The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn . . .
"Take more for me, lovey, come on."
Marie's voice was a bit of a distant haze as I struggled for breath, but obediently I tilted my head back and opened my mouth, allowing her to drip the pain-suppressing laudanum onto my tongue. The liquid rolling down my throat would be bring temporarily relief, but only that. We both knew, but at this point it was simply a matter of keeping the pain, the coughing, the shortness of breath at bay for a little while longer, long enough for me to finish the show – to finish my obligations to everyone.
I had come so far from that little orphan girl Harold took in off the streets. It seemed so many years ago now, and I felt unspeakably old, aged not so much by time, but by the ways of hard life and the experiences I had been forced to handle. For years, I had been an expert at playing the cards I was dealt with a straight face that would make an expert poker player proud, no matter if it was a bad hand. I always had that age up my sleeve, one last trick that would get me out of whatever situation I was presented with.
I was not, however, prepared for the voice that came from the doorway, dangerously soft and laced with anger that was driven by pain.
". . . I've come to pay my bill."
I whirled around to see Christian standing there, and my eyes widened reflexively – but I had that famous mask of calm back in place before I could let anything further show.
"You shouldn't be here, Christian," I shot back coldly, and even I was surprised to hear how unconcerned my voice sounded to my own ears – how I made it sound as if Christian's presence was little more than an insolent bother I would be better rid of.
"Just leave," I finished, and pushed past him, out the doorway.
I was intent on simply turning my back and walking away – but he followed, falling into stride behind me with a handful of francs clutched in his hand.
"You made me believe that you loved me. Why shouldn't I pay you?" he demanded in a half-crazed tone, holding the bills up.
I knew the jealousy had consumed him, the doubt and uncertainty eating away at him. Why did he have to come back? Why couldn't he have simply stayed away? He was going to get himself killed, and all because of me. My thoughts swam – I had to get rid of him, and soon, before the Duke discovered that he was here. But it was probably already too late, and my next protest was feeble.
"Please, Christian . . ."
Marie had followed us from my dressing room, and she grabbed at Christian's sleeve, interrupting with a furious tone. "She has to get on the stage!"
For my part, I tried to keep moving, to block out the words that Christian was feverishly speaking, but it was little use, as he reached for me and continued to attempt to hand me the money. The money – another painful reminder of who I was. What I was.
"You did your job so very, very well!" he continued, ignoring my protests and Marie's insistence. "Why can't I pay you like everyone else?"
I shook my head in a futile gesture, I knew, and together we turned a corner – and I immediately recoiled. My breath hitched with a gasp as I saw the Duke's manservant advancing, his revolver drawn and in his hand, ready for the first clear shot he could get at Christian.
I moved between them frantically, knowing that the man – little more than a henchman, really – wouldn't go through me to get Christian, and that brought us at least a few precious seconds, as long as I could stay in the way.
"Please, Christian," I whispered desperately, my eyes welling with tears. "That's not – just leave."
With all my will I poured out that wish that he simply go – turn around and the leave the Moulin Rouge and even Montmartre forever. It was a small price to pay never to see him again if I knew I was saving his life in the process – a willing sacrifice.
"Tell me it wasn't real!" he demanded forcefully, his voice full of anguish, and I could see tears now filled his eyes, the eyes that I so loved, the eyes which were once a brilliant shade of blue, like a summer sky – but which now reflected nothing more than that summer sky clouded with the grey haze of an approaching storm.
"No," I protested, trying to muster the words that would make him go away, but they wouldn't come.
"Why can't I pay you?" he questioned again, and I realized he was doing this for some sort of closure. Maybe giving me that money would help him believe that I really hadn't ever loved him.
By now we were in front of the doors that led out onto the stage, and I could hear Harold's voice booming out for those doors to be opened, even as Christian's demands, full of hurt and betrayal, went on.
"Let me pay! Let me pay!" he cried, shaking with the vehemence of it. "Tell me it wasn't real! Tell me you don't love me!"
I sank down to the floor helplessly, now kneeling in front of him, and he took me by the shoulders, still clutching the bills he'd had in hand since his confrontation. I could feel that his hands were trembling, his voice unsteady – he looked as if he could collapse at any moment.
"Tell me you don't love me!" he yelled.
I shook my head, trying to will it all away, praying that somehow he would go – that by some miracle he would leave and this nightmare would end, and he would be saved, but the advancing figure of Warner still loomed in my mind, and I knew he wasn't going to let Christian leave the Moulin Rouge alive.
"Tell me you don't love me!" Christian yelled again, one final time, before a resounding boom broke into the air.
I cried out, for one heart stopping moment believing that the fatal shot had been made, but as we were both bathed by the brilliant luminescence of the stage lighting and I saw the tears glistening clearly in Christian's eyes, I realized what had truly happened. We both turned to see the stunned faces of everyone on the stage as they gaped at us, though the audience did not comprehend what had happened, and sat there in stark silence. Finally, whispers broke out among them, obviously asking their fellow patrons what it was they'd missed in the plot of a show they had – up until now – followed and even enjoyed.
Harold was the first to recover, and he shuffled toward us, his prop sword drawn and pointing in our direction.
"Hahaha!" he laughed over exaggeratedly. "I am not fooled!"
He paused, then elaborated deliberately, "Though he has shaved off his beard and adopts a disguise, mine eyes do not lie! For it is he, the same penniless sitar player, driven mad by jealousy!"
There was another hush after the halting explanation, then a sound of understanding acknowledgement wavered through the assembled crowd, followed by their applause as they granted their approval of this unexpected – yet decidedly clever – twist in the plot.
