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 3
I must have left moments afterward, having awoken in myself an interest that deserved proper investigation. I didn't want to believe that Toulouse was gone to us, even if it was only me who thought such a terrible thing.
Without real thought I had centered again on the small apartment building on the outside of the village gates. Though reasonably small in stature, the structure loomed like a moral superior overlooking the goings-on of the collective bordellos. Quickly dismissing the impression, I mounted the outdoor stairs, my skirt occasionally catching on the outside railing.
I managed to the top step with reasonable success, and tapped against the loft's door, momentarily cursing Toulouse's garret tastes. My knock was unanswered as I had expected it to be, but I knew from prior experience Toulouse's nasty habit of forgetting to properly lock doors. Tilting the knob, for a moment dwelling on its fragility, I slipped inside the apartment.
Rapid, instinctive movement prevented me from surveying my surroundings any further than 'voice coming from chair'. "I assure there's nothing of value to take." A lisping voice informed without relative fear.
"I don't doubt it Toulouse." The chair was turned away from me, but there was no doubt as to the identity of whom I was addressing.
My voice rung in him familiarity, that much was certain, and he moved the chair in its opposite direction to vary his view, "China Doll?" Not a letter was accented as he held my gaze in disbelief.
"As good a name as any." I confirmed his regard and offered my hand affectionately.
He took it in his own tiny fist and kissed the lean, closed fingers. "What on earth are you doing here?"
"Satisfying a curiosity." I replied offhandedly. "I had tried to see you before, but not in a long while, not since the fire." My smile must have belied a bit of the painful memory, for he nodded gravely.
"I would have sent my regards, but." He squinted, as little men often do, returning my hand to my side, "I couldn't believe you would still be in Montmartre." He paused a moment, "Are you still in Montmartre?"
"Yes," I chuckled a bit at myself, "As the girls left, I just couldn't bring myself to follow suit, so I ended up just changing my profession. Change enough, don't you think?"
"How are you surviving?" I wondered how everyone could ask that question so nonchalantly.
"I get by," I affirmed my decision, "I'm staying with someone; an old friend."
"Friend?"
"Yes, 'friend'."
"Someone has stayed?" He returned to his seat upon the plush chair.
"Yes, you know him quite well," I said, testing waters with strange haste, "Or you did know him, I'm not sure which category he belongs in."
"Who?"
"Christian." I spoke the name softly, observing with morbid pleasure the change in the dwarf's expression.
He stood and maneuvered to a canvas, his decided solace. "Christian?"
"Christian." I repeated, "Our very own."
"Has he changed?"
"What do you mean?" My tone was as careless as his had been at the implication of my 'surviving'.
"Does he still grieve her," He spat, "As endlessly as he did before?"
"A man does not change in ten years Toulouse," I took a seat near his painting board, "What can be expected of one?"
"Something." Toulouse smiled softly, informing that the words were not meant as malice toward me.
"How can you hate him?" I asked, his cold manner towards Christian alien to me. "He's done nothing but mourn his loss."
"I would love such a gift." He murmured.
"To grieve?"
"No," He turned from me a moment to review an unfinished painting, "To love."
"You must have loved Toulouse," I touched his arm to return his focus, "You had no choice."
"Fine, then." He amended, "To be loved."
"But I love you." I expressed consolingly. A moment later he leaned in and caressed the side of my face as if to kiss me. I quickly recoiled, "What are you doing?"
"This," He turned and lifted the unfinished painting he had assessed a moment earlier, "A picture of perfect love."
"It's blank." I supplied the obvious fact.
"Exactly."
"I'm sorry Toulouse." I looked down.
"How can you stand it," Toulouse asked bitingly. "Living with such a miserable man."
"Because his imperfections make him human," I tilted my head, "Just as I could tolerate your humanity."
"You're a novelist," My expression relayed shock at his memory. "Humanity is beneath you."
"If that's true," I retorted, "Then as an artist, it must be beyond you." A moment of easy silence followed, and then we were obligated to laugh at ourselves.
"Oh, my little China Doll," He cooed, in my seat he spoke at eye level, "You're no gloomier than I remember."
"And you're no more drunk," I smiled affectionately, "A surprise considering our last discussion."
He shied at the reference, and refused to comment, "I would love so much to paint you." He went to hold my face in his hands, as artists do in surveying a subject, but I withdrew and stood.
"Would you see me tomorrow?" I asked genially, "Would you accept me back?"
With a slight pause he nodded, "Always."
I gestured a valediction and went to walk to the door, but a small bit of guilt stopped me. I turned around slowly and looked down onto the blank canvas, then onto the impish artist who had created it. "I've missed you Toulouse." I added with a gracious smile, "But then I always did."
"And Christian?"
"He'll get along," I pantomimed indifference, "I'm sure he can live without me for a while."
"I had trouble." He offered bitter-sweetly and I could do nothing.
Raising my head, I smiled ruefully to the little man who had cared so much for me. "I'm sorry." I shook my head, "I never meant to hurt you, Henri."
