Monmartre, Paris, August 1912
"A story about a time, a story about a place, a story about the people. But above all things, a story about love. A love that would live forever." The room was dark, and the shadows danced by the light of a single candle as Rose let the novel's final lines sink in. Closing the pages gently, Rose found a lump rising in her throat as emotion swept over her. The elegant poignancy of those words haunted her, and the desolation that they spoke of was something that Rose had come to understand intimately these past months. Without warning, a wall of anguish welled up inside, and a shaky sob escaped her lips. Before she could compose herself, heavy tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.
These moments always came when they were least expected, when a mundane happening or an innocent word brought muted memories back to life, and the pain of losing Jack suddenly became far more than she could bear. This young writer's heartfelt words of love and loss had served only to remind her of how deep the scars that laced her own heart were. As the tears continued to course down her face, Rose stopped trying to fight the sobs and lost herself yet again in a fog of grief. She barely noticed as the heavy bound book slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor with a thud. Then again, not much seemed to penetrate the wall of sorrow and confusion that had enveloped her for the past three months. Rose's sobs echoed across the quiet summer night, and when finally she drifted into an exhausted sleep, all was still.
Even in the depths of anguish, morning will arrive, and Rose stirred sleepily as night gave way to a languid summer's day. The book still lay abandoned on the floor, and without knowing why, she reached for it. She wasn't even sure why she had bought it- it was buried under a mountain of clothing and dust at a second hand store, and while she certainly couldn't afford to waste her money so frivolously, she had felt inexplicably drawn to it upon reading the opening lines. Something about it fascinated her- the words spoke to her heart, and allowed her a glimpse into the author's very soul.
The author. She had never heard of him, and even now, had to briefly glance at the cover to remember who he was. "Calvert," she whispered, trying to memorise the name. "Christian Calvert." She wondered about him, this unknown writer whose sad tale so closely paralleled her own. Who was he? Where was he now? Had he learned to love again, or had he remained lost forever in his grief? Rose had puzzled over this question many times herself, wondering if it was possible to care so deeply again, if such a miracle could happen twice. She knew that life must go on, but every time she tried to imagine her life rebuilt, she could conjure up little more than a blank canvas. And deep inside, she felt that something fundamental in her had altered forever after losing Jack. She would never again be able to blindly place her faith in the power of love to change the world. It just didn't happen. "What about you, Christian Calvert?" Rose whispered to herself. "Do you still hold onto your bohemian ideals? Do you still believe that there is nothing worse than a life lived without love? Or has life shown you too many things that are indeed worse? Flipping open the front page, the book's dedication sprang to Rose's eyes. "For my darling Satine. Come what may, I will love you until the end of time."
Snapping the book shut, Rose jumped out of bed. There was so much sadness in the world, and sometimes Rose knew that she had to escape from it just to stay sane. With an air of forced jauntiness, she flung open the curtains, letting the sunlight stream into the room. The street below was awash with life- unusual for this area, Rose thought. She had been here a month, and sometimes its down at heel air depressed her. Once, she knew, this had been the centre of…she glanced back at the book lying on the floor to refresh her memory…Christian's bohemian revolution. A place where anything went, where impossible dreams were dreamt, where writers and musicians and artists allowed their imaginations to take flight. Where life was defined by the search for truth, beauty, freedom, but above all things, love. Rose inwardly scoffed at such fanciful notions. "No wonder they didn't last. Building their lives upon such shaky foundations- they were doomed to failure." In fact, the Moulin Rouge itself was just across the road, and gazing out the window, Rose could see its derelict shape silhouetted against the bright sun, the broken windows and rotting boards nothing more now than a symbol of lost dreams.
Paris. It had seemed as good a place as any to come in those dark days following Jack's death. On her better days, its beauty lifted her soul, and there were times where she felt close to Jack here, could imagine him exclaiming in delight at the work of the local artists, or being inspired by the passing parade of people, each with a story that he could bring out on paper. A vague flicker of inspiration still danced deep within whenever she thought of performing on stage one day, and Paris seemed like a place where such foolish dreams could be indulged. In fact, there was an audition this afternoon, a play being performed by a small theatre company in the outskirts of the city. In a small moment of determination yesterday, Rose had made the decision to take a chance, to audition for one of the larger roles. In the cold light of day, doubt surfaced but Jack's words echoed in her mind. "Make it count." Surely, if nothing else, she could do this for Jack. Surely somehow she could summon the will to carry on.
