Title: La Bon Moulin Rouge
Author: Laura Fones
E-Mail: rb46628@aol.com
Distribution: Red Windmill, the Penniless Poet, whoever else, simply ask.
Spoilers: Of course! You can't have a Moulin Rouge fiction without horrible, horrible, and shameless spoilers pertaining to the ending of the film.
Rating: PG-13
Content: Christian/China Doll, Toulouse
Feedback: Think of it as a much less costly way of paying your favorite authors with small tokens of ego.pretty please?
Summary: One must always depend on the kindness of strangers, for a man's salvation lies in an unfamiliar hand.
Disclaimer: I do not own and am not affiliated with any part of Baz Luhrmann's production, and I most definitely assure you, I am making no money from this.
Chapter 2
After that intimacy had passed, I knew I was to watch from a distance. I observed his tears, and I observed his contemptuous looks to his instrument of composition, I also became enthralled by his actions of tossing and turning in the writer's seat. Simple songs of remembrance eased him into the written word, and it was a fortnight before the typewriter ever found use.
The first day was the most difficult, as often exposition proves its dominance in the impenetrability of an exceptional story. But Christian didn't approach it as would a fiction writer begging for a way to occupy a reader's interest, instead he realized that in beginning he no longer could sit idly in the deep depressions grief had driven him to enjoy.
I heard the gentle clicking that indicated familiar operation and saw the virgin paper quickly filled with the genius' unhappiness. Everything in the room became mute as the first page finally found peace on the antique desk. That was the signal that that my voluntary incarceration inside the disordered apartment had been lifted and I allowed myself to leave Christian.
Truly Montmartre was a despicable place, but a place into which I was well versed in custom. And although it was for years my home, the sudden revival of familiarity shocked my senses as the village air came into contact with a body restricted to such a small area for so long a spell. Moments were taken in growing accustomed to the low murmurs of city streets before I could again differentiate voice from sound and continue to walk without confusion.
It is not a lonesome task to clear one's head of stir craziness I soon found as I was almost immediately assaulted by a dear, awfully missed acquaintance wandering the street.
"Mademoiselle," Her salutation encroached on me from behind, "If I hadn't seen you this instant I would have taken you for dead."
"Ahh, my dear friend Camille," My bemused tone and sudden cease of step proved to her I'd placed the voice immediately. "I've counted the seconds since our parting."
"Forever the wag," The fair-featured colleen smiled, joining me at the side and continuing to walk.
"Only when compared to your narrow wits." Our conversation was, and had always been, conducted in malicious, but harmless, jest.
"And how is it you survive my dear friend?" Camille intoned with simulated curiosity, "Is it on your wits alone? I would probably perish if such a thing was expected of me."
"Well that's the luck of the Irish I suppose," My tone, as she was accustomed, lacked cruelty, "You're given the beauty to prostitute yourself but not the intellect to survive."
Her tone at once became genuinely concerned, "I saw you leaving the Hotel Blanche, and I wondered if it was possible that our bel auteur was falling back onto old habits?"
"My dear Gaelic girl," I defiantly scolded my elder, "I would never do such a thing, you know it as well as I do." Offhandedly I explained, "I've been staying with a friend, nothing more."
"This friend of yours isn't to be found at the bottom of a liquor bottle perchance, is he?" Camille's voice held the consistency so heavily associated with sobriety it was almost comical.
"Not that I've seen." I assured her.
"Well, I tell my girls never to drink," She slowed her pace to sauntering steps as a potential customer passed us on the walkway. She, upon his passing, resumed her stride and finished her question, "So, this sober friend of yours, what's his name?"
"Why do you assume it's a man?"
"Because every women in this town is either lying in a bordello or making her way on the streets," Camille lost her good-natured tone, "And god forbid you soil yourself with folks like that."
"I'm in here with you, aren't I?"
"But did you even attempt seek me out?" When I gave pause she had won her argument. "His name?"
"Christian." I stated simply.
