The Angel of the Underworld
By Breana Harris
The young man paused beneath the window and tried to steady his nerves. The pit of his stomach tingled and burned as he squinted upwards toward the undulating blue sky, looking for a silhouette, a movement, even the faintest shadow, something to indicate to him that the old man was up there, and that he himself, Gabriel Moreau, whom the dancers at the Moulin called the Lost Lamb, was not a fool after all.
Gabriel had no doubt that the old man had heard as many stories about him as he had about the old man. Minuette and Mireille, the beautiful blond twins, had been feeding them to him, as had Lily-Marie, he was certain. The twins still paid him visits twice a week, though it was said he was losing his taste for women, and while they were there they spoke to him of "L'agneau Perdu, the sweet boy with the brush and pen, who paints our pictures and tries so hard to write us love poems. He adores you, Monsieur, he said so. We never see him without your book tucked under his arm. It is so old and worn, the pages can barely stay stuck to the jacket!"
Ah, yes. The book. The thing that might have made it possible for the old man to have lived in a mansion by the sea long before young Gabriel ever came to Monmartre. But he would not leave, they said. He would not go where the red windmill could not be seen. He was afraid he would forget. Each night, so they said, he still sat by that window. Each night for twenty years he still stared at the lights, listened to the joyous din of the crowds, heard the music. But he never went there. He was a legend, as much a part of the Moulin Rouge as the very walls and the carpet, but he never set foot inside.
Some spirit possessed Gabriel enough to force him into that building, and up that old staircase. He reached the door, number 137, and raised his fist to knock, the heat creeping up from his collar. In the other hand, he still held the crumbling book tightly. Gently, he rapped three times.
"Come in," said a deep voice.
He opened the door, expecting to see the disarrayed hiding place of a madman, but instead he was surprised to see a quaint, rather eloquent living space, with a small table set for tea. There were shelves and shelves of books lining the walls, and the bed in the corner was made with rose-printed silk sheets. The light from several exotic lamps mingled with the daylight streaming in from the open window. The old man, who did not seem at all as old as he had imagined, was in the midst of taking the kettle off the stove. He was dressed in fine tailored gray trousers and a starch white shirt. He still had a full head of hair and a thick beard, though it was laced heavily with gray, and behind his spectacles his blue eyes sparkled disarmingly.
"I hope you are Gabriel," he said.
Gabriel nodded. Monsieur extended his free hand to be shook. "I'm Christian. Please sit down. I fixed tea and sandwiches."
He dutifully took a seat at the table and eyed the plate of cucumber sandwiches. Christian poured the tea and sat opposite him. "Sugar?"
"Yes, two please." His throat was dry. He could not take his eyes off the man, and he studied his every movement, the furrowing of his brow as he passed Gabriel his cup, and the slight shake of his hand as he stirred his own tea. After a moment, those blue eyes looked back at him. "Is something the matter?"
"Uh, of course not. I . . . I just never . . . I've wanted to meet you for a long time. Since I was a boy."
Christian smiled. "Meet me? Why?"
"Your book!" Gabriel said, a bit louder than he meant to, gesturing to where it sat on the table. "This book is--it's my whole life! Nothing and no one in the world has ever, or could ever, inspire me the way you have! This book made me want to be an artist! A bohemian!"
Suddenly he noticed the expression on Christian's face, as if some chill wind had passed over his heart, and Gabriel was not sure if he had been listening. "Christian?"
"I'm sorry, it's just . . . Your eyes. Something about you is so familiar to me."
Gabriel was taken aback. He had guessed his secret already, this old fellow, without him even having to tell him. "I was born around here. My father owns the Capital Bank on the Rue de la Moquerie."
"I am sure he is not too pleased to have a son who writes shows for the Moulin, no? I know how that is." He smiled softly.
Gabriel did not smile back. "Actually, he has happy to see me go. He said I belonged with the whores and theatricals. And I think he was right."
Christian sighed. "I find that's not such a bad thing." There was a moment of silence. "So, you are the new writer! And the twins tell me you are an excellent painter as well!"
