Marie stood in awe, as she looked around herself "what happened to this place?"
She was right to ask, everything was in a half-light, and the curtains were ripped and tattered, full of holes where the moths had eaten at it. The floorboards creaked and everything was covered in nearly ten years worth of dust.
Her sister, Yvonne, opened a curtain, which let in more light through the frosted windows. You could now see how large the dance hall was, how the stage, though covered in dust, was obviously barely used.
Yvonne and Marie were bored that afternoon, the snow was melting and they had nothing to do. They decided to explore their side of the city, which is where they found the old town of Montmarte.
Their parents had always told them never to go there, that it was a village of sin where bohemians and whores ran drunk, but that just made it more intriguing.
So they were expecting a town of flashing colours and drunken happiness, the centre of art and music of Paris.
But what they found was the ghost of what had been, the echoes of the music of the children of the revolution playing, the laughter of the dancing girls and the cries of pleasure from rich gentlemen. But all of it was gone.
They came across this old, run-down dance hall, with broken letters above it spelling "Moulin Rouge" though the G had long crashed to the ground and is lying against the boarded up doors, though they still understood the name of the place-on top of the entrance building there was a red windmill, years and years out of use. It and the words 'Moulin rouge!' were faded red and were decked with light bulbs, long out of use.
They had snuck in though a crack in the side passage, no one had been in the dance hall for eight years and it was boarded up and clearly abandoned.
As they walked towards the main dance hall they saw the remains of a great elephant.
Not real of course but an elephant shaped house, they could inside through the balcony into a room, a love nest with faded colour.
They walked towards the entrance of the dance hall; the path lined with lanterns, long ago extinguished, the grass unkempt and overgrown over the years. The front doors red paint peeling, one hanging of its last hinge, ready to fall, which it did when the opened it and stepped inside the ruins of the notorious nightclub.
There were platforms and a stage and an area of seating, thick with dust and age, tattered and faded red velvet curtains hung by the stage.
Marie looked across the spacious stage and in a speck of a moment something glinted. She was intrigued at this bright object amidst such a dark and dank place. She walked towards the stage and climbed the stairs, coughing as the dust came up at her feet. As she neared the object she realised it was an old hairpiece, silver and shining, fallen out of the hair of some beautiful actress as she walked across the stage. But what lay next to this beautiful ornament puzzled her.
A single, red, rose. Freshly cut just lying next to the hairpiece. Marie picked it up and smelt it. She sighed; it was so exquisite and perfect. She wondered who had left it next to this hairpiece, centre stage.
Yvonne was wandering through the seating area; she could almost hear the applause still going, the clapping and stomping and roaring of the madames and monsieur's in their evening wear, out for a night at the theatre or opera perhaps. Whatever the show might've been, Yvonne knew as she heard these echoes of applause and encores that it must have been stunning.
Marie bent down and looked closely at the hairpiece, careful not to touch it. She wasn't quite sure, but she felt that the ornament shouldn't be touched, this is where it lay.
It was dazzling, Marie thought, are those…real diamonds? She shook her head-nothing that precious would be left on a stage floor. It was curved and silver with three petal shapes on either side of it, these shapes covered in what appeared to be diamonds. It then had two threads of diamond beading, probably that hung across the forehead. It was such a strange, unusual piece of jewellery, it almost looked exotic but it still had a glamorous European feel to it. A cross between the west and the east, the glamour of the jewels but you could almost smell the exotic spices of the east.
Marie shivered, the warmth that the hairpiece produced was gone, she could feel the true coldness of the dead theatre, and she could even smell how cold it was.
But then she heard a sneeze. She turned to say 'bless you' to her sister but Yvonne shrugged,
"It wasn't me," she stated, confused.
Marie looked around, scared in the shadows of this dead theatre. Who was there in the shadows? Marie jumped as she heard a cough and then a drunken hiccough. She looked around, scared out of her mind. She saw Yvonne and ran to her, they clutched onto each other, scared for each other.
"Who's there?" Marie called out cautiously, looking around. She heard a groan in the shadows and a clunk of a glass bottle. Marie walked forward towards the source of the noise, scared of who or what she'd find.
She saw a figure, slumped against a wall. As she got nearer she could tell it was an adult, male, hiccoughing and hungover. He looked up at her as she approached. She was scared. What if she was raped or bashed? What was she doing approaching some strange drunk in the shadows of an old abandoned theatre? But something told her that he was okay, an instinct told her it was safe.
