I was quick to learn that the attic of the building in which I was staying had been rented out to my newly made Bohemian friends and they had converted it into something of a studio. All of the furniture (what little of it that there was) lined the wall and was all situated on the southern side. The northern half was cluttered with various stage props, a bed (upon which we'd set the unconscious Argentinean), an enormous organ and various other music instruments, and a few chairs. Set up against the far wall was an elaborate mountain backdrop that served as the Alps, along with ladders that were in the places where, on stage, mountains that the actors could climb on would be.

I'd been forced to change into a tight set of brown trousers with suspenders, as well as a hat that was much too small for my head, complete with a feather (the costume that the Argentinean would be wearing during performances), handed a script, and told to climb atop the tallest ladder.

I'd obeyed with a certain degree of stupefied reluctance, too morbidly fascinated with the group, as well as interested in the modern play that they spoke of to actually deny them. Precariously balanced atop my ladder, cringing was all I could do to prevent reaching to cover my ears as the bald man (whose name I learned to be Satie) sat at the oversized organ and began to play.

That was Toulouse's cue and he was prompt to waddle down from his perch within the "mountains" to begin to sing with the music. "The hills animate with the euphonious symphonies of --"

"Stop, stop, stop!" It was Audrey, the man I'd almost mistaken as a woman, whom I'd learned to be the show's writer and director. He was stationed just outside of the set and had, with his high-pitched voice, managed to gain the attention of musician and singer alike. Although I'd known the man for but a short time, my respect for him only increased with appreciation when his raving caused the music and off-key singing to halt simultaneously.

Audrey pushed away from his seat, moving to Satie and his organ, apparently annoyed. "That insufferable droning is drowning out my words! Can't we please just stick to a little decorative piano?"

There seemed to be artistic differences over Audrey's lyrics to Satie's song, sparking an argument that all four of the conscious Bohemians were quick to jump in on.

"I don't think a nun would say that about a hill," stated the Doctor (even to this day, I can't recollect learning his name), taking time out from drinking the mysterious green liquid in the bottle he constantly carried around to make his opinion known.

"What if he says," Satie was quick to interject over the Doctor's voice. "...the hills are vital intoning the --"

I couldn't quite make out how he finished the lyrics, being that Toulouse's higher-pitched voice easily made itself audible over Satie's, which caused the Doctor to raise his voice, if only to combat Toulouse's. Before I knew it, the Doctor, Satie, and Toulouse were all speaking as loudly as they could, attempting to piece together a string of lyrics that fit the music.

Suddenly, the Argentinean seemed to awake with a start, popping out of bed long enough to put his two cents in. "The hills are enchanted with symphonic melodies!"

In all truths, I found his to be the best yet. Unfortunately, at the completion of his statement, he fell unconscious again, collapsing into a heap across the bed. Everyone had gone silent at the sound of his throaty voice, but upon his lapsing back into sleep, the Bohemians all breathed a simultaneous "Nah.." and continued with the argument.

It was at that point that it struck me. Straightening on my ladder, I tried to speak over the crowd, but they weren't exactly listening. "The... the hills --"

Frowning, I waved my arms carefully through the air (not wanting to risk causing myself to fall from my perch), speaking up again. "The hills are -- "

Still, they continued arguing, ignoring my suggestion. Finally, fed up with the argument, I rose my voice over their voices by simply projecting it into song, following the music Satie had laid out before with Toulouse's voice, but improvising my own lyrics. "The hills are alive with the sound of music!"

When I stopped singing, I noted the fact that the argument had ceased altogether, and the four Bohemians were staring at each other in silence, though I couldn't tell if it was horror or awe that compelled them to do so.

Another sudden lurch from the Argentinean drew all of our attention toward him to find him standing again, walking toward the group of us. "The hills are alive with the sound of music!!" Both hands were raised to his lips exuberantly, after which he proceeded to blow a kiss into the air. "I love it!" I couldn't have been more relieved.

At the Argentinean's approval, all of the Bohemians except for Audrey turned to face me, grinning in that drunken way that I was learning to associate with all of them. I offered an offhanded smile, shrugging.

"The hills are alive," The Doctor repeated, mulling the words over.

"...with the sound," continued Toulouse.

"...of music." Finished Satie, leaning close to his organ and hitting a key to make sure it was in the right key signature. Smiling, he sat upright again, glancing toward me. "It fits perfectly."

Taking the unconditional positive regard well, I loosened up a bit, leaning out on my ladder to motion with my script in emphasis before singing out again. "With songs they have sung for a thousand years!" Rather than wait self-consciously for their response to that line, I rose my brows in question, grinning.

Toulouse gasped as if he'd been struck with lightning, reaching toward me. "Incandiferous!" Turning slightly on his heel, he glanced toward Audrey, adding meekly with a minor gesture toward me. "Audrey, you two should write the show together."

Audrey was seemingly taken aback by the suggestion, raising a hand to his ear as he leaned forward as if he hadn't heard correctly. "I beg your pardon?"

Toulouse's suggestion that Audrey and I write the show together was not what Audrey wanted to hear.

"Good-bye!" Audrey shouted appallingly as he slammed the door to the studio closed and left us all standing there, gaping after him.

Toulouse was the first of us to recover, raising a glass to me as he helped himself to the Doctor's bottle of green liquor. "Here's to your first job in Paris."

