CHAPTER 2
I shoved my way through the crowd and stopped at the side of the street, gaping at the theatre. I wondered how one could obtain a job acting in the theatre. I, of course, had no experience and knew nothing about how it was run. Nonetheless, I crossed the street and approached the magnificent building. As I got closer, I noticed colorful posters that were behind glass, advertising various plays. Having never seen such things, the posters captured my attention. I noticed some of the posters seemed a little worn, tinged yellow of pollution and the corners starting to fall down, but it was the pictures that interested me. Most were of a man and woman in each other's arms, romantically gazing at one another or some were dancing together, the women in extravagant gowns. Becoming excited imagining myself in one of those gorgeous dresses, I tugged at the giant door's cold iron handles. I found that, to my disappointment, everything was locked up.
Uncertain of what to do next but determined to speak with someone, I looked around for another entrance. Off to the side of the building was a plain-looking door that I suspected might be an office of some sort where perhaps the owner worked. I sprinted to the door and tried to make myself presentable. I knocked loudly on the door and awaited a response, but none came. After a moment, I knocked again and this time an angry, deep voice shouted, "Keep your pants on, I'm coming!" I straightened up and cleared my throat.
A stout, middle-aged man answered the door. A foul-smelling cigar lay between his cracked, rough lips and his thin, greasy hair was combed to one side of his head in attempt to cover his baldness. The dark circles around his eyes and the manner in which he squinted once in the light of day suggested he was exhausted and had not been out for days. He appeared to be very annoyed for this disturbance and glared down at me.
"Yeah?"
"Bonjour, monsieur. My name is Satine."
"What do you want?" the man grunted hastily.
"Well, you see . . . I was wondering how I could get a job here as an actress?" I inquired. The man did not seem surprised at my question, nor did it seem he was considering it. He rolled his eyes and responded flatly,
"Sorry, we're not auditioning anyone right now." He began to close the door, but I persisted.
"I can sing and dance," I informed him. I was told more than once that I had a lovely voice and I did enjoy dancing.
"So can a lot of people," he argued, closing the door further.
"But, I have tons of experience and I'm a wonderful actress," I blurted out dramatically. This was a lie - I had never been involved with theatre, but I was certain I could become a talented actress if given the chance.
The man reopened the door and stared at me suspiciously. "You look too young to be experienced," he challenged.
"I'm 17," I retorted, once again lying, as I was only 14. I'd hoped he would believe me because I did look a bit older than my age.
The man's expression remained unchanged. "Oh really? And I suppose you've been enrolled in all the essential acting classes?" he asked with a hint of sarcasm.
I nodded, even though I had never before even considered the idea that actors and actress went to acting schools.
"And what productions have you been in?"
Remembering one of the posters that I first encountered, I promptly replied, "My most recent was Zaïre."
"Zaire, eh? And what role did you play?" He questioned further, still unconvinced.
At this I was beaten and I remained silent. The man folded his arms across his wide chest. I could not conjure up a clever response, so instead answered,
"I . . . uh . . . "
The man laughed at my failed attempt to produce an efficient lie and began to close the door again. "Go home, kid."
"Wait! Please, monsieur, give me a chance." I pleaded, stepping closer toward him.
The man looked at me pitifully and sighed. "Listen, do you have any idea how many trained and professional people audition to get a role here? And even all of them don't make the cut. You can't just walk in here with no experience and a pretty face, expecting to make it onstage."
"But . . . " my voice trailed off as I realized that he was right. I avoided his eyes and looked to my scuffed, old shoes, noticing a developing hole near the toe. How could I, a homeless, impoverished girl with no claim to experience in any line of work besides sewing come here hoping to be an actress? I felt foolish and ashamed.
"I am sorry, but that's just not how the theatre works," he stated honestly. I bowed my head in embarrassment for my ignorance and said nothing. He sighed and turned around back into his office. "Hang on a minute," he muttered.
I looked up, curious as to where he had gone. I craned my neck over and just visible was the man rummaging hurriedly through piles of scattered papers on a desk, searching for something in particular. At last, he snatched up a crumpled piece of paper and returned to the doorway. He unfolded the paper and handed it to me.
"The Moulin Rouge! in Montmarte." it said. "A nightclub, the dance hall of the bordello . . . A kingdom of nighttime pleasures . . . Where the rich and powerful come to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld." Being of an innocent age, I did not understand what it meant. Not wanting to appear immature, I paid no attention to the top portion and continued to read the rest of the paper. "Searching for young, beautiful girls wanting to experience the exciting life of a can-can dancer. No experience necessary. – Harold Zidler." Once finished, I shifted my gaze from the picture of a windmill against the night sky of Paris back up to the man, a bit confused.
"Some bloke was passing 'em out on the street last night," he mumbled. "If it's the stage you're looking for, maybe you'd have more luck there, kid. Sounds like there might be some sort of dancing show put on there . . . it could be a start, anyway."
FROM BEETLE: What happens next is a little different. Please, please, please review!
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of the Moulin Rouge or it's characters, just my story.