Warily, she sat down next to him, and pulled the bottle of whisky from his hands. He looked at her, unsure, questioning the kindness in her eyes. His beard was unkempt and overgrown, like the grass outside. He had bags under his eyes, which were red rimmed with marks from tears down his face. He licked his parched lips and moved to snatch his bottle back, but Marie pulled it away. He looked straight at her, into her eyes and she could see the pain in his life, all in his gloomy hazel eyes. He looked at her in shock, his eyes filling with tears. He looked her hair, her skin, her nose and eyes, but then noticed the differences. He brushed away the tears.
"Give it back," he said slowly, reaching for the bottle, with a severe look on his face. She pitied him and stood up, walked towards the window and opened it. She placed the bottle out of it and heard it smash and as the strong alcohol seeped through the snow, she closed the window.
The whole time, Yvonne stood watching her sixteen-year-old sister approach this fully grown man in a drunken mist. She had always seen her do these things, fearlessly. She always had gone on instinct and impulse. If the homeless man seemed nice, she'd tête-à-tête with him for hours then bring him some biscuits. The stray dog which barked at everyone and, while their neighbour had gone to fetch their gun, she just went up towards him and held out her hand, patted the huge dog, which then she bonded with over an hour. No fears except about how starved the dog was and the whole time calculating what she could sneak from that nights dinner for the gaunt dog.
But this was different. The homeless man had nothing to say-born homeless and most probably would die homeless. The dog had not told them of any points of interest in its short life, they could only guess and invent all the wonderful adventures that the sweet dog must have had.
But this shell of a man had a story to tell. The sisters could sense it.
Marie sat next to the man just talking for 10 minutes, the whole while he was staring at her with a look of confusion and fascination. As Marie concluding her story of her name, and all her personal details, she looked at him.
"Et tu monsieur? What about tu? Have you got a name?" she asked, searching his face with her eyes, as if she'd find his name somewhere in it.
He looked away from her and shook his head. Her pale skin and long, wavy, red hair disturbed him. It almost like Sati- no, no it was better not to think of her.
He didn't want to think of her anymore, and his constant drinking deadened the pain.
The more he drank, the more he forgot.
He didn't want to remember.
She looked at him curiously. She wanted to know what had caused so much pain in this broken man.
She put her hand on his shoulder.
"How about I go again monsieur" she suggested "Je'mappelle Marie" and she pointed to herself, "Now you try"
He looked at her, and gave her a half-smile, one of very few smiles in the past ten years.
"Je'mappelle Christian" he said pointing to himself and he stumbled up onto his feet.
"Au revoirs" He called out to Marie, walking away through the aged seats, his back to her.
She stood up and ran after him.
"Wait! Wait monsieur! Do you have a home? If not you can-"
"Yes I have a small apartment" he cut her off and turned back around and began walking away from her again, through the velvet seats.
"I don't need your charity," he added bitterly.
Marie frowned and looked at the hunched over Christian, clearly hungover, staggering his way through the empty dance hall. She ran after him.
"Well then monsieur, I'll have to see for myself," she said cheekily and walked next to him, hooking her arm through his.
He looked at her "Why are you doing this?" he said quietly.
Marie merely smiled at him.
Yvonne came after them, wondering what in the world her sister was doing, going back to a strange mans home.
Marie talked the whole time. She told him about the time that Yvonne had gotten greedy and stolen a whole apple pie from their neighbour's window, and how Marie had blackmailed her to share the tasty delicacy. And about the time she rescued a kitten from the clutches of the wicked boys down the street.
He shivered as they walked away from the run down nightclub, and across the streets of Montmarte, cold with only a thin jacket on him.
He stopped and grimaced at the building they were approaching. Marie glanced to see what was wrong and saw the apartment block with the huge red letters spelling out
"L'amour" across one side of the building, the red paint peeling with age.
She smiled; to have the word 'Love' spelt across the side of where you lived would be amazing. To see the word every time she'd come home from work or the food markets. It warmed her.
She looked at Christian; his eyes were dark and his face full of pain, as if it hurt him to read such a word.
He closed his eyes, shook his head and walked towards the building.
"So this is where you live?" Marie asked.
"Yes"
Christian and Marie entered the building, Marie turned to look at Yvonne who shook her head and turned to go home. Marie entered and they climbed the old, rickety stairs until they reached the third floor where he opened the door to number 19.