He flushed at the use of his Christian name, waving me off with a kind gesture. "Please, I pray you," His tone airy, "Come tomorrow."
"I will." I nodded acceptance and left the building without another word, regretting momentarily that I had not questioned Toulouse about Satine. Surely he must have loved her, just as surely as he had loved me. It didn't matter now though, did it? Toulouse was all the same, and I was of the kind that did not resurrect old skeletons. I would leave his mind in peace.
Christian had slept an entire day, rousing only to acknowledge my presence as I slid into bed beside him that night. I left late that morning, but still only minutes after he had found consciousness and we had briefly spoken. He had asked me about the first night when Satine had fallen, though he was completely oblivious to the fact I had read through his unfinished pages and had anticipated his question. I had then relayed all I had witnessed behind the scenes before her illness was known to anyone. He thanked me and I kissed him good-bye, wishing him luck without telling him where I was going or where I had been.
He never asked.
It was nearly noon when I finally reached Toulouse's residence, having been held up by immaterial discussion with random acquaintances that hadn't seen me "in ages!" and a necessary detour for breakfast. Toulouse let me in with the doe-eyed look of counterfeit innocence and I could just imagine the woman leaving minutes before with her compensation for services. Perhaps it was someone I was acquainted with and had been delayed by in the street on my way over to see him. His luck had a way of working out as such.
Our conversation began conventionally as we sat down: how had the other been, was there anything new we were working on, had we sold anything, and so on. He was the first to veer from the Victorian politeness with a horribly blunt question.
"Has he remained loyal all this time?"
After transferring a guilt-inducing glance to the imp, I answered casually, "I'd think so," Wetting my lips I added, "He's that kind."
"Have you?"
My eyes widened a bit as I noticed the hostility with which he asked. "Excuse me?" It was more of an accusation than an answer.
"Never mind," The coldness was gone as he smiled, "What held you up?"
"We didn't ever set up a specific time," I said indifferently, "I wasn't aware I was late."
"Well, you always were early for everything," He said, "I guess I assumed." Making a low murmur of thoughtfulness he shrugged, "Nothing I guess." An awkward silence followed the statement and we both searched the floor for a distractive topic.
I found it first, "Any progress on your depiction of perfect love?" I asked.
"A bit." He led me to the canvas.
A dark line marked the only change on the clean canvas, not unlike the smooth, curved line of a sleeping woman's hip. I imagined that's what it was to be, perhaps fashioned after a favorite prostitute.
"It's a lovely line." I smiled teasingly.
"Yes," He moved from the painting, "Well, it is progress isn't it." He turned back to me, "And what of you?"
"What of me?"
"Any progress on that book of yours." He arched a plainly creased eyebrow, "The one you threatened you'd write?"
"The Life and Loves of Toulouse Lautrec?" I smiled as I remembered the day I'd dared to say I'd tell his story true and that he would hate the outcome because he might need to reevaluate his position. "I've not yet begun it." Good-naturedly I added, "Perhaps as soon as I get home I'll suggest the idea to Christian and finally start it."
"I'd leave it only to you to write out the truly sordid details." He said. "But perhaps you'd need to exclude a small portion," He elaborated as he registered my blank look, "Only narcissists write of themselves outside of a diary, and you, my dear, are notoriously selfless."
"Selflessness is not the polar opposite of narcissism Toulouse."
"Fairly close though." He conceded, "Then again, Christian's no narcissist, but he's undeniably selfish isn't he."
"No Toulouse," I chided him fiercely, "He isn't. He never has been."
"Again to his defense you come."
"And why shouldn't I defend him?" He sat silent and my voice grew angry, "Toulouse, why shouldn't I defend him?"
"No reason." His soft, venomous tone suggested that I should know. It frustrated me as he always just assumed that I could read his mind.
I suddenly felt the urge to abuse him, "Only a sad, little man begrudges an innocent." I hissed the declaration, aware of the reaction it would cause.
He sat still with livid calmness, chilling me as he turned his head and spat the words, "Only a hopeless whore sinks to a broken man."
"How dare you," The statement was whispered poignantly and I saw remorse in Toulouse's eyes immediately afterwards. "Toulouse, how dare you." My voice was slightly more elevated as I repeated and hot fluid anger singed the corners of my eyes.
Toulouse flitted helplessly as he tried to hold my forearm to draw my attention. "Don't touch me." I jolted from the contact and tried to calm myself, confused a bit at whether my anger was to be attributed to the insult or the implication.
After a moment, my eyelids fluttered, the sign of pending composure, and I was able to understand Toulouse's apologies, even though it was obviously my fault. "Toulouse." I stopped him kindly as I remembered his sweet habit of shouldering the blame for any transgression between us. "Toulouse." I realized I had nothing to say to excuse my actions and my mouth simply shuddered in readiness of the apology's completion.
He nodded me off, pardoning me. Then he held my hand up against his, comparing our sizes the way he always used to. Without words he sadly kissed my knuckles and I flashed back to the last time he had done so in such a way. "You still haven't forgiven me, have you?"
