A Private Poetry Reading
Minutes later, I greeted the Duke at the door of the Red Room, and ushered him inside, before I retreated behind a screen to change. When I emerged, clad in black lingerie, I made certain every sway of my hips had meaning. "This is a wonderful place for a poetry reading, don't you think?"
He turned from his observation out the heart-shaped window at the front of the elephant, and gaped at me for a moment.
"Poetic enough for you?" I inquired in a seductive purr, smoothing my hands down the front of the negligee.
"Y-yes," he stammered out, with what I could only presume to be nervousness.
I politely ignored the anxiety that was radiating off him, and sashayed past to the dinner tray. "Would you like a little supper?" I reached to pluck the bottle from its place nestled in the ice bucket, "Maybe some . . . champagne?"
"I'd rather just, um . . . get it over and done with," he blurted out.
I dropped the bottle back down into the bucket with a thump, and pushed down my annoyance. His impatience, I attributed to youth – the younger men were always in a hurry, especially when I had the act going fully. Why Harold had suggested the smoldering temptress guise would work best in this situation was beyond me – the Duke seemed much more the bright and bubbly type.
"Oh," I stated shortly, turning back around to look at him. "Very well, then."
I moved over to the bed and settled down onto it, a come-hither look on my face.
"Why don't you come down here, and let's –" I patted the space beside me suggestively, "– get it over and done with?"
He looked at me for a moment – gaping again – and replied, ". . . Actually, I'd prefer to do it standing."
I blinked, eyes widening slightly.
"Oh," I said, and started to slide to the foot of the bed.
"Y-you don't have to stand, I mean," he interrupted hastily, noting my motion to rise. "Sometimes it's . . . quite long, and I-I'd like you to be comfortable. It's quite modern, what I do, and it may feel a little strange at first – but . . . but I think if you're open, then you might enjoy it."
Now it was my turn to gape at him, a little surprised. Few of the men I dealt with managed to surprise me, but this one was succeeding steadily, and I have to admit to being taken aback.
It really was always the quiet ones.
Recovering, I responded enthusiastically, "I'm sure I will."
"Excuse me," he said, then unexpectedly turned away, pacing back and forth a bit before lifting his hat in the air and stating, "The sky – the sky is –"
I leaned back on the bed in anticipation, and emitted an expectant moan.
"– is, ugh . . . blue – birds . . . ooh." He glanced back, then hastily turned away again, muttering to himself, before spinning back around. "I think the mountains are . . . shaking."
I sat up and leaned forward with an expression of impatient question, brows furrowing. "Um . . . is everything all right?"
"I'm just a little nervous," he stammered out. "It's just that sometimes it . . . takes a little while for, uh –"
"Ooh," I responded in realization, offering him a sympathetic look. I pushed myself up off the bed and walked toward him as he finished the sentence.
"For, you know," he concluded, glancing at the floor. ". . . inspiration to come."
"Oh, yes, yes, yes," I purred in return as he looked up at me again. "Let mommy help."
Then, with little ceremony, I reached down between his legs and forcefully took hold of his 'talent.' He gave a strangled gasp, staring at me with wide eyes.
"Does that inspire you?" I whispered, but gave him little time to respond, instead pulling him forward and directing him toward the bed.
"Let's make love!" I cried out, and in show of my suggestion, soon followed, straddling him and starting about the work of unbuttoning his shirt.
"Make love?" he repeated, looking up at me in confusion – almost as if that wasn't what he had expected to do.
It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps he was a virgin – that would at least explain part of his odd behavior.
"You want to, don't you?" I asked, though his response wasn't really of much concern, as I continued unfastening buttons, untying his bowtie even as he squirmed around as if looking to escape.
"Well, I-I came to –" he stated, but I put a hand over his mouth, pulling the hem of his shirt untucked with my free hand.
"Tell the truth," I insisted. "Feel the poetry!"
I kept at my work on his clothing, going on, "Come on, feel it, free the tiger!"
I growled, reaching the clasp on his trousers, and hastily unfastened them. What I found caused me to focus wide-eyed for a moment on him. "Oh, big boy! Yes, I need your poetry now!"
"All right!" he cried.
Then, rather unexpectedly, he struggled out from under me and off the bed, scrambling several feet away before turning back.
"It's a little bit funny –" he stated, and I stared at him in exasperation.
"What?" I questioned, confused. I'd never had anyone do this before.
"This f-feeling – in-inside," he continued, as if explaining – though it didn't make any more sense. "I'm not one of those who can – who can easily hide."
He hesitated, and asked, "I-is this okay, is this what you want?"
I continued to stare, before realizing what he was doing. It finally occurred, in a burst of epiphany, that maybe he had been serious about a poetry reading. Maybe this was his idea of foreplay – certainly unusual, but it wouldn't be the most unusual.
"Oh, poetry," I responded, leaning backward again. "Yes, yes, this is what I want! Naughty words!"
"I-I don't have much money," he went on. "But if I did, I'd buy a big house where we both could live."