"Is he new," She asked, "I haven't had him as a client."
"No one has," I informed he. "I somehow doubt that they will."
"Is he a cleric," She teased. "Have you converted without my knowledge?"
"No," I denied intensely, "And it's my sincere hope that I never do. Christian is a writer, not a saint."
"A writer?" She appeared confused; "You don't mean the Moulin's playwright, do you?"
"You know of him?"
"Every strumpet in Montmartre knows of him." She proclaimed. "Is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"That he is responsible for the Moulin's downfall," She clarified in a low, conspiring manner. "That he begun it all?"
"Of course it's not true!" I hissed suddenly, and then lowered my tone to near inaudibility, as if sharing with her some momentous secret. "The Moulin Rouge may have fallen around him, but he was most definitely not the cause. Correct anyone who considers such a lie."
"A bit severe my dear Chinoise," Camille intoned sweetly in an attempt to keep the peace, "I believe you."
"Are you heartless?" I asked coldly.
"Oh I certainly hope not." Camille chuckled, "Come now, the rumor that walks the streets can only survive so long; it will pass."
"It's been almost a year," I said, "Don't you think its passing is a bit overdue?" Dropping my head for a moment, I surrendered the topic. "It just feels like he doesn't belong here."
"Ahh, such a pretty thing, even in your state," Camille remarked on the unkempt appearance I had developed over my time locked away in a dank flat, "You think too much."
"You'd find me a bore if I didn't." I challenged.
"Certainly not!" She exclaimed, "I'd find you a job."
"You're wasting your time, Camille."
"Pity," Her brogue became increasingly acute, "You'd be such a treasure if we could just get you back into those signature garter belts."
"And you'd be such a wonderful woman if only you'd let your foot up from the brothel," I shrugged, "It's not as if it matters though, is it, neither of us will." Smiling a bit, I breathed deeply, "Montmartre is wonderful."
"Dear girl, where have you been cooped up?" She freed a bitter chuckle at my actions. "The air of Montmartre is arguably the worst in the world, what happened to make you feel otherwise?"
"A fortnight of neglect perhaps," A wry expression adorned my otherwise undecorated face, "It's pleasant to return to the realm of the living."
"We're no more alive than your friend I'd gather," Chiding me like a small child she lifted my chin, "But if he dares to neglect such a precious lass, then shame on his family for it."
"I don't expect that would result in much of a reaction from him," I smiled, "But all the same, I appreciate the sentiment."
"And what is it you are doing to occupy your time?" She droned, "Certainly you can't find satisfaction in the midst of neglect."
"You truly believe I'm incapable of anything other than whoring myself, don't you?" I accused.
"Women in this town are good for nothing else, dear," She said in a seemingly sage tone, "It's sad but true."
"I'm glad I don't have such a depressing perspective," My tone poured moral superiority: my mortal fault. "And I pity you for it."
"Pity me for nothing," Camille responded calmly, "I'm not the one who would have starved a month ago without my care."
"It is better to be insolvent than to be nefarious."
After moments of musing, content smile adorning her face, she murmured, "Did Aesop advise you on that?" She had the daring to taunt, "Or have you finally progressed past the 'hack' phase in writing?"
"Good day, Camille," I smiled condescendingly as I imparted the civility, as it was accepted by both individuals that the conversation had expired in pleasantries. "I wish you luck in collecting your wealth. Lechery must support your needs so well."
I left her on the sidewalk with full knowledge that I would forgive the grievances she had committed, just as she would forgive me should we meet again. And in performing the act, I moved easily about the roads in full confidence.
Before returning to the Hotel Blanche, I took it upon myself to use the facilities in a local bagnio to clear away two collective weeks of insalubrious conditions. This having been done, I felt satisfied to simply return to Christian, if just to check his state.
Upon entering the apartment I noticed immediately the small change in its situation (my eyes having grown accustomed to his uniform conditions of disarray). Around his desk he had cleared away the empty bottles of narcotic and sat slouching in his small seat, eyes turned to the ever- cinereous sky over Montmartre.
