Seven
© 2003 Black Tangled Heart
Disclaimer: M. Luhrmann the brilliant owns the film.
Dedication: to the lovely Bohemian Storm. She knows why.
~*~
One
--
He'd always hungered for the unattainable; once he received it, he lusted for more.
As a child, he'd eaten more than his fair share, stealing a cookie here and a buttered roll there. He would finish what his younger sister refused during meals. He filled empty nights with dreams of chocolate and cream. When tears ran down his face, he swallowed food like narcotics to numb the pain.
It was often dismissed by his flaxen-haired mother as a need for nourishment. It became a floodgate that caused an addiction to consumption; one that was not accompanied by blood filled lungs. It swelled like a tempest, an obsession, a sickness, which reached far beyond the oven to the heights of the starry sky, expanding quicker than his waistline and scheming smile.
When the gilded doors of the Moulin Rouge were flung open to customers, he told his girls that a share of their earnings would be given directly to him. He gave no reason for this statement, and no girl dared question him. The demand was not out of the ordinary, but the reasons behind such a request were absurd. Every precious franc that rained down upon heated bodies became the means to pay an electricity bill as gluttonous as Zidler himself.
Hot bulbs snaked across the crude walls like untamed ivy. The arms of the windmill filled the darkest night sky with a shower of red light. Beams of colour illuminated flushed faces. The dance floor was incandescent; the entire bordello a shimmering monstrosity, powered by the sordid transactions undertaken by the courtesans.
He'd once raged at Tarot when she hadn't left a week's earnings on his cluttered desk. The soothsayer had entered the kitchen, nearly blind with tears. Anxiety rippled through the Rouge like scalding water; Zidler's usually cheerful face had blanched, and immediately coloured in fury. His booming voice that had once comforted the girls shook everyone to the bones. Tarot had never been quite the same after that night. She became almost frighteningly prompt with giving her earnings to Zidler, driven by an impenetrable fear.
Satine was even made to pattern Harold's desk with handfuls of diamonds; no exceptions were made for such a thing, even when the favourite was concerned. She told Christian on their first meeting that without the payments she'd be back in the filth of Montmartre, with a chapped mouth, cold hands and an empty belly.
He favoured the girls who were presented chains of gems, which he pawned without second thought. Pearly Queen had once ripped a choker right off Babydoll's throat in order to earn her keep. After Tarot's blunder, rules became tighter and those who failed to present Harold with money were disposed of onto the streets. "Money makes the world go 'round," he often said.
There were times when he was lenient. Some years ago pale courtesan named Elizabeth had maimed her foot in dance, leaving a pulpy mess of blood, sinew and tears. The wound had been bandaged and the fracture healed, only to leave her with a permanent limp.
All the girls loved her, and thus she stayed at the Rouge. She'd become an accomplice to Marie, darning dresses when the faded star did not rise from bed; using sure and practiced hands to cover the faces of the courtesans with powder and kohl on rushed nights.
Though she rarely took a customer, she gave Harold most of what she earned. Zidler avoided confrontations about money with Elizabeth as best he could, though he often felt the need to search her room for a wad of notes she'd secretly hidden. An addiction can be temporarily quelled, but old habits die hard.
In the Duke, Zidler found himself paying a price that was far greater than money. His beautiful sparrow with her clipped wings was placed in a cage when Harold's pen sealed the written contract. With each day that passed, the golden bars closed further inward, crushing her. And still she sang her broken song and dreamt of rosy dawn light and fields of flowers.
She gave Zidler the gifts from the Duke: every jade ring, thick sheaves of bills, each gold-plated bracelet and jewel-encrusted hairpin. She only kept that one necklace, heavy enough to crush her fragile heart, with a beauty that matched her own.
When the bordello became a desolate ruin, he wished for nothing more than a chance at the redemption he had never allowed the most precious one of them all. The lights flickered and dimmed; the bordello was empty, and so was he.
