Nine months after Satine was buried, the Moulin Rouge opens again.
There is no Zidler this time. From the whispers, there is no Duke either. Just a man by the name of Joseph Roca and his plan to birth the Moulin Rouge anew.
Some cheer for it's reopening, mostly the rich frequenters and newer bohemians that had heard only of its glory days. Others hesitate before any joy. It, after all, is a place of death now. The death of the Sparkling Diamond. The death of careers and homes. Of dreams ideals.
But the most optimistic of them see a chance for that death to give way to rebirth.
Toulouse is asked to create the first poster for the Moulin Rouge's revival.
There is hesitation.
Christian knows he has much to do with it. In the end, he gives his blessing, though it was truly never needed. Toulouse, like all of them, needs to eat. Needs to pay his lodgings, pay for paints and canvas. Although the purse strings of his aristocratic family remain open, Toulouse is a proud man.
To be able to live because of his art, even in a garret with a barely patched hole in the floor, was part of his bohemian dogma. Art gave life.
Soon, girls arrive, hungry for fame and the chance to make a living. Some old faces return, like Baby Doll and Le Petite Princess. He is surprised Nini does not make her return.
The inevitable occurs. The doors open, and Christian sees the lights from his window as the windmill turns. There are fireworks, booming loud in the sky as cheers below ring out. The crowd grows, and he remains still. Silently viewing the festivities.
Inside, his heart drops low into his chest, threatening to shatter once more. The noise and subsequent memories grow too much. His coat and hat leave their hooks, and he seeks sanctuary far from Montmartre.
It occurs to Christian that he has not ventured outside the district he calls home. At first, he saw no reason to leave. The comforts of friends, art, and above all, love, held him close to the hill. After Satine, it was akin to being held hostage. His grief was an anchor he could not untie himself from. And truly, no place else could hold him and let him exist in his sorrow the way his garret did.
Soles of his shoes clack against cobbled streets. His journey has no destination. Christian thinks he wouldn't mind being lost for a while. It gives him a sense of adventure back, following unfamiliar streets at such a leisure. He peeks into cafes, stops to admire storefronts.
It isn't until he reaches the Louvre that his pace slows to a halt. The magnificent arches tower high above him, the facades of ancient heroes high on godly pedestals.
Between the heroes on high and the Seine, Christian feels insignificant. Crushed between two eternal monuments he can never hope to rise to.
Satine asked for their story to be told so she could live on. Perhaps he wishes to live on eternally to within it. He can't help but hear a nagging that his words will not stand that test of time.
You did not leave your room for this, he chastises himself.
The slow procession begins again. Over the bridge, letting fate choose his destination. It chooses the Latin Quarter.
He's only heard stories, spoken to the students that live here that would venture to Montmartre for a wild night off from studies. Here, he can belong just as easily among the writers and philosophers.
La Deux Magots comes into view. Upon realizing his appetite has been missing all day, Christian heads towards the eatery, mentally counting the centimes in his coin bag.
It turns out, enough for a coffee, soft cheese, and bread. He tucks into his small meal, taking idle note of the patrons. All colorful in their own right, some waxing philosophical while others compare study notes.
Christian is content until a head of curly red hair catches his eye. Flecked with patches of gray, it sits coifed atop a large figure he'd rather forget.
Harold Zidler.
He ducks his head down, tips his hat farther over his face and prays there will be no recognition. That Zidler even perhaps is a terrible hallucination, a spectre that cannot haunt him.
For he, after all, is a spectre of a past life. Zidler's last words spoken to Christian were ones he can't recall fully. The two of them at Satine's burial, Zidler attempting a fatherly comfort that could not break through Christian's numbness. The words were said, and Zidler was gone. Christian has hoped he would stay gone.
It is not to be. The sound of a chair before him sliding from beneath the table tells him this much. He dares not look up, only takes a sip of his coffee.
"Christian." Zidler's voice is not the booming trumpet of a noise he is used to. This voice is much more private, subdued. "Quite a long walk for some bread and coffee, my boy. Taking in the sights, are we?"
He doesn't answer. Can't seem to muster up words.
"I don't blame you," Zidler continues. His jovial tone barely masks sadness. "I've heard tonight is the grand re-opening. Best to stay away for a moment. For sanity's sake."
"I would have thought the new owner would have brought you back," Christian answers quietly. "For the prestige. Or for the experience."
Zidler waves Christian's assumptions away with a dazzling flick of his hand. The showmanship has not left him, too ingrained after all these years.
"They're better off trying to live up to my legacy, I say. I've given them a detail blueprint for success, it's up to Roca to use or modify it as he sees fit."
"How courteous of you." Christian's words are but a mumble. "You've set up shop here, then? I didn't take the Latin Quarter as a place for your brand of theatrics."
Zidler tuts, untamed eyebrows furrowing. "No, no, not here. I must confess, it's been a slight struggle to carve out a new path. The Moulin Rouge was ten years of my life, my passion! You devote your life to something for that long, it takes a moment to recombobulate. I have leads elsewhere."
"Here in Paris?" Christian asks tentatively. Elsewhere could mean anywhere, in Zidler speak. A few blocks away from the Moulin Rouge. The opposite side of Paris. Timbuktu, for all he could fathom.
"Berlin, dear boy. A new breed of cabaret is catching the world's eye. My expertise can easily be used there."
"Berlin?" he repeats. "That's quite… different. I thought you suited more for New York."
"My English and constitution aren't good enough for a journey to America, I'm afraid." Zidler takes a sip of his sherry and his cherub cheeks grow pinker. "I suppose you'd do well there, hm? They could use a good English poet like you."
"I think Paris isn't done with me yet."
It unnerves him, the way Zidler stares at him. His jolly and ruddy complexion can only mask so much of what the man truly is. Just as worn down as the rest of them, but a much better actor.
"It should be, Christian," he sighs. "You're young. Plenty of adventures ahead of you. Confining yourself to a place that feeds on your pain is unhealthy."
"I'm writing a book," Christian blurts out, looking into his coffee. "About last year. I won't leave until it's finished."
He hears a low but enthused murmur from across the table. Takes a bite of the bread he's been neglecting, another drink of coffee that grows cold.
"Must be difficult to write an accurate account of last year while missing other pieces of the story."
He looks back up at Zidler, whose face has gone softer.
"Shall I tell you my piece, Christian?" Zidler asks. "Give more meat to that story of yours? There's so much you haven't heard, my boy."
His heart thuds against his ribs as if desperate to escape. There's so much Zidler can tell him. Pockets of time he can fill in that have been lost, conversations he is missing. Insight. A glimpse of Satine he has only conjured up in restless nights.
"Why tell me?" he questions. "What do you gain from that?"
Zidler pauses, thoughtful.
"A chance to clear any bad blood," he says. "And a chance for peace, for all of us."
A chance for peace. Christian lets out a sigh from his nose.
"Find me a pen and some paper," he finally says. "And we'll begin."