Homeward Bound
CHAPTER 4: Home, Where My Thought's Escaping
Disclaimer: What, do you think anything has changed? That in between chapters 3 and 4 I was suddenly adopted by Baz, who gave me the rights as an un-birthday gift? Of course not! I am still but a lowly fanfiction writer, who can make no money from what she is doing, and who intends no infringement on the great Baz. Woe is me! But I'm having a lot of fun. ;-)
~Anyone who finds the song line (not from Homeward Bound) in here, and knows the original group to have recorded it, gets Cool Points from me. They don't count for anything, and they don't physically exist, but when I'm famous, you can brag that I gave you Cool Points 'way back when.' I did change one word, but if you know the song, you'll probably find the lyric.~
ONE MORE NOTE...
Even if you know French, you might want to read the translation section below. Since there are no accent marks, some words may resemble others. Also, I didn't bother to translate what I have already used in the prior chapters, 'cause you should remember that. ;-) See? An educational fanfiction...there may be a test at the end.
- Bien = good, all right, okay
- Non = no, but at the end of a sentence like "Life sucks, non?" it would be more like "Life sucks, you know/right?"
- Mon chere fil = my dear son
- Elle est morte = she's dead
- mais je l'aime = but I love her
- Je sais = I know
- Bon soir = good night/evening
- ou = or
- Bon matin = good morning
~~
Homeward Bound
Chapter 4: Home, Where My Thought's Escaping
He followed her into the dining room, where he sat down.
"A moment," she said, and left, returning with two glasses and a bottle.
Christian laughed, pretending to be scandalized. "Absinthe? Maman, I did not know..."
"Perhaps it shall help you to find the words. But I think only one glass, non? I would like you to be coherent."
"Bien."
She poured his glass and her own, and he sipped the evil-looking green liquor thoughtfully. He didn't know how to begin, then decided simply to start with *her.* "She was the star of a - a nightclub, the Moulin Rouge, and her name was Satine." The name slid so easily from his lips, the first time since her death that it hadn't seemed to burn his throat to speak it. "A few friends of mine had arranged a, er, a rendezvous with her - "
"Totally alone, of course?"
"Exactly. But she had double-booked, as it were, and a duke was to see her on the same night I was supposed to. She mistook me for the duke, and I...well, I made quite a fool of myself. And I was so naïve, I thought the things she had said to me were true, about loving me..." After a fashion, he stopped paying attention to his own words, but he knew he was telling her everything. About the Duke, Zidler's deal, the play, Satine and how he had fallen in love with her. He explained how happy he had been to know she loved him, how he truly had understood her situation with the Duke, and how he had promised not to be jealous. And then he admitted to breaking that promise.
Margaret had filled Christian's glass at least three times, despite the limit she had imposed. She wondered briefly if that last glass would push him over the edge, but he had been drinking absinthe for a long time; it would have taken at least two more glasses to become satisfactorily drunk. She had lifted her own glass barely once, so enthralled was she in her son's tale.
"I really believe I went mad with jealousy," he continued. "I kept asking her why I couldn't pay her, since it seemed that I was nothing more to her than another customer. The actor who was supposed to play her lover had fallen asleep (he was a narcoleptic) and tumbled down a flight of stairs around scene three. I didn't know I was going to take his place until the little door opened and I was there on the stage with her. Zidler found some kind of excuse for the sitar player's radical change in appearance; I don't know what it was. And then I just stood there, threw the money down, and said, 'I paid my whore.' And something in that word suddenly seemed so brutal. I mean, courtesan had sounded civilized, high-class, but 'whore' made me see everything differently. I just stalked off the stage, leaving her there. She was crying, but I think that was what the script called for in that scene anyway, so it may not have been because of me.
"The Duke -- I don't remember much about him at that time, but he was furious, and at one point he caused a bit of a stir. I kept walking; I suppose I eventually meant to go out the back doors, and she just started singing. It was the song that we had written together -- it was to be sung by the sitar player and his courtesan, but truly it was for us, Satine and me. And...I stopped, and I sang with her. Then I started back up onto the stage, and we finished the play the way I had intended it, without the Duke's forced changes.
