Father Knows Best
Disclaimer: Don't sue me. I have nothing you could take, except my Moulin Rouge DVD and my Moulin Rouge and Moulin Rouge 2 (YAY!) Soundtracks. And you'll have to pry those out of my cold, dead fingers...
Author's Note: A companion piece to Sparkle. It's about Christian's life before Satine. Again, reviews are very, very welcome. :-)
* * *
"Christian, could you come here, please?"
Christian, a young boy of twenty-something, glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the voice. He had been gazing out the window, daydreaming again. Actually, he had planned to begin work on his novel... but that was just in theory. In theory, he was always working on his novel. There was not a word written as of yet. "Yes, Father."
He laid down the empty sheet of paper and made his way to his father's office. Even at home, the elderly man was constantly working. He was often heard to say that twenty-four hours was simply not enough time to get all the work done, plus be bothered with a family. Christian's mother, Elizabeth, always scowled when she heard him say that. Of course, she was always scowling at Peter. Christian supposed it was her way of getting back at her husband for convincing her to marry him.
In all the years he'd been alive, he had never once seen his parents show one bit of affection towards each other. In fact, he had once convinced himself that his parents had found him by the side of the road and decided to keep him. The thought still lingered in his mind as a possibility.
He appeared before his father. "You called?"
The man he called 'Father' glanced up at him beneath bushy eyebrows. "Good, you haven't lost your hearing." The older man went back to scribbling figures in a notepad for several minutes.
Christian fidgeted slightly, staring over his father's shoulder at a songbird sitting on a tree limb outside the window. He only wished that he was as free as the bird was to get away. "Someday I'll fly away," he whispered beneath his breath, thinking it a wonderful title for a song. That was a strange thought in itself. He had never even thought of writing a song before. It might be something to consider, seeing as his book wasn't going anywhere. Of course, neither was he.
Finally, Peter closed the book. "Sit down, Christian." That was another thing, he never called him 'son.' That was, in fact, the reason Christian had once been so convinced that these people were not his parents. "I'd like to talk to you."
"Go ahead, Father."
"As you know, I've been the head of the family business since my father passed it on to me before he died. We both know that I won't be around forever (and Elizabeth can't seem to wait for that day). Anyway, my boy... I don't want you to be surprised when I pass the business on to you. I'm making the announcement at the banquet this weekend."
Christian, who had been forcing himself to pay attention, froze. "What?" It was the only word he could manage.
His father seemed not to notice his shock. "I'll be so proud of you, my boy... running the family business just like all my fathers before me. They all worked tremendously hard to keep it working as well as it did, and I expect you to work just as hard, if not harder, as your old man has."
Again, "What?" But he was past the frozen stage now. His mind was racing. From the moment Peter had said 'pass the business on to you,' there had been only one thought, escape. He had to get away.
"I know you'll work hard... breaking your back day in and day out, with no time for anything else. I know it's the best thing for you, boy. Father knows best, after all." He was making it sound like working yourself to death was a joy and privilege, and also that it was the best thing for you. Was he crazy? "So Christian, what do you think?"
Fly away... fly away... fly away. "No."
Now it was his father's turn to look shocked. "What?"
Christian stood abruptly, nearly knocking his chair over backwards. "I don't want the family business. I don't want your life." He took a breath, shocked at his presumptuousness. He had never dared to talk back to his father before, because Father knew best. That's what he had always been told, and he had never argued... until now. Something inside him broke loose. "I want to go to the Moulin Rouge."
Whoah. Where had that come from? It didn't matter. He was about to go on, to tell his father exactly what he thought, when Peter exploded. "THE MOULIN ROUGE!" Dead silence. His father moved slowly, carefully around the desk, moving like a deadly boa constrictor that had sighted its prey. Christian couldn't move. He wanted to take back every word he had said, or better yet, to just sink into the floor and die, or just die... anything to get away from that glare. Then his father spoke. "You'll end up wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a cancan dancer!"
"I... I...." Christian swallowed, trying to form words with his too-dry mouth. "I d-don't c-c-care, Father." Wow... he'd said it. His brazenness made him bolder still. "I want to fly away from here, Father. I want to leave all this to yesterday." Another swallow. "You know what, Father?" Peter said nothing. He was stricken silent by what his son was saying. Christian was bolder still. "You DON'T know best, Father. So there."
