Author's Note: Still setting things up in this chapter. Characters and plots are in place, so in the next chapter I should be getting to the involvement in the movie when Satine and Christian are first brought together.
Had I mentioned that I loved working at the Moulin Rouge? Besides a phenomenal floorshow, it was simply hilarious to watch these powerful men drool over the Diamond Dogs and rush to meet their every desire. I was leaning against a pillar in the back of the dance hall. I held no delusions about how much men paid attention to me, and it didn't bother me in the least. Why look at the skinny, Italiano, flat chested tomboy girl in the back in pants while the busty all singing, all dancing whores of Paris were cavorting about on stage? And that was how I needed it. The show began as Zidler burst through the heavy red curtain with his usual flare.
I still remember the first night I worked here. I didn't make one thin cent. I can still recollect thinking The colors . . .And absinthe hadn't even passed my lips. It was just so beautiful. I had never seen so many explosions of colors in all my life. I had lived in drudge and drab since I was born. To see something so alive had brought such a rush of emotion I almost had to leave the main hall. But my "infamous sense of practicality", as Zidler always put it, had prevailed and I remained, entranced by the swirling fireworks of fabric and the casual movement of the dancers. The only thing that shocked my mind more then the display of color had been the men's reactions.
The girls in other brothels had long confided to me that men were like dogs. But as they were used and often mistreated by gutter-bred bastards, it was hard for me to believe anything they said besides the complaints about their lives. By the end of my first night at the Moulin Rouge I was convinced. The women snapped their fingers to offer biscuits and the men came forward panting like good little beasts. And the way that men who had never and would never answer to anyone in their lives carried Satine around as though she were a Goddess . . .it was the first and only time in my life I was caught speechless. Naturally I lost any and all respect for men that evening as well as any compunction or regret I might have felt about taking their money.
"Outside it might be raining!" Zidler bellowed through his heavy, orange stage makeup. But in here it's entertaining! I finished the thought in my head with a feral grin. I watched as two young men, barely older than I, quickly swallowed a few shots from crystal glasses and almost as quickly knocked the Vodka bottle to the floor. I watched as the glass bottle shattered to the floor as the two boys leapt to their feet, looking shaky and astonished. An older man, presumably an uncle (It was rare to watch a father and son walk through the door together) laughed and began to admonish them mockingly, his own cheeks peppered with small gin blossoms. I rolled my eyes and glanced back at the floor. Zidler was preparing the scene for Satine and building the sexual tension among the men. I hoisted myself onto the base of the pillar and wrapped an arm around for balance. Already the Duke was leaning forward over his table, despite my proper distance I could see the sweat on his face and the gleam in his eye. I suppressed a shudder. There was something I couldn't explain about him. Something that came as close to frightening me as anything. There was an inner intensity to the man. There was a sudden hush that swelled and rushed over the crowd, a crashing wave of silence. The few gentle notes and then . . .
"The French . . .are glad to die for love . . ." Satine was reflected in the black centers of every man's eye and I was squinting against a bright, off-center spotlight towards the Duke. He was quivering with his hands gripping the edge of the table. I had no doubts his knuckles were already white. Even his constantly severe bodyguard had his eyes slightly widened and his face almost imperceptibly softening. As Marie often said, Satine could rival Bernhart any day. As Satine finished her opening lines and the song picked up with a crash of music and the men roared, I moved from my perch on the pillar and caught a young gentleman by his arm. He never even looked at me.
"Excuse me, sir. Do you know who that man over there is?" I pointed to the Duke and the fellow took a mere moment to tear his eyes from Satine, who was recklessly swinging over the audience on that thin swing of hers, and replied hastily and incoherently. Incoherently to anyone but those at the Moulin Rouge. After a week at the most, one learned to translate the language of slurred, testosterone charged mumblings. I had heard titles, sums and properties larger then most ever dreamed of associated to clients of the Moulin Rouge before . . .but what that man was worth, materially speaking, astounded even I. Zidler would undoubtedly be as shocked as I . . .