"You never asked me to," He never looked up.
"I've never forgiven you either."
"I've done nothing that needed forgiving," He reminded me.
Holding his chin up so that he looked into me eyes, I said seriously, "Nor have I." He began to protest the reasons but I turned his face, "No," I said firmly, "You loved me, but we were never lovers. Even when you paid me, we were never lovers. I did nothing to deserve your blame." Letting go and leaning back, I smiled consolingly, "We were good friends, that's all."
"Never lovers, ever friends," He said sadly, an apologetic smile crossed his lips. "That's what you always used to say, it was just an affair."
"Yes, love affairs have a beginning, and an end." I smiled thinly, "Christian was lucky, his affair." I paused. "It never ended for him. Satine died, and he could still believe it would have lasted forever." I turned away from Toulouse. "Do you think he could have stood it if his first love had ended as all others do? Could his idealistic heart have coped?"
"Ours have withheld."
"No," I shook my head, "I've never even loved, so how could mine withhold?"
"Don't think on it." He offered.
"Such grand advice," I mockingly intoned, "Why does everyone tell me not to think? Perhaps I want to."
"I meant nothing by it." I looked with shame down at my hands and then back at Toulouse.
"Recently I've been upset." I said, and leaned my cheek into my palm, looking intently. "I don't know why." He seemed crestfallen and moved as if to speak, his knowing look prominent. Then he seemed to think the better of it, and I acted as if I were too weary to notice his attempt.
"This is no way to spend a day with an old friend," I patted his hand, and spoke as to an acquaintance who had never been dear to me, "We could leave this little apartment and go to a café and talk about nothing but Edgar Degas and Paul Gauguin and those few great painters who were not French." I reprimanded myself later for my phoniness, "Maybe you're right Toulouse, I shouldn't think on it. I need a distraction, you must understand that." Toulouse and Christian were partners in misery and they both treated me as a relief, even though I could do nothing for them.
"You could stay here a while," He offered hopefully, "You wouldn't have to do anything, just stay."
I nodded, "Of course Toulouse." The sentence pleased him as nothing else could have and he removed himself to his easel.
Ignored, I went to sit in the heavily stuffed armchair in the middle of the room. I relaxed within it, opting an alternative position, still facing Toulouse as he scrawled in paint. I noticed his 'perfect love' attempt lay still unwrought with the exception of one suggestive curved line, but refused comment on it.
I lay upon the chair for hours as Toulouse continued to rapidly perfect his newest endeavor, my mind meandering involuntarily to Christian. Not that this was out of the ordinary, as Christian often occupied my thoughts, but generally the thoughts.
I must have fallen asleep because I didn't speak to Toulouse again until early morning, when I found myself in a painful, curled position on the plush armchair. What woke me, I could guess, was the fumbling, clanging in what I suppose served as the kitchen. The dwarf, I observed, had the telltale signs of an addict, with red lines like spider veins marring the flesh around his eyes. It was only in the fine morning light that I could see the tired ugliness, and I missed Christian.
My eyelids fluttered in the effort to speak, and I began again in prating. "Have you seen your mother recently, Henri?"
He calmly shrugged, calculating the time past. "About three months ago.she fears for my health, she has since I was a child."
"Now she has more reason to fear?"
"An illness," He smiled, moving away from the direct light, and I could no longer see the flaws of his face. "She was afraid of its severity."
"Syphilis?"
"No." He didn't want to elaborate on the subject, so I quickly changed it.
"So how do you suppose Christian scratches out a living?" I asked innocently, "He doesn't do anything that produces profit."
"You don't know?" I shook my head in ignorance. "His family gives him a monthly stipend.Forty pounds if I remember." He made a bitter motion, "So he can stay up in his little tower forever if he chooses."
"His family?" It occurred to me that I had never given thought to his relations, "What is his family like?"
"As if I know," He scoffed as he leaned against a nearby wall, "He never spoke of them really." He speculated easily in matter-of-fact bitterness, "The youngest I imagine, from a rich household no doubt, and probably heir to an estate beyond his wildest dreams. And when his father finally passes on, our boy will undoubtedly desert us for England and then he'll wallow a while longer." He turned to me, and smiled. "Montmartre needs reprieve from his depression anyway." He made a motion to the sky.
"Well, I don't know him as well as you," I said pointedly, "Do I?"
Though my question was obviously rhetorical, Toulouse addressed me as if it were an accusation, "No, you don't." Lowly he added, "You just love him." He smiled as if I hadn't heard, "My best wishes to your writing."
"And mine to your painting." I left then without another word.
Toulouse was right though, with such reliable monetary backing, the dismal little loft could very well be Christian's proverbial death bed. Going up to the loft, the obnoxious stairs creaking dangerously as I did, I noticed for once that the stair still extended to Toulouse's boarded garret, the one that Toulouse himself had isolated. The strange thing about this was that the planks were no longer held in place. I wondered if a new, nonpaying tenant had arrived or had always been that way.
