Title: Veil of Virtue
Author: Opie
Disclaimer: The idea of Moulin Rouge! belongs to the incredible Baz Luhrmann and his staff. I am eternally indebted to him. And after I am done emotionally scarring his characters, I will place them neatly back on the shelf where they belong. The opening 'bit' belongs to the TOOL song "Intolerance" from their Undertow album.
Author's Notes: My own rip-off of the tango scene . . . thanks to Ivy, for loaning me her DVD.
"Will drive you (will drive you) mad!"
His voice echoed off the cavernous walls as he strode away from me. For a second, time stopped. We stood, watching him, and his footfalls were the only sound in the room - there was no noise, no breathing, no movement. We were all frozen in place, staring.
And he whirled, and things began to happen again.
"Roxanne," he cried, his voice gravel. I was flung to another man, one of the helpers at the Moulin, one of the people we planted in the audience to keep morale high. Handsome and strong and a marvelous dancer, he held me against himself for a moment.
"You don't have to put on that red light," and another man, another 'plant,' as we called them, a whirl and I was in his arms. "You don't have to walk the streets for money." I could feel his eyes boring into me as the man who held me tossed me to another dancer. I could feel all the eyes on me, all the eyes in the room. They'd laughed when I was introduced as the prostitute, but I was, wasn't I? I could feel every man in that room, watching. Hungering. Even Christian, our holier-than-thou writer.
"You don't care if it's wrong or if it's right," he cried again, and I was flung. There was no time, there was nothing but this moment as he cried out again, as if howling, "Roxanne!"
The passion in his voice was too much, I could barely move my legs. I was accosted at every angle, a stray hand here or there touching my breasts, my thighs, any part of me they could grab. I tried to hang onto each man I reached, for just a moment, to catch my breath and my footing, but was given no chance to do so.
"Roxanne!"
I was just flung from point A to point B, dizzy with the twirling. The violin sang higher and higher. His voice continued singing, though I missed the words in the stamping of our feet, the clicking of our heels. All I heard was his plaintive plea,
"Roxanne!"
Again and again, reverberating through my mind, louder and more insistent,
"Roxanne!"
The men were going to rip me apart. I couldn't seem to move my feet fast enough, and they dragged me across the floor.
"Roxanne!"
So many hands, so much tugging, here and there, and lips and fingers roughly caressing my body, no matter which way I turned.
"Roxanne!"
And his voice, still floating through my mind. Was he singing, or was I imagining it? The eyes, needing me, wanting me, hungering and thirsting for me . . . I couldn't get away, no matter which way I turned . .
"Roxanne!"
Why did he keep calling my name? He was the only one I'd ever shared that secret with, and now I wasn't Nini anymore, I was Roxanne again. I wasn't a Parisian whore, I was a woman who was down on her luck - a woman who could really be loved. And then it seemed to stop. There was a second when the violin rose high, and its single, wavering note, was the only sound in the room.
The hands let go as women rushed to the floor. My saviors, they danced with the men, all together, in tandem. I couldn't seem to feel my feet, to find my feet, yet they were beneath me, holding me up as they should be. I felt bruised, battered. As beaten as I was whenever a customer didn't get his money's worth.
"Roxanne!"
I looked up as I fled the floor, the smooth easy movements of twenty-five couples hitting the floor with their heels at the same time. He was climbing the stairs, his eyes following my every movement. Such eyes - as dark as night, with rings of gold around them. Hungering, like a wolf's. His eyes were the worst, because with them came love. They followed me, burning and smoldering like a freshly-lit cigarette, or the sun at dawn. And he opened his mouth to sing, again.
"Roxanne!"
Heels hitting the floor, hard. Twenty-five men dipping back twenty-five courtesans, who kicked their legs high, showing off their panties and their stockinged legs. Unloved women, unwanted women, ugly women, women no one could love but for money, they danced faster and faster, and the violin's voice rose as the piano sank lower and lower.
"Roxanne!"
Our eyes never left one anothers as we met on the dance floor. My legs moved this time when I ordered them too, and dragged when I didn't. My feet were a flurry of movement, hitting the wooden floor as they were told to. Our arms danced above our heads, around our bodies, his hand tight around my waist. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and he dragged me in a tight circle, waving his hips as he was meant to. He swung me up again, and dipped me. We both fell back into the graceful motion, and our eyes were still locked.
"Roxanne!"
He sang, the wail of the violin reaching that perfect high note again. We were frozen. And then I was up again, and we were dancing, a perfect whirl of planned movement. He was the best dance partner I'd ever had, and if I hadn't been feeling such pain from him, I would have enjoyed it.
"Roxanne!"
I don't remember the rest of the dance. His eyes I remember, their gold rings boring into me as his hands danced along my skin. They brushed my breasts, played down my stomach, and caressed my thighs. His lips I remember, their softness as they fell upon my shoulder and my neck. The feel of his arms I remember, how easily they tossed or held me, how gently he held sometimes, like an egg, or how roughly, like the cheap whore I was. His voice I remember, like gravel, the pain of loving a woman who could never be his echoing through my mind, pulsing through my veins, as he called my name in that mournful wail.
"Roxanne!"