Homeward Bound
Chapter Seven: Silently For Me
Disclaimer: Nope, it's still not mine. All homage to the glorious Baz.
This is it, folks, the final chapter! I dedicate this to everyone who has read and reviewed any of these chapters...if you haven't reviewed, this dedication should make you feel very guilty so you'll review the final part. ;-)
Author's Note: The song line was "I would give everything I own just to have her [you] back again..." It was from "Everything I Own," originally by Bread, although it was covered by *NSYNC. I get to keep all the Cool Points. Muwahahahaha!
--Monsieur Christian = Mr. Christian
--Est ton pere ici? = Is your father here?
--Non, Papa n'est pas ici. = No, Papa isn't here.
--Je te donne cinq francs si tu prends mes valises a la mansarde. = I'll give you 5 francs if you'll take my bags up to the garret room.
--Bien? = All right?
--Oui = Yes
--Merci = You ought to remember this one ;-) It means thank you.
--J'ai les affaires. C'est important, mais je vais retourner. = I have something I must do. It's important, but I will come back.
Homeward Bound
Chapter Seven: Silently For Me
Paris had never seemed so sunny before. It wasn't just that Christian was glad to be back: It was February, but it had suddenly become spring. A false spring, of course; in a week, maybe less, there would be snow on the ground again, churned to a sickly, slushy gray in the gutters.
But that didn't matter right now. The moment he stepped off the train, Christian knew he'd made the right decision. Had it been colder, he would have hailed a carriage to take him to Montmartre. But the sun was warm, so he had decided to walk.
The garret room of his boarding house looked empty; that was hopeful. The room above looked lived-in, but he couldn't tell if the occupant was Toulouse or not. Christian wondered wryly whether the hole in the ceiling of his room had ever been fixed -- he doubted it.
He knocked, but the landlord wasn't home; his ten-year-old son answered the door.
"Monsieur Christian!"
"Bonjour, Jaques. Est ton pere ici?"
The boy looked down at the floor. "Non, Papa n'est pas ici."
Translation: his father was out getting drunk and, likely as not, cheating on Jaques's mother. Christian crouched down to the kid's height. "Je te donne...cinq francs si tu prends mes valises a la mansarde. Bien?"
He grinned. "Oui, Monsieur Christian."
"Merci. J'ai...les affaires. C'est important, mais je vais retourner."
Jaques nodded and picked up Christian's typewriter and suitcase.
Christian waved as he closed the door behind him. He wasn't too sure that he wanted to do this, but he had to. Before he could start anything, he had to make a stop somewhere.
~~
The sun was slanting into late afternoon when he reached the iron fence. He turned around, seeing the entire landscape of Montmartre through the eyes of a bird. This hilltop was beautiful; he was glad they'd chosen this place.
He opened the gate slowly and stepped inside the churchyard. It was even warmer now, enough that Christian had taken off his coat while climbing the hill. In a few days, though, there would come another frost, enough to kill the crocuses that dared to poke their heads through the snow that still lay beneath the oak trees. The warmth would be brief, like so many other things. Like life.
But while it was here, it was to be enjoyed, used up.
Satine's grave was not difficult to find. There was no longer anything so obvious as a mound of earth, or course, but he seemed to know the location instantly.
A marble headstone marked her grave; Christian knew that the Duke's money was behind the stone, but the inscription must have been requested by Toulouse. He knelt down to read it.
Satine
1875-1899
"The French are glad to die for love."
He laid the rose he'd bought at the base of the stone. He could practically hear Satine's voice in his head.
*A single rose absolutely screams that a man is cheap.*
-Not cheap, just poor,- Christian amended mentally. He spread his coat out on the damp grass beside her headstone and lay back on it, gazing up at the thin, drifting clouds. He wondered one more time if he was just being stupid and overly romantic, but he was a Bohemian, after all, and for them nothing could be too romantic.
"I...I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to come," he said quietly. Could she hear him? Who knew? Did it really matter, so long as he said what he'd come here to say? "The funeral...I just couldn't bring myself to go. It was too soon; it would have driven me out of my mind. I don't know, maybe I'm out of my mind anyway, lying here and talking to you like this.
"I went back to England a few days ago. I just couldn't take another night alone in that room. Well, not alone, since Toulouse seemed to think I was in imminent danger of suicide. He slept out on the balcony, can you believe it? In the middle of winter. He thought I was going to throw myself off of it or something. I wouldn't have, but he was too good a friend to take me at my word, I suppose. Perhaps drunk I might have fallen from the balcony, but that wouldn't have been suicide. Absinthe is far too easy to get in this damn country, you know that? I don't think I woke up without a hangover for at least two months. Christ, listen to me. I'm rambling.
"I, er...haven't started writing yet." He imagined her reaction: A mock-pout, a scoff.
*What's keeping you? You wrote an entire play in a month -- how long could it possibly take you to write a story you already know?*
"The words won't come, love." Great, now he was answering her imaginary voice. "I can't force myself to tell a story if I can't find the words. I'm trying, though. I've *been* trying, really, but every time I try to tell it, the words just come out wrong. I burnt all the attempts I made; they just didn't sound right. Once or twice I got so frustrated I almost burnt the typewriter, too. That was when I knew I needed a change of scenery, so to speak. I just needed to get away from the Rouge and everything that had happened there.