The room was dark, the only light coming from the windows, one pointing towards the rundown Moulin rouge, the other with part of the L in the "L'amour" edging into the window, and Marie heard a canary sing. She turned to the far corner and there was a green canary in a cage, singing with all its heart. But she turned to the rest of the room.
Marie stood in awe. Every wall was coated in pieces of paper, all pinned to the walls. She looked closely at the nearest sheets and saw words and phrases that were continuously there. 'Satine', 'Moulin Rouge', 'Zidler', 'Duke' and 'Love'. Did he write all of this?
She turned to see an old typewrite on a dusty wooden table. Both were covered in dust and cobwebs.
"Are you a writer?" she asked him in awe.
"I can write, yes" he said blankly, walking towards a cupboard. He opened it and pulled out a dusty bottle filled with lime green liquor. The label, though faded, had the word 'Absinthe' and had a picture of a fairy, a young girl, blonde, in a sparkling outfit all in green with sparkling green wings holding a glass of the drink the bottle held. She was surrounded by magical looking glitter, all green.
He sat down and grabbed a shot glass and poured himself a drink.
"What is that stuff?" she asked, wrinkling her nose at the strong smell of the alcohol.
"Absinthe, otherwise known as 'the Green Fairy'" he said, pointing to the picture of the fairy on the label. "Want some?" he added, offering her the bottle.
"Ummm, No merci, I don't drink" she lied, unsure of what he would do to her if she got drunk on this unfamiliar green liquid.
"There's always a first, besides if you're going to drink anything, absinthe's the best choice, you see so many amazing things, especially in your first glass" he suggested.
"What did you see in your first glass then?" she asked, now curious.
"Diamonds, Truth, Beauty, Freedom, Love, and the Moulin Rouge" he said, suddenly a glint came to his eyes, obviously remembering a happy moment in his life, whether it was dream or real it brought warmth to his sad face. You could see the remains of a happy life flicker through his face, which gave him a young boyish look, naïve, and idealistic, within moments it was gone.
Marie frowned. She recognised Truth, Beauty, Freedom, Love-they were the bohemian ideals, you would expect that from a drunken writer in Montmarte, but diamonds?
"You saw…diamonds?" she said, perplexed at what he meant.
He nodded; remembering his first drink with his friends, then shook the thought away. "Yes, the most beautiful diamonds you'll ever see, the type that you only meet once in an eternity".
He gazed off, diving into his memories of the first time he saw Satine. The sparkling Diamond.
"I'm sorry monsieur, I don't think I understand" Marie said shaking her head. What did he mean by meeting diamonds?
"When I had my first glass, it was only just after arriving in Paris-I'm English you see. Anyway, I had come to Montmarte to be part of the centre of the bohemian revolution with what they called the children of the revolution" he paused, wondering whether he should continue.
"In those days I was young, naïve, I was only just 21…hmmm that means it must've been…eight years ago, yes eight."
"Anyway, my apartment was right underneath a group of bohemians, a dwarfed French artist-Henri Marie Toulouse Lautrec, Satie a composer, Audrey a writer, Maric and a narcoleptic Argentinean performer…I, I don't think I remember his name…did he even have one? They had called themselves the 'children of the revolution'. They all worked for the Moulin rouge, which was right across the street"
"The day I met these people, was when some lose floorboards in their apartment gave way when the narcoleptic Argentinean fell unconscious and fell through my ceiling, as he lay there amongst the rubble in the middle of this room, Toulouse came through my door, dressed as a nun, babbling on about the Argentinean and his awful disease, narcolepsy, which is where he would constantly fall unconscious"
"Because the Argentinean was unconscious, they needed to find someone else to read the part of the young, sensitive, Swiss, poet, goat-herder in their new play-something very contemporary called 'Spectacular, Spectacular'."
"Before I knew it I was upstairs, standing in for the unconscious Argentinean, unfortunately there seemed to be some artistic differences between Audrey (the writer) and Satie (the composer). I suddenly took inspiration and came up with a phrase that fitted the music perfectly. When Toulouse said that Audrey and I should both write Spectacular, Spectacular; suddenly Audrey left in a fury and I was left to write for them. They were unsure as to how they would get Zidler to agree when I had no experience in such writing. They decided that I would present my work to the head courtesan of the Moulin Rouge and she would convince Zidler of my worthiness"
"In celebration Toulouse got out his favourite drink, Absinthe, and poured a shot for
all of us"
"Suddenly, the fairy on the bottle came alive, she flew up in front of us and sung the lyrics I had just written for them;
'The hills are alive, with the sound of music'
As we all laughed, darker, harder music came on as she danced for us. In a drunken stupor we climber out onto the side of the building chanting Beauty, Truth, Freedom and Love with the green fairy continuing to dance and sing. She lead us to the Moulin and we were sucked in like a spiral as her eyes turned red and she screamed"
He suddenly looked up at Marie, realising he had said more than he planned. She looked at him, wondering if he would continue.