I entered quietly, wishing not to disturb his contemplation, and it was then that I saw his tears. Approaching him with all the care I could so as not to startle him, I kneeled beside him.
"Oh Christian." I whispered understandingly as my fingertips went to his cheek and brushed away the warm droplet that clung tenaciously to the side of his face.
As my hand drew away he caught me weakly at the wrist, breathing in with the unsteadiness that comes from open sobs. "You smell nice." He murmured, voice trembling a bit.
Pleased by the communication, I afforded him a smile, "Thank the miracle of ablutions."
His words were low, barely comprehensible even given my proximity. "I feel like I can't breathe."
"You're exhausted," I whispered soothingly, "From all of this." Seeing the heaviness of his eyelids I wasn't left to guess the remedy, "Sleep Christian.your body can only take so much."
He nodded dumbly and was elevated, unsteady from fatigue, to his feet. Fearing his stability, I supported his attempt and laid him lightly on the bed, he being too tired to refuse it. I watched him for a moment as he fought the onslaught of sleep, turning then when his eyes finally shut, but he reached out a hand to stop me. "She--she told me." He mumbled incoherently, regaining my attention.
"What?" I whispered.
"She told me she had been sick." His eyebrows were animated though his eyes remained closed, "I should have done something.we should have left." He made a sound of sleep, "She could have rested awhile.and everything would have been better."
I tilted my head thoughtfully as his ramblings tapered out and his arm became lax once more. Falling out of my trance, I looked over to the table where the typewriter sat, its inherent dust now marred with soft fingerprints along the exterior black. Stepping over bottle and paper I looked to its side where, in just a few hours grief had produced somewhere near twenty pages. And it was seeing the cathartic efforts of literary brilliance that surely awoke in me the wayward urge to read a bit into his heartache, a naughty curiosity that I had yet to censor.
I touched the neatly stacked papers with hesitancy and held down on the bottom edge to ensure there was no upset to his order (and the hope that he would not notice my small transgression). Flipping through with quiet speed, and then sitting to read it thoroughly, I fell into comfortable rhythm. The first page summarized, with surprising clarity, his thinly veiled contempt for the miserable house of whores. But somehow the mood changed, more quickly than ever it should, and his tone was light and innocent. With frightening rapidity, he had made the Moulin's infamous atmosphere laughable, and, in truth, I admired him for that.
He had described the girls, the glitz, the utter debauchery of the club, and somehow managed to make it all appear so sane. And then Satine descended from on high in her classically extravagant style, in the silent ecstasy of those who adored her.
But someone else was to meet Satine that night.
And there it stopped; I crinkled my nose in disgust. But someone else was to meet Satine that night.
The gentle chirping of the lone lovebird caught my attention as I set the pages down in the neat pile in which I had found them. Maneuvering over the dangerous debris once more, I leaned out the window where the disheartened fowl was caged.
Cooing gently, I looked at the brightly colored bird in the contrast of the gray Parisian sky and gently touched the side of the cage. "Oh, how grief is contagious, mon ami?" I whispered to it and tapped a melody upon its side. "I wish you blue birds in the spring.Give your heart a song to sing" I laughed a little as the unused quality of my voice faltered in softness. "And then a kiss, but more than this." Good humor returned to the little fellow and he twittered appreciatively as I nearly purred the words, "I wish you love."
Having been cheered a bit, and with nothing else with which to occupy my time, I looked down onto the streets. I have always wondered at Paris' eccentric pacing, wherein nothing moved exactly in proper time; the avenue's inhabitants moved with aching slowness or, on rarer occasions, with dizzying speed matching that of a whirling dervish. It seemed that the inner sanctums of home or apartment were the only places where real time existed.
I was left again with nothing to do. My primary source of mirth lay in deep repose, and though I was known for such droll quirks, watching his breathing produced little appeal. But for moments, even though boredom had struck, I remained there; basking, almost, in a serenity that came without Christian's fitful consciousness.