"The curtain came down, and...she just collapsed. She was coughing up blood, dying of consumption, and she hadn't even told me." Tears were rolling down Christian's face, but he either ignored them or didn't know he was crying. "She asked me to write our story, and she - she died, right there on the stage. In - in my arms..." His soft crying had broken suddenly into harsh sobs -- the sobs of a boy, a child -- and, ashamed, he dropped his head into his hands. God, if his father woke in the middle of the night to this - !
"Ah, mon chere fil." Margaret laid a hand on his shaking shoulder.
"I *love* her," he whispered fiercely, not knowing if he spoke in French or English. "Elle est morte, mais je l'aime!"
"Je sais, Christian. I know that you love her, and I know that it hurts. But you have to go on -"
"I don't *want* to go on! I would give everything I own just to have her back again, because nothing means anything to me without her!"
She took his face between her hands and forced him to look at her. The desperation in his eyes frightened her. "Christian. I never met your Satine, but you have told me enough that I know her like a friend. She loved you, too, and she would not want you to throw away your life just because she lost hers."
"Mais les Francias sont hereuse mourir pour l'amour," he muttered.
"What?"
"'The French are glad to die for love'...it was part of her act in the Rouge."
"You forget that you are English."
"My heart is French."
It sounded so poetic; Margaret wondered if he even realized it. "Have you done as she asked? Written your story?"
"I can't."
"Have you even tried?"
"Dozens of times. I could never get past our meeting in the elephant, and I burnt whatever I wrote; it never seemed to live up to her."
"And so you came here, hoping for inspiration? A change of scenery? Peace and quiet?"
"Relief."
"And absolution, non? You feel guilty for letting her leave you that day, when she told you she had chosen the 'maharaja.' Guilty because you kept trying to pay her. Perhaps when you forgive yourself, you will be able to live again." She picked up her glass and the bottle (still half-full) and took them into the kitchen. Christian downed the last of his drink swiftly and followed her.
"I think it is time you slept, Christian," she told him as she washed the glasses. She smiled gently. "Bon soir, ou bon matin?"
Bon matin indeed; the clock had struck two when Christian had still been telling her of the Duke's "ownership" of Satine.
"Merci, Maman." He kissed her briefly on each cheek, and went upstairs to bed.
It was the first sober night since her death in which he had been able to sleep easily.
CHAPTER 4: Home, Where My Thought's Escaping
Disclaimer: What, do you think anything has changed? That in between chapters 3 and 4 I was suddenly adopted by Baz, who gave me the rights as an un-birthday gift? Of course not! I am still but a lowly fanfiction writer, who can make no money from what she is doing, and who intends no infringement on the great Baz. Woe is me! But I'm having a lot of fun. ;-)
~Anyone who finds the song line (not from Homeward Bound) in here, and knows the original group to have recorded it, gets Cool Points from me. They don't count for anything, and they don't physically exist, but when I'm famous, you can brag that I gave you Cool Points 'way back when.' I did change one word, but if you know the song, you'll probably find the lyric.~
ONE MORE NOTE...
Even if you know French, you might want to read the translation section below. Since there are no accent marks, some words may resemble others. Also, I didn't bother to translate what I have already used in the prior chapters, 'cause you should remember that. ;-) See? An educational fanfiction...there may be a test at the end.
- Bien = good, all right, okay
- Non = no, but at the end of a sentence like "Life sucks, non?" it would be more like "Life sucks, you know/right?"
- Mon chere fil = my dear son
- Elle est morte = she's dead
- mais je l'aime = but I love her
- Je sais = I know
- Bon soir = good night/evening
- ou = or
- Bon matin = good morning
~~
Homeward Bound
Chapter 4: Home, Where My Thought's Escaping
He followed her into the dining room, where he sat down.
"A moment," she said, and left, returning with two glasses and a bottle.
Christian laughed, pretending to be scandalized. "Absinthe? Maman, I did not know..."
"Perhaps it shall help you to find the words. But I think only one glass, non? I would like you to be coherent."
"Bien."
She poured his glass and her own, and he sipped the evil-looking green liquor thoughtfully. He didn't know how to begin, then decided simply to start with *her.* "She was the star of a - a nightclub, the Moulin Rouge, and her name was Satine." The name slid so easily from his lips, the first time since her death that it hadn't seemed to burn his throat to speak it. "A few friends of mine had arranged a, er, a rendezvous with her - "
"Totally alone, of course?"