He looked at her. He wasn't sure if wanted to say anymore or not, whether he wanted to bring up what he had spent the past 8 years burying. He wasn't sure if he wanted to continue to when he had met…her, the woman that had changed his life forever. He wasn't sure if he was even comfortable telling this young girl about Toulouse, Satie and the Argentinean. Would she even understand, this girl, half his age? He had always been sure about everything, back when Satine was in the world, but now he was never sure, always questioning everything he did, never trusting himself.
He got up and went back to the cupboard, and got out a bag of seed for the canary. He went to the cage and took the small green bird out of the cage. He was surprised by the long life Satines bird had been granted. She was now 9 years old, and she'd soon be gone, another remnant of Satine, out the window.
Marie watched him as he carefully fed the bird. This was a different Christian than the drunken mess she had found that afternoon in the Moulin, as he gently poured the seed into the bowl, making sure he did not over fill it. Then he changed the water with such precision. She saw that this was one of those things where it just helped him keep going, no matter how bad things had been.
She so desperately wanted to know more about his experience at le Moulin Rouge.
He looked at her, she looked so young, he wondered if she was even alive at the time of Satines death, the years seemed longer than eight years definitely; it had to have been at least 20 years that he had spent in a drunken stupor.
"Umm, how old are you Marie?" he asked quietly.
She was surprised, this was one of the first times he had initiated conversation without the subject being the drink that he was so fond of.
"Sixteen last week" she said proudly, soon she'd leave home and go out by herself into the world, just like this man had, and have an amazing adventure just like him, well she assumed that's what had happened at first to this man.
He looked, sixteen! So young, he remembered being such a young naïve sixteen year old, dreaming of nothing but running away to the centre of the bohemian revolution, not knowing anything outside his small English home.
"Continue with your story, I don't think you explained what you meant by 'diamonds'" she said tentatively.
He sighed; he had known it was coming.
"When we arrived at the Moulin rouge, it was a blur of sights, smells, and this amazing music I had never heard before. It was one of the most intense moments of my life, up until then at least."
"The dancing girls, the whores of the apocalypse, the four that Zidler called 'His diamond dogs', Zidler was the owner, the ringmaster of it all, the man who conducted the frenzied cancan which got so energetic and frenzied that it killed the weaker girls at times. These diamond dogs, Nini legs in the air, China Doll, Arabia and Mme Fromage, conducted this wild dance and had everything from money to diamonds thrown at them from the wealthy gentlemen who delighted in their company. "
"Suddenly all the lights dimmed and shimmers of faint blue glitter surrounded us. We all turned to see the sparkling diamond being lowered on her trapeze above our heads. She was beautiful, the finest jewel in the world, in a sparling almost blue corset costume with a black top hat and her stunning red hair all in curls over one shoulder, contrasting with her snow white skin. She was a courtesan and she sold her love to men with her beauty. As she started to sing and sway on her trapeze the music grew to a huge crescendo and Toulouse discussed at a table with me that I had gotten a private appointment with the Sparkling Diamond, the jewel hanging from the ceiling, an interview with Satine."
He paused. He realised that every time he decided to tell a little more he couldn't stop.
He just saw her fiery red hair and porcelain skin and he just wouldn't stop talking about the woman who changed his life. This girl entranced him; she resembled Satine in more ways than just her hair and skin. Her nose was the same; her figure was the same, her hair curled in the same way. It was strange and it hurt to look at her, but he couldn't pull away his gaze.
Marie sat there puzzled. Satine, Satine, it was such a familiar name, she knew she had heard it somewhere before but she couldn't remember where. His description of this beauty made her uneasy. It sounded like herself, the hair, the skin, the way he was looking at her suggested something as well, this Satine was obviously once his lover and obviously he still wasn't over her. She kept away from his gaze, not sure if she wanted to hear more of his captivating story.
She got up and pulled one of the sheets of paper off the wall. It had a something handwritten at the bottom, saying 'pg 67'. She read over it.