I watched a moment as he turned over, as if he were instinctively fighting sleep, as if he hadn't grown accustomed to the feeling yet. Vaguely I remembered a conversation, an eternity ago to be certain. Toulouse had said to me of Christian, after all of it had occurred, and after he had remained reclusive in his 'enclosure' for weeks. Recalling now, I heard the frustrated words, catalogued in my memory strangely without his cachet lisp, "And if love cannot survive for him, I can't believe it can ever exist for any of us."
"It only makes me believe it more." I whispered the response that I wished I had given.
I couldn't remember seeing Toulouse again.surely I must have, he couldn't have disappeared after saying only that. I mentally crawled through the deep recesses of my memory to find something, and I soon discovered it. After he had left, Toulouse vanished into some flat outside Montmartre, "as far away from Christian as I can get!" he had said. I tried to visit him once, but I was never answered, and I recall a woman going up to the apartment. I had spoken with her, asked her for his whereabouts and she hadn't responded except to say, 'with his paints or without his purse'. He had fallen again into the company of whores.
Then it came back to me, the night before he left, we sat in the empty theater hall. In his inebriated state, he whispered to me things that surely could have been attributed to alcohol, or madness, or foible. There was a truth to all of it though, as he spoke of Spectacular Spectacular. He relayed to me that his only hope to go on was to drink quicker than his sorrow could keep up with; it couldn't encompass him if it couldn't catch him.
It struck me as odd that he should be so deeply wounded, after all, he had never loved Satine.
I sometimes doubt that fact now.
Surely that was the answer; that he now existed as an inebriate, a sot who had given in to whatever fantasies were to be found in intoxicated unconsciousness. It was a disappointment though that such an artist should fall to waste, inevitable as it may have seemed. And for all intensive purposes, Toulouse was gone. Everyone had gone.
But I couldn't be unhappy for that fact. It's sometimes easier to have no one there; the charred remains are sometimes easier to view.
I wiped away an undeveloped tear, my fingers trembling in the menial task.
Author: Laura Fones
E-Mail: rb46628@aol.com
Distribution: Red Windmill, the Penniless Poet, whoever else, simply ask.
Spoilers: Of course! You can't have a Moulin Rouge fiction without horrible, horrible, and shameless spoilers pertaining to the ending of the film.
Rating: PG-13
Content: Christian/China Doll, Toulouse
Feedback: Think of it as a much less costly way of paying your favorite authors with small tokens of ego.pretty please?
Summary: One must always depend on the kindness of strangers, for a man's salvation lies in an unfamiliar hand.
Disclaimer: I do not own and am not affiliated with any part of Baz Luhrmann's production, and I most definitely assure you, I am making no money from this.
Chapter 2
After that intimacy had passed, I knew I was to watch from a distance. I observed his tears, and I observed his contemptuous looks to his instrument of composition, I also became enthralled by his actions of tossing and turning in the writer's seat. Simple songs of remembrance eased him into the written word, and it was a fortnight before the typewriter ever found use.
The first day was the most difficult, as often exposition proves its dominance in the impenetrability of an exceptional story. But Christian didn't approach it as would a fiction writer begging for a way to occupy a reader's interest, instead he realized that in beginning he no longer could sit idly in the deep depressions grief had driven him to enjoy.
I heard the gentle clicking that indicated familiar operation and saw the virgin paper quickly filled with the genius' unhappiness. Everything in the room became mute as the first page finally found peace on the antique desk. That was the signal that that my voluntary incarceration inside the disordered apartment had been lifted and I allowed myself to leave Christian.
Truly Montmartre was a despicable place, but a place into which I was well versed in custom. And although it was for years my home, the sudden revival of familiarity shocked my senses as the village air came into contact with a body restricted to such a small area for so long a spell. Moments were taken in growing accustomed to the low murmurs of city streets before I could again differentiate voice from sound and continue to walk without confusion.