Entering the unlocked apartment beneath the final bits of broken-down stair, I saw Christian curled innocuously onto one side of the bed, the typewriter across from him obviously untouched. Smiling at the innocence of his countenance, I put aside the warm baguette I had acquired for him from the market and knelt beside him. Running tender fingers down his arm as my nanny had always done in waking me, I lulled him into waking.
I grinned as he blinked into full consciousness and looked upon me with relief. "How are you?" I whispered.
He gestured easily, he was well, and then he asked with purposeful poignancy, "Where were you last night?"
Without any real hesitation I said, "With Toulouse."
"Oh." He nodded against the pillow, "You and Toulouse."
"No," I cut off his remark without reprimand simply because of the ingenuousness with which it was said, "Toulouse and I." I searched for an explanation, "We're good friends. I don't." My gesturing was clumsy and my cheeks were tinged with heat for just a moment, "Not anymore."
"Oh, I see."
"I brought you breakfast." I offered.
"Oh," He accepted the baguette, "Thank you." I nodded his gratitude and lowered my head to kiss his forehead, but he looked up then and the kiss was set instead just beside his mouth.
With a faltering, guilty look to the side, I spoke. "I'll be back in half an hour," I lightly brushed my décolletage with my lacquered fingernails; "I'm going over to the bath house." The whorehouse, I mean.
"If you want to bathe," He offered graciously, "The garret is still somewhat functional." It was no longer a wonder why the seal of Toulouse's apartment was broken.
"Oh, thank you," I nodded and turned a bit, motioning to the line of ribbon down the back of my corset, "Umm, could you possibly help me loosen this annoying fetter? The women at Camille's have always done it before." In honesty, others had undressed me even since my birth in Versailles.
"Of course," He went to my back and went through the unusually delicate motions of untying the girdle just enough so that I could slip it off easily. Before letting me go, he ran his finger up the busk of it as if it were the final stroke in a precious painting. Chills followed his finger down the crease of my spine.
I thanked him, kissed his cheek and walked the stairs to the loft. Though Toulouse had obviously vacated the premises, the room looked relatively similar in its state of upkeep. A stripped bed frame, Satie's rather original instrument, as well as some other furniture that could not be taken down steps, remained in the apartment.
Christian must have been the one to clear a distinguishable path to the bathtub at the side of the terrace's opening, for it was obvious no one else could have been up here. Sauntering over to the tub, I smiled a bit at the makeshift pump that drew water from the base supply all these stories up.
"Thank you Doctor," I said, for no one else could have had such an ingenious idea. Examining the end table beside the bath I noticed Christian's stash of grooming supplies: a soap of sorts and coarse brushes for hair and body. I also noticed the stove had been shoved along side all these with a large pot decorating its counter. Christian may have been suffering depression, but apparently he was well enough composed when hygiene was at stake.
I went easily through the motions, doffing my undone corset and piling it beside the bath with my shawl and stockings. I pumped the water and heated it upon the stove, pouring it then into the tub and repeating the process several times. Finally with the bath filled, I removed my chemise and sank blissfully into the pleasant rewards of my toil.
After a brief amount of silent enjoyment and then a very extensive cleaning ritual using all of Christian's afore mentioned products, I got out of the tub and stood by the window, my only hope that my body would dry quickly, there was no towel and I didn't fancy the idea of pneumonia. While waiting, I took my hair down and let it fall the distance to my waist and dragged the brush through it, carefully undoing each knot.
With everything done, I quickly redressed, cinching my corset anew with little difficulty, and pouring the bathwater down the gutter at its side. I could have only guessed how much time had passed, but it was Christian's rather humorous expression when I reentered that gave me a timeline.
"I thought you might have drowned," He sat up on the bed with a pleased smile, "Another moment or two and I would have come up after you."
"And then what an interesting situation we'd have," My thoughts lingered on my post-bath balcony nudity.
"I had no idea," He said, as if this thought had plagued him, "You and Toulouse were such good friends." There was a strange tinge to his voice that I couldn't rightly attribute to curiosity.
"Yes, always," I said, pulling a chair beside the bed and sitting in it, "Ever since I had been working at the Moulin." Christian's inquisitive look led me to elaborate, "He would always be in love with one dancer or another.I just happened to be a more lasting infatuation."
"You were lovers?"
"Never," I shook my head, "I was his regular, if that's what you mean." Chuckling a bit, "You know, I'd always wanted to take an artist as a lover, just not one whose head rested at stomach height. We're good friends."
"You keep saying that."
"I know," The uncomfortable pause seemed to create distance between us. "You should write."
"You don't want to go out?"
"Out?" My shock was at the idea that he may not have been the hermit I assumed he was.
"Yes." Even through the beard I could see an encouraging smile, "You've been with Toulouse for the past two days, and I suppose I'm not used to sharing you, so perhaps." His pause--in retrospect--was almost nervous. "Perhaps a walk?"
"A walk," I affirmed uncertainly, sparing a moment to let my thoughts linger on the guilty pleasure of the misplaced kiss.