"As I lay there on the bed, wrapped in a grey and scratchy blanket, Toulouse came into the room. I shivered as his words ran through me, I didn't care, I just sat and stared straight out of the window, at the lit up night club. Satine was out of my life and I never wanted to hear anything about love again.
I felt so absolutely heartbroken and wretched that I was beyond tears. A day ago I had the greatest thing in the world and it was taken away from me. And what for? Security, money, glamour and superficial love. I wanted to cry and let it all out; get the weight off my shoulders, but my eyes would not let me cry. It is like I've forgotten how to cry, its like I'm just a raw egg of emotion and could break at the slightest knock or bump.
What was Toulouse saying? '' I wanted to shut out what he had said. I screamed go away until he did. I didn't want to think about what Toulouse had said, but something had stirred a curiosity in me that I couldn't shake, I couldn't help wondering what other reasons there could've been for Satines sudden coldness, her sudden wish to leave me. Was she pretending that it was money and fame that had pulled her away from me? Maybe she still did love me? No she wouldn't, if she loved me she wouldn't have left me.
I couldn't believe what she had done; she truly had shown this afternoon that she was just a whore in a nice dress. She was no superior than the prostitutes that haunted the streets in search of some quick cash. She was just as cheap as them, giving up her body for some money. She was as low as the dogs, selling her love for superficial cold cash. Letting men pay her for pleasure. And why shouldn't she be paid? She's a whore like the rest and does her job perfectly.
Her job was to make men believe that she loves them, when really she'll stay with them until the big money comes along.
Why shouldn't she be paid, I ought to pay her.
She made me believe that she loved me, like every other man that had ever been in her life, she couldn't love, with a job like that how could she have truly ever loved me?
Why shouldn't I pay her?
So I returned to the Moulin Rouge one last time.
Marie stopped reading there and looked up at Christian; she couldn't believe he'd written that. It was so morbid and depressing but yet well written. She was confused, was the beautiful courtesan and the whore he spoke of the same person? Or was the Satine on the paper just a coincidence? Or has he made the whole thing up, going insane with the solitude and the drink? She wasn't sure.
"Is this what happened later?" she asked holding up the page.
He peered at the number, 67. "Yes, the aftermath of Satine leaving me" he said bluntly.
She was surprised, he only read the page number and he still knew exactly what it was about. She looked closely at the page and she realised it was old, older than she thought, yellowed with age and smudged with tear marks.
"How long ago was all of this written?" she asked, feeling bad, her curiosity getting the better of her.
He shrugged "Seven or eight years I think."
"Will you tell me what had happened before that?"
"Shouldn't you ought to be getting home to your parents? Its 5:30pm" he asked, exasperated at all of her questions.
"I don't have any parents, at least none that I know of," she said forlornly.
"What?" he said intrigued.
Marie sighed, hardly anyone she knew, knew her secret, it wasn't something that she advertised to the public. She never considered her adopted parents as her parents. They were simply Jean and Catherine, and she loved them as if they were her own Maman and papa. But she simply never considered them as 'parents'.
When she explained this he looked at her strangely.
"Then you do not know the identity of your parents?" he asked, now curious.
"No, all I know is that my mother came from Montmarte and left me on my adoptive parents doorstep, she wrote a note and was dying was one year old. I hardly remember the orphanage. Actually, I don't recollect anything about it. Now, can you please continue your story?"
He shook his head; he didn't know whether he wanted to relive those agonising moments more than once.
She frowned and stood up and wandered around the room, looking for something to do to annoy him until he was irritated enough to tell her the rest. She scanned the room, finding nothing of interest except for a leather bound journal, on the table next to his bed. She swiftly moved towards it and sat down on his bed and picked up the journal, maybe this would hold the answer.
As she fumbled with the latch suddenly Christian stood up from the table they had been at and lunged on to her, grabbling for the journal, doing anything to get it, and seized it out of her hands and holding it close to him.
She was speechless, he hadn't seemed violent but the way he swiped at her made her cautious of him. She looked wide-eyed at him, her face pale with shock at his actions.
He made a movement towards her but she moved away, not removing her gaze from his. He sighed and sat down next to her.
"Listen, I'm sorry, its hard for me to answer these questions and this journal is very special to me, I haven't even read it for myself, no one has seen it except Satine, its hers from when she was young, a teenager" he said, ending the explanation quietly with the mention of the courtesans name.
She looked at him, questions reeling through her mind.
"She's dead, Satine" Christian finished frankly.
Marie looked down and nodded.
"I know"