Of Memories and Moonlight
Burning Tyger
This is a MOULIN ROUGE fanfiction! Thus by its very nature, it will contain spoilers. You have been warned.
Disclaimer: Wow, for once George Lucas owns no part of this fandom. ;-) Baz Luhrmann is the creator of this masterpiece, and owns all rights to it. I do not intend to infringe upon any copyrights whatsoever.
A/N: A bit of trivia, or maybe not. It may be a widely-known fact that "moulin rouge" is French for "red mill," which explains the windmill over the Rouge. And we'll pretend that a scarlet windmill and a Paris nightclub have very obvious parallels. :)
He hadn't cried since that moment on the stage. Not a teardrop from that night onward; the pain of the memory seemed to run too deep for that. For days, weeks, he did nothing. He ate only what he needed to stay alive, and tasted none of it. He could be heard, at times, whispering something that sounded vaguely like some of his poetry, or a song perhaps. When questioned by Toulouse, he didn't answer, not that it was unexpected. He'd said nothing directly to anyone since her death.
But the apathy, of course, had to end eventually. He had to put it down in words; maybe the distance of narration would do him good. To write about her, about Satine, drained him of everything, his heart, his soul, his strength.
But it didn't take the memories.
~~
He had taken the typewritten, unrevised manuscript (Revise it? What, reread it, retype it, and live it all again?) to perhaps the fifteenth editor in two weeks. He wanted it off his hands, as far away from him as possible. This one had kept the story, saying, "I like the premise; I'll get back to you." It wasn't the most promising of proposals, but at least the manuscript wasn't there inside his coat, his only company in the winter cold.
He rubbed a hand over his sleep-deprived eyes, over a face that had recently been shaven of its neglected beard. One couldn't sell a book if one *looked* as desperate as one was.
He should move out of that little corner room...looking down at the old Rouge was too much. And the elephant...from his window, he could still see her elephant, dark and lifeless. He would leave, then. Get out of Paris, go back to England, or on to Spain, perhaps. There would never be another Moulin Rouge, and there would most certainly never be another Satine.
Before he left, he had to do one thing more.
~~
From his window, it seemed he could nearly touch the windmill, but once in the dim streets, the way to the doors was a labyrinth of dim, gray concrete and cobblestones. Hookers haunted doorways in the alleys; pimps and pickpockets abounded in the little rundown cafes. Had he really once believed this to be the center of Bohemian life? Of any life at all? Montmartre was a village of desperation and death.
But the path to the Rouge was ingrained in his memory, in a place where the sensations were still sharp and raw. He was before the doors now, as empty and cold as the void Satine's death had left. Was the club abandoned, or just closed up for the night?
Hah -- Moulin Rouge had *never* closed for the night; it welcomed evening. The underworld thrived in darkness. The place was abandoned then, falling to decay without its Sparkling Diamond...or its rich patron.
He hesitated for one long moment, then opened the doors and stepped inside. His footsteps echoed on dusty floorboards. Across the great open hall, a roof support had fallen in, letting a pale shaft of Parisian moonlight tumble onto the center of the stage like a spotlight.
The same stage, still half-set for the final scene of that ridiculous play with the Maharaja and the sitar player and...the courtesan. With mounting trepidation -- there were too many memories in this place, all fighting for dominance in his mind -- he stepped up onto the first riser. Then the next, and the next, until he was standing in that glimmer of light. Her voice echoed in his mind, and he closed his eyes against the onslaught of remembrances.
Diamonds are...How wonderful life is...have to end it...everyone knows!...I couldn't...don't want to pretend anymore...Christian...
*I love you.*
He just stood there, eyes shut and fists clenched at his sides, looking for all the world as though he was about to cry. Then he opened his green-blue eyes, clearer than they had been in weeks. He looked up, into the wan moonlight, and smiled just slightly.
Before he left the Moulin Rouge for the last time, he thought again of Satine and sang very softly, gently, three words. Then he was gone, but the words echoed through the dust and fading glitter.
