What Can I Do?
…a Moulin Rouge songfiction by dreamkin…
…song written by and property of the Corrs, characters property of Baz Luhrmann (I think)…
What Can I Do?
It was love, I know, the first time I saw her.
Up on the swing in her diamond suit, singing just for me, or so it seemed.
I had never been in love before. I'd lusted after others, of course, but that's all it was. Lust. The physical yearning for a body, intense sexual desire. Any common man feels it every day, but love, now that was something new, something special. And once I knew I loved her, I wanted her. Not just for the sex, although she was undeniably attractive. I wanted to make her my wife and I wanted her to feel for me the same things I felt for her. But I think I would have loved her even if she had not been the most beautiful girl in the show. I think I would have.
I haven't slept at all in days
It's been so long since we talked
And I have been here many times
I just don't know what I'm doing wrong
I met her that same night, and her beauty, her seductiveness, entranced me still more. The way she held herself, so poised, so confident, it reeled me in and bound me to her with ties I could not break. I felt that I had fallen, from grace perhaps, although to be truthful I think a state of grace has never been applied to me. Hook, line and sinker, I believe the expression goes.
The arrangement, though neither of us spoke it, was that she was mine for the night. In truth she was the bait; dangled in front of me by Zidler to cajole me into giving him the money he so craved. The buffoon was either incredibly dense to think I could be tricked so easily, or he was desperate enough to openly indicate how important I was to him. Either way, he would soon see I was far more than he had bargained for.
I am no fool.
What can I do to make you love me?
What can I do to make you care?
What can I say to make you feel this?
What can I do to get you there?
I would have taken her there and then, but there was etiquette and protocol to follow. I offered to pour her a drink, and somehow we ended up on the bed. Her flesh was warm and I was just about ready to burst with the wanting of her, when she pushed me off. She agreed with me, she said, we should wait. I left, unsatisfied and more than a little confused.
Halfway down the corridor, I realised I had forgotten my hat and returned to the room to collect it, where I caught her and a strange man on the bed. They jumped up, claiming it to be a rehearsal for the new show Zidler was proposing to put on if he could raise the funds to adapt the bordello. The man claimed to be the writer of the performance. I began to question them, only to be interrupted by a cacophony of people who seemed to appear from nowhere, enquiring as to how the rehearsal was going. Then Zidler arrived, and I am not certain of the events that followed in the next few minutes. The motley crew overwhelmed me and I found myself being taken through a rough, although highly visual, synopsis of the plot of the proposed play 'Spectacular Spectacular'. I agreed on general principles, more to be allowed out of the room than for any definitive liking for the show. After all, I am hardly the artistic type.
I had hoped to be allowed some more time with her that evening, but it was not be. Zidler gave me some poor excuse about 'practice', then bustled me off to his office to negotiate business. This, at least, was slightly more enjoyable. The imbecile truly believed I could be duped into handing over millions of francs simply in adoration of his prize, but I am not that simple. I told him I would need the deeds to the Moulin Rouge as insurance, and also for the deal to go ahead I would require the exclusive use of his most treasured courtesan. Zidler did not take this well, but he had no choice but to concede, and he knew it.
There's only so much I can take
And I just gotta let it go
And who knows I might feel better
If I don't try and I don't hope
The following few weeks passed by in a blur.
I saw her every day, and I would have said it was impossible, but she seemed to grow more beautiful each time. Although she tried to stay reserved and decorous in my presence, at times her ivory complexion would take a rose blush, and I knew that the excitement of the forthcoming production was affecting her as strongly as the rest of the cast. Indeed, the other singers and dancers seemed possessed of an almost demonic energy, and the great dance hall which was undergoing the transformation into theatre auditorium was never empty. Rehearsals, construction, some awful sounds a little man in spectacles assured me was music and dance routines repeated themselves in an endless circle of activity.
I admit I did try to divert my new companion from her duties at the theatre, suggesting various trips out and around Paris, and also meals and walks where we could be together outside the inane world of the play. Almost every time, my efforts were rebuffed in a highly courteous, yet firmly negative manner. She appeared to need to spend a goodly amount of time with the writer, working on the scenes. Indeed, I suspected she was probably writing most of the play herself, with him only making minimal input. I had not forgotten our first encounter, and I had developed no love for the man myself. I tried to separate the pair of them, but to no avail. At the last, I found myself inviting him along on our little trips as well, simply to spend some time with her.
What can I do to make you love me?
What can I do to make you care?
What can I say to make you feel this?
What can I do to get you there?
It would try the patience of any man, and a point was reached where I could stand no more. I informed Zidler that if she failed to accept my next proposition, I would leave the Moulin Rouge, taking my investment with me. Needless to say, Zidler assured me she would be there. I had arranged a luxurious supper to be prepared in the Gothic Tower, an ancient part of the bordello whose former use was long forgotten.
