Part Three: ...a little shy... and sad of eye...
"You don't appear to recognise me,
But you see, you look just like someone that I used to know,
Somewhere, a lifetime ago..."
It was the sun creeping over the windowsill and across his
eyes that finally stirred Christian from a restless slumber. The light blinded him at
first, and reality was slow to sink in. His sleepy eyes traversed the room,
trying to take in where he was... what had happened. Only the faintest memories
of the night before danced at the edge of his mind, tantalising him. He felt
strangely disorientated, unsettled in a way that he couldn't name. Something... something was wrong, something was
out of the ordinary. The sun at home didn't shine so brightly, so
directly in his eyes. His bed at home wasn't quite as uncomfortably lumpy. He
wasn't at home, yet somehow.... somehow, it all seemed so familiar.
His mind spun with fragmented memories as he
tried to recapture what had
transpired last night. Paris...Monmartre...a play. A play. That was right, he
had come back to Paris to write a play. That much at least he remembered
clearly. His old apartment...he had climbed the stairs to his old apartment, and
there was a girl... a girl with red hair and blue eyes, a girl who couldn't
possibly be... but she had looked so much like her...so very, very like her in
the dim light. Christian shut his eyes tightly, trying to block out the pitiless
morning sun, trying to block out the memories that were starting to flood back.
The Moulin Rouge. The
Moulin Rouge? His heart racing in panic, he sat
bolt upright in bed.
The room was exactly as he remembered it. The shabby bed in
the corner. The doors that opened out onto a small balcony, the mantelpiece
over the fireplace. He glanced around wildly, searching for something, anything
at all that might pull him from this surreal nightmare, might help to reaffirm
his grip on reality. A calendar! Leaping from the bed, he pulled the calendar
from the wall, leafing through it frantically. 1912. It was 1912, not 1899.
Satine had been dead for almost thirteen years. So it couldn't have been.. he
couldn't have. It couldn't have been her.
---------------------------------------------
Rose pushed the door open gingerly, and it
creaked unwillingly in response. Was he still there? She barely knew what to
expect. When the dishevelled and dirty stranger had collapsed on her doorstep
last night, her first response had been to run for the police, throw him out on
the street- anything. Just as long as he wasn't in her apartment any longer. But
looking at him, lying pitifully on the cold floor, something in her heart just
wouldn't allow her to do it. Instead, the expression on his face when he
had first spotted her standing in the half-light replayed itself over and over
in her mind. His eyes were so full of barely concealed pain, Rose reflected,
that they seemed almost... haunted. As though he had been walking an emotional
tightrope for a long time, and something inside him just couldn't cope any
longer. It wasn't rational, but Rose knew that she couldn't
just turn her back.
With a wistful smile, she thought "That
might be your influence, Jack." That night on the bow, he had taken it upon
himself to risk his life to save her- a perfect stranger. Had he seen the same
haunted expression in her eyes? Had he, too, sensed that she needed help, even
though Rose barely knew it herself? Rose didn't know, doubted she'd ever know,
but to return the favour now seemed strangely appropriate. "Something tells
me you'd agree, Jack," she thought.
Still, throwing him out on the street was one
thing. Spending the night alone in her apartment while an unconscious stranger
lay in her bed was quite another. Instead, she had huddled the night away in a
cafe, while prostitutes plied their trade outside and gruff looking men leered
at her suggestively. She was relieved when the sun's rays began to slide over
the horizon. Now, however, standing outside her own front door, she nervously
wondered what kind of reception she might receive from the stranger in her room.
---------------------------------------------
The door's creak snapped Christian from his
reverie, and he jumped from the bed. Framed in the doorway was the girl from
last night, the girl with red hair and blue eyes. "You're not...." he murmured,
a dazed expression filling his eyes as they reluctantly met hers.
Confusion spread across Rose's face. Whatever
she had expected from this moment, it wasn't this. "I'm not what?" Her
voice was quiet, measured, yet Christian could sense the nervousness barely concealed
beneath the surface.
"I...I thought you were..." Christian paused,
searching again for something that would sound even a little rational. "Last
night, I thought you were someone else.".
"Someone else?" Confusion announced itself more plainly on Rose's features. "Who else would I be? You burst into my home,
looking like..." searching vainly for the right words, she finally gestured
towards him impatiently. "Looking like that, promptly collapse
on my doorstop, muttering some incoherent nonsense, and then you try to explain
the whole thing by telling me that you thought I was someone else? Who on
earth did you think I was? And more to the point, what were you doing
here in the first place?"