--
© 2003 Black Tangled Heart
Disclaimer: M. Luhrmann the brilliant owns the film.
Dedication: to the lovely Bohemian Storm. She knows why.
~*~
One
--
He'd always hungered for the unattainable; once he received it, he lusted for more.
As a child, he'd eaten more than his fair share, stealing a cookie here and a buttered roll there. He would finish what his younger sister refused during meals. He filled empty nights with dreams of chocolate and cream. When tears ran down his face, he swallowed food like narcotics to numb the pain.
It was often dismissed by his flaxen-haired mother as a need for nourishment. It became a floodgate that caused an addiction to consumption; one that was not accompanied by blood filled lungs. It swelled like a tempest, an obsession, a sickness, which reached far beyond the oven to the heights of the starry sky, expanding quicker than his waistline and scheming smile.
When the gilded doors of the Moulin Rouge were flung open to customers, he told his girls that a share of their earnings would be given directly to him. He gave no reason for this statement, and no girl dared question him. The demand was not out of the ordinary, but the reasons behind such a request were absurd. Every precious franc that rained down upon heated bodies became the means to pay an electricity bill as gluttonous as Zidler himself.
Hot bulbs snaked across the crude walls like untamed ivy. The arms of the windmill filled the darkest night sky with a shower of red light. Beams of colour illuminated flushed faces. The dance floor was incandescent; the entire bordello a shimmering monstrosity, powered by the sordid transactions undertaken by the courtesans.
He'd once raged at Tarot when she hadn't left a week's earnings on his cluttered desk. The soothsayer had entered the kitchen, nearly blind with tears. Anxiety rippled through the Rouge like scalding water; Zidler's usually cheerful face had blanched, and immediately coloured in fury. His booming voice that had once comforted the girls shook everyone to the bones. Tarot had never been quite the same after that night. She became almost frighteningly prompt with giving her earnings to Zidler, driven by an impenetrable fear.
Satine was even made to pattern Harold's desk with handfuls of diamonds; no exceptions were made for such a thing, even when the favourite was concerned. She told Christian on their first meeting that without the payments she'd be back in the filth of Montmartre, with a chapped mouth, cold hands and an empty belly.
He favoured the girls who were presented chains of gems, which he pawned without second thought. Pearly Queen had once ripped a choker right off Babydoll's throat in order to earn her keep. After Tarot's blunder, rules became tighter and those who failed to present Harold with money were disposed of onto the streets. "Money makes the world go 'round," he often said.
There were times when he was lenient. Some years ago pale courtesan named Elizabeth had maimed her foot in dance, leaving a pulpy mess of blood, sinew and tears. The wound had been bandaged and the fracture healed, only to leave her with a permanent limp.
All the girls loved her, and thus she stayed at the Rouge. She'd become an accomplice to Marie, darning dresses when the faded star did not rise from bed; using sure and practiced hands to cover the faces of the courtesans with powder and kohl on rushed nights.
Though she rarely took a customer, she gave Harold most of what she earned. Zidler avoided confrontations about money with Elizabeth as best he could, though he often felt the need to search her room for a wad of notes she'd secretly hidden. An addiction can be temporarily quelled, but old habits die hard.
In the Duke, Zidler found himself paying a price that was far greater than money. His beautiful sparrow with her clipped wings was placed in a cage when Harold's pen sealed the written contract. With each day that passed, the golden bars closed further inward, crushing her. And still she sang her broken song and dreamt of rosy dawn light and fields of flowers.
She gave Zidler the gifts from the Duke: every jade ring, thick sheaves of bills, each gold-plated bracelet and jewel-encrusted hairpin. She only kept that one necklace, heavy enough to crush her fragile heart, with a beauty that matched her own.
When the bordello became a desolate ruin, he wished for nothing more than a chance at the redemption he had never allowed the most precious one of them all. The lights flickered and dimmed; the bordello was empty, and so was he.
--