been a betting pool for how long it would take him to get me. Although, apparently I was his first virgin. All the other girls had dabbled in other…professions before coming here. I should have known at that point that he wasn't the type of guy I ought to be with. But I couldn't stay away from him. I was a moth drawn to his flame, or some other silly cliché.
Maybe it was because I had no one, and he was a someone. I can't think of any other reason that would make me return to him time and time again. Well, I did enjoy having a perfectly marvelous time. But that wasn't all it was about; he'd hold me afterward, talk to me, listen to me, make me feel…important. It never occurred to me that he might be the same way with every woman, and I never thought that I wasn't the only person receiving his attentions at the time. Maybe I hoped he loved me too.
He didn't.
Of course not.
I was shocked when I saw him kissing one of the cabaret boys backstage just before a show, though I shouldn't have been. I knew he played around with the men on stage just as much as he did with the women. I watched him do it. I thought it had been an act. I was wrong, and I was upset. I slapped him right across the face, shouted a few obscenities, and hurried off in a huff.
It was the talk of the backstage for the rest of the night. People whispered, glanced at me, and gossiped about the little girl who had no place doing such a thing. It was her own fault. That's how things were here, and she should have known that by now. But of course, as it was in the cabaret, new news became old news quickly, and the next night it seemed as though everyone had forgotten about my little display. It seemed that way. But it wasn't.
He didn't forget about it, and he wouldn't even acknowledge my presence for several days afterward. I don't blame him. I didn't want to talk to him either, or at least…that's what I told myself. But it was a lie. I needed him more than anything. Why? I wish I knew. I really wish I knew. And then he pulled me aside one night after a show, he kissed me, said he hadn't meant to hurt me, that he thought I knew. He said he wanted to make it up to me.
I should have known better.
But I loved him.
Loved.
Past tense.
That night, I didn't have such a good time. But it was still perfectly marvelous. After all, I'm alive, right? Sometimes I wish that I wasn't. Sometimes I wish he'd killed me after all.
He knelt over me on the bed, hands grasping my bare shoulders in an iron grip, shaking me like a rag doll.
"No one has ever paid me such disrespect before. Do you know what you have done, you little tart? Oh wait, you're not a tart. You're just a little girl who got herself into something that she didn't understand. I'll explain." He brought his face directly in front of mine, that playful smirk gone. I missed that smile. "I play with who I want, whoever I want. I don't care about you, never did. You are no more special than any of the others, so don't you ever think that you are. Maybe the next place you go, you will understand that."
He had his perfectly marvelous way with me, and I screamed and cried the whole time. I suppose that I'd wounded his pride by confronting him out in the open. His pride, like his charisma, was one of the only things he had. The fewer possessions one has, the more protective one is of them.
"I won't kill you tonight," he whispered in my ear, as I lied shuddering on the bed, "because I'm a nice guy. And I don't care what you decide to do with your sorry life. But if I ever see you again, I promise that I will end it."
He left. When I finally managed to stop crying, I dressed, packed up my few belongings, and fled from the building. I never looked back, not once.
Twelve years and a war later, and here I am. Now, he could call me a tart and he'd be right. Twelve years in motel rooms, cheap apartments, and on the streets have changed me. I'm not that little girl anymore. No, I'm not. I loosely clutch the streetlight, waiting for my most favorite client. He doesn't come every night, but almost. Of course, I have others. He's the only one that I actually look forward to seeing though. He likes to take me to his room, too much pride to conduct our business in an alley. Ah, here he comes. Just as pale, but skinnier, with many more track marks, and a tattoo on his arm; disheveled, shoulder-length hair, no earring, a cigarette in hand. Still perfectly marvelous in that androgynous way. But he's different too. Hard times have changed him as well. He's broken. I can't even begin to imagine what he was put through, or how he managed to survive. He didn't recognize me when he found me a few months ago, and he still doesn't.
Why should I want to tell him? I find the arrangement we have quite satisfactory. If he knew it was me, I might find myself dead in a gutter. No need to ruin a good thing. Now, I'm the one who plays with others. Now, he comes to me to have a good time. He might think that I need him. Maybe he doesn't, but it's not like he tells me. Either way, I don't. I have enough business without him. Everyone's looking for a little happiness, a distraction from their problems, in the aftermath of the war. No, he's the one that needs me. And sometimes, when we're having a perfectly marvelous time, he'll say my name. Not my street name. My name.
And I love it.
Not him.
I loved him.
That's past tense.
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