"Mr. Calvert!"
Rose spotted the young writer crossing the lot and called after him, running to catch him. They had just wrapped up another horridly long day of shooting, and she was exhausted. However, she had been meaning to talk to Mr. Calvert for quite some time, and this was her chance.
"Miss Dawson, why, hello," he said awkwardly as she reached him. Rose noticed how Mr. Calvert always seemed nervous around her, but she didn't know why. In fact, she barely knew anything about this quiet man who sat on the set day after day, occasionally speaking a few words to Sam but other than that, simply watching them. Often, Rose saw him staring intently at her during her scenes. Normally, such attention from a man might make Rose suspicious, but there was something about Mr. Calvert that, well, calmed her.
"Please, call me Rose. Anyways, Mr. Calvert, I was hoping to ask you a few questions," said Rose. "It's just that I'm having a bit of trouble with the role, as I'm sure Sam has made clear to you, and I was thinking that, well, since you wrote Moulin Rouge you might be able to give me a few tips."
"Well, um, eh, okay," stammered Mr. Calvert. "Would you like to go for a cup of tea?"
"That would be lovely," replied Rose. "Even here in California, I always seem to be cold."
* * *
"Now Mr. Calvert, do you think that Camille would be crying in the scene where she tells William that she doesn't love him?" Rose was sitting across from Christian, drinking tea. She had taken a small notebook out of her purse and was writing down notes from their conversation. Christian couldn't help but smile at her professionalism.
"Please, call me Christian. And no, Rose, she wasn't, I mean, she wouldn't be crying. She would be very sad, but not crying. Sa - Camille would be very good at pretending, mind you.'' Christian took a sip of his tea. On one hand, he was finding it easy to answer Rose's questions; all he had to do was close his eyes for a moment to remember every little detail of Satine. Yet on the other hand, a number of times he had almost slipped and revealed the fact that he was the character called William. In Rose's mind, he was simply the writer of this book, and not the protagonist as well. Christian looked across the table at Rose, who was scribbling away furiously, "For all she knows," thought Christian, "'Camille' is just a figment of my imagination, and not the woman whom I still love dearly."
"Okay, then," continued Rose, pulling Christian back into the conversation. "Now, in the scene where Camille first appears, can you describe to me exactly how she would look, how she would act? Sam cannot stop emphasizing that this is the moment when the audience first meets Camille, so she, I mean, I must make a strong impression."
Christian smiled, thinking back to how beautiful Satine had looked that first night, atop that swing. "Rose," he began, "Imagine if you will, the largest, most beautiful, most radiant diamond that you can." He watched as Rose's eyes darted towards the floor, and he saw her smile sadly to herself. "Camille," he continued, "would be that diamond, except that she was, well, um, alive. She was the star of the Moulin Rouge. Now, I suppose that from her point of view, that routine on the swing would just be something that she did each night, a meaningless act that she did for a warm bed and food. But somehow, she would do it so that the men below her believed. She would make it seem real."
"I see," said Rose. "Now, in the book you wrote that Camille was a loud, wonderful singer. But if Camille had consumption, wouldn't that make it hard for her to sing?"
"Oh no," answered Christian, "She wa- would be a beautiful, powerful singer. She would only cough sometimes." Christian felt his heart sear with pain as Satine's face flashed through his mind, gasping for air, trying to breathe. Yet he smiled as he remembered her voice, so clear and forceful.
Christian watched as Rose wrote a few more things down on her notepad, and then finished off her tea. "Well, Mr. Calvert, it's been a pleasure. I cannot thank you enough for this invaluable information. You know, I don't believe I've ever told you just how much I loved Moulin Rouge. It was such a beautiful book, and it's message! Truth, beauty, freedom, and love! I mean, what else is there in the world? I must say, Mr. Calvert, you are very very talented."
Christian blushed. "Why, thank you, Rose," he replied. "I appreciate that. I wrote Moulin Rouge over fifteen years ago, but to me, the message is timeless. Yes, in a way it is a story about a time, a story about a place, a story about the people, but, but none of that really matters, I suppose. What Moulin Rouge is really about is love overcoming all obstacles, love lasting forever." Christian became choked up as spoke the words. "I guess what I'm trying to say is simply that, the greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love . . . "
"And be loved in return," joined in Rose. Christian watched as a single tear fell from her crystal blue eye. "Well, Mr. Calvert, I certainly agree with you there. It's just that . . . well, sometimes it hurts so much, you know?"
"I know, Rose," said Christian. And to himself he thought, "My, how I know."
He escorted her out of the café and they said goodbye to one another. Walking home, Christian glanced up at the stars. He smiled. "I love you, Satine" he said, as she had every night for the last sixteen years. "I'm going on. I'm telling our story. I promise."