"Come what may..."
Burning Tyger
This is a MOULIN ROUGE fanfiction! Thus by its very nature, it will contain spoilers. You have been warned.
Disclaimer: Wow, for once George Lucas owns no part of this fandom. ;-) Baz Luhrmann is the creator of this masterpiece, and owns all rights to it. I do not intend to infringe upon any copyrights whatsoever.
A/N: A bit of trivia, or maybe not. It may be a widely-known fact that "moulin rouge" is French for "red mill," which explains the windmill over the Rouge. And we'll pretend that a scarlet windmill and a Paris nightclub have very obvious parallels. :)
He hadn't cried since that moment on the stage. Not a teardrop from that night onward; the pain of the memory seemed to run too deep for that. For days, weeks, he did nothing. He ate only what he needed to stay alive, and tasted none of it. He could be heard, at times, whispering something that sounded vaguely like some of his poetry, or a song perhaps. When questioned by Toulouse, he didn't answer, not that it was unexpected. He'd said nothing directly to anyone since her death.
But the apathy, of course, had to end eventually. He had to put it down in words; maybe the distance of narration would do him good. To write about her, about Satine, drained him of everything, his heart, his soul, his strength.
But it didn't take the memories.
~~
He had taken the typewritten, unrevised manuscript (Revise it? What, reread it, retype it, and live it all again?) to perhaps the fifteenth editor in two weeks. He wanted it off his hands, as far away from him as possible. This one had kept the story, saying, "I like the premise; I'll get back to you." It wasn't the most promising of proposals, but at least the manuscript wasn't there inside his coat, his only company in the winter cold.
He rubbed a hand over his sleep-deprived eyes, over a face that had recently been shaven of its neglected beard. One couldn't sell a book if one *looked* as desperate as one was.
He should move out of that little corner room...looking down at the old Rouge was too much. And the elephant...from his window, he could still see her elephant, dark and lifeless. He would leave, then. Get out of Paris, go back to England, or on to Spain, perhaps. There would never be another Moulin Rouge, and there would most certainly never be another Satine.
Before he left, he had to do one thing more.
~~
From his window, it seemed he could nearly touch the windmill, but once in the dim streets, the way to the doors was a labyrinth of dim, gray concrete and cobblestones. Hookers haunted doorways in the alleys; pimps and pickpockets abounded in the little rundown cafes. Had he really once believed this to be the center of Bohemian life? Of any life at all? Montmartre was a village of desperation and death.
But the path to the Rouge was ingrained in his memory, in a place where the sensations were still sharp and raw. He was before the doors now, as empty and cold as the void Satine's death had left. Was the club abandoned, or just closed up for the night?
Hah -- Moulin Rouge had *never* closed for the night; it welcomed evening. The underworld thrived in darkness. The place was abandoned then, falling to decay without its Sparkling Diamond...or its rich patron.
He hesitated for one long moment, then opened the doors and stepped inside. His footsteps echoed on dusty floorboards. Across the great open hall, a roof support had fallen in, letting a pale shaft of Parisian moonlight tumble onto the center of the stage like a spotlight.
The same stage, still half-set for the final scene of that ridiculous play with the Maharaja and the sitar player and...the courtesan. With mounting trepidation -- there were too many memories in this place, all fighting for dominance in his mind -- he stepped up onto the first riser. Then the next, and the next, until he was standing in that glimmer of light. Her voice echoed in his mind, and he closed his eyes against the onslaught of remembrances.
Diamonds are...How wonderful life is...have to end it...everyone knows!...I couldn't...don't want to pretend anymore...Christian...
*I love you.*
He just stood there, eyes shut and fists clenched at his sides, looking for all the world as though he was about to cry. Then he opened his green-blue eyes, clearer than they had been in weeks. He looked up, into the wan moonlight, and smiled just slightly.
Before he left the Moulin Rouge for the last time, he thought again of Satine and sang very softly, gently, three words. Then he was gone, but the words echoed through the dust and fading glitter.
"Come what may..."