Notes: And here the plot actually beings… O.o I'm terribly sorry for any anit-Christian sentiment in the following chapter. I'm considering redeeming him, only 'cos I can't stand to see my favorite 'lil Poet boy be turned evil in my own fanfic… er, all right, so he's not evil. He's just… in the way.
To Saturn: Gracias for your review! This chapter is written only 'cos you reviewed. Being reviewless makes me sad (sniffle)
The year was 1890; the season, spring. Only a little while before the Poet's story beings, my own tale took a turn for the better. A new project was suggested for the nightclub, and I was at the forefront of it. Zeidler, desperate to fund his bizarre obsession with electricity, launched an ambitious plot to turn the nightclub into a theater. Plays, he reasoned, brought in far more revenue than prostitution. I agreed with him, and in his dingy office we discussed his plans. The play would most likely be written by a gang of Bohemians led by a dwarf named Toulouse Letrec, but the music would be mine to compose, no matter who objected. The weeks following our discussion flew by as I wrote, keeping up with the demand for new dance music as well as composing pieces for the play. I was able to ignore everything and everyone around me, and for the first time in six years, I was happy.
As Zeidler's idea took shape, new people began appearing at the Rouge. Stagehands looking to get in early on the project came to Zeidler in droves, along with painters down on their luck and poverty-stricken two-bit actors looking for work. This influx of men not wealthy enough to pay for sex confused the Diamond Dogs, but only briefly: soon there was a roaring trade in cheap human lives just outside the walls of the Rouge. If it could bring in extra cash, the Dogs were willing to do it; all except the star of the Rouge, of course. Zeidler reserved her for the richest and most influential of his clientele. Poor girl. She was the only one I had never hated, even though she looked upon me with contempt.
For the most part I ignored these new workers, unless they had something to do with my music. The singers I spoke to, and then only briefly and dismissively. None of them could do justice to my works. I had little to do with these men, until Alexander arrived.
He was a stagehand, but perhaps something more as well. He could dance, sing, and even act a little, but his passion was for building. He had a fascination with creating stage sets; he told me that it was like making a new world, creating a life. From the first moment I set eyes upon him, I knew we were kindred spirits. He didn't attract much notice, probably because he wasn't interested in the Diamond Dogs, and perhaps because he wasn't spectacularly attractive. He stood six feet, six inches tall, all lanky limbs and long legs. He wasn't particularly muscular, but he could easily pull his weight with the rest. His hair was a tousled, messy black, and his skin was perpetually tanned. His eyes were what caught my attention first: bright green orbs that could pull the truth out of untruthful souls. His voice was soft, gentle, but commanding, tinged only lightly with the accent of his native Spain. He told me later that he had been all over Europe, hitching rides on trains since his thirteenth birthday. I was impressed: at 25, he'd seen more places than most aged scholars. I felt he understood part of the reason I was here in this hellhole.
Our first meeting was purely by chance. I was walking towards Zeidler's office, and he had just come from there. We probably never would have noticed each other if we hadn't run straight into each other. I, myself, wasn't much to look at; I had cut my hair short because it was easier to manage and because that, along with my baggy clothing and over-large beret, helped to hide my feminine form. In any event, we did run into each other quite literally, his six-foot frame bowling my own five-foot four-inch one over like chafe. I fell to the floor, my papers flying everywhere. He swiftly knelt to help me up.
"Don't touch me," I snarled, leaping quickly to my feet. I desperately began gathering up my papers, afraid that his great callused hands would crumple them up and destroy them. Rather than crinkling them with inept fingers, though, he gently gathered them up, brushed them off, and handed them back. I rather nastily snatched them away.
"Where are you bound?" he asked in perfect French.
"I've got a meeting with Zeidler," I said shortly. Without making any further conversation, I pushed past him. I thought that was the last I'd seen of the tall, Spanish stranger.
However, the arrival of Christian the Poet threw us together again in a flurry of activity. He had been made the head of writing, I was the musician, and Alexander was in charge of building the stage. The three of us met often to discuss the play and to fit our different areas of expertise together. From the outset I resented Christian's position. He was, in my mind, taking over my job, and I felt ousted and unappreciated. What business did this young upstart have in barging in and taking my work from me? He was too kind of nature to hate, though, and my resentment soon faded to barely noticeable irritation. Alexander, meanwhile, was overjoyed with the situation.
"Sil the Composer, Christian the Poet, and Alexander the Artist, what a group we make," he laughed one day as we all sat down to go over the script. "I bet not even your bohemian friends are half so diverse," he smiled towards Christian.
"You'd be surprised," Christian replied.
Alexander's quiet, genuine laughter was infectious, and I smiled despite myself. Feeling slightly humorous I added, "I'm sure my position is odd indeed to you both. A woman composer in a den of prostitution! It's quite unheard of, I bet."
"I believe many of the women here have hidden talents," Christian said, and I detected a hint of defensiveness in his voice. That would puzzle me for quite some time.
"Indeed, they do," Alexander agreed, smiling in my direction. Unbidden, my pulse raced just a little faster, and I'm sure I blushed. Flustered, I made quite a production of finding the right page in my script. There was something about him…
While I attempted to sort out my strange feelings for this tall, quiet artist, a new mystery was unfolding among the women of the Rouge. It involved the Sparkling Diamond Satine, and it didn't take me long to put two and two together. Satine was often away, presumably to entertain the rich Duke who was financing the play. I noticed, however, that the Duke often warmed his bed with one of the other Dogs; Satine must be using her talents elsewhere.
Everything came together one morning when I departed early for Christian's garret to deliver a new piece of music for approval. I knocked on his door, but there was no answer. Miffed and irritated that my morning might be wasted for a fruitless trip out of the Rouge, I opened the door and stalked into the room. The first thing I noticed was the inordinate amount of clothing strewn across the floor, most of it Satine's. I knew she had gone to him late the night before to rehearse… with a sick jolt of horror, I realized what was going on between the poet and the actress. They might ruin everything! I quickly looked around, taking in the scene: rumpled bedsheets, a hastily unbuttoned corset, empty wineglasses on the bedside table. Where were they now? I heard giggling from out on the landing and briefly considered barging in on them and telling them how foolish they were, but what good would that do? In a fatalistic sort of daze I left, leaving the pair to seal their own doom. I didn't know whether they were really in love, nor did I care. Either way they were slowly killing themselves. Either way they were slowly killing me. They were slowly killing Alexander. They were slowly killing all of us.
Half enraged, half hopelessly sad, I left the garret. If they were discovered, the Duke would surely leave. Without the Duke, there would be no one to finance us. Without finances, there would be no play. Without a play… I would have to stop composing. I would have to go out on the streets again. If this endeavor failed, Zeidler would have lost too much money to recover. The Moulin Rouge would die. I would die. I couldn't let that happen. With grim certainty I realized that my silence in the matter was required. I couldn't tell anyone, or else word might get to the Duke… but I needed to tell someone. Now, more than ever, I needed to find someone to pour my pain, my fears, my years of solitude into…
And so I went to Alexander.