With his chin held high, Christian turned and walked out of the room, never once looking back to say good bye or give one last glance to the man he was leaving behind. If he had looked, he would have seen a tear run down Peter's wrinkled old face. It was a thing that had never been seen in Peter's household and would never be seen again. Three weeks later, Peter died of a broken heart. For he had possessed a heart after all, despite popular belief, and Christian had shattered it.
But Christian knew none of this as he packed only what he could carry in his suitcase and marched out of the house, pausing only to kiss his mother on the cheek and bid her farewell. Then he was gone to Paris, to Montmartre. And that is where he met the infamous Toulouse-Latrec. And that meeting inevitably led to the Moulin Rouge.
* * *
Before he knew what was happening, Christian found himself in the midst of the underworld creatures. The rich of Paris mingled with the lowlife prostitutes that flashed the brightly colored cancan skirts. Each girl seemed determined to put on a better show than the rest, to attract the wealthiest customer. Little did they know that the wealthiest one there was already waiting for his whore and was not distracted by the flurry of dancers competing on the dance floor.
Soon Christian discovered that he was quite enjoying this strange place. It gave him a sense of liberation, like he was breaking the last taboo his parents had set in place for him. Drawn by the Argentinean's best tux, the women flocked to him, lifting their colored skirts and dancing provocatively around him. The atmosphere of the place was almost intoxicating.
After a while, Toulouse brought Christian over to a table and told him their plan. He would be meeting with a Miss Satine, who was supposedly the most famed prostitute of the Moulin Rouge, totally alone.
"Alone?"
"Yes," Toulouse lisped. "Totawy awone."
Christian swallowed hard. Alone with this woman... he had a bad feeling about this. But before he could think about it further, the music abruptly stopped and the lights dimmed, save for a single spotlight. It focused on the ceiling, where a shower of glitter was now raining down. Then a woman appeared... the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His mouth went dry.
"It's her," Toulouse declared. "The Spawkling Diamond."
Christian barely heard his friend. The woman was singing with the voice of an angel. "The French are glad to die for love..."
END
Disclaimer: Don't sue me. I have nothing you could take, except my Moulin Rouge DVD and my Moulin Rouge and Moulin Rouge 2 (YAY!) Soundtracks. And you'll have to pry those out of my cold, dead fingers...
Author's Note: A companion piece to Sparkle. It's about Christian's life before Satine. Again, reviews are very, very welcome. :-)
* * *
"Christian, could you come here, please?"
Christian, a young boy of twenty-something, glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the voice. He had been gazing out the window, daydreaming again. Actually, he had planned to begin work on his novel... but that was just in theory. In theory, he was always working on his novel. There was not a word written as of yet. "Yes, Father."
He laid down the empty sheet of paper and made his way to his father's office. Even at home, the elderly man was constantly working. He was often heard to say that twenty-four hours was simply not enough time to get all the work done, plus be bothered with a family. Christian's mother, Elizabeth, always scowled when she heard him say that. Of course, she was always scowling at Peter. Christian supposed it was her way of getting back at her husband for convincing her to marry him.
In all the years he'd been alive, he had never once seen his parents show one bit of affection towards each other. In fact, he had once convinced himself that his parents had found him by the side of the road and decided to keep him. The thought still lingered in his mind as a possibility.
He appeared before his father. "You called?"
The man he called 'Father' glanced up at him beneath bushy eyebrows. "Good, you haven't lost your hearing." The older man went back to scribbling figures in a notepad for several minutes.
Christian fidgeted slightly, staring over his father's shoulder at a songbird sitting on a tree limb outside the window. He only wished that he was as free as the bird was to get away. "Someday I'll fly away," he whispered beneath his breath, thinking it a wonderful title for a song. That was a strange thought in itself. He had never even thought of writing a song before. It might be something to consider, seeing as his book wasn't going anywhere. Of course, neither was he.
Finally, Peter closed the book. "Sit down, Christian." That was another thing, he never called him 'son.' That was, in fact, the reason Christian had once been so convinced that these people were not his parents. "I'd like to talk to you."
"Go ahead, Father."