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 3
I must have left moments afterward, having awoken in myself an interest that deserved proper investigation. I didn't want to believe that Toulouse was gone to us, even if it was only me who thought such a terrible thing.
Without real thought I had centered again on the small apartment building on the outside of the village gates. Though reasonably small in stature, the structure loomed like a moral superior overlooking the goings-on of the collective bordellos. Quickly dismissing the impression, I mounted the outdoor stairs, my skirt occasionally catching on the outside railing.
I managed to the top step with reasonable success, and tapped against the loft's door, momentarily cursing Toulouse's garret tastes. My knock was unanswered as I had expected it to be, but I knew from prior experience Toulouse's nasty habit of forgetting to properly lock doors. Tilting the knob, for a moment dwelling on its fragility, I slipped inside the apartment.
Rapid, instinctive movement prevented me from surveying my surroundings any further than 'voice coming from chair'. "I assure there's nothing of value to take." A lisping voice informed without relative fear.
"I don't doubt it Toulouse." The chair was turned away from me, but there was no doubt as to the identity of whom I was addressing.
My voice rung in him familiarity, that much was certain, and he moved the chair in its opposite direction to vary his view, "China Doll?" Not a letter was accented as he held my gaze in disbelief.
"As good a name as any." I confirmed his regard and offered my hand affectionately.
He took it in his own tiny fist and kissed the lean, closed fingers. "What on earth are you doing here?"
"Satisfying a curiosity." I replied offhandedly. "I had tried to see you before, but not in a long while, not since the fire." My smile must have belied a bit of the painful memory, for he nodded gravely.
"I would have sent my regards, but." He squinted, as little men often do, returning my hand to my side, "I couldn't believe you would still be in Montmartre." He paused a moment, "Are you still in Montmartre?"
"Yes," I chuckled a bit at myself, "As the girls left, I just couldn't bring myself to follow suit, so I ended up just changing my profession. Change enough, don't you think?"
"How are you surviving?" I wondered how everyone could ask that question so nonchalantly.
"I get by," I affirmed my decision, "I'm staying with someone; an old friend."
"Friend?"
"Yes, 'friend'."
"Someone has stayed?" He returned to his seat upon the plush chair.
"Yes, you know him quite well," I said, testing waters with strange haste, "Or you did know him, I'm not sure which category he belongs in."
"Who?"
"Christian." I spoke the name softly, observing with morbid pleasure the change in the dwarf's expression.
He stood and maneuvered to a canvas, his decided solace. "Christian?"
"Christian." I repeated, "Our very own."
"Has he changed?"
"What do you mean?" My tone was as careless as his had been at the implication of my 'surviving'.
"Does he still grieve her," He spat, "As endlessly as he did before?"
"A man does not change in ten years Toulouse," I took a seat near his painting board, "What can be expected of one?"
"Something." Toulouse smiled softly, informing that the words were not meant as malice toward me.
"How can you hate him?" I asked, his cold manner towards Christian alien to me. "He's done nothing but mourn his loss."
"I would love such a gift." He murmured.
"To grieve?"
"No," He turned from me a moment to review an unfinished painting, "To love."
"You must have loved Toulouse," I touched his arm to return his focus, "You had no choice."
"Fine, then." He amended, "To be loved."
"But I love you." I expressed consolingly. A moment later he leaned in and caressed the side of my face as if to kiss me. I quickly recoiled, "What are you doing?"
"This," He turned and lifted the unfinished painting he had assessed a moment earlier, "A picture of perfect love."
"It's blank." I supplied the obvious fact.
"Exactly."
"I'm sorry Toulouse." I looked down.
"How can you stand it," Toulouse asked bitingly. "Living with such a miserable man."
"Because his imperfections make him human," I tilted my head, "Just as I could tolerate your humanity."
"You're a novelist," My expression relayed shock at his memory. "Humanity is beneath you."
"If that's true," I retorted, "Then as an artist, it must be beyond you." A moment of easy silence followed, and then we were obligated to laugh at ourselves.
"Oh, my little China Doll," He cooed, in my seat he spoke at eye level, "You're no gloomier than I remember."
"And you're no more drunk," I smiled affectionately, "A surprise considering our last discussion."
He shied at the reference, and refused to comment, "I would love so much to paint you." He went to hold my face in his hands, as artists do in surveying a subject, but I withdrew and stood.
"Would you see me tomorrow?" I asked genially, "Would you accept me back?"
With a slight pause he nodded, "Always."
I gestured a valediction and went to walk to the door, but a small bit of guilt stopped me. I turned around slowly and looked down onto the blank canvas, then onto the impish artist who had created it. "I've missed you Toulouse." I added with a gracious smile, "But then I always did."
"And Christian?"
"He'll get along," I pantomimed indifference, "I'm sure he can live without me for a while."
"I had trouble." He offered bitter-sweetly and I could do nothing.
Raising my head, I smiled ruefully to the little man who had cared so much for me. "I'm sorry." I shook my head, "I never meant to hurt you, Henri."