I intended to woo her in more detail there, having little enough opportunity in past. Any advances I had made, small as they may be, were met with protestations that we must wait until opening night. She appeared to believe it to be a matter of luck, which, although I resented her determination, I also agreed to wait if merely to increase the eventual pleasure. I was aware of silly theatrical superstitions, and I had Zidler's assurance that she had not been enjoyed by any other customers since our 'arrangement' had been made, so I contented myself to looking. However, it would be enjoyable to look in private.
She never came.
I had had enough. I sent a message to Zidler, and prepared to leave. I loved her, but there are limits. Zidler told me she had not come to the meal as she was confessing. At first I was extremely sceptical of this, I mean, a prostitute, confessing? I did not want to be deceived by one of Zidler's 'tall tales', or downright lies as I prefer to call them. But he assured me that she looked upon opening night as her wedding night, and things began to make sense. It explained why she had been treating me so coolly, when the night I met her she had been as lustful as any girl I had ever known. In a sense, her maidenly behaviour was encouraging, because it meant she accepted that she was mine and mine alone. I informed Zidler I would stay after all, if that was the case, but my patience was wearing thin.
No more waiting
No more aching
No more fighting
No more trying
The next few days continued as the past weeks had done, until it was the day before the first performance was due to be held. For the first time the dancers, actors and singers were rehearsing the play all the way through with no breaks, and I was sitting on a rather uncomfortable chair as the sole audience member. Although her attitude had not changed towards me in company, on the stage my beloved was transformed. She glowed, she lit up the hall in more ways than one, and I could feel a stirring in my heart and in my lower regions that I had never felt before. Despite my doubts and my worries as regarding Zidler's reliability, I would have agreed to anything at that moment, I loved her so much.
One of the other girls came over to me, and sat down to watch the play as well. A 'secret song' was being sung between the fictitious lovers, and we watched it for a short while. Nini, I think her name was, although it is not important. She was no great contender for looks, but she had a physical appeal, a lascivious manner and speech that was strangely attractive in certain situations. Although I was naturally averse to her due to her status, I must admit I did not dislike the girl. She was a welcome change to the cool and dignified treatment I had been receiving of late. The song had nearly finished when she turned to me and told me she didn't like the ending, as it was so improbable. Why, she asked, would the courtesan choose the penniless writer? My head jerked around to look at her. Everything, all the little hints over the last weeks came together in my mind, and I understood what had been happening. Nini apologised, and said she meant sitar player, and then quietly disappeared, leaving me fuming.
The song reached its crescendo and the hall filled with sound, and then there was quiet as they all turned to me for my verdict. Straining to keep my voice under control, I told them I didn't like the ending, citing the reason Nini had given me. To my horror and anger, the writer shouted out
"Because she doesn't love you!"
The meaning was all too clear, and none but the greatest half-wit could miss it. I turned to Zidler and coldly announced that the end of the play would be rewritten, without the 'secret song', and it would be rehearsed in the morning and performed the following evening. The dwarf, who had irritated me since our first encounter the night I met with Zidler to discuss the financing of this enterprise, tottered forward, protesting my decision. I silenced him immediately.
I did not expect her to come to me then, head held high as a queen, not looking to the left nor to the right. When she reached me she stared straight into my eyes, and I felt I could read her thoughts. I saw lust in those two sapphires, and sorrow, and pride more than anything else.
Retrospectively, I feel I never gave her enough credit for the actress she truly was. Instead, passion flared in my belly, and through the heat and the anger my body felt as though it would burst into flame. She suggested another meal in Gothic Tower, and I was unable to refuse.
Maybe there's nothing more to say
And in a funny way I'm calm
Because the power is not mine
I'm just gonna let it fly…
Her manner towards me changed that night, and I was forcefully reminded of the first night I met her. The meal did not last long, although I could not tell you what we ate.
She was playing a game with me, I was aware of this, a game not unlike the one queen-cats play with toms when the mating seasons begins. However, I knew what she intended, and I also knew, as did she, the power I held over her and the Moulin Rouge company. She flirted coyly, and assured me that the boy was in love with her unrequitedly and that she was simply humouring him until they no longer needed him for the play. She made me think she loved me. I believed her completely, and I gave her the ornate diamond necklace I had planned to give the following day as a token of my forgiveness. I even went as far as to allow Zidler to keep his fairytale ending, for I knew what the true ending of the romance would be in reality. She appeared to believe she had won the game, and when I reached for her she did not resist.