It is not a lonesome task to clear one's head of stir craziness I soon found as I was almost immediately assaulted by a dear, awfully missed acquaintance wandering the street.
"Mademoiselle," Her salutation encroached on me from behind, "If I hadn't seen you this instant I would have taken you for dead."
"Ahh, my dear friend Camille," My bemused tone and sudden cease of step proved to her I'd placed the voice immediately. "I've counted the seconds since our parting."
"Forever the wag," The fair-featured colleen smiled, joining me at the side and continuing to walk.
"Only when compared to your narrow wits." Our conversation was, and had always been, conducted in malicious, but harmless, jest.
"And how is it you survive my dear friend?" Camille intoned with simulated curiosity, "Is it on your wits alone? I would probably perish if such a thing was expected of me."
"Well that's the luck of the Irish I suppose," My tone, as she was accustomed, lacked cruelty, "You're given the beauty to prostitute yourself but not the intellect to survive."
Her tone at once became genuinely concerned, "I saw you leaving the Hotel Blanche, and I wondered if it was possible that our bel auteur was falling back onto old habits?"
"My dear Gaelic girl," I defiantly scolded my elder, "I would never do such a thing, you know it as well as I do." Offhandedly I explained, "I've been staying with a friend, nothing more."
"This friend of yours isn't to be found at the bottom of a liquor bottle perchance, is he?" Camille's voice held the consistency so heavily associated with sobriety it was almost comical.
"Not that I've seen." I assured her.
"Well, I tell my girls never to drink," She slowed her pace to sauntering steps as a potential customer passed us on the walkway. She, upon his passing, resumed her stride and finished her question, "So, this sober friend of yours, what's his name?"
"Why do you assume it's a man?"
"Because every women in this town is either lying in a bordello or making her way on the streets," Camille lost her good-natured tone, "And god forbid you soil yourself with folks like that."
"I'm in here with you, aren't I?"
"But did you even attempt seek me out?" When I gave pause she had won her argument. "His name?"
"Christian." I stated simply.
"Is he new," She asked, "I haven't had him as a client."
"No one has," I informed he. "I somehow doubt that they will."
"Is he a cleric," She teased. "Have you converted without my knowledge?"
"No," I denied intensely, "And it's my sincere hope that I never do. Christian is a writer, not a saint."
"A writer?" She appeared confused; "You don't mean the Moulin's playwright, do you?"
"You know of him?"
"Every strumpet in Montmartre knows of him." She proclaimed. "Is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"That he is responsible for the Moulin's downfall," She clarified in a low, conspiring manner. "That he begun it all?"
"Of course it's not true!" I hissed suddenly, and then lowered my tone to near inaudibility, as if sharing with her some momentous secret. "The Moulin Rouge may have fallen around him, but he was most definitely not the cause. Correct anyone who considers such a lie."
"A bit severe my dear Chinoise," Camille intoned sweetly in an attempt to keep the peace, "I believe you."
"Are you heartless?" I asked coldly.
"Oh I certainly hope not." Camille chuckled, "Come now, the rumor that walks the streets can only survive so long; it will pass."
"It's been almost a year," I said, "Don't you think its passing is a bit overdue?" Dropping my head for a moment, I surrendered the topic. "It just feels like he doesn't belong here."
"Ahh, such a pretty thing, even in your state," Camille remarked on the unkempt appearance I had developed over my time locked away in a dank flat, "You think too much."
"You'd find me a bore if I didn't." I challenged.
"Certainly not!" She exclaimed, "I'd find you a job."
"You're wasting your time, Camille."
"Pity," Her brogue became increasingly acute, "You'd be such a treasure if we could just get you back into those signature garter belts."
"And you'd be such a wonderful woman if only you'd let your foot up from the brothel," I shrugged, "It's not as if it matters though, is it, neither of us will." Smiling a bit, I breathed deeply, "Montmartre is wonderful."
"Dear girl, where have you been cooped up?" She freed a bitter chuckle at my actions. "The air of Montmartre is arguably the worst in the world, what happened to make you feel otherwise?"