"So, for lack of any other options, I went back to England. My mother's from France, and I think she understood, but my father...he just doesn't know me, and he never wanted to take time to learn who I was. He wants me to become what he is: a closed-minded, jaded old schoolteacher afraid to leave his own little island. The only reason he's that way is because that's what his father was, and probably *his* father, too. We argued; he thought my coming back to England was for good, forever. I wasn't sure if I was staying or not, and he couldn't accept that I preferred this absurd, neurotic, beautiful 'sinful country' to England.
"I miss you," he said suddenly, only half-aware that he'd gone off on the verbal equivalent of a side road again. "A month, even a week ago it physically hurt to think about you, but now...I just wish more than anything that you were still here." He wiped his eyes and grinned wryly. "Damn it, I swore I wasn't going to do that anymore! And here I am, falling apart again.
"My mother finally convinced me to tell her what happened, and when I did, she told me that I would have to forgive myself before I could live again. I didn't even know I'd been blaming myself for anything until she said that. I guess I thought that if I hadn't surprised you by coming backstage, and then followed you, then perhaps nothing would have happened. Everything that went wrong that night was my fault: I was the one that screwed up the play (thank God Zidler managed to recover it), and it just seemed logical that your death would be my fault, too. But...then I remembered you falling from the swing during "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend," and I realized that you'd been dying all along.
"How long did you know, Satine? How long did you try to hide it from me...or had they been hiding it from you, too? If you knew, then...I'm glad you never told me. If I'd known when I met you what I know right now, I might not have let things happen the way they did. And I wouldn't give up the time I spent with you for anything in the world, love."
A breeze brought a cool edge to the afternoon, reminding Christian that the days were short. "The night after I told Mother, I got her bottle of absinthe and set out to get drunk. I wandered into the living room and found my piano. Well, it wasn't mine, but nobody had ever used the thing except me. The music I'd played before I left was still there; no one had even uncovered it since I'd been gone. I wanted so badly to play, but...I was afraid to. Because the last time I'd played anything at all, it had been 'Come What May,' and I had been with you. But finally I just sat down. I started to play...and found that I could. Everything seemed to fall into a different light. I can't explain what happened, or why, or how, but I realized that I wanted to *live* again. That you would want me to. And I knew then that I had already made my decision."
*And what decision was that?*
He smiled into the sunset-golden sky. "I decided to come home."
Chapter Seven: Silently For Me
Disclaimer: Nope, it's still not mine. All homage to the glorious Baz.
This is it, folks, the final chapter! I dedicate this to everyone who has read and reviewed any of these chapters...if you haven't reviewed, this dedication should make you feel very guilty so you'll review the final part. ;-)
Author's Note: The song line was "I would give everything I own just to have her [you] back again..." It was from "Everything I Own," originally by Bread, although it was covered by *NSYNC. I get to keep all the Cool Points. Muwahahahaha!
--Monsieur Christian = Mr. Christian
--Est ton pere ici? = Is your father here?
--Non, Papa n'est pas ici. = No, Papa isn't here.
--Je te donne cinq francs si tu prends mes valises a la mansarde. = I'll give you 5 francs if you'll take my bags up to the garret room.
--Bien? = All right?
--Oui = Yes
--Merci = You ought to remember this one ;-) It means thank you.
--J'ai les affaires. C'est important, mais je vais retourner. = I have something I must do. It's important, but I will come back.
Homeward Bound
Chapter Seven: Silently For Me
Paris had never seemed so sunny before. It wasn't just that Christian was glad to be back: It was February, but it had suddenly become spring. A false spring, of course; in a week, maybe less, there would be snow on the ground again, churned to a sickly, slushy gray in the gutters.
But that didn't matter right now. The moment he stepped off the train, Christian knew he'd made the right decision. Had it been colder, he would have hailed a carriage to take him to Montmartre. But the sun was warm, so he had decided to walk.
The garret room of his boarding house looked empty; that was hopeful. The room above looked lived-in, but he couldn't tell if the occupant was Toulouse or not. Christian wondered wryly whether the hole in the ceiling of his room had ever been fixed -- he doubted it.
He knocked, but the landlord wasn't home; his ten-year-old son answered the door.
"Monsieur Christian!"
"Bonjour, Jaques. Est ton pere ici?"
The boy looked down at the floor. "Non, Papa n'est pas ici."
Translation: his father was out getting drunk and, likely as not, cheating on Jaques's mother. Christian crouched down to the kid's height. "Je te donne...cinq francs si tu prends mes valises a la mansarde. Bien?"
He grinned. "Oui, Monsieur Christian."
"Merci. J'ai...les affaires. C'est important, mais je vais retourner."
Jaques nodded and picked up Christian's typewriter and suitcase.
Christian waved as he closed the door behind him. He wasn't too sure that he wanted to do this, but he had to. Before he could start anything, he had to make a stop somewhere.