"Oh, yes, yes," I breathed, sliding off the bed and slinking across the floor, feigning arousal at his words – which weren't necessarily bad, but it wasn't exactly what I had expected. And I couldn't help but be a little offended at the fact it was what he wanted.
"If I were a sculptor, but then again, no . . ."
"No, no, no!" I cried out, then realized he had trailed off, so I looked up and waved at him to go on. "No, no, don't stop!"
"Or a man who makes potions in a traveling show," he continued, somewhat uncertainly.
I rolled up in a furred blanket on the floor, gasping out, "Give me more! Yes! Yes!"
"I know it's not much, but . . ."
I continued to roll around, shouting in the throes of mock (though he didn't need to know that) ecstasy, "Naughty! Don't stop! Yes, yes, yes!"
"My gift is my song!"
As the voice – his voice, I realized with a hint of awe – rang out, I abruptly halted, sitting up to look at him in stunned silence.
". . . and this one's for you," he concluded with a smile. I stared at him, the nearly forgotten blanket sliding down around my shoulders.
"And you can tell everybody that this is your song.
It may be quite simple, but now that it's done,
I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind
That I put down in words . . ."
I smiled in spite of myself, spellbound as he sang.
". . . how wonderful life is, now you're in the world."
Rising, I allowed the blanket to settle to the floor, and I walked toward him, watching enraptured as he turned and glanced out the window.
"Sat on the roof, and I kicked off the moss.
Some of these verses, well they – they got me quite cross.
But the sun's been kind while I wrote this song.
It's the people like you that keep it turned on."
I glanced away then, my smile turning almost – embarrassed? It was such a distant experience that I'd almost forgotten what it felt like, as modesty was easily something set aside in my 'profession' – and I moved to look out the window as well.
"So excuse me forgetting, but these things I do,
You see I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue . . .
But anyway the thing is, what I really mean.
Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen!"
He smiled, reaching to take my hands in his, then he wrapped an arm around my waist and swept me into a twirling waltz around the main floor of the room – though we may as well have been dancing on the clouds, as light as I felt on my feet.
"And you can tell everybody this is your song.
It may be quite simple, but now that it's done,
Hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind,
That I put down in words . . .
How wonderful life is now you're in the world.
Hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind
That I put down in words . . .
How wonderful life is . . . now you're in the world!"
The Duke dipped me in his embrace, our faces hovering mere inches from each other. I leaned toward him, staring in to the lovely blue of his eyes, something foreign blossoming in me.
"I can't believe it," I said slowly, in a tone of wonder that surprised even myself, "I'm in love . . ."
And as I spoke the words, I found myself wondering if they were really those that I always repeated to the men I sold myself to – hollow, empty, and without real meaning – after all.
"I'm in love with a young, handsome, talented Duke," I finished, almost laughing at the idea.
He paused, brows knitting in good-natured bemusement as he gazed back at me. "Duke?"
At his uncertain echo, I added, "Oh . . . not that the title's important, of course."
His expression was almost amused as he informed me, "I'm not a Duke."
Confused, I searched his face just short of our lips meeting in a kiss. "Not a Duke?"
"I'm a writer," he corrected.
"A writer?" I questioned, horrified, and pushed away from him instantly. With two little words, everything instantly came crashing down – this wasn't some fairytale after all. I wasn't Cinderella, the glass slipper was really made out of wood, and my Prince – was a writer.
"Yes, a writer," he responded, obviously confused as to why it should matter so much.
"No!" I gasped out, taking a step back.
"Well, Toulouse –" he started, but I cut him off as horrified realization came over me.
"Toulouse? Oh no! Not another of Toulouse's oh-so-talented, charmingly Bohemian, tragically impoverished protégés?" I asked, willing him to deny any knowledge of the diminutive Bohemian man.
To my disappointment, he simply seemed mildly embarrassed, shoulders lifting in a mild shrug as he responded, "Well, you might say that."
"Oh no!" I cried. "I'm going to kill him! I'm going to kill him!"
"Toulouse told me –" he tried again, but I was all ready on my way to the door, intent on making him leave.
"The Duke," I stated, remembering the one I was really supposed to be meeting, becoming instantly more horrified by the second. I swung the door open – only to slam it shut again and brace myself back against it, eyes wide in shock. "The Duke!"
"The Duke?" he asked, obviously confused by my upset – which only upset me further, as there was no time to explain.
"Hide!" I commanded, attempting to figure out where there possibly was for him to go. "Out the back!"
I spun around hastily as the door opened and Harold entered, aware of the fact the writer – without the time to properly escape – had ducked down behind me.
"My dear, are you decent for the Duke?" Harold asked. "Where were you?"
"I – was – waiting," I said slowly, moving quickly over to the dinner tray from earlier, bracing myself against it and giving the writer time to use it as a hiding place.
"Dearest Duke," Harold was continuing with a flourish, "Allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Satine."
The Duke stepped into the room – and for the first time, I faced the actual financier, who, unfortunately, was a poor substitute for the writer. The real Duke came far closer to my expectations than the man I'd initially mistaken for him, with features that were far less attractive as well. He seemed absorbed with himself, and as he stepped over to me and gave a smile that caused his mustache to twitch upward, I was reminded of some sort of rodent.