"A fortnight of neglect perhaps," A wry expression adorned my otherwise undecorated face, "It's pleasant to return to the realm of the living."
"We're no more alive than your friend I'd gather," Chiding me like a small child she lifted my chin, "But if he dares to neglect such a precious lass, then shame on his family for it."
"I don't expect that would result in much of a reaction from him," I smiled, "But all the same, I appreciate the sentiment."
"And what is it you are doing to occupy your time?" She droned, "Certainly you can't find satisfaction in the midst of neglect."
"You truly believe I'm incapable of anything other than whoring myself, don't you?" I accused.
"Women in this town are good for nothing else, dear," She said in a seemingly sage tone, "It's sad but true."
"I'm glad I don't have such a depressing perspective," My tone poured moral superiority: my mortal fault. "And I pity you for it."
"Pity me for nothing," Camille responded calmly, "I'm not the one who would have starved a month ago without my care."
"It is better to be insolvent than to be nefarious."
After moments of musing, content smile adorning her face, she murmured, "Did Aesop advise you on that?" She had the daring to taunt, "Or have you finally progressed past the 'hack' phase in writing?"
"Good day, Camille," I smiled condescendingly as I imparted the civility, as it was accepted by both individuals that the conversation had expired in pleasantries. "I wish you luck in collecting your wealth. Lechery must support your needs so well."
I left her on the sidewalk with full knowledge that I would forgive the grievances she had committed, just as she would forgive me should we meet again. And in performing the act, I moved easily about the roads in full confidence.
Before returning to the Hotel Blanche, I took it upon myself to use the facilities in a local bagnio to clear away two collective weeks of insalubrious conditions. This having been done, I felt satisfied to simply return to Christian, if just to check his state.
Upon entering the apartment I noticed immediately the small change in its situation (my eyes having grown accustomed to his uniform conditions of disarray). Around his desk he had cleared away the empty bottles of narcotic and sat slouching in his small seat, eyes turned to the ever- cinereous sky over Montmartre.
I entered quietly, wishing not to disturb his contemplation, and it was then that I saw his tears. Approaching him with all the care I could so as not to startle him, I kneeled beside him.
"Oh Christian." I whispered understandingly as my fingertips went to his cheek and brushed away the warm droplet that clung tenaciously to the side of his face.
As my hand drew away he caught me weakly at the wrist, breathing in with the unsteadiness that comes from open sobs. "You smell nice." He murmured, voice trembling a bit.
Pleased by the communication, I afforded him a smile, "Thank the miracle of ablutions."
His words were low, barely comprehensible even given my proximity. "I feel like I can't breathe."
"You're exhausted," I whispered soothingly, "From all of this." Seeing the heaviness of his eyelids I wasn't left to guess the remedy, "Sleep Christian.your body can only take so much."
He nodded dumbly and was elevated, unsteady from fatigue, to his feet. Fearing his stability, I supported his attempt and laid him lightly on the bed, he being too tired to refuse it. I watched him for a moment as he fought the onslaught of sleep, turning then when his eyes finally shut, but he reached out a hand to stop me. "She--she told me." He mumbled incoherently, regaining my attention.
"What?" I whispered.
"She told me she had been sick." His eyebrows were animated though his eyes remained closed, "I should have done something.we should have left." He made a sound of sleep, "She could have rested awhile.and everything would have been better."
I tilted my head thoughtfully as his ramblings tapered out and his arm became lax once more. Falling out of my trance, I looked over to the table where the typewriter sat, its inherent dust now marred with soft fingerprints along the exterior black. Stepping over bottle and paper I looked to its side where, in just a few hours grief had produced somewhere near twenty pages. And it was seeing the cathartic efforts of literary brilliance that surely awoke in me the wayward urge to read a bit into his heartache, a naughty curiosity that I had yet to censor.