I kissed her cheek, her neck, her soft lips. I led her out to the balcony and began caressing her, then turned her around to trail kisses over her shoulders, her back. Suddenly she stiffened, and I peered over an ivory shoulder. He was blow in the courtyard, standing in the rain and gazing up at us. Our own penniless sitar player. I gloated at my triumph over him, until she whispered the word 'no', turned from me and ran back inside the tower. My feelings transformed instantly to blind fury and hate. She had betrayed me still, through all her promises and assurances and excuses, she had lied to me. Angered beyond belief, my one coherent thought was that she must pay for what she had done to me, despite my love, my generosity, and there is only one way a whore can pay her debts
It was not difficult to overpower her, and I closed my ears to her sobs and pleas as I threw her about the room and tore off her dress. Pushing her down onto the wide, fabulously decorated bed in the chambre of the tower I fumbled with my trouser fastenings whilst she struggled against me. I had just released myself when inexplicably the world turned black.
I sat there later, as my forehead was mopped clean, in a state of absolute fury. She had gone, I didn't know how, but I could not believe what she had done to me, me, who was worth ten of that bastard writer. Zidler was there and Warner was somewhere in the background, stalking about. Harold was blustering about something, more lies to protect her I imagine. I wasn't listening. Eventually his prattle caused something in me to respond, and I snapped at him. I told him that if she ever saw the boy again, I would have him killed. I told him that the ending to Spectacular Spectacular would be rewritten, and that she would be mine no matter what the cost. I held the deeds to the Moulin Rouge, after all, and that was our agreement.
What can I do to make you love me?
What can I do to make you care?
What can I say to make you feel this?
What can I do to get you there?
I sat there the following night, opening night, on the front row with a bouquet of roses in the chair to my right. She was more beautiful then than I had ever seen her, and was made more so by the knowledge she was finally mine. I could hardly wait for the bloody play to end, could hardly wait to take her away and ram myself into her, beat her into submission until she was broken and without hope, and all mine.
The penultimate scene began, the new one, which had been written and rehearsed that morning, under my watchful eye. It integrated the song she sang the first night I saw her, "Diamonds are…" something or other. The words didn't matter. I watched her face as she sang, and something tugged at my heart. She was so beautiful. I longed to touch her. My fingers ached to bruise that alabaster skin, pull that luxurious red hair. Only a matter of time, I consoled myself.
The curtains fell, meaning there was only one more scene to go. I allowed myself a smile; it was the wedding scene. How I had longed to make her my own wife before, mere weeks ago, but not now. No, now she could stay a whore, but solely my whore. Mine to deal and do with how I chose, and no one would object, because who cares about a whore? She was no longer good enough to be my wife.
The curtains drew back to reveal Zidler prancing about, bellowing about how the courtesan was finally his in his ghastly voice. Then he called out for the doors to open, which they did not do. My heartbeat quickened. Where was she? Again, open the doors. And the second time they did open. She was on her knees on the floor and he was standing above her clutching her hand. They both blinked stupidly into the bright spotlight and I could see her makeup had run, creating black rivers down her cheeks. I went cold with rage. I had warned her, warned Zidler what would happen if they were ever together again, and they had disobeyed me. I looked for Warner, but couldn't see him. My attention was drawn again to the stage. The fucking writer was throwing money at her and storming away in floods of tears. I relaxed slightly. I could always get Warner to kill him after the show.
But then something unexpected happened. She was sitting in the centre of the stage, tears streaming down her porcelain cheeks, and she began to sing. She sang the first verse of that song, the lover's secret song I had banned from the production, her voice unsure and wavering but growing stronger as she continued. At the end she mouthed the words I had once longed her to say to me:
I love you.
Yet the words were not for me, and her song was answered by him, who came back down the aisle and up onto the stage where they took each other's hand. I couldn't stand it, and was all ready to storm up on stage as well when I saw Warner. He had his gun and was edging his way towards them, as they stood there and sang defiance with all the others, especially that sodding dwarf. He aimed and shot, but missed. I stood and, too angry, too shocked, too upset to do anything else, I turned and walked away from it all. But when I had nearly reached the door, I heard the gun land on the floor behind me. I turned and looked at it. Suddenly my mind went crystal clear and sharp as diamond. I picked up the gun and ran back down the aisle aiming as I went.
My Way! My Way! My Way!
Then I was on my back on the floor, and the left side of my face burned. I think something broke inside me at that moment, as I lay defeated in the end, staring up at the brilliant monstrosity on the stage. The product of my money and attention, the product of my love's skill, twisted to become the symbol of everything I despise.
Satine, glowing, high above me on the stage.
I despised her, then.
And yet, still I loved her.
And then the curtains closed, and I knew it was all over.
Love me…
Love me…
Love me…