~~
The sun was slanting into late afternoon when he reached the iron fence. He turned around, seeing the entire landscape of Montmartre through the eyes of a bird. This hilltop was beautiful; he was glad they'd chosen this place.
He opened the gate slowly and stepped inside the churchyard. It was even warmer now, enough that Christian had taken off his coat while climbing the hill. In a few days, though, there would come another frost, enough to kill the crocuses that dared to poke their heads through the snow that still lay beneath the oak trees. The warmth would be brief, like so many other things. Like life.
But while it was here, it was to be enjoyed, used up.
Satine's grave was not difficult to find. There was no longer anything so obvious as a mound of earth, or course, but he seemed to know the location instantly.
A marble headstone marked her grave; Christian knew that the Duke's money was behind the stone, but the inscription must have been requested by Toulouse. He knelt down to read it.
Satine
1875-1899
"The French are glad to die for love."
He laid the rose he'd bought at the base of the stone. He could practically hear Satine's voice in his head.
*A single rose absolutely screams that a man is cheap.*
-Not cheap, just poor,- Christian amended mentally. He spread his coat out on the damp grass beside her headstone and lay back on it, gazing up at the thin, drifting clouds. He wondered one more time if he was just being stupid and overly romantic, but he was a Bohemian, after all, and for them nothing could be too romantic.
"I...I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to come," he said quietly. Could she hear him? Who knew? Did it really matter, so long as he said what he'd come here to say? "The funeral...I just couldn't bring myself to go. It was too soon; it would have driven me out of my mind. I don't know, maybe I'm out of my mind anyway, lying here and talking to you like this.
"I went back to England a few days ago. I just couldn't take another night alone in that room. Well, not alone, since Toulouse seemed to think I was in imminent danger of suicide. He slept out on the balcony, can you believe it? In the middle of winter. He thought I was going to throw myself off of it or something. I wouldn't have, but he was too good a friend to take me at my word, I suppose. Perhaps drunk I might have fallen from the balcony, but that wouldn't have been suicide. Absinthe is far too easy to get in this damn country, you know that? I don't think I woke up without a hangover for at least two months. Christ, listen to me. I'm rambling.
"I, er...haven't started writing yet." He imagined her reaction: A mock-pout, a scoff.
*What's keeping you? You wrote an entire play in a month -- how long could it possibly take you to write a story you already know?*
"The words won't come, love." Great, now he was answering her imaginary voice. "I can't force myself to tell a story if I can't find the words. I'm trying, though. I've *been* trying, really, but every time I try to tell it, the words just come out wrong. I burnt all the attempts I made; they just didn't sound right. Once or twice I got so frustrated I almost burnt the typewriter, too. That was when I knew I needed a change of scenery, so to speak. I just needed to get away from the Rouge and everything that had happened there.
"So, for lack of any other options, I went back to England. My mother's from France, and I think she understood, but my father...he just doesn't know me, and he never wanted to take time to learn who I was. He wants me to become what he is: a closed-minded, jaded old schoolteacher afraid to leave his own little island. The only reason he's that way is because that's what his father was, and probably *his* father, too. We argued; he thought my coming back to England was for good, forever. I wasn't sure if I was staying or not, and he couldn't accept that I preferred this absurd, neurotic, beautiful 'sinful country' to England.
"I miss you," he said suddenly, only half-aware that he'd gone off on the verbal equivalent of a side road again. "A month, even a week ago it physically hurt to think about you, but now...I just wish more than anything that you were still here." He wiped his eyes and grinned wryly. "Damn it, I swore I wasn't going to do that anymore! And here I am, falling apart again.
"My mother finally convinced me to tell her what happened, and when I did, she told me that I would have to forgive myself before I could live again. I didn't even know I'd been blaming myself for anything until she said that. I guess I thought that if I hadn't surprised you by coming backstage, and then followed you, then perhaps nothing would have happened. Everything that went wrong that night was my fault: I was the one that screwed up the play (thank God Zidler managed to recover it), and it just seemed logical that your death would be my fault, too. But...then I remembered you falling from the swing during "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend," and I realized that you'd been dying all along.
"How long did you know, Satine? How long did you try to hide it from me...or had they been hiding it from you, too? If you knew, then...I'm glad you never told me. If I'd known when I met you what I know right now, I might not have let things happen the way they did. And I wouldn't give up the time I spent with you for anything in the world, love."
A breeze brought a cool edge to the afternoon, reminding Christian that the days were short. "The night after I told Mother, I got her bottle of absinthe and set out to get drunk. I wandered into the living room and found my piano. Well, it wasn't mine, but nobody had ever used the thing except me. The music I'd played before I left was still there; no one had even uncovered it since I'd been gone. I wanted so badly to play, but...I was afraid to. Because the last time I'd played anything at all, it had been 'Come What May,' and I had been with you. But finally I just sat down. I started to play...and found that I could. Everything seemed to fall into a different light. I can't explain what happened, or why, or how, but I realized that I wanted to *live* again. That you would want me to. And I knew then that I had already made my decision."
*And what decision was that?*
He smiled into the sunset-golden sky. "I decided to come home."