In my amazed stupor I managed to stumble to the backstage area before half-collapsing against the wall. I pressed my back against the splintered wood and gently knocked my head against it while smiling to the ceiling. Zidler may not even believe the sum I had heard. I snapped my head away from the wall and stared at the torn and faded poser on the wall across from me. Now that I thought about it, did I believe it? You foolish girl . . .I rushed back out to the hall where the lucky chosen were dancing with the Diamonds. I caught a glimpse of a positively beaming Gabrielle as she was twirled by some wrinkled old lecher with a disgusting leer. She sure got over THAT fast . . .I thought, scouting the audience for another distracted patron. I sighed, most of the girls did. Survival was always held above all morals. And a comfortable survival . . .where one may become a favored mistress of a rich man . . .well, that came before all else. I saw boy who stood alone, leaning against one arm at a vacant table. Half drunk. I thought, tapping him on the shoulder. He turned with a genial smile and I instantly realized my mistake. Not Drunk.
"Oh, I'm sorry sir. I thought you were someone else. My utmost apologies." Turning away with a slight grimace and glancing away for my next mark, I felt a hand on my shoulder gently gripping me. I turned back to the radiant smile.
"No apologies needed miss, may I ask who you're looking for? I can't imagine many of the other stagehands are dressed as I am." He casually dropped his hand from my shoulder and brought it behind his back so he stood erect and proper, as though we were at a formal ball. Was he nervous? I detected the laughter in his eyes as he studied me. "Or would you prefer to simply question me? I've been here enough times to have a vague idea of who does what at the Moulin Rouge." I groaned inwardly. Another astute smart-ass that thought if they impressed me they would win a free night in bed. This happened roughly once a month; one of the patrons would notice me asking questions and assume I was trying to lure a fellow to bed. I still smile at the memory of the young man who said he'd "Do me the favor of giving me his attention instead of spending it on one of the Diamonds." He had evidently understood how hard it must have been to be around such beautiful women and never get any attention myself, or something along those lines. I smiled the way Satine smiled at men when she was trying to charm them. Vacantly.
"No, thank you kindly, sir. I really am just looking for a friend of mine." The boy chuckled and looked somewhere behind me. I masked my impatience and waited to be dismissed. No use in irking Zidler by losing a customer due to my mouth. He gave me a patronizing glance.
"And this 'friend' wouldn't happen to be a newcomer worth more then all those diamonds on Mademoiselle Satine's dress, would he?" As I said before, I am not shocked easily. I rarely get surprised. I get angry. I felt my eyes flash at this boy's words and he laughed. "Ah, there's that look I love!"
"Sir?" I took all the self-control I had built over years of taking verbal abuse and never responding to not spit in his face. His haughty demeanor was infuriating and his self-assured smile . . . I wanted to slap it off his face.
"You have intelligent eyes. They went blank with that tone you just used. Really, you do look better when you're not trying to mimic the Diamonds." His face suddenly took on the strangest child-like quality. Like a little boy who had just discovered a desired toy in a shop's window. There was warmth in curiosity. I took a step back and eyed him warily. He raised a hand. "I don't mean to be rude, miss. It's just-"
"I'm no 'miss'." I replied coldly. "And I need to be on my way. Sir."
"Samuel."
"Samuel. I need to be on my way." I turned on the heel of my flat shoe and, with a deliberate calm, slowly walked away. As I left I heard him whisper "L'espion". The Spy. I vanished into the crowd and shook my head to clear my mind of the strange incident. By the end of the evening I had confirmed that, in fact, as that insufferable Samuel had said, the Duke's liquid assets alone were worth more then Satine's dress. Worth more then Satine's and every other dancer's dress combined. And, as a few of the older women remarked quite often, "Those were some heavy dresses". With a few last drunken bids for the girls (Gabrielle, flushed but still smiling, among the group) and the dance floor clearing, the public fun at the Moulin Rouge was winding down for the evening. Chocolat smiled as I approached and reached into a nearby basket for a simple roll. I paused a moment, watching the beauty of his sweating, rich brown skin catch the light. It wasn't sexual . . .just beautiful.
