From Dream to Dream
After everyone had left the elephant – Harold and the Duke back to his office to draw up the paperwork, the Bohemians back to Toulouse's studio for a celebration party, and the writer gone with them – I sat at my dressing table, trying to sort through my thoughts. Everything seemed to be going so well, even better than it had been planned or hoped for. Harold had his investor, the Children of the Revolution had a show, and I would fulfill my dream of acting.
I should have felt ecstatic, but instead I was confused – confused over my feelings, confused over that writer . . .
Christian.
His words kept filling my head.
Duke? I'm not a Duke. I'm a writer . . . He wasn't trying to trick her or anything . . . It's about love! It's about love overcoming all obstacles . . .
Why should I be thinking about him at all? He wasn't important to me – the one I really had to concentrate my affections on was the Duke. He was the one that mattered in this scheme, but I couldn't get my mind off Christian. There was something different about him, something new. He was innocent, naïve . . . he was everything contrary to what Montmartre embodied – contrary to everything I knew.
I can't believe it . . . I'm in love . . .
In such a village as had been termed a 'village of sin,' there were few rules. But the one I knew, the one I held above all else, was don't fall in love. And now, it seemed to be the one I was in risk of breaking. But it was nonsense, I told myself – I wasn't in love with this writer. I didn't even feel myself capable of being in love.
I was infatuated, I decided. I was impressed by his talent . . . by his words . . .
My gift is my song and this one's for you . . .
Standing, I walked toward the window and peered outside, out over the garden the elephant rested in, past the turning sails of the red windmill. There across the way, I could see the building where the Bohemians lived, where distant sounds of revelry met my ears. Then, there in the window, I could have sworn I saw him, standing there – looking right back at me.
Shaking my head, I pushed back the thoughts, and began to sing to myself.
"I follow the night . . . can't stand the light.
When will I begin to live again?
One day I'll fly away,
Leave all this to yesterday . . ."
I sighed softly, turning back to look at the window from which the light shone, then asked – almost as if singing directly to him,
"What more could your love do for me?
When will love be through with me?
Why live life from dream to dream,
And dread the day when dreaming ends?"
I looked away, and when I glanced back, the figure was gone. Turning, I ascended the stairs that led to the top of the elephant, then on that perch – where I felt close enough to the sky, the wind fluttering my skirt, where I felt as if I truly were flying – I went on.
"One day I'll fly away!
Leave all this to yesterday.
Why live life from dream to dream,
And dread the day when dreaming ends?"
I moved back to settle myself on the canopied seat, wrapping my arms around my knees.
"One day I'll fly away . . .
Fly, fly . . . away . . ."
I trailed off, only to be interrupted anyway as a noise sounded behind me. I jumped back to my feet with a startled gasp, and looked back to see – the writer, standing there at the back of the elephant.
"S-sorry, I'm sorry," he apologized hastily, hanging onto one of the poles that held up the canopy. "I didn't mean . . . I saw – I saw your light on, and . . . I climbed up the . . ."
I stared at him, realizing he must have climbed up the back of the elephant to get there, and gasped out an incredulous question. "What?"
"I couldn't sleep," he explained, "And I – I wanted to thank you . . . for helping me get the job."
I nodded in response, suddenly relieved – and yet at the same time, disappointed, which confused me – that he was only here to thank me, but even though he seemed the type to be polite enough to go out of his way to do such a thing, I had to wonder why he would actually climb up here to do something that could easily wait until tomorrow.
"Oh, of course," I responded. "Yes, Toulouse . . . Toulouse was right. You're very talented. It's going to be a wonderful show," I added, then was struck by the absurdity of making small talk while standing on top of the elephant.
I hesitated, then gathered up the hem of my skirt and turned to leave. "Anyway, I – I'd better go, because we – we both have a big day tomorrow."
"Wait," he called out to stop me. "No, please wait."
He hesitated, and I knew what he was preparing to ask. My heart sank in dreaded anticipation, but I turned back to look at him anyway, doing my best to look impartial. I knew this was something we would have to get past in order to work on the show together, so there was no putting it off any longer. Attraction always gets in the way, particularly if it's one sided.
And it was only one-sided, wasn't it?
"Before, when we were – when we . . ." He trailed off, seeming frustrated, then drew in a breath and pressed on again, "When you thought I was the Duke, you – said that you loved me, and . . . and I – I wondered if . . ."
