A/N:  So you know in advance, I know absolutely nothing about property ownership laws, especially in France.  I created the law to suit my story, so that's the way it will stay.  If you don't like it, well, no one is forcing you to read my story.

By the way, I'll mention it later, but Aurora's last name is not a real last name as far as I know, nor is it made up.  Veritas is the Latin word for truth.  I just thought it was fitting.  "Golden Truth."

Up Where We Belong

Chapter 2:  …the sun returns…

            He had passed away in his sleep, without any pain, but Christian still felt he had been cheated something.  Even on his deathbed, Christian's father did not have the forgiveness in him to welcome back his eldest son.  The old London bureaucrat had asked that Christian not be invited to his funeral, and so Robert was sent out the day after the stubborn man's body had been laid to rest.

            "He didn't even want me there," Christian muttered through the angry sobs that wracked his tortured body.

            "I'm sorry, big brother, but you know how stubborn the old bastard was.  Once he got an idea in his head, even a team of oxen couldn't drag it out."

            Robert had been there two days, working out the paperwork that had to be turned over to Christian.  As the eldest son, Christian was entitled to the entire fortune, a princely sum in itself.  However, the poet clung tenaciously to his bohemian views, and had no need nor want to go back to England and take control of the family holdings.  He generously let that responsibility fall to Robert, which was why his younger brother had stayed longer than a few hours.  Their family had fallen apart since Christian's mother died, and he didn't think there was much of a need to patch it back together.  Robert hated Paris and all the immorality it represented, and so he would go back to London in the morning, where he could choke to death on the rigid society rules and etiquette for all Christian cared.

            So now the penniless poet was poor no longer, but what would he do with all this newfound wealth?  He was hoping Toulouse or one of his Bohemian friends would barge through the door and hand him the answer like they did a year ago, but he was left high and dry without an idea in his genius mind.  He walked out onto the balcony to see if perhaps the streets of Paris held his answer.  They were lonely streets since the Moulin Rouge had shut down.  No longer did that gaudy red windmill with its fluorescent yellow letters burn into the night sky.  No longer was the dark night filled with men's drunken laughter and the joyous singing of a hundred chorus girls all backing up one perfect voice.  No, those days had ended with the death of Satine.  When she passed away, the duke walked off forever, with the deed to the Moulin Rouge.  Zidler went bankrupt and couldn't seek out financial help because he no longer owned his precious institution.  The Moulin Rouge closed, and the streets of Paris went dark, never to be relit again.

            Until now.  Christian finally received his inspiration.  What better way to immortalize the memory of his beloved but to restore the place where they first met to its original majesty?

            *****************************************

            Harold Zidler was a hard man to track down.  After losing the Moulin Rouge, he had fallen into the bottom of a bottle and never quite found his way out.  Christian finally tracked him to an abandoned attic above a very low-life tavern.  The once great Zidler was now a drunken fool living off the good graces of one of his former patrons.  Once he had focused enough to recognize the boy, Zidler wasn't thrilled to see Christian, especially after he heard what the poet was there about.

            "I want to buy the Moulin Rouge."

            "Are you insane, boy?"  Zidler laughed, peering up form his collapsed position on the floor.

            "Perhaps, but I'm here because I thought maybe you would know where the duke had gone to.  He's not back in England.  I already checked."

            "He's probably in Germany, bothering the poor cabaret owners there, but that doesn't matter," Zidler muttered quietly.  "He let the contract expire months ago.  I received the paperwork, but in my drunkenness burned it.  The Moulin Rouge belongs to no one but its spiders and ghosts."

            "Then do you know how I would go about purchasing it?"

            Harold Zidler gazed suddenly very sharply up at the young man.

            "You're serious, aren't you?"

            "Very.  There's no reason the Bohemian Revolution should die just because it is the twentieth century.  If anything, it should be stronger than ever.  I want to restore the Moulin Rouge to its original dynasty."

            "But where do you intend on getting the money.  It will cost a pretty penny to restore that huge pile of crap."

            "My father recently passed away, and, as oldest son, the fortune came to me."

            "If I only knew he was wealthy…"  Zidler whispered.

            "I wasn't when we first met," Christian informed him.  "I was quite surprised to find my father hadn't cut me out of his will with a shilling.  By the way, there was something else.  I want you to come and run the Moulin Rouge.  You'll have complete control, just like you always did.  I just want the best impresario possible, and I know I would never be able to do it."

            "You're mad."

            "Will you accept?"

            Zidler pondered slowly for a moment, then crawled painfully to his swollen feet and grabbed Christian's hand with sober enthusiasm.  However, the drunken man's grip was as strong as ever as he patted his new business partner on the back.

            *******************************************

            Getting permission from the city of Paris seemed to be the hardest part of the task at hand.  Once he had the proper documentation, Christian found it quite easy to renew the Moulin Rouge.  Most of its former workers still lived in the area, unwilling to give up on their proud ideals.  A few, like Nini-legs-in-the-air, had gotten fed up with waiting and moved on to cheap brothels or German cabarets, but most had stuck in Monmartre.  It seemed the Bohemian Revolution wasn't over, after all.

            Reconstruction was horrendous at first for the laborers.  During its months of misuse, the Moulin Rouge had been looted and pillaged almost beyond recognition.  The famous Asian elephant was the worse for wear.  It had once contained valuables totaling almost half a million pounds.  Now it stood empty, nothing left but the wooden frame of the four-poster bed.  Even the golden heart strung across its forehead was gone, and that was only iron with gold paint.  With the cobwebs and decay the task seemed impossible, but Christian refused to give up.  He was the first one to dig into the rubble, and that inspired the rest.  Soon the team was working from dawn 'til dusk, and more volunteers were continually joining in.  Before they knew it, the beautiful Moulin Rouge was looking as healthy as it ever did, and was desperately needing some talented performers.

            All the former dancers who had pitched in with the renewal were automatically hired, but there were still a great many positions to fill, and Zidler and Christian hadn't even come near to finding someone who could fill Satine's diamond-encrusted shoes.  By then it was spring of 1901, and the Moulin Rouge was holding auditions for anyone who thought they had the talent to perform. 

            Christian had been listening for the entire morning and most of the afternoon to less-than-perfect actors and actresses.  No one seemed to be able to live up to his image of Satine.  Unfortunately, that would be true for no matter how long he auditioned.  He resigned himself to just finding someone good enough, not another Sparkling Diamond.

That was when a person walked into the theater who was perhaps the answer to all Christian's silent prayers for the past fourteen months.

            She entered through the main doors and sauntered across the dance floor and up to the stage like she owned the place.  Perhaps she did.  To Christian, an angel had found its way into the Moulin Rouge.  Her red hair and ivory skin shone in the sunlight that cast through the skylights in the roof.  Even from twenty feet back, the poet could see her sapphire eyes burning into his soul.  Had she not died in his arms over a year ago, Christian would have sworn it was Satine.  As it was, he could hardly believe his eyes.  The sun had come out again in his life, and she was standing before him.  If only she could sing…

            "Are you Christian, the poet and owner of Moulin Rouge?"  the angel said.  Her voice was that of Satine's, a glorious silky sound mixed with gravel, but she spoke with the rough accent of one of those uppity Americans from across the Atlantic.

            "I am," Christian answered, still in awe, "and who are you?"

            "My name's Aurora Veritas, and I was wondering if the Moulin Rouge was in need of a good singer."