"And how was your evening, Jo?" He asked, tossing me my dinner. I grinned and shrugged.
"Can't complain. And yours?"
"About the same." Chocolat, I, and the other girls, with whom I was close, had a running joke together. Whenever anyone asked us how we were we always said "Can't complain". The unspoken punch line being "What good would it do me?" It was bittersweet humor, but to us it was funny. You had to find humor where you could, living in the 'underworld'. "Only I get the feeling yours was better then 'Can't complain'." I had sat down on a closed trunk and was hunched over my bread, tearing it apart with my teeth.
"Oh yeah?" I said between mouthfuls with a small smile. "Why's that? Toulouse wasn't even here to talk to, he's working on that new play he wants to run."
"I heard you actually had a suitor, that Marcel's son finally screwed up his guts and spoke with you tonight. It's about time you find yourself a man." Chocolat grinned, a favorite pastime of the performers was teasing me about never giving men a second glance. They found it funny that I had never taken any man, never mind a client, to bed while I was working in the greatest brothel in the world. Marcel was the tailor who created the Moulin Rouge's flamboyant costumes. My eyebrow involuntarily arched itself upwards as my head tilted forward. Chocolat continued. "He's been spending some time here to observe the costumes. And you." He chuckled. "He's helping his father with the costumes for the next show that Zidler's planning to start soon." I swallowed hard, the bread scraping against my throat.
"Is he?" I asked weakly. I had spoken with no less then twenty young men. Chances were . . .
"Yes, Samuel will undoubtedly be a great help to his father. I've heard nothing but good about the boy. They say he's skilled."
* * * *
"So what did you manage to find out about our Duke, Josephine?" Zidler mopped his sweating face with a cheap handkerchief. I grinned and slid into the leather chair in front of his desk.
"What do you want to know, Harry?" Nini had once made a snide comment (Did she ever make any other kind?) about how I treated the great Harold Zidler with no respect. Calling him Harry like only the "Veteran Diamond Dogs" did. In truth, it was a sign of respect if not small affection between the two of us. When I first came to the Moulin Rouge I had asked to be called Jo. He promptly smiled and called me Josephine, requesting to be called Harold. 'Sure Harry' had been my quick response. That brief exchange had set the tone of our relationship. We got along well together. Of course, Zidler got along with almost everyone. He had to. He looked up from the mess of orange in the dingy piece of cloth and smiled slightly.
"How rich is he? How likely is he to invest in my Moulin Rouge?" With the last few words he began to laugh. "Honestly, Josephine. Do you really need to ask?" I smiled and answered his question. He stopped laughing. His mouth hung agape and his mustache twitched. "No." His breathed his disbelief.
"Yes." I grinned. "And he's completely entranced by Satine." The happiness in my voice was not forced. Satine could be huge with a financial backer, more business would come to the Moulin Rouge . . .and who knew? Perhaps I could improve my financial situation enough to finally "Leap the Pond" as the Bohemians said. Although most came to Montmarte instead of fleeing it. It was the current axis of a Cultural Revolution. I personally believed that the Bohemians would soon burn themselves out with their love of the excess . . .but the signs of decay were not showing as of yet.
"Satine . . .I had imagined as much." Distracted, Zidler ran a hand over the tiny, trimmed beard that lay on his chin. Of course you imagined as much! We all imagined as much- "Well then . . .I'll simply take the liberty of speaking with this Duke tomorrow. No need to wait to lure him in, eh?" Zidler glanced at me thoughtfully and I dutifully shook my head, rising from the chair.
"When Satine is finished for the night would you like me to tell her about all of this?" I asked, rubbing my bleary eyes. Zidler drew a breath, contemplating the full extent of the situation. "Or would you rather talk to her about it tomorrow?"