I cut him off, finishing, "And you wondered if it was just an act?"
I nodded affirmatively, though I wasn't as convinced as I must have appeared. "Of course."
His shoulders slumped in dejection, and my heart sank further. He glanced downcast at the ground, then offered lamely, "Oh . . . it just – felt real."
"Christian," I said softly, turning to gaze at him in earnest, trying my best to explain my own situation to him. "I'm a courtesan. I'm paid to make men believe what they want to believe."
I was apologetic, perhaps even ashamed, and I didn't know why. Why should I be ashamed of what I did for a living? Life was harsh, and I did what I had to in order to survive.
A life like this isn't living at all, a voice stated somewhere in the back of my mind, but I pushed it aside.
"Yes . . . silly of me, to think that you could fall in love with someone like me," he said, hanging his head again.
"I can't fall in love with anyone," I said flatly, as if that would soften the blow.
"Can't fall in love?" He looked back up at me in surprise, sounding appalled. "But a life without love, that's terrible!"
"No," I argued. "Being on the streets – that's terrible."
"No!" he countered again, and I stared at him in indignation. "Love . . . is like oxygen. Love is a many-splendored thing. Love lifts us up where we belong."
He paused, then insisted stubbornly, "All you need is love!"
I gave a silent sigh of frustration, pleading, "Please, don't start that again."
But he wasn't deterred, and instead went on, singing, "All you need is love!"
"A girl has got to eat," I said matter-of-factly.
"All you need is love!" he interrupted again.
"– or she'll end up on the streets!" I went on, trying to make him stop. And yet, I was somehow irresistibly drawn . . .
"All you need is love!" came his firm insistence once more.
"Love is just a game," I parried, finally drawn in by the bait.
"I was made for lovin' you, baby, and you were made for lovin' me," he sang brightly.
"The only way of lovin' me, baby, is to pay a lovely fee," I responded curtly, turning with a flip of my hair back over my shoulder.
"Just one night, gimme just one night," he implored.
It was, naturally, an argument I had heard before, and I replied easily, "There's no way, 'cause you can't pay."
"In the name of love, one night in the name of love!" he went on, unabashed by my refusal.
I was unable to help laughing softly at his resolution. "You crazy fool," I chided, "I won't give in to you."
With that, I made as if to leave, but heard him call out, "Don't . . . leave me this way. I can't survive without your sweet love . . . oh, baby, don't leave me this way."
I turned my back on him and looked out over Montmartre from my vantage point, noting in a soft tone, "You'd think that people would've had enough of silly love songs . . ."
"I look around me and I see it isn't so," he responded earnestly, "Oh, no."
"Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs," I sang with a long-suffering tone.
"Well, what's wrong with that?" he questioned, "I'd like to know, 'cause here I go again!"
I gave a horrified shriek as he jumped up onto the head of the elephant, precariously balanced as his held his arms out in the air, singing, "Love lifts us up where we belong . . ."
"Get down, get down!" I called, trying to grab one of his hands.
"Where eagles fly, on a mountain high," he went on, and I finally succeeded in taking him by the forearm and pulling him back down. In my opinion, his actions only made my argument stronger.
"Love makes us act like we are fools," I sang in a tone of disapproval, "Throw our lives away for one happy day."
"We can be heroes! Just for one day," he suggested.
"You . . . you will be mean," I accused, and began to walk back down the stairs.
He followed me, arguing back, "No, no, I won't."
"And I –" I found the first thing that sprang to mind, and threw my hands up into the air as I finished, "I'll drink all the time."
"We should be lovers!" he rang out.
"We can't do that," I returned, immediately shooting down the idea as I retreated back into the Red Room.
But he followed again, and sang firmly, without giving me a chance to state otherwise, "We should be lovers, and that's a fact."
"Though nothing would keep us together," I warned.
"We could steal time," he answered, then our voices merged together.
"Just for one day. We can be heroes, for ever and ever – we can be heroes for ever and ever! Just because I . . ."
"Will always love you," Christian affirmed.
"I . . . can't help loving you," we sang together, and I went on alone, "How wonderful life is . . ."
His voice joined mine, and we finished, "Now you're in the world."
We leaned together for our first kiss, and I whispered wryly, "You're going to be bad for business, I can tell."
He smiled, then we kissed, and it seemed fireworks set off around us. I was in love, I marveled, and for that stolen time I was on top of the world.