Rose spotted the young writer crossing the lot and called after him, running to catch him. They had just wrapped up another horridly long day of shooting, and she was exhausted. However, she had been meaning to talk to Mr. Calvert for quite some time, and this was her chance.
"Miss Dawson, why, hello," he said awkwardly as she reached him. Rose noticed how Mr. Calvert always seemed nervous around her, but she didn't know why. In fact, she barely knew anything about this quiet man who sat on the set day after day, occasionally speaking a few words to Sam but other than that, simply watching them. Often, Rose saw him staring intently at her during her scenes. Normally, such attention from a man might make Rose suspicious, but there was something about Mr. Calvert that, well, calmed her.
"Please, call me Rose. Anyways, Mr. Calvert, I was hoping to ask you a few questions," said Rose. "It's just that I'm having a bit of trouble with the role, as I'm sure Sam has made clear to you, and I was thinking that, well, since you wrote Moulin Rouge you might be able to give me a few tips."
"Well, um, eh, okay," stammered Mr. Calvert. "Would you like to go for a cup of tea?"
"That would be lovely," replied Rose. "Even here in California, I always seem to be cold."
* * *
"Now Mr. Calvert, do you think that Camille would be crying in the scene where she tells William that she doesn't love him?" Rose was sitting across from Christian, drinking tea. She had taken a small notebook out of her purse and was writing down notes from their conversation. Christian couldn't help but smile at her professionalism.
"Please, call me Christian. And no, Rose, she wasn't, I mean, she wouldn't be crying. She would be very sad, but not crying. Sa - Camille would be very good at pretending, mind you.'' Christian took a sip of his tea. On one hand, he was finding it easy to answer Rose's questions; all he had to do was close his eyes for a moment to remember every little detail of Satine. Yet on the other hand, a number of times he had almost slipped and revealed the fact that he was the character called William. In Rose's mind, he was simply the writer of this book, and not the protagonist as well. Christian looked across the table at Rose, who was scribbling away furiously, "For all she knows," thought Christian, "'Camille' is just a figment of my imagination, and not the woman whom I still love dearly."
"Okay, then," continued Rose, pulling Christian back into the conversation. "Now, in the scene where Camille first appears, can you describe to me exactly how she would look, how she would act? Sam cannot stop emphasizing that this is the moment when the audience first meets Camille, so she, I mean, I must make a strong impression."
Christian smiled, thinking back to how beautiful Satine had looked that first night, atop that swing. "Rose," he began, "Imagine if you will, the largest, most beautiful, most radiant diamond that you can." He watched as Rose's eyes darted towards the floor, and he saw her smile sadly to herself. "Camille," he continued, "would be that diamond, except that she was, well, um, alive. She was the star of the Moulin Rouge. Now, I suppose that from her point of view, that routine on the swing would just be something that she did each night, a meaningless act that she did for a warm bed and food. But somehow, she would do it so that the men below her believed. She would make it seem real."
"I see," said Rose. "Now, in the book you wrote that Camille was a loud, wonderful singer. But if Camille had consumption, wouldn't that make it hard for her to sing?"
"Oh no," answered Christian, "She wa- would be a beautiful, powerful singer. She would only cough sometimes." Christian felt his heart sear with pain as Satine's face flashed through his mind, gasping for air, trying to breathe. Yet he smiled as he remembered her voice, so clear and forceful.
Christian watched as Rose wrote a few more things down on her notepad, and then finished off her tea. "Well, Mr. Calvert, it's been a pleasure. I cannot thank you enough for this invaluable information. You know, I don't believe I've ever told you just how much I loved Moulin Rouge. It was such a beautiful book, and it's message! Truth, beauty, freedom, and love! I mean, what else is there in the world? I must say, Mr. Calvert, you are very very talented."
Christian blushed. "Why, thank you, Rose," he replied. "I appreciate that. I wrote Moulin Rouge over fifteen years ago, but to me, the message is timeless. Yes, in a way it is a story about a time, a story about a place, a story about the people, but, but none of that really matters, I suppose. What Moulin Rouge is really about is love overcoming all obstacles, love lasting forever." Christian became choked up as spoke the words. "I guess what I'm trying to say is simply that, the greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love . . . "
"And be loved in return," joined in Rose. Christian watched as a single tear fell from her crystal blue eye. "Well, Mr. Calvert, I certainly agree with you there. It's just that . . . well, sometimes it hurts so much, you know?"
"I know, Rose," said Christian. And to himself he thought, "My, how I know."
He escorted her out of the café and they said goodbye to one another. Walking home, Christian glanced up at the stars. He smiled. "I love you, Satine" he said, as she had every night for the last sixteen years. "I'm going on. I'm telling our story. I promise."
