Homeward Bound
Chapter Two: I wish I was...
This chapter and the subsequent ones were written under the impression (wrong or right) that both of Christian's parents are still alive.
Disclaimer: Again, no infringement is intended, so please just leave the Sunburnt One alone!
Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter thus far: Katherine, EloraSalecite (let's see who's being harsh in THIS one), The Beanster (Desole is "desolate," je suis desole would mean "I'm really sorry"), SugarPrincess, dafnap (let's see where Christian's harsh streak comes from), Rue, Liz Skywalker (Another Star Wars AND Moulin Rouge fan! Yay!), angellyfish (thanks, it's good to know my French wasn't terrible), and Taskir (it's so much fun to write in Toulouse's lispy French!). Thank you all so much, merci beaucoup (note that for the ending: merci is thank you), gracias, danke, etc. Your comments are appreciated more than you probably know. Unless you're an author yourself...in which case you know how great it is to hear nice things about your writing!
An interesting note: I pulled the street name out of thin air...then I looked it up to see if "La Rousse" really meant anything. Sometimes I really do wonder if I am psychic...
~~
London, England. It was nothing like Montmartre, and it never had been. Where the Paris slum was shabbily glamorous, this part of London was whitewashed into respectability. But the London Christian had lived in always been sedate and stiff-necked, a fact which had made the frenetic energy of the Moulin Rouge so enticing.
It took Christian awhile to maneuver his belongings (such as they were -- clothes, typewriter, and self) out of the train station. By the time he'd hailed one of the little carriages, all he really wanted was a drink. But he was home now, and walking in the door drunk would do nothing but give his father a wonderful reason to boot him right out on his ass.
"One-seventeen Larousse Avenue," he told the driver. It struck him as odd that their street name in England should sound more French than the boulevard he had lived on in Paris. That particular street had had no name; it was merely "Rue 15." [Rue = street]
Larousse...La rousse: translated, it meant "auburn-haired woman." He laughed sardonically at the irony, provoking a questioning stare from the driver. Christian had come home to forget, and even here everything seemed to remind him of *her.*
The driver pulled the horses up with a gruff command. Had Christian seriously dreamed away the hour-long ride? The driver muttered something about the price; Christian handed him a bill and the driver rode off quickly. Christian hoped belatedly that he hadn't given him the twenty-pound note.
Now that he was standing on the porch, the house seemed more imposing. Three stories and all white, it looked cold to him, inhospitable. ~What'd I come all this way for, to lose courage right on the stoop?~ He cursed his hand for trembling when he reached for the knocker.
A woman opened the door a bit and peered out through the gap. "May I help you, sir?"
Christian grinned. "Have I been away so long?"
She gasped, closed the door to release the chain, and opened it wide again. "Christian!" she shouted, throwing her arms about his neck.
"Ah, Maman, it is good to see you!" [Maman is not a typo, it's a French endearing term for "Mother." One wouldn't pronounce the n, so it would really be just ma-MA.]
"Oh! You come back to us so cultured!"
He made his way inside, where she insisted on taking his suitcase from him. "I'm not a guest," he protested softly, but she would have none of it. For a woman of barely five feet and more than fifty years, she could be terribly stubborn.
"You've been gone. Sit yourself down, get a glass of lemonade. I want to hear everything."
He winced. He had of course been expecting such a question, and now he had to evade it, at least for the present. "S'il vous plait, Maman-" [Please, Mother]
The floorboards at the end of the hallway creaked. Christian's father stood framed in the doorway to the parlor. If Christian had considered the house imposing, it was nothing compared to the tall, white-haired gentleman that stood facing him.
"Father-"
"You crawl back home in shame and have the nerve to speak to your mother in that ignoble French? You should be begging our forgiveness!"
"I only called her 'mother'!"
"While you're in my house I'll have none of it!" the old man shouted. Two minutes, and Christian was already being lectured...that had to be a record.
"Sir, you know as well as I do that Mother spent the first ten years of her life in France!"
"And she has spent the last forty trying to overcome those years!"
"Peter, leave off," Christian's mother interrupted.
Christian started. This was a rare sight indeed, his mother actually taking a stand against his father's grip on the household.
"Margaret-"
"Look, the boy just got home. He's been in France for nearly a year; it's quite logical that he would slip into French at times."
"Not in my house," Peter avowed crisply. "He's spent a year with whores and criminals; they're all one or the other in that abysmal country. I'll have none of it!"
"He'll do better. Won't you, Christian?"
It took all his mental power not to give into his inherent sarcasm and say 'oui.' "Yes," he mumbled, finally remembering to take off his hat. "Will you have me, then?"
The elderly man glared for a few more seconds. "Well, you are our son, after all," he muttered gruffly. "You may stay."
"Thank you." Wow, he'd kept the sarcasm out of that, too. He spoke to his mother this time. "Is my old room still ready?"
"Of course," she smiled. It was no secret as to which parent Christian got along with better. Christian hugged her, and whispered, "Merci," softly enough that his father wouldn't hear.