He flushed at the use of his Christian name, waving me off with a kind gesture. "Please, I pray you," His tone airy, "Come tomorrow."
"I will." I nodded acceptance and left the building without another word, regretting momentarily that I had not questioned Toulouse about Satine. Surely he must have loved her, just as surely as he had loved me. It didn't matter now though, did it? Toulouse was all the same, and I was of the kind that did not resurrect old skeletons. I would leave his mind in peace.
Christian had slept an entire day, rousing only to acknowledge my presence as I slid into bed beside him that night. I left late that morning, but still only minutes after he had found consciousness and we had briefly spoken. He had asked me about the first night when Satine had fallen, though he was completely oblivious to the fact I had read through his unfinished pages and had anticipated his question. I had then relayed all I had witnessed behind the scenes before her illness was known to anyone. He thanked me and I kissed him good-bye, wishing him luck without telling him where I was going or where I had been.
He never asked.
It was nearly noon when I finally reached Toulouse's residence, having been held up by immaterial discussion with random acquaintances that hadn't seen me "in ages!" and a necessary detour for breakfast. Toulouse let me in with the doe-eyed look of counterfeit innocence and I could just imagine the woman leaving minutes before with her compensation for services. Perhaps it was someone I was acquainted with and had been delayed by in the street on my way over to see him. His luck had a way of working out as such.
Our conversation began conventionally as we sat down: how had the other been, was there anything new we were working on, had we sold anything, and so on. He was the first to veer from the Victorian politeness with a horribly blunt question.
"Has he remained loyal all this time?"
After transferring a guilt-inducing glance to the imp, I answered casually, "I'd think so," Wetting my lips I added, "He's that kind."
"Have you?"
My eyes widened a bit as I noticed the hostility with which he asked. "Excuse me?" It was more of an accusation than an answer.
"Never mind," The coldness was gone as he smiled, "What held you up?"
"We didn't ever set up a specific time," I said indifferently, "I wasn't aware I was late."
"Well, you always were early for everything," He said, "I guess I assumed." Making a low murmur of thoughtfulness he shrugged, "Nothing I guess." An awkward silence followed the statement and we both searched the floor for a distractive topic.
I found it first, "Any progress on your depiction of perfect love?" I asked.
"A bit." He led me to the canvas.
A dark line marked the only change on the clean canvas, not unlike the smooth, curved line of a sleeping woman's hip. I imagined that's what it was to be, perhaps fashioned after a favorite prostitute.
"It's a lovely line." I smiled teasingly.
"Yes," He moved from the painting, "Well, it is progress isn't it." He turned back to me, "And what of you?"
"What of me?"
"Any progress on that book of yours." He arched a plainly creased eyebrow, "The one you threatened you'd write?"
"The Life and Loves of Toulouse Lautrec?" I smiled as I remembered the day I'd dared to say I'd tell his story true and that he would hate the outcome because he might need to reevaluate his position. "I've not yet begun it." Good-naturedly I added, "Perhaps as soon as I get home I'll suggest the idea to Christian and finally start it."
"I'd leave it only to you to write out the truly sordid details." He said. "But perhaps you'd need to exclude a small portion," He elaborated as he registered my blank look, "Only narcissists write of themselves outside of a diary, and you, my dear, are notoriously selfless."
"Selflessness is not the polar opposite of narcissism Toulouse."
"Fairly close though." He conceded, "Then again, Christian's no narcissist, but he's undeniably selfish isn't he."
"No Toulouse," I chided him fiercely, "He isn't. He never has been."
"Again to his defense you come."
"And why shouldn't I defend him?" He sat silent and my voice grew angry, "Toulouse, why shouldn't I defend him?"
"No reason." His soft, venomous tone suggested that I should know. It frustrated me as he always just assumed that I could read his mind.
I suddenly felt the urge to abuse him, "Only a sad, little man begrudges an innocent." I hissed the declaration, aware of the reaction it would cause.
He sat still with livid calmness, chilling me as he turned his head and spat the words, "Only a hopeless whore sinks to a broken man."
"How dare you," The statement was whispered poignantly and I saw remorse in Toulouse's eyes immediately afterwards. "Toulouse, how dare you." My voice was slightly more elevated as I repeated and hot fluid anger singed the corners of my eyes.
Toulouse flitted helplessly as he tried to hold my forearm to draw my attention. "Don't touch me." I jolted from the contact and tried to calm myself, confused a bit at whether my anger was to be attributed to the insult or the implication.
After a moment, my eyelids fluttered, the sign of pending composure, and I was able to understand Toulouse's apologies, even though it was obviously my fault. "Toulouse." I stopped him kindly as I remembered his sweet habit of shouldering the blame for any transgression between us. "Toulouse." I realized I had nothing to say to excuse my actions and my mouth simply shuddered in readiness of the apology's completion.
He nodded me off, pardoning me. Then he held my hand up against his, comparing our sizes the way he always used to. Without words he sadly kissed my knuckles and I flashed back to the last time he had done so in such a way. "You still haven't forgiven me, have you?"
