Disclaimer: The characters and the Moulin Rouge belong to Baz Lurman. Uncle Leonard belongs to me.
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It was of course, all my fault. In 500 years one's perspective on the lives of normal people and perception of the passage of time tends to degrade. Avoiding the biggest problem of immortality, madness, had been my primary goal. To this end I had appointed myself caretaker of my sister's family. Down through the centuries I protected, influenced, and generally meddled in the lives of her decedents. By being the rich, eccentric uncle who shows up every generation or so to mend fortunes or promote one branch of the family or the other, I gave my continued existence a purpose outside of simply surviving. However, scholarly projects would capture my interest and I would leave the family to fend for themselves for decades. One of these projects took me away, and so I am the one truly to blame for what happened. I had tried to avoid the problems that seemed to crop up from disappearances, by narrowing my focus to just one young man, and by 1899 I had done so – my nephew, Christian Fraser.
Of course he is not exactly my nephew, but at my age who counts? I went off on one of my world exploration jaunts and when I returned home discovered that my favorite niece had grown up and been married to a man more than twice her age (you see what problems my absence can cause?). Needless to say I was furious. And before I could act to remedy the problem she had given him a son and died shortly thereafter. Unable to save the mother I devoted much of my time to the raising of the son. He was the youngest of four boys, and the older ones were all contemptuous of him. Whenever I could I would appear at the family doorstep with presents – copies of Shakespeare and other playwrights, paper and paint, and when his aptitude turned to writing, a typewriter. I told him stories about painters I had met, musicians I knew - bohemians who would start a creative revolution one day.
The boy ate up the attention and despite the indifference of his brothers and the control of his father I managed to instill some self-belief in him, it was the least I could do to make up for my miserable desertion of his mother. And of course every day he grew more and more like her – his big eyes, sweet smile and glossy black hair were all from her. Likewise his lighthearted approach to life and his spirit of adventure were gifts from his mother as well. He was stubborn, and often single-minded in pursuit of a goal – clearly something of his father, but it was these imperfections that made me love him all the more.
I did not spend all my time there of course. Most of my investments and many of my friends were in Paris and it was there I spent most of my time. Like many gentlemen, especially those who do not have to deal with a wife, my nights were spent primarily in nightclubs. Not only did I enjoy the dancing and the spectacle, but also these were excellent feeding grounds. The older courtesan who is slowly loosing her livelihood was easy prey, though I mostly felt sad for such creatures and often passed them by. By far my favorite victims in these places were the greedy businessmen and viscous creatures who used the excuse that the women were whores to abuse them. No hunt was so delicious as the one that resulted in some rotten-souled bastard dying in a filthy alley knowing that his own evil had brought about his demise.
Thus my greatest pleasure led to my greatest discovery – Satine. Oh she wasn't Satine when I met her, no not yet. At that time she was no more than seventeen, and had spent less than a year as a can-can dancer. Had I met her before then I most assuredly would have taken her out of that life, she was too precious and too talented to be wasted in the bordellos. There was nothing I could do to save her from that life now, she would have to achieve fame in performance, only then could society forgive her for being a courtesan first. I did make sure that she left the seedy little place I met her at and came to the attention of Zidler at the Moulin Rouge. Like me, one viewing of her performance and he was under her spell. So, to the Moulin she went and dancing and singing lessons followed, along with learning how to read and write.
She was oddly stubborn about the last two, "Uncle Len, why on Earth do I need to read and write? Neither one will make me a better dancer or singer." Those big blue eyes looked imploringly into mine, begging me to let her go. I shook my head at her.
"Satine my dearest, do you want to be a dancer all your life?" I didn't ask if she wanted to be a courtesan, I'm easily distracted, but not stupid, "Don't you want to be a REAL actress some day?"
"A real actress…" She breathed barely loud enough to be heard.
"Of course! Your name will be on the top of the bill, someday, you'll see…" I kissed her on the forehead, as far from her throat as I could make myself touch her. Leaving Satine safely ensconced at the Moulin I returned to England to visit my nephew. Christian at nineteen held only a hint of the charm he would hold as a true adult. Pale and gangly, his thick hair hanging in greasy tendrils across his forehead, he had reached his full height without putting any extra flesh on his limbs to balance it out. Only his eyes held the beauty of his childhood and gave some hint of the man who would immerge from this gangly youth. Accompanying his lack of physical attraction his manner had deteriorated into one of bitter frustration that made nearly every word that escaped the hole that passed for a mouth in his pimpled visage a sound of shrill anger laced with nasty sarcasm. In short, he was rapidly turning into his father.
This could not be tolerated. One of my own shortcomings is a sever lack of patience. So just two nights into my visit I invited the boy out with me on the pretense of going to a play, and then simply kidnapped him. The carriage took us to the train station where I, with a shameful disregard for my nephew's dignity, simply mentally overpowered him, sleepwalked him onto the train and took him north to our family home for a long overdue visit.
It took just three nights to make our way to Scotland, but I swear they were the longest nights of my half-millennium of life. Christian managed to make sarcasm into a new art form. I had no idea there were so many ways in which train-travel, scenery, people, food, and all facilities there on and related to or services provided by were lacking. He was too hot, he was too cold, why was I up only at night, why was I taking him up north, and on and on and on until I slipped away to sleep in the oversized trunk I brought for that purpose, with not the slightest tinge of guilt.
Still, I resolved that the boy was not going to embarrass me in front of our relations and sat with him in the last hour of our journey. He was in fact now quiet, staring morosely out the window, occasionally scribbling abysmally gloomy poetry into his notebook.
"Chris…?" I began hesitantly.
Without looking up, "Yes Uncle?" He sighed heavily, as one forced to endure the company of the terminally boring and stupid.
"You will turn around, face me, and sit up straight when I am talking to you." My voice left no room for argument, even without my powers of influence, and he obeyed me instantly. "I have indulged your self-absorption on this trip because I did feel rather badly about the time I've been away and you've been alone with your father. You must understand, however, that you are not the only person in the world that I care about." I doubted that this opening statement would have much of an effect, but to my surprise he looked embarrassed and hung his head, his pale cheeks coloring with shame.
"I know. I've been behaving dreadfully, but I just couldn't seem to stop myself. And I have to admit," He looked up at me through his hair, "I was just a little nervous that this was some punishment Father had dreamed up."
Snorting I laughed, "As far as I am concerned your father can go hang. The only good thing he's done in his life is give life to you. In fact, had it not been for your most recent behavior, I would have thought you sprung from your mother alone. But I don't think the damage is permanent and that is why we are visiting your mother's family, to cure this gloom you've developed. That means no more complaining, no whining about how London is better, nothing but polite respect and honest curiosity, understand?"
"Yes Uncle." He answered morosely. When my mouth thinned and I gave him a rather nasty glare he sat up straighter. "Yes Uncle." He repeated in a much more convincing voice.
"And one more thing, you must at least make the attempt at being cheerful." I reached out and tipped up his chin with one finger, looking into his eyes with the compassion I felt for his youth and ill treatment.
He gave me the ghost of his former brilliant smile, "I will make the attempt, I promise."