"Monsieur," I purred smoothly, as if nothing were amiss, "How wonderful of you to take time out of your busy schedule to visit."
"The pleasure I fear will be entirely mine, my dear," he responded – and his voice, slick as a serpent's, certainly fit his look.
"I'll leave you two squirrels to get acquainted," Harold said enthusiastically. "Ta-ta!"
The door closed behind him with a slam, and I was alone with the Duke – though not so alone.
The Duke took my hand, and stooped to kiss it, repeating a line from the show, "A kiss on the hand may be quite continental."
I pulled my hand back, waving a finger at him in a chiding gesture. "But diamonds are a girl's best friend."
I took his hat and cane, tossing them aside, then sank back onto the bed, eager to distract him from the tray next to which the writer was hiding. Unfortunately, he headed right in that direction, eyeing the contents.
"After tonight's pretty exertions on the stage, you must surely be in need of some refreshment, my dear," he noted, reaching for the champagne bottle.
I jumped up abruptly, leaning one hand out as I screeched, "Don't!"
Recovering and realizing my mistake, I went on hastily, "Don't . . . you . . . just – love the view?"
I stretched my arm out in indication of the heart-shaped window, prompting him to move toward it and look out at the view in question.
He remained rooted in place, however, merely glancing to it before responding in a dry tone, "Charming."
Frantically searching my mind, I instead began to dance around the floor, swishing my lace negligee through the air.
"Oh! I feel like dancing!" I cried out, while flitting about. It might have looked absurd, but I was certain it was distracting as well, and that was my main concern – it occurred to me in retrospect to wonder why I was trying to protect that writer, though I soon attributed it to the fact I didn't wish to be suspected of entertaining another when I was supposed to be attending the Duke.
"Don't you feel like dancing?" I asked, turning back toward him.
"My dear, I should like a glass of champagne –" he started, reaching toward the ice bucket on the tray.
"No!" I interrupted shrilly again, then I grabbed the first thing that sprang to mind. "It's a little bit funny!"
The Duke looked at me in confusion, glancing from left to right before focusing on me again. "What is?"
"This . . ." I allowed my gaze to trail sidelong to the tray, where the writer had poked his head up in order to supply the words to his own poem, and I took a moment to decipher what he was mouthing silently.
". . . feeling," I finished.
"Inside. I'm not one of those who can easily . . ." I hesitated again, attempting to make out the pantomime. ". . . hide!"
The Duke had turned toward the tray again, but I interjected another, "No!" and sprang forward, wrapping my arms around his legs.
"I don't have much money," I cried, "But ooh, if I did . . . I'd buy a big house where we both could live!"
I ran my hands up and down his legs for a moment, before pulling them apart to look at the writer, gesturing urgently for him to make his way to the door while I had the Duke distracted. Then I looked back up at the Duke and rose, beginning to sing.
"I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind
That I put down in words . . .
How wonderful life is . . ."
I paused, glancing over his shoulder toward the writer.
". . . now you're in the world."
"That's very beautiful," the Duke breathed, obviously impressed.
I reached a hand over his shoulder, pointing the writer toward the door, then leaned back to look at the Duke more fully. "It's from Spectacular Spectacular. Suddenly, with you here, I finally knew the true meaning of those words. 'How wonderful life is now you're in the world.'"
It was a blatant lie, of course, but why not do a little good while attempting to throw him off?
"And what meaning is that, my dear?"
As I glanced again at the writer, who opened the door only to find a bald man standing in the hallway, waiting, I made it instantly certain this was apparently the wrong thing for the Duke to say, by flinging myself back onto the bed. I beat down the duvet as I mock sobbed into it.
"Duke, don't you toy with my emotions!" I accused, pointing at him, and went back to feigning crying. "You . . . you must know the effect you have on women!"
He was impressed, flattered, and as he walked over to me, I took the opportunity to grab him and pull him down onto the bed atop me.
"Let's make love!" I cried. "You want to make love, don't you? Oh, I knew you felt the same way! Oh, oh, Duke!"
He offered muffled protests into the velvet blankets, but I was too busy waving the writer toward the window to take heed of it.
But the writer had paused, and was looking at me with an expression that was almost hurt, and as the Duke was murmuring something along the lines of 'wait,' I paused and focused back on him, answering in agreement, "Yes, you're right, we should wait! We should wait, until opening night!"
He leaned up, seeming grateful for the air, but gave me a befuddled look. "Wait – wait?"
"There's a power in you that scares me!" I cried. "You should go!"
Then I had him up and was ushering him to the door. "You must go!"
"Go?" he asked. "I just got here –"
But I had the door open and was pushing him out of it. "Oh, yes, but we'll see each other every day during rehearsal – we must wait, we must wait until opening night. Get out."
I swung the door shut behind him and turned back to the writer, who had emerged back behind me.
"Do you have any idea, any idea, what would happen if you were to be found?" I demanded, walking back toward him, but the same lightheadedness I had experienced just before falling from the trapeze came over me again, and I slumped forward – right into his arms.