"Exactly. But she had double-booked, as it were, and a duke was to see her on the same night I was supposed to. She mistook me for the duke, and I...well, I made quite a fool of myself. And I was so naïve, I thought the things she had said to me were true, about loving me..." After a fashion, he stopped paying attention to his own words, but he knew he was telling her everything. About the Duke, Zidler's deal, the play, Satine and how he had fallen in love with her. He explained how happy he had been to know she loved him, how he truly had understood her situation with the Duke, and how he had promised not to be jealous. And then he admitted to breaking that promise.
Margaret had filled Christian's glass at least three times, despite the limit she had imposed. She wondered briefly if that last glass would push him over the edge, but he had been drinking absinthe for a long time; it would have taken at least two more glasses to become satisfactorily drunk. She had lifted her own glass barely once, so enthralled was she in her son's tale.
"I really believe I went mad with jealousy," he continued. "I kept asking her why I couldn't pay her, since it seemed that I was nothing more to her than another customer. The actor who was supposed to play her lover had fallen asleep (he was a narcoleptic) and tumbled down a flight of stairs around scene three. I didn't know I was going to take his place until the little door opened and I was there on the stage with her. Zidler found some kind of excuse for the sitar player's radical change in appearance; I don't know what it was. And then I just stood there, threw the money down, and said, 'I paid my whore.' And something in that word suddenly seemed so brutal. I mean, courtesan had sounded civilized, high-class, but 'whore' made me see everything differently. I just stalked off the stage, leaving her there. She was crying, but I think that was what the script called for in that scene anyway, so it may not have been because of me.
"The Duke -- I don't remember much about him at that time, but he was furious, and at one point he caused a bit of a stir. I kept walking; I suppose I eventually meant to go out the back doors, and she just started singing. It was the song that we had written together -- it was to be sung by the sitar player and his courtesan, but truly it was for us, Satine and me. And...I stopped, and I sang with her. Then I started back up onto the stage, and we finished the play the way I had intended it, without the Duke's forced changes.
"The curtain came down, and...she just collapsed. She was coughing up blood, dying of consumption, and she hadn't even told me." Tears were rolling down Christian's face, but he either ignored them or didn't know he was crying. "She asked me to write our story, and she - she died, right there on the stage. In - in my arms..." His soft crying had broken suddenly into harsh sobs -- the sobs of a boy, a child -- and, ashamed, he dropped his head into his hands. God, if his father woke in the middle of the night to this - !
"Ah, mon chere fil." Margaret laid a hand on his shaking shoulder.
"I *love* her," he whispered fiercely, not knowing if he spoke in French or English. "Elle est morte, mais je l'aime!"
"Je sais, Christian. I know that you love her, and I know that it hurts. But you have to go on -"
"I don't *want* to go on! I would give everything I own just to have her back again, because nothing means anything to me without her!"
She took his face between her hands and forced him to look at her. The desperation in his eyes frightened her. "Christian. I never met your Satine, but you have told me enough that I know her like a friend. She loved you, too, and she would not want you to throw away your life just because she lost hers."
"Mais les Francias sont hereuse mourir pour l'amour," he muttered.
"What?"
"'The French are glad to die for love'...it was part of her act in the Rouge."
"You forget that you are English."
"My heart is French."
It sounded so poetic; Margaret wondered if he even realized it. "Have you done as she asked? Written your story?"
"I can't."
"Have you even tried?"
"Dozens of times. I could never get past our meeting in the elephant, and I burnt whatever I wrote; it never seemed to live up to her."
"And so you came here, hoping for inspiration? A change of scenery? Peace and quiet?"
"Relief."
"And absolution, non? You feel guilty for letting her leave you that day, when she told you she had chosen the 'maharaja.' Guilty because you kept trying to pay her. Perhaps when you forgive yourself, you will be able to live again." She picked up her glass and the bottle (still half-full) and took them into the kitchen. Christian downed the last of his drink swiftly and followed her.
"I think it is time you slept, Christian," she told him as she washed the glasses. She smiled gently. "Bon soir, ou bon matin?"
Bon matin indeed; the clock had struck two when Christian had still been telling her of the Duke's "ownership" of Satine.
"Merci, Maman." He kissed her briefly on each cheek, and went upstairs to bed.
It was the first sober night since her death in which he had been able to sleep easily.