Christian paused, uncertain, unwilling to explain the whole
foolish, sad story to a stranger. His eyes met Rose's for a second, then just
as quickly he looked away. "I...I... well..." he paused, sensing
Rose's growing impatience. "I can explain!" he cried. "Really...
I can...I can explain everything..." he trailed of, realizing that any
explanation would only make him sound foolish, make him sound exactly like what he was-
a middle aged man, still chasing the ghosts of long-vanished happiness.
"Well." Rose spoke curtly, suddenly
impatient, cold and tired after spending a frightening night on the streets of
Paris. "I'm not sure I care
to hear your explanation anymore. I took care of you when you collapsed on
my doorstop and you haven't even the decency to offer me a coherent excuse.
I don't even think there is an explanation, you're probably just another drunk
wandering these god-forsaken streets!" she finished savagely. "Please,
just go, leave me alone and go. I've done more than enough for you."
Christian paused, unwilling to leave on this
note after her kindness. "Wait! Please! Don't go! I mean...I'm sorry."
Encouraged by the compassion that briefly flitted across her face, he continued.
"What I mean to say was, please at least let me thank you."
Rose sighed. His eyes implored her to believe
him, to trust him, and despite herself, her heart warmed to him. "You're
welcome." She spoke softly. "I didn't know what else to do. I knew I
couldn't just... leave you there. I don't know what it is, but I could sense that
something was wrong." She paused briefly, not sure whether to continue.
"The expression in your eyes-when you saw me here, you looked so sad, so
confused, and I just kept thinking that I had to do something to
help."
Christian bit his lip, studying the floor
to avoid meeting her eyes. How could she have read him so accurately in such a brief
period of time? Did every emotion show itself in his face?
"Anyway," Rose paused, made suddenly
awkward by Christian's obvious discomfort. Had she touched a nerve with her
comments? "I'm sure you're tired and...um, well... anxious to leave, but..."
She looked up, meeting his eyes, which were suddenly warm. "I'm glad I could help."
Standing up, Christian cautiously offered his hand. "My name's Christian." His face
broke into a smile. "If we're going to meet like this, the least we
can do is to know each other's names."
"Christian." Rose repeated the name
slowly. "My name's Rose. Rose Dawson."
---------------------------------------------
Perhaps it was just being in this room again
after so many years, but Christian felt a sudden surge of belonging. There
was warmth in Rose's eyes, which mingled with a depth of feeling that he
couldn't fathom. Sadness? Compassion? Suddenly realizing that he had held Rose's gaze far beyond
the point of politeness, Christian glanced away quickly, stumbling to
pick his bag up.
"Well.. ah.. I should go, because I've
inconvenienced you enough already, and.. well I really should go."
Suddenly, something lying on the floor caught
his attention, halting his nervous chatter midstream. "What's this?"
He spoke softly, holding up the blue bound book, which still lay where it had
fallen the previous night.
Rose frowned slightly. Just when he'd started
to make some sense, just when she had started to feel the faintest hint of what
could only be described as affection for this curious stranger, and he started
to act like a fool again.
"It's a book, Christian." She spoke
with exaggerated patience. "In fact, it's my book," she
continued, pulling it from his hand, which had suddenly gone limp.
"Your book? You've...you've read
this?"
"Well... yes, of course I've read it. Why
wouldn't I?" Rose paused. That look was there again, that look of pain and
confusion that seemed to flood his eyes without warning. "What on earth is
it, Christian?"
"You...you don't understand. It's
my book." Confusion filled Roses' features. "I am Christian
Calvert." Christian paused, pointing almost disbelievingly at the name on
the front cover, tracing the gold etched lettering with his finger. "I
wrote this- a long, long time ago." Suddenly, to his horror, long-forgotten
tears sprang
to his eyes. The days and nights he had spent in cocooned in this room as
his world fell in around him closed in again.
Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he
reached for the book. "Do you mind if I..." he asked. It wasn't really
a question, and Rose assented wordlessly. He bit his lip as he read the
dedication. "Come what may," he whispered, his trembling voice barely
audible, as he spoke to himself, to his memories.
---------------------------------------------
Rose didn't like to disturb him, and for a
long time the only sound in the room was of pages turning, interspersed with Christian's occasional
muffled sobs. "Thank you," he whispered, finally. "I... I didn't
keep a copy for myself. I didn't think... at the time I didn't think I could
face it, I just wanted to get rid of it, but over the years, I'd wished so many
times that I had." He raised his head to meet her eyes. "I suppose you must think I'm
pretty foolish," he said, attempting a rueful
smile.