Chapter Two: I wish I was...
This chapter and the subsequent ones were written under the impression (wrong or right) that both of Christian's parents are still alive.
Disclaimer: Again, no infringement is intended, so please just leave the Sunburnt One alone!
Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter thus far: Katherine, EloraSalecite (let's see who's being harsh in THIS one), The Beanster (Desole is "desolate," je suis desole would mean "I'm really sorry"), SugarPrincess, dafnap (let's see where Christian's harsh streak comes from), Rue, Liz Skywalker (Another Star Wars AND Moulin Rouge fan! Yay!), angellyfish (thanks, it's good to know my French wasn't terrible), and Taskir (it's so much fun to write in Toulouse's lispy French!). Thank you all so much, merci beaucoup (note that for the ending: merci is thank you), gracias, danke, etc. Your comments are appreciated more than you probably know. Unless you're an author yourself...in which case you know how great it is to hear nice things about your writing!
An interesting note: I pulled the street name out of thin air...then I looked it up to see if "La Rousse" really meant anything. Sometimes I really do wonder if I am psychic...
~~
London, England. It was nothing like Montmartre, and it never had been. Where the Paris slum was shabbily glamorous, this part of London was whitewashed into respectability. But the London Christian had lived in always been sedate and stiff-necked, a fact which had made the frenetic energy of the Moulin Rouge so enticing.
It took Christian awhile to maneuver his belongings (such as they were -- clothes, typewriter, and self) out of the train station. By the time he'd hailed one of the little carriages, all he really wanted was a drink. But he was home now, and walking in the door drunk would do nothing but give his father a wonderful reason to boot him right out on his ass.
"One-seventeen Larousse Avenue," he told the driver. It struck him as odd that their street name in England should sound more French than the boulevard he had lived on in Paris. That particular street had had no name; it was merely "Rue 15." [Rue = street]
Larousse...La rousse: translated, it meant "auburn-haired woman." He laughed sardonically at the irony, provoking a questioning stare from the driver. Christian had come home to forget, and even here everything seemed to remind him of *her.*
The driver pulled the horses up with a gruff command. Had Christian seriously dreamed away the hour-long ride? The driver muttered something about the price; Christian handed him a bill and the driver rode off quickly. Christian hoped belatedly that he hadn't given him the twenty-pound note.
Now that he was standing on the porch, the house seemed more imposing. Three stories and all white, it looked cold to him, inhospitable. ~What'd I come all this way for, to lose courage right on the stoop?~ He cursed his hand for trembling when he reached for the knocker.
A woman opened the door a bit and peered out through the gap. "May I help you, sir?"
Christian grinned. "Have I been away so long?"
She gasped, closed the door to release the chain, and opened it wide again. "Christian!" she shouted, throwing her arms about his neck.
"Ah, Maman, it is good to see you!" [Maman is not a typo, it's a French endearing term for "Mother." One wouldn't pronounce the n, so it would really be just ma-MA.]
"Oh! You come back to us so cultured!"
He made his way inside, where she insisted on taking his suitcase from him. "I'm not a guest," he protested softly, but she would have none of it. For a woman of barely five feet and more than fifty years, she could be terribly stubborn.
"You've been gone. Sit yourself down, get a glass of lemonade. I want to hear everything."
He winced. He had of course been expecting such a question, and now he had to evade it, at least for the present. "S'il vous plait, Maman-" [Please, Mother]
The floorboards at the end of the hallway creaked. Christian's father stood framed in the doorway to the parlor. If Christian had considered the house imposing, it was nothing compared to the tall, white-haired gentleman that stood facing him.
"Father-"
"You crawl back home in shame and have the nerve to speak to your mother in that ignoble French? You should be begging our forgiveness!"
"I only called her 'mother'!"
"While you're in my house I'll have none of it!" the old man shouted. Two minutes, and Christian was already being lectured...that had to be a record.
"Sir, you know as well as I do that Mother spent the first ten years of her life in France!"
"And she has spent the last forty trying to overcome those years!"
"Peter, leave off," Christian's mother interrupted.
Christian started. This was a rare sight indeed, his mother actually taking a stand against his father's grip on the household.
"Margaret-"
"Look, the boy just got home. He's been in France for nearly a year; it's quite logical that he would slip into French at times."
"Not in my house," Peter avowed crisply. "He's spent a year with whores and criminals; they're all one or the other in that abysmal country. I'll have none of it!"
"He'll do better. Won't you, Christian?"
It took all his mental power not to give into his inherent sarcasm and say 'oui.' "Yes," he mumbled, finally remembering to take off his hat. "Will you have me, then?"
The elderly man glared for a few more seconds. "Well, you are our son, after all," he muttered gruffly. "You may stay."
"Thank you." Wow, he'd kept the sarcasm out of that, too. He spoke to his mother this time. "Is my old room still ready?"
"Of course," she smiled. It was no secret as to which parent Christian got along with better. Christian hugged her, and whispered, "Merci," softly enough that his father wouldn't hear.