If only they understood that it was no play they were watching now, no fictional tale of the courtesan and her penniless sitar player, but the true story of the courtesan and her penniless writer – one that could not have a happy ending, doomed to tragedy.
Christian moved again before I could quite realize what he was doing, his grasp on my arm tighter than that with which he'd ever held it as he pulled me down the few stairs that separated us from the main stage. I stumbled along with little will to resist or even respond, and dropped to the polished flooring of the stage on my hands and knees as he let go.
The audience gave a collective gasp at this treatment, but Christian was immune to it.
"This woman is yours now," he stated coldly, turning to look out at the crowd – at the Duke – before the wad of francs was thrown down harshly, falling to flutter like dead rose petals in front of me.
I stated up at Christian, trembling, as he went on to cry sharply, "I paid my whore!"
He looked down at me then, his eyes and expression revealing a mixture of emotions, from brokenhearted pain, to betrayal and jealousy, to anger and rage – but somewhere beneath, I could still see . . . love. Love was the source of the fire that drove him on to do these things that most certainly were not him. This was not Christian – or perhaps it was; it was the Christian I had created.
"I owe you nothing," he spat, but the venomous tone of his voice had begun to waver, and broke slightly as he continued, "And you are nothing to me."
His shoulders began to shake with silent sobs as he stated, "Thank you for curing me . . . of my ridiculous obsession with love."
With those words, he turned and walked off the stage, leaving my field of vision. I couldn't move – my limbs were weighted down with the force of the words he had just spoken, tears now running uninhibited down my face. I was distantly aware of Harold reciting a line meant singularly for the benefit of the audience, and then he rushed over to my side.
"Pumpkin, it's for the best," he whispered, kneeling down.
He took my hands and began to help me up, but I protested and shook my head, leaning my forehead against my hand as my response escaped in a sob. "No . . ."
"You know it is," he whispered, tone full of sympathy. "The show must go on."
That old adage – I had never wished to hear it any less than I did at that moment, but I allowed him to pull me to my feet, where I stood with my shoulders slumped.
He went on with the lines from the show, the consummate performer. "And now, my bride, it is time to raise your voice to the heavens and say your wedding vows!"
I drew in a voice, certain I couldn't continue –
Then a voice rang out, resonating across the entire theatre.
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return!"
Toulouse, who could never remember his line, had recalled it at the most important moment.
I straightened and turned to face the audience, but more important to look at the aisle leading to the door, where Christian walked toward the exit. He had stopped as well, but he still stood with his back to the stage. I knew that the words had reached him, his own words, and in that moment I knew what I had to do. Love was the most important thing in life – to lose it was greater than any other pain I had ever known.
Worse than having no money, than being out of a home and surviving on the streets – worse than the existence I led before I met him and deluded myself into believing was a good life.
I drew in a breath and began to sing, softly at first, but with growing confidence.
"Never knew I could feel like this,
It's like I've never seen the sky before . . ."
Christian began to walk for the door again, but it was more slowly this time, reluctance burdening his every step, and I kept singing.
"Want to vanish inside your kiss,
Every day I'm loving you more and more.
Listen to my heart, can you hear it sing?
Come back to me and forgive everything!"
I drew out that note as long as possible, and after pausing to draw in a gasp, I continued more softly.
"Seasons may change, winter to spring . . ."
Here I hesitated again, able only to whisper the next words, "I love you . . . till the end of time."
Christian continued to walk as I sang, but then his steps faltered, and he drew to a complete halt. I watched him breathlessly, everything hanging on his response.
Then, softly, but firmly, he sang in response,
"Come what may . . ."
The audience gave a collective gasp and all heads swiveled around to look at him. I exhaled a little sigh, the tension fleeing my body in one relieved moment. He would forgive me – love would conquer all its obstacles. I couldn't deny it anymore.
Then he turned to the stage and began to walk back to me, continuing to sing.
"Come what may,
Come what may!
Come what may!
I will love you!"
"I will love you!" I returned, my heart swelling.
"Until my dying . . ."
"Day!" Our voices finished, joining together and rising to fill the theatre – but all I could focus on was him.
"Come what may!
Come what may!
I will love you
Until my dying –"
"Christian, he's got a gun!"
Then everything flew into an abrupt flurry of confusion.
Toulouse swing down from a rope and dropped onto the stage, his arms flailing as he pointed frantically toward a flustered Warner. "They're trying to kill you!"
The audience laughed, unaware that Toulouse was actually serious, and Harold yelled for him to shut up, but it was to no avail. Everything became a swell of chaotic movement, Toulouse waving and shouting that the manservant had a gun, while Harold commanded his stage guards to seize Toulouse – or, rather, the maharajah demanding that his guards seize the . . . delirious magical sitar?
Then the stage door flung open and hit the set wall behind it with a bang, the Argentinean walking out casually as if his interruption were nothing.
"No problem, go back to work!" he assured us all striding confidently on stage.
"No matter what you say!" Toulouse sang as the music was picked up again under Satie's direction.
"The show is ending our way!"
We all joined in the song, Satie and the Doctor moving on stage to join us.
"You've got to stand your ground
For freedom, beauty, truth, and love!"
Each of our individual songs was contributed then, before Christian and I turned to face each other.
"I will love you,
Come what may,
Yes, I will love you,
Come what may!
I will love you,
Until my dying day!"
And we sang together, lifted up above everything by our love for each other – the love that had given us both wings.