Silently, Rose shook her head. She understood
now. Understood the pained expression in his eyes, understood why he had been so
startled when he had seen her, understood what he was doing here. Even
understood why she had felt so drawn to him. "Christian, no. I... I know
what it is to lose someone you love." She spoke slowly, painfully, and he
looked at her with obvious curiosity. He asked nothing though, instead letting
her continue. "I don't think you're foolish." She paused, not sure whether to go on
or not. "Christian.. last night. You thought I was Satine?"
"Ridiculous, isn't it? You'd think, that after
so many years...but when I found myself in Paris, in Monmartre, I just-just wanted to
come up here, look at this
room again- chasing ghosts, I know. I didn't think anyone would be here, but
when I saw you, in the darkness- you look just like her." He shrugged
his shoulders. "I know it's irrational, mistaking you for a woman who's been dead for thirteen years, but when I saw
you, here of all places..."
Rose spoke gently, not wanting to intrude too
much, but unwilling to let the moment pass. "You must have loved her very
much." Christian shrugged again, not trusting his voice. "Your book,
Christian. It's beautiful. It's... I felt as though I could see into your soul
as I read it. As though you showed me a side of myself that I had never
understood before." Rose spoke fervently, trying desperately to impart to
him how deeply touched she had been by his story. "You have so much talent.
Do you still write?"
He smiled ruefully. "In a fashion."
Regret underscored his words. "I've never managed to capture what I felt
before... before Satine died. And then afterwards... well, I wrote for her, just
like I'd promised... and once I'd finished, I just couldn't seem to find the inspiration. Everything
I tried to write seemed foolish, insignificant. Here I was, trying to write
about truth, beauty, freedom... love. Whilst the whole time my own life was so
empty. There didn't seem any point. So, now I write to put food on the table, to
pay the rent- nothing more." He smiled sadly. "The price you pay for
growing up, for seeing your dreams for what they really are."
The silence in the room was oppressively heavy
as Christian's bitter words hung in the air. "I'm sorry." He spoke
finally with a heavy sigh. "I shouldn't be... burdening you with my ancient
wounds. I barely even know you, I can't think you're interested. Anyway... I'm
fine. It's was all a long time ago. It's just that being here, in Paris
again- it reopens old scars."
"Christian, it's alright. I understand, in
a sense. I... have my own scars."
"You do?" His voice was warm, an open
invitation to confide.
Rose looked away, not wanting to elaborate. It
was too soon, too painful. She just couldn't speak of it, not to Christian, not
to anyone. Gratitude surged through her as Christian noticed her discomfort and
promptly changed the subject.
"I said I wanted to thank you for
your help, and I do. Will you let me take you to lunch?" A sudden grin
flashed across his face, and Rose wondered briefly what he must have been like
before... when he was younger, untouched by tragedy. He must have been so full
of enthusiasm and energy, Rose thought. "My treat."
Rose laughed, relieved that the sombre atmosphere had been relieved a little. "Well, if it's your treat- why
not?"
---------------------------------------------
The sidewalk was busy, bustling with people,
and Rose was determined to keep the mood light. "So, Christian, what brings
you to Paris?" She spoke almost playfully, and for a second it struck her
how odd life could be. Here she was, in the sunlight of a Parisian morning,
making small talk with a man she had only just me, and Jack hadn't even been
gone five months. A sombre shadow passed briefly across her face, and if
Christian noticed it, he didn't comment.
"Well, believe it or not, I've come here
to write a play."
Rose's heart plummeted. A play? "Oh no! I
forgot...." She stopped suddenly, aware that Christian was looking at her
with concern. "The other night, when you... um... arrived. I was meant to
be auditioning for a play that night," she explained. "I completely
forgot, and now it's probably too late." She shrugged slightly, her tone
wistful. "Oh well, I suppose it doesn't matter much." She smiled
slightly. "So, anyway, Christian, tell me about your play. What's it
about?"
"About?" His voice was mocking,
recalling the words of his youth. "It's about love. What else?" A sigh
escaped his lips. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I
just get... bitter, sometimes. I'm sorry." He took a deep breath,
trying to compose himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, sincere. "It's
about losing love, and learning to love again." His voice became dreamlike.
"It's about love overcoming all obstacles."
To be continued!