I touched the neatly stacked papers with hesitancy and held down on the bottom edge to ensure there was no upset to his order (and the hope that he would not notice my small transgression). Flipping through with quiet speed, and then sitting to read it thoroughly, I fell into comfortable rhythm. The first page summarized, with surprising clarity, his thinly veiled contempt for the miserable house of whores. But somehow the mood changed, more quickly than ever it should, and his tone was light and innocent. With frightening rapidity, he had made the Moulin's infamous atmosphere laughable, and, in truth, I admired him for that.
He had described the girls, the glitz, the utter debauchery of the club, and somehow managed to make it all appear so sane. And then Satine descended from on high in her classically extravagant style, in the silent ecstasy of those who adored her.
But someone else was to meet Satine that night.
And there it stopped; I crinkled my nose in disgust. But someone else was to meet Satine that night.
The gentle chirping of the lone lovebird caught my attention as I set the pages down in the neat pile in which I had found them. Maneuvering over the dangerous debris once more, I leaned out the window where the disheartened fowl was caged.
Cooing gently, I looked at the brightly colored bird in the contrast of the gray Parisian sky and gently touched the side of the cage. "Oh, how grief is contagious, mon ami?" I whispered to it and tapped a melody upon its side. "I wish you blue birds in the spring.Give your heart a song to sing" I laughed a little as the unused quality of my voice faltered in softness. "And then a kiss, but more than this." Good humor returned to the little fellow and he twittered appreciatively as I nearly purred the words, "I wish you love."
Having been cheered a bit, and with nothing else with which to occupy my time, I looked down onto the streets. I have always wondered at Paris' eccentric pacing, wherein nothing moved exactly in proper time; the avenue's inhabitants moved with aching slowness or, on rarer occasions, with dizzying speed matching that of a whirling dervish. It seemed that the inner sanctums of home or apartment were the only places where real time existed.
I was left again with nothing to do. My primary source of mirth lay in deep repose, and though I was known for such droll quirks, watching his breathing produced little appeal. But for moments, even though boredom had struck, I remained there; basking, almost, in a serenity that came without Christian's fitful consciousness.
I watched a moment as he turned over, as if he were instinctively fighting sleep, as if he hadn't grown accustomed to the feeling yet. Vaguely I remembered a conversation, an eternity ago to be certain. Toulouse had said to me of Christian, after all of it had occurred, and after he had remained reclusive in his 'enclosure' for weeks. Recalling now, I heard the frustrated words, catalogued in my memory strangely without his cachet lisp, "And if love cannot survive for him, I can't believe it can ever exist for any of us."
"It only makes me believe it more." I whispered the response that I wished I had given.
I couldn't remember seeing Toulouse again.surely I must have, he couldn't have disappeared after saying only that. I mentally crawled through the deep recesses of my memory to find something, and I soon discovered it. After he had left, Toulouse vanished into some flat outside Montmartre, "as far away from Christian as I can get!" he had said. I tried to visit him once, but I was never answered, and I recall a woman going up to the apartment. I had spoken with her, asked her for his whereabouts and she hadn't responded except to say, 'with his paints or without his purse'. He had fallen again into the company of whores.
Then it came back to me, the night before he left, we sat in the empty theater hall. In his inebriated state, he whispered to me things that surely could have been attributed to alcohol, or madness, or foible. There was a truth to all of it though, as he spoke of Spectacular Spectacular. He relayed to me that his only hope to go on was to drink quicker than his sorrow could keep up with; it couldn't encompass him if it couldn't catch him.
It struck me as odd that he should be so deeply wounded, after all, he had never loved Satine.
I sometimes doubt that fact now.
Surely that was the answer; that he now existed as an inebriate, a sot who had given in to whatever fantasies were to be found in intoxicated unconsciousness. It was a disappointment though that such an artist should fall to waste, inevitable as it may have seemed. And for all intensive purposes, Toulouse was gone. Everyone had gone.
But I couldn't be unhappy for that fact. It's sometimes easier to have no one there; the charred remains are sometimes easier to view.
I wiped away an undeveloped tear, my fingers trembling in the menial task.