"You never asked me to," He never looked up.
"I've never forgiven you either."
"I've done nothing that needed forgiving," He reminded me.
Holding his chin up so that he looked into me eyes, I said seriously, "Nor have I." He began to protest the reasons but I turned his face, "No," I said firmly, "You loved me, but we were never lovers. Even when you paid me, we were never lovers. I did nothing to deserve your blame." Letting go and leaning back, I smiled consolingly, "We were good friends, that's all."
"Never lovers, ever friends," He said sadly, an apologetic smile crossed his lips. "That's what you always used to say, it was just an affair."
"Yes, love affairs have a beginning, and an end." I smiled thinly, "Christian was lucky, his affair." I paused. "It never ended for him. Satine died, and he could still believe it would have lasted forever." I turned away from Toulouse. "Do you think he could have stood it if his first love had ended as all others do? Could his idealistic heart have coped?"
"Ours have withheld."
"No," I shook my head, "I've never even loved, so how could mine withhold?"
"Don't think on it." He offered.
"Such grand advice," I mockingly intoned, "Why does everyone tell me not to think? Perhaps I want to."
"I meant nothing by it." I looked with shame down at my hands and then back at Toulouse.
"Recently I've been upset." I said, and leaned my cheek into my palm, looking intently. "I don't know why." He seemed crestfallen and moved as if to speak, his knowing look prominent. Then he seemed to think the better of it, and I acted as if I were too weary to notice his attempt.
"This is no way to spend a day with an old friend," I patted his hand, and spoke as to an acquaintance who had never been dear to me, "We could leave this little apartment and go to a café and talk about nothing but Edgar Degas and Paul Gauguin and those few great painters who were not French." I reprimanded myself later for my phoniness, "Maybe you're right Toulouse, I shouldn't think on it. I need a distraction, you must understand that." Toulouse and Christian were partners in misery and they both treated me as a relief, even though I could do nothing for them.
"You could stay here a while," He offered hopefully, "You wouldn't have to do anything, just stay."
I nodded, "Of course Toulouse." The sentence pleased him as nothing else could have and he removed himself to his easel.
Ignored, I went to sit in the heavily stuffed armchair in the middle of the room. I relaxed within it, opting an alternative position, still facing Toulouse as he scrawled in paint. I noticed his 'perfect love' attempt lay still unwrought with the exception of one suggestive curved line, but refused comment on it.
I lay upon the chair for hours as Toulouse continued to rapidly perfect his newest endeavor, my mind meandering involuntarily to Christian. Not that this was out of the ordinary, as Christian often occupied my thoughts, but generally the thoughts.
I must have fallen asleep because I didn't speak to Toulouse again until early morning, when I found myself in a painful, curled position on the plush armchair. What woke me, I could guess, was the fumbling, clanging in what I suppose served as the kitchen. The dwarf, I observed, had the telltale signs of an addict, with red lines like spider veins marring the flesh around his eyes. It was only in the fine morning light that I could see the tired ugliness, and I missed Christian.
My eyelids fluttered in the effort to speak, and I began again in prating. "Have you seen your mother recently, Henri?"
He calmly shrugged, calculating the time past. "About three months ago.she fears for my health, she has since I was a child."
"Now she has more reason to fear?"
"An illness," He smiled, moving away from the direct light, and I could no longer see the flaws of his face. "She was afraid of its severity."
"Syphilis?"
"No." He didn't want to elaborate on the subject, so I quickly changed it.
"So how do you suppose Christian scratches out a living?" I asked innocently, "He doesn't do anything that produces profit."
"You don't know?" I shook my head in ignorance. "His family gives him a monthly stipend.Forty pounds if I remember." He made a bitter motion, "So he can stay up in his little tower forever if he chooses."
"His family?" It occurred to me that I had never given thought to his relations, "What is his family like?"
"As if I know," He scoffed as he leaned against a nearby wall, "He never spoke of them really." He speculated easily in matter-of-fact bitterness, "The youngest I imagine, from a rich household no doubt, and probably heir to an estate beyond his wildest dreams. And when his father finally passes on, our boy will undoubtedly desert us for England and then he'll wallow a while longer." He turned to me, and smiled. "Montmartre needs reprieve from his depression anyway." He made a motion to the sky.
"Well, I don't know him as well as you," I said pointedly, "Do I?"
Though my question was obviously rhetorical, Toulouse addressed me as if it were an accusation, "No, you don't." Lowly he added, "You just love him." He smiled as if I hadn't heard, "My best wishes to your writing."
"And mine to your painting." I left then without another word.
Toulouse was right though, with such reliable monetary backing, the dismal little loft could very well be Christian's proverbial death bed. Going up to the loft, the obnoxious stairs creaking dangerously as I did, I noticed for once that the stair still extended to Toulouse's boarded garret, the one that Toulouse himself had isolated. The strange thing about this was that the planks were no longer held in place. I wondered if a new, nonpaying tenant had arrived or had always been that way.