He nodded. "We have a new show opening this Friday. The Pianist's Daughter. I would be honored if you came to see it."
Rising to place his cup in the sink, Christian paused, his back to him. "Forgive me, but I never go to shows at the Moulin."
Twice he thought of a reply to that, but he decided at last to remain silent.
"Is that why you came here, Gabriel? To invite me to your show?"
"No! Of course not! I . . . I always wanted to meet you. I . . . ," he tried again to steady his nerves. "I was hoping you could tell me . . . About her."
Christian looked as if he was at a lost for what to do next, and Gabriel half expected him to go and sit by the window. "You carry that book with you as if it was a bible. Everything I remember is in there."
"Please," the younger man said. He was close to tears despite himself. "Please, I really need to hear it from you."
Indeed, he did go to look out the window, and Gabriel wondered what it was he saw. "She . . . She always smelled of strawberries in the mornings," Christian began, "and grease paint and champagne at night. All she wanted was to hear stories about England, about my family, because she had no family and she had never been anywhere but here, on the streets of Monmartre. People said she was selfish, but she wasn't selfish, she was a dreamer, and her hopes touched everyone she knew, and none of those dancers, those performers and courtesans, could have asked for a greater gift than just to be in her presence. Everyone loved her. I loved her." He turned back to Gabriel, who was afraid to move from his chair. "Your mother was the angel of the underworld."
Gabriel stood, lips parted. "You knew?"
"Yes. I have known for a long time. I have watched you since you came here, sitting on the steps with your notebook and pen, staring up at the stars. I know you, Gabriel. You are every bit her son."
"But how could you know for certain?"
Christian cocked his head and frowned at him. "Why, Satine told me, of course. She told me everything. She told me how Zidler took you away after you were born and left you on your father's doorstep, and how he convinced his wife to raise you as her own. It wasn't fitting, Zidler said, for the Sparkling Diamond to have a child. It tarnished the illusion. But she knew that you would be raised with everything she had been denied, and that someday you would come back."
Gabriel furiously wiped away a tear. He felt like a small boy.
"I never head the heart to tell her that I had lived that life and had those privileges. And for people like me, her world was the only one. You, Gabriel, are very much like me. I can tell."
"When I was younger I used to imagine that you were my real father, and that it was all a big secret that I could someday unravel."
"I'm sorry. I came to the Moulin several years after you were born. That is no lie, and no secret. But I would have been very proud if your fantasy were true."
Several days later, the Moulin was filled to the brim with people for the opening of The Pianist's Daughter. Minuette, who was playing the title role, scandalized and amused the audience by performing her love scenes with Jean-Michel completely topless, and Cyril the Juggler completed his intermission act from the back of a rather petrified-looking camel.
"You really found a camel! Where on earth did you get a camel?" Lily-Marie asked backstage.
"Trade secret," Gabriel grinned. "All I can tell you is he's cheaper than the elephant."
He peered around the curtain at the laughing, cheering patrons. A dark figure at the back of the theater caught his eye. He was no more than a silhouette in the shadows, but he was vaguely familiar.
When the show was over and the theater was empty, Gabriel sat on the edge of the stage with his feet dangling into the orchestra pit. Smoking a cigarette, he watched the actors and the crew rush back and forth around him, cleaning up.
"Quite proud of yourself, aren't you, Little Lamb?" said Minuette from behind him. She had taken off her makeup and finally put her shirt on, but she was still beautiful.
"Yes," he answered. "I am."
She nodded. "Well, goodnight." She turned to go. "Oh wait, I forgot. He left this for you."
She handed him a copy of the book, Love at the Moulin Rouge, a new copy, undamaged and fresh from the printers. Gabriel opened the cover and found a neatly scrawled inscription: Gone home to England for a while. Good luck with the Underworld. Expect you for tea when I return. ~ Christian.
"I guess you made an impression," said Minuette. "Must make you feel special."
Gabriel laughed. He rose to his feet and tucked the book under his arm. Then he kissed her on the cheek. "I feel . . . Found."