"I believe tomorrow would be better, Josephine. I . . .I would like to explain to her the extent to which her actions could impact the Moulin Rouge."
"Harry, she isn't some new, naive call girl" I began.
"No, of course not. It just that . . .with this sort of income we could move from the hottest act in town to the most acclaimed show, if you understand what I'm saying." Zidler was now longingly staring at a poster from a theater in London. I allowed a small, laughing breath to escape.
"Legit theaters with real actresses make more money. I understand." Zidler abruptly turned to look at me, hurt. I raised my hands, palms outward and bowed my head. "And it doesn't hurt that things would improve for a few of the girls, Harry. Don't get me wrong. Hell . . .I support you in all of this." Stifling a yawn I stood and waited to be dismissed.
"I heard Samuel-"
"Does everyone but me know about this!?" I snapped. I had been the butt of too many jokes for one night. On my way to Zidler's office I had been accosted by the performers and girls with their smirks and jests and insults. From what I gathered, this boy had been watching me for the past two weeks. Zidler seemed slightly taken aback by my outburst. Exasperated, I threw my hands into the air. "Honestly, Harry! I have an exchange with this boy, who I don't even know, for less then a minute and now everyone's acting as though I were engaged! What? They don't have enough scandal among themselves to be entertained?"
"Josephine, calm yourself. It's simply entertainment because it's you." He smiled paternally as a sneer leapt to my lips.
"What the hell does that mean? And since when do you get involved in this sort of thing? Don't you discourage employees from having real relationships?" I demanded. My ego had been wounded and I wanted to spread the misery. Harry merely shrugged.
"Josephine, you know you're considered to be an 'Iron Maiden' among the girls, you take pride in that reputation-"
"Damn right I take pride in it-"
"The what did you think would happen when a man finally noticed you?" He suddenly grinned. "But to have you not realize he was noticing you, what kind of a spy are you? What am I paying you for?"
"Thanks Harry." I groaned.
"And this is a matter of business for me. Marcel is one of the finest tailors in Paris, and he is very fond of his only son." I felt my face slowly, slowly turning red. The conversation was not heading in a direction I was comfortable with. Zidler continued speaking cautiously, deliberately. "And . . .if it pleases Samuel to watch you . . .I will not be the one to upset the boy by discouraging him. He's very likely to replace his father some day and we want him happy working here-"
"I'm not one of your whores. And I'm not for sale." My hands had balled and were shaking fists clenched painfully at my side. Zidler studied me a moment before replying softly.
"Nor do I consider you one. I'm not asking you to sleep with the boy . . .just be kind to him. Treat him as you would any other stagehand. And if he pays you any extra attention, enjoy it." I stood a moment, speechless, before stalking out of the office. I walked past the girls who were finished for the evening, past the performers who were drinking, smoking and gambling, past the rooms where muffled sounds of passion penetrated the walls.
I went straight to my lone cot, in a corner far from the flashy stage of the Moulin Rouge and flopped down onto the tough material. I stared at the filthy ceiling. As I had the night before. And as I would the night to follow. I closed my eyes. There was a reason I was on this cot and not in a room with a large bed. Zidler had no control over me. I heard someone timidly call my name. I opened my eyes. Gabrielle stood there with her smudged makeup and mussed hair.
"Jo? Harold wants to know if he can count on you tomorrow . . ." I nodded and closed my eyes again. "Jo? He . . .he also wants to know if you'll be kind enough to give Marcel's son, Samuel a tour of the backstage area tomorrow . . .before the show? So he gets a feel for it. No one knows it like you and he'll be helping with the costumes for the next show." I felt the anger on my face. Gabrielle sighed. "Jo . . .you just have to show him around . . .don't take it so personally. Samuel seems a sweet boy." I opened my eyes and glanced at her, a smile grew on her face. "Do what you have to and survive, right?" I managed a small chuckle.
"Fine. I'll give Samuel the backstage tour. But tell Harry it's going to cost him."