Entering the unlocked apartment beneath the final bits of broken-down stair, I saw Christian curled innocuously onto one side of the bed, the typewriter across from him obviously untouched. Smiling at the innocence of his countenance, I put aside the warm baguette I had acquired for him from the market and knelt beside him. Running tender fingers down his arm as my nanny had always done in waking me, I lulled him into waking.
I grinned as he blinked into full consciousness and looked upon me with relief. "How are you?" I whispered.
He gestured easily, he was well, and then he asked with purposeful poignancy, "Where were you last night?"
Without any real hesitation I said, "With Toulouse."
"Oh." He nodded against the pillow, "You and Toulouse."
"No," I cut off his remark without reprimand simply because of the ingenuousness with which it was said, "Toulouse and I." I searched for an explanation, "We're good friends. I don't." My gesturing was clumsy and my cheeks were tinged with heat for just a moment, "Not anymore."
"Oh, I see."
"I brought you breakfast." I offered.
"Oh," He accepted the baguette, "Thank you." I nodded his gratitude and lowered my head to kiss his forehead, but he looked up then and the kiss was set instead just beside his mouth.
With a faltering, guilty look to the side, I spoke. "I'll be back in half an hour," I lightly brushed my décolletage with my lacquered fingernails; "I'm going over to the bath house." The whorehouse, I mean.
"If you want to bathe," He offered graciously, "The garret is still somewhat functional." It was no longer a wonder why the seal of Toulouse's apartment was broken.
"Oh, thank you," I nodded and turned a bit, motioning to the line of ribbon down the back of my corset, "Umm, could you possibly help me loosen this annoying fetter? The women at Camille's have always done it before." In honesty, others had undressed me even since my birth in Versailles.
"Of course," He went to my back and went through the unusually delicate motions of untying the girdle just enough so that I could slip it off easily. Before letting me go, he ran his finger up the busk of it as if it were the final stroke in a precious painting. Chills followed his finger down the crease of my spine.
I thanked him, kissed his cheek and walked the stairs to the loft. Though Toulouse had obviously vacated the premises, the room looked relatively similar in its state of upkeep. A stripped bed frame, Satie's rather original instrument, as well as some other furniture that could not be taken down steps, remained in the apartment.
Christian must have been the one to clear a distinguishable path to the bathtub at the side of the terrace's opening, for it was obvious no one else could have been up here. Sauntering over to the tub, I smiled a bit at the makeshift pump that drew water from the base supply all these stories up.
"Thank you Doctor," I said, for no one else could have had such an ingenious idea. Examining the end table beside the bath I noticed Christian's stash of grooming supplies: a soap of sorts and coarse brushes for hair and body. I also noticed the stove had been shoved along side all these with a large pot decorating its counter. Christian may have been suffering depression, but apparently he was well enough composed when hygiene was at stake.
I went easily through the motions, doffing my undone corset and piling it beside the bath with my shawl and stockings. I pumped the water and heated it upon the stove, pouring it then into the tub and repeating the process several times. Finally with the bath filled, I removed my chemise and sank blissfully into the pleasant rewards of my toil.
After a brief amount of silent enjoyment and then a very extensive cleaning ritual using all of Christian's afore mentioned products, I got out of the tub and stood by the window, my only hope that my body would dry quickly, there was no towel and I didn't fancy the idea of pneumonia. While waiting, I took my hair down and let it fall the distance to my waist and dragged the brush through it, carefully undoing each knot.
With everything done, I quickly redressed, cinching my corset anew with little difficulty, and pouring the bathwater down the gutter at its side. I could have only guessed how much time had passed, but it was Christian's rather humorous expression when I reentered that gave me a timeline.
"I thought you might have drowned," He sat up on the bed with a pleased smile, "Another moment or two and I would have come up after you."
"And then what an interesting situation we'd have," My thoughts lingered on my post-bath balcony nudity.
"I had no idea," He said, as if this thought had plagued him, "You and Toulouse were such good friends." There was a strange tinge to his voice that I couldn't rightly attribute to curiosity.
"Yes, always," I said, pulling a chair beside the bed and sitting in it, "Ever since I had been working at the Moulin." Christian's inquisitive look led me to elaborate, "He would always be in love with one dancer or another.I just happened to be a more lasting infatuation."
"You were lovers?"
"Never," I shook my head, "I was his regular, if that's what you mean." Chuckling a bit, "You know, I'd always wanted to take an artist as a lover, just not one whose head rested at stomach height. We're good friends."
"You keep saying that."
"I know," The uncomfortable pause seemed to create distance between us. "You should write."
"You don't want to go out?"
"Out?" My shock was at the idea that he may not have been the hermit I assumed he was.
"Yes." Even through the beard I could see an encouraging smile, "You've been with Toulouse for the past two days, and I suppose I'm not used to sharing you, so perhaps." His pause--in retrospect--was almost nervous. "Perhaps a walk?"
"A walk," I affirmed uncertainly, sparing a moment to let my thoughts linger on the guilty pleasure of the misplaced kiss.