By Breana Harris
The young man paused beneath the window and tried to steady his nerves. The pit of his stomach tingled and burned as he squinted upwards toward the undulating blue sky, looking for a silhouette, a movement, even the faintest shadow, something to indicate to him that the old man was up there, and that he himself, Gabriel Moreau, whom the dancers at the Moulin called the Lost Lamb, was not a fool after all.
Gabriel had no doubt that the old man had heard as many stories about him as he had about the old man. Minuette and Mireille, the beautiful blond twins, had been feeding them to him, as had Lily-Marie, he was certain. The twins still paid him visits twice a week, though it was said he was losing his taste for women, and while they were there they spoke to him of "L'agneau Perdu, the sweet boy with the brush and pen, who paints our pictures and tries so hard to write us love poems. He adores you, Monsieur, he said so. We never see him without your book tucked under his arm. It is so old and worn, the pages can barely stay stuck to the jacket!"
Ah, yes. The book. The thing that might have made it possible for the old man to have lived in a mansion by the sea long before young Gabriel ever came to Monmartre. But he would not leave, they said. He would not go where the red windmill could not be seen. He was afraid he would forget. Each night, so they said, he still sat by that window. Each night for twenty years he still stared at the lights, listened to the joyous din of the crowds, heard the music. But he never went there. He was a legend, as much a part of the Moulin Rouge as the very walls and the carpet, but he never set foot inside.
Some spirit possessed Gabriel enough to force him into that building, and up that old staircase. He reached the door, number 137, and raised his fist to knock, the heat creeping up from his collar. In the other hand, he still held the crumbling book tightly. Gently, he rapped three times.
"Come in," said a deep voice.
He opened the door, expecting to see the disarrayed hiding place of a madman, but instead he was surprised to see a quaint, rather eloquent living space, with a small table set for tea. There were shelves and shelves of books lining the walls, and the bed in the corner was made with rose-printed silk sheets. The light from several exotic lamps mingled with the daylight streaming in from the open window. The old man, who did not seem at all as old as he had imagined, was in the midst of taking the kettle off the stove. He was dressed in fine tailored gray trousers and a starch white shirt. He still had a full head of hair and a thick beard, though it was laced heavily with gray, and behind his spectacles his blue eyes sparkled disarmingly.
"I hope you are Gabriel," he said.
Gabriel nodded. Monsieur extended his free hand to be shook. "I'm Christian. Please sit down. I fixed tea and sandwiches."
He dutifully took a seat at the table and eyed the plate of cucumber sandwiches. Christian poured the tea and sat opposite him. "Sugar?"
"Yes, two please." His throat was dry. He could not take his eyes off the man, and he studied his every movement, the furrowing of his brow as he passed Gabriel his cup, and the slight shake of his hand as he stirred his own tea. After a moment, those blue eyes looked back at him. "Is something the matter?"
"Uh, of course not. I . . . I just never . . . I've wanted to meet you for a long time. Since I was a boy."
Christian smiled. "Meet me? Why?"
"Your book!" Gabriel said, a bit louder than he meant to, gesturing to where it sat on the table. "This book is--it's my whole life! Nothing and no one in the world has ever, or could ever, inspire me the way you have! This book made me want to be an artist! A bohemian!"
Suddenly he noticed the expression on Christian's face, as if some chill wind had passed over his heart, and Gabriel was not sure if he had been listening. "Christian?"
"I'm sorry, it's just . . . Your eyes. Something about you is so familiar to me."
Gabriel was taken aback. He had guessed his secret already, this old fellow, without him even having to tell him. "I was born around here. My father owns the Capital Bank on the Rue de la Moquerie."
"I am sure he is not too pleased to have a son who writes shows for the Moulin, no? I know how that is." He smiled softly.
Gabriel did not smile back. "Actually, he has happy to see me go. He said I belonged with the whores and theatricals. And I think he was right."
Christian sighed. "I find that's not such a bad thing." There was a moment of silence. "So, you are the new writer! And the twins tell me you are an excellent painter as well!"