"As you know, I've been the head of the family business since my father passed it on to me before he died. We both know that I won't be around forever (and Elizabeth can't seem to wait for that day). Anyway, my boy... I don't want you to be surprised when I pass the business on to you. I'm making the announcement at the banquet this weekend."
Christian, who had been forcing himself to pay attention, froze. "What?" It was the only word he could manage.
His father seemed not to notice his shock. "I'll be so proud of you, my boy... running the family business just like all my fathers before me. They all worked tremendously hard to keep it working as well as it did, and I expect you to work just as hard, if not harder, as your old man has."
Again, "What?" But he was past the frozen stage now. His mind was racing. From the moment Peter had said 'pass the business on to you,' there had been only one thought, escape. He had to get away.
"I know you'll work hard... breaking your back day in and day out, with no time for anything else. I know it's the best thing for you, boy. Father knows best, after all." He was making it sound like working yourself to death was a joy and privilege, and also that it was the best thing for you. Was he crazy? "So Christian, what do you think?"
Fly away... fly away... fly away. "No."
Now it was his father's turn to look shocked. "What?"
Christian stood abruptly, nearly knocking his chair over backwards. "I don't want the family business. I don't want your life." He took a breath, shocked at his presumptuousness. He had never dared to talk back to his father before, because Father knew best. That's what he had always been told, and he had never argued... until now. Something inside him broke loose. "I want to go to the Moulin Rouge."
Whoah. Where had that come from? It didn't matter. He was about to go on, to tell his father exactly what he thought, when Peter exploded. "THE MOULIN ROUGE!" Dead silence. His father moved slowly, carefully around the desk, moving like a deadly boa constrictor that had sighted its prey. Christian couldn't move. He wanted to take back every word he had said, or better yet, to just sink into the floor and die, or just die... anything to get away from that glare. Then his father spoke. "You'll end up wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a cancan dancer!"
"I... I...." Christian swallowed, trying to form words with his too-dry mouth. "I d-don't c-c-care, Father." Wow... he'd said it. His brazenness made him bolder still. "I want to fly away from here, Father. I want to leave all this to yesterday." Another swallow. "You know what, Father?" Peter said nothing. He was stricken silent by what his son was saying. Christian was bolder still. "You DON'T know best, Father. So there."
With his chin held high, Christian turned and walked out of the room, never once looking back to say good bye or give one last glance to the man he was leaving behind. If he had looked, he would have seen a tear run down Peter's wrinkled old face. It was a thing that had never been seen in Peter's household and would never be seen again. Three weeks later, Peter died of a broken heart. For he had possessed a heart after all, despite popular belief, and Christian had shattered it.
But Christian knew none of this as he packed only what he could carry in his suitcase and marched out of the house, pausing only to kiss his mother on the cheek and bid her farewell. Then he was gone to Paris, to Montmartre. And that is where he met the infamous Toulouse-Latrec. And that meeting inevitably led to the Moulin Rouge.
* * *
Before he knew what was happening, Christian found himself in the midst of the underworld creatures. The rich of Paris mingled with the lowlife prostitutes that flashed the brightly colored cancan skirts. Each girl seemed determined to put on a better show than the rest, to attract the wealthiest customer. Little did they know that the wealthiest one there was already waiting for his whore and was not distracted by the flurry of dancers competing on the dance floor.
Soon Christian discovered that he was quite enjoying this strange place. It gave him a sense of liberation, like he was breaking the last taboo his parents had set in place for him. Drawn by the Argentinean's best tux, the women flocked to him, lifting their colored skirts and dancing provocatively around him. The atmosphere of the place was almost intoxicating.
After a while, Toulouse brought Christian over to a table and told him their plan. He would be meeting with a Miss Satine, who was supposedly the most famed prostitute of the Moulin Rouge, totally alone.
"Alone?"
"Yes," Toulouse lisped. "Totawy awone."
Christian swallowed hard. Alone with this woman... he had a bad feeling about this. But before he could think about it further, the music abruptly stopped and the lights dimmed, save for a single spotlight. It focused on the ceiling, where a shower of glitter was now raining down. Then a woman appeared... the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His mouth went dry.
"It's her," Toulouse declared. "The Spawkling Diamond."
Christian barely heard his friend. The woman was singing with the voice of an angel. "The French are glad to die for love..."
END