"But, Toulouse," it was Satie, leaning toward him and lowering his voice. "Do you think Zidler will agree?"

Making my way slowly down from my perch atop the ladder, I was intercepted by a question from Satie, causing me to hesitate two rungs up from the bottom. "No offense, but have you ever written anything like this before?"

I stared at him. Who had written a play about a Swiss goat-herder and a nun that sang to hills? "No!"

My admittance to my lack of experience seemed to dishearten the Bohemians for a moment. Once again, I was saved by the unfaltering admiration of the Argentinean who, upon crossing toward me, exclaimed. "Ah! The boy has talent! I like him!"

In emphasis to his statement "I like him," he had spread both hands outward. Unfortunately for me, the fly of my trousers was caught directly in the palm of one of his hands. Uncertain of how to react, I tensed, a strangled gasp being the only response I could muster.

Realizing what he'd done, the Argentinean pulled his hand away hastily, looking down with a cough. "Nothing funny. I just like talent."

Fighting down an intense burning of embarrassment in my cheeks, I slowly pulled myself down the final rungs of the ladder, sidestepping shortly after to pull myself directly behind one of the pieces of painted cardboard that represented a mountain. Although it didn't hide the crimson that had made its way up from my neck, it did protect me from any further assaults by flying hands below the belt.

Toulouse, the Doctor, and Satie had gathered into a bit of a huddle, paying little mind to what had occurred between the Argentinean and myself. The Argentinean, apparently eager to put it out of his mind, crowded in with the trio, leaving me on the outside, attempting to peer over their shoulders and straining to listen to the words.

"The hills are alive with the sound of music," Toulouse quoted with an admirable tone. "See, Satie, with Christian, we can write the truly Bohemian Revolutionary show we've always dreamt of!"

"Yes," Satie admitted with little hesitation. "But how will we convince Zidler?"

"Satine," Toulouse responded. At that, all four of the Bohemians turned to look at me with their drunken smiles, causing me to recoil slightly. I had been leaning awfully close in my attempts to hear the words they were murmuring, and rather than look like an eavesdropper, I simply offered a weak smile.

They returned to their huddle and, although I couldn't make out all the words, got the general idea fairly easily. They would dress me in the Argentinean's best suit and pass me off as a famous English writer. Once Satine heard my modern poetry, she would be astounded, and insist to Zidler that I write Spectacular, Spectacular.

The only problem was, I kept hearing my father's voice in my head, repeatedly saying "You'll end up wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a can-can dancer!" and with the influx of information I'd taken in during the past thirty minutes, mixed with the cloud of disbelief I held in the drunken Children of the Revolution, it all became too much.

Making a bolt past the quartet, I fell into a dead run for the door. "No, I can't write the show for the Moulin Rouge!"

No sooner had I gotten a foot past them had they all pivoted as one and grabbed me. Rather than be tackled, I simply sank to the floor, turning to face them.

"Why not?" Toulouse demanded, leaning close. His voice, however, sounded more disappointed than truly angry.

Stammering, I attempted to come up with a plausible reason. Unfortunately, the best I could provide was: "I--I don't even know if I am a true Bohemian Revolutionary!"

They gasped as one, as if the very notion was a shock before Toulouse prompted me. "Do you believe in beauty?"

Knitting my brows together in confusion at such an absurd question, I answered, despite. "Yes."

"Freedom?" the Argentinean questioned immediately thereafter.

My gaze wandered to him, lingering on him for a moment before responding with less willingness than I had to Toulouse's question. It wasn't a lack of believing in freedom that I answered reluctantly, but a brewing suspicion as to where the conversation was going. "Yes, of course."

"Truth?" asked Satie.

Even more reluctant as the questions continued, I hesitated more so prior to answering. "Yes..."

"Love?" The final question came from the Doctor, which instantly snapped my attention to him.

"Love?" I echoed. "Love. Above all things I believe in love." Shaking my head just slightly, I allowed my gaze to trail sideward across the faces of the Bohemians. "Love is like oxygen. Love is a many splendored thing -- love lifts us up where we belong! All you need is love!" I concluded with a rather bright smile.

Again, as one, the Children of the Revolution gasped, though this time in obvious pleasure at my response.

"You see? You can't fool us!" Toulouse laughed in near glee. "You're the voice of the Children of the Revolution!"

Before I could even blink, four sets of hands had set on my shoulders, pulling me rapidly up off the ground. "We can't be fooled!"

"Let us drink to the new writer of the world's first Bohemian Revolutionary show!" Toulouse shouted, shoving a glass of the thick green liquid I'd seen them drinking off and on into my hands.

Eyeing it reluctantly, I watched the four of them down their glasses first before raising my own to my lips and knocking the liquor back. Almost instantly, the world span out from under me in a dizzying array of vibrant greens and sound. The green rays whirled about my head before pressing together in the form of a strange little fairy dressed in a shimmering gown of bright green.

My eyes widened for a moment, staring as I attempted to determine if I was losing my mind. The laughter from the other four men, however, as well as the fixing of their gazes on the same area that I was led me to believe that I wasn't. The sprite fluttered about seductively before us for a moment before singing, her voice distant and melodic -- almost hypnotic. "The hills are alive with the sound of music!"

The five of us were still seeing the Green Fairy and feeling the effects of the Absinthe when we dressed and left.

We were off to the Moulin Rouge... and I was to perform my poetry for Satine.