Chapter 3: Entertain Us

The windmills turn.

Sometimes I wish they would not-- that they would stay still always, and not sway with the passing wind. And yet as a silent monument to our dreams, they are far more ominous than just a broken machine rattling the storm away. They will flash into life within the next five years, and the halls will ring with music once more. The colours will dance dizzyingly before young eyes. There will be new whores and poets. . . different lyrics, the same strain of melody.

The thought is strangely comforting. Anything, I tell myself sternly, is superior to the shambles of our castle. I have no desire to be here when the inevitable turn of the page occurs, at any rate. Christian will leave within the next few months; he is waiting for the rational now, having found the reason in his book. One day I will succumb to the soft pleas for a different residence, and leave these dank halls for the verdant countryside. France, most likely, or perhaps Italy.

Perhaps. The threat means nothing to me now; for the moment my whims are tolerated. It is enough to hang brocaded curtains over dirty windows, and plump up the cushions on threadbare furniture. It will not always be my choice, but I will cling to that last scrap of defiance until that day comes.

You've never been inside the Moulin? Marguerite's jaw dropped comically, and she rose unsteadily from her perch near the bar to collapse in the chair across from me. She'd interrupted a spirited discussion between Satie, Toulouse, and I over the importance of love to Bohemianism-- ostensibly to ask Toulouse about some other artist, but really to take advantage of the steady flow of alcohol and flirt with me.

I replied, propping my chin in both my hands and studying her face. Her eyes widened, and she echoed my pose, leaning forward to touch my nose with her own. A moment of silence fell over the table, but then Marguerite deliberately collapsed back, balancing on a rickety limb of her chair and throwing her tiny feet onto the table. Laughing, I slid another glass of wine towards her. Marguerite, I had learned, refused to drink that damn green stuff, deeming it too bitter for her delicate palate.

She took hold of the goblet, pouring it down her throat and teetering dangerously from her precarious position. Toulouse only snorted, and handed Satie and I a fresh glass of absinthe. Taking it, I waved it gently under my nose, careful to avoid the dying flame. It was not difficult for me to understand Toulouse's fascination with the drug. The shimmer of the liquor underneath the crested heap of sugar was utterly exquisite to my poet's eyes.

I take it with sugar! Satie cried, banging his hand down on the table as he spoke. Marguerite seemed to find this inexplicably hilarious, for she collapsed into a fit of giggling that my schoolgirl friends would have envied.

I take it with sugar! Toulouse and I echoed as we tossed back our first swallow of the emerald liquid. I closed my eyes and let my tongue swirl around the bittersweet potion, flicking a few droplets towards the roof of my mouth. My vision of the café began to vibrate, swaying from side to side in a glorious blur of colour and motion. I thought I vaguely heard Satie questioning me, but then a fall of pale green and silver glitter filled my senses. A sweet, high laugh bubbled over the rest of the voices, and the Green Fairy appeared.

I'm the Green Fairy, she breathed into my ear, the gossamer touch of her costume tickling my skin. She giggled again, and flew over to the rim of my glass. There she cast a flirtatious glance up at me, alternately winking and blushing until flying up to my face in a mockery of Marguerite's earlier gesture. She pressed one airy finger to her lips and blew me a kiss, then glided back to the remnants of the absinthe. She studied the liquid's reflection of her pensively, then turned to glare at me.

You've never been inside the Moulin? she mimicked, her voice turning high and cruel. She drew herself up, and I saw a pale red wash over her eyes. Silly girl, entertain us, that's all you see!

I took a sharp breath and felt my hands tremble-- the Fairy had never done this before. My lips moved soundlessly as the entire world seemed to slow, stalling and starting abruptly. I saw myself, spiraling down into those red windmills, falling with Marguerite below me, her arms outstretched to catch me. Her hair was loose, auburn waves spilling over the collar of her white gown. She laughed a little as she spoke, as if she was trying to remind me of an old joke. But I was falling-- falling-- and Marguerite's arms were wavering back and forth.

The rapture the Fairy held me vanished as Toulouse refilled my glass and I gulped it down, this time without sugar. The alcohol burned my throat, but the vision disappeared quickly. The Fairy rose, her eyes green again, and fringed with an innocent spill of dusty lashes.

Marguerite slurred mournfully. Was'ing your-- she tried to get out the word sobriety,' but unfortunately ended up mumbling something about sobwy and pixiths.

I pushed my chair back, suddenly disenchanted with the evening. My head ached, and I was sober enough to realize that I was on my way to being very, very drunk. While the prospect didn't seem that dismal, it wasn't what I wanted. This wasn't what I wanted from Montmartre. A flush of anger shot through me, distilling the alcohol into my veins.

Toulouse, I'm going, I gasped, taking my shawl and tottering to the door.

Marguerite had sprung up, and I barely had time to spin around before I felt her soft lips pressed against mine. She was obviously too inebriated to manage anything longer than that short, perfunctory kiss-- but an entirely different sort of intoxication came over me. I drew back slowly, keeping one hand on her arm. Her face was flushed from the wine, her lips full with the knowledge of mine. She stumbled, the sharp heel of her boot catching onto something, and I steadied her before she fell. She giggled, and a lock of hair swung onto her cheek.

Come with me to th' Moulin she said.

You're drunk, I whispered, captivated in spite of myself. My fingers reached up to hesitantly brush my mouth. The taste of the red wine she'd been drinking. . . the scent of some oriental perfume. . . the hint of a melted candle. Was this what it was like, to feel a woman? To know that for an achingly brief moment, you were joined with all the senses and the soul?

So're you.

All right, then, I said softly.

Here we are now. . . came her slurred reply. Entertain. . .

The Green Fairy whispered it like a lover's endearment. She cast a mock-innocent, inquisitive glance at me. One glass tells the truth, Anne. Are you sure you wanted to drink more?

I leveled my finger at her in return.

I'm drunk, I said darkly.

Not enough, she countered.

I said firmly.

She studied me for a long moment.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

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A/N: This chapter's a bit shorter than usual, but seeing as how I've got quarter of the next chapter written already, I don't feel bad about it. The Green Fairy took over this chapter. . . she was supposed to have ONE scene. . . honestly, some hallucinations.

My eternal love goes to everyone who's been so kind as to review and encourage me. Thank you!