He nodded. "We have a new show opening this Friday. The Pianist's Daughter. I would be honored if you came to see it."
Rising to place his cup in the sink, Christian paused, his back to him. "Forgive me, but I never go to shows at the Moulin."
Twice he thought of a reply to that, but he decided at last to remain silent.
"Is that why you came here, Gabriel? To invite me to your show?"
"No! Of course not! I . . . I always wanted to meet you. I . . . ," he tried again to steady his nerves. "I was hoping you could tell me . . . About her."
Christian looked as if he was at a lost for what to do next, and Gabriel half expected him to go and sit by the window. "You carry that book with you as if it was a bible. Everything I remember is in there."
"Please," the younger man said. He was close to tears despite himself. "Please, I really need to hear it from you."
Indeed, he did go to look out the window, and Gabriel wondered what it was he saw. "She . . . She always smelled of strawberries in the mornings," Christian began, "and grease paint and champagne at night. All she wanted was to hear stories about England, about my family, because she had no family and she had never been anywhere but here, on the streets of Monmartre. People said she was selfish, but she wasn't selfish, she was a dreamer, and her hopes touched everyone she knew, and none of those dancers, those performers and courtesans, could have asked for a greater gift than just to be in her presence. Everyone loved her. I loved her." He turned back to Gabriel, who was afraid to move from his chair. "Your mother was the angel of the underworld."
Gabriel stood, lips parted. "You knew?"
"Yes. I have known for a long time. I have watched you since you came here, sitting on the steps with your notebook and pen, staring up at the stars. I know you, Gabriel. You are every bit her son."
"But how could you know for certain?"
Christian cocked his head and frowned at him. "Why, Satine told me, of course. She told me everything. She told me how Zidler took you away after you were born and left you on your father's doorstep, and how he convinced his wife to raise you as her own. It wasn't fitting, Zidler said, for the Sparkling Diamond to have a child. It tarnished the illusion. But she knew that you would be raised with everything she had been denied, and that someday you would come back."
Gabriel furiously wiped away a tear. He felt like a small boy.
"I never head the heart to tell her that I had lived that life and had those privileges. And for people like me, her world was the only one. You, Gabriel, are very much like me. I can tell."
"When I was younger I used to imagine that you were my real father, and that it was all a big secret that I could someday unravel."
"I'm sorry. I came to the Moulin several years after you were born. That is no lie, and no secret. But I would have been very proud if your fantasy were true."
Several days later, the Moulin was filled to the brim with people for the opening of The Pianist's Daughter. Minuette, who was playing the title role, scandalized and amused the audience by performing her love scenes with Jean-Michel completely topless, and Cyril the Juggler completed his intermission act from the back of a rather petrified-looking camel.
"You really found a camel! Where on earth did you get a camel?" Lily-Marie asked backstage.
"Trade secret," Gabriel grinned. "All I can tell you is he's cheaper than the elephant."
He peered around the curtain at the laughing, cheering patrons. A dark figure at the back of the theater caught his eye. He was no more than a silhouette in the shadows, but he was vaguely familiar.
When the show was over and the theater was empty, Gabriel sat on the edge of the stage with his feet dangling into the orchestra pit. Smoking a cigarette, he watched the actors and the crew rush back and forth around him, cleaning up.
"Quite proud of yourself, aren't you, Little Lamb?" said Minuette from behind him. She had taken off her makeup and finally put her shirt on, but she was still beautiful.
"Yes," he answered. "I am."
She nodded. "Well, goodnight." She turned to go. "Oh wait, I forgot. He left this for you."
She handed him a copy of the book, Love at the Moulin Rouge, a new copy, undamaged and fresh from the printers. Gabriel opened the cover and found a neatly scrawled inscription: Gone home to England for a while. Good luck with the Underworld. Expect you for tea when I return. ~ Christian.
"I guess you made an impression," said Minuette. "Must make you feel special."
Gabriel laughed. He rose to his feet and tucked the book under his arm. Then he kissed her on the cheek. "I feel . . . Found."