© 2003 Black Tangled Heart
Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge belongs to the splendiferous Baz Luhrmann. This story was inspired entirely by Fiona Apple's "Pale September". The lyrics are taken from the aforementioned song.
Dedication: A belated birthday present for darling Kara.
Credit: Petal and Pearl have decided that Travesty is a ballet dancer. I touch on this very briefly here. Go read La Marionette de Chine's wonderful story Transylvanian Concubine, because it is lovely.
Only hollow rhythms
Resounded from within
But then he rose
Brilliant as the moon in full
And sank in the
Burrows of my keep
And all my armour
Falling down
In a pile at my feet
Her white arm curved over, like a dove in sweeping flight. Each angle of her body seemed to melt, leaving only soft edges of continuous motion. The graceful pirouette, the tilt of her head, the gentle smile that graced her face. It was times like this she loved. Times alone, to move soundlessly. Feather light with nothing holding her soul or body down. There was no part to play, nothing to memorize. Only the simple pleasure of dance, and such things were rare. She had bared her soul at the tango, and now she became a ghost of all she'd formerly known, peeling back the shroud of hostility.
With the change of her mood came a shift in her dancing. Like Satie was able to learn songs by ear, Nini only needed to watch performances before she taught herself to emulate the steps. After years of friendship with Travesty – whose background as a ballerina had earned her a place at the Rouge to begin with – Nini could easily perform both soft and pointe steps, still making the dance her own.
Perhaps it was only when she was truly by herself did she dance for herself. She rose onto her toes again and turned a circle, feeling anxiety rush out of her with the smooth execution of the step. Dance was as second nature as breathing. When she danced was when she could breathe.
She was behind a locked door. Her room was filled with the few things she owned, for little at the Moulin Rouge belonged to her. The shiny black shoes and bright costumes and shimmering cosmetics were not for her to call her own. What she had was her talent, which she fully embraced.
The bedside table was strewn with hairpins; a poor replacement for the money that had once littered the surface after a night with a client.
It had been months since she had sold her body. Now, she gave herself willingly to one man. His touch healed the scars that patterned her skin in spiderwebs, in places not even valued customers saw. His mouth soothed the traces of blue and black bruises left by violent hands. He himself was a violent man, but took utmost care with her. She was as porcelain to him; something so many others had attempted to shatter.
She exhaled and listened to the way the silence broke with the sound. There was little time to pause and reflect in her line of work. She hadn't found more than a handful of spare moments since she'd entered the Underworld. When she did recollect her thoughts, she never looked back on her past. Regret was a wasted emotion, and she hadn't the time to dwell on such things. A fond childhood memory often made her smile, though those were few and far between. A night on which passion ran high was a rare and unexpected delight, but it was always fleeting pleasure.
She connected happiness with her rhythm, for her heart pounded to the beat of her perpetual dance steps. And when she danced with him, she found pure completeness.
If she had been someone different, perhaps she would have felt hollow without him. When his arms were not around her waist or his mouth pressed against hers, she was a whole just as herself. He was her compliment and her contrast, with dark eyes to her blue and bronze skin to her white. With hot fury to her cold pride. And they swallowed one another whole.
She became one with music when she danced. When there was no band playing, a melody echoed in her head and her body moved swift as a river current. Once her body was in motion, she sealed herself off from the outside world. The only thing was her movement.
She knew she could not stop time, or control fate. She had no play in destiny.
So she danced.
She watched rain kiss the window, and heard in the distance the broken call of the writer as it echoed from the streets. She was as alone as she could possibly be – the outside world and all its pain still existed. She knew the snow would soon drift down from the sky, a final coldness to match their reality.
The only warmth she felt blossomed from within. The production could destroy them all, and so she danced while there was still precious time to feel her own rhythm, her own cadence. To be herself, and not an actress. There was one other time she brought her true self to light, and that was with her love. But her first love was dance.
She closed her eyes, retreating into her mind. Her leg extended in an arabesque, her heart stilled momentarily, as if waiting for this solitary moment of peace to shatter. Like the poet; like the star courtesan. Like the future.
"Nini."
Her solitary reverie split, as though the horizon had melted, leaving emptiness between the white land and dark sky.
Her name hung in the stillness like smoke. When the syllables vanished, the sound lingered as her breath had moments before. She opened her eyes, swallowing unexpected tears. She held the moment like a wingless bird in her mind. She hadn't the strength to let her voice fly free. She only touched down to earth, and when he emerged from the shadowy corner of her room, his features were clouded in discontent.
"Keep dancing," he told her. The tango had brought out harshness in his voice. Now there was the same calm she'd always known; the calm that gave way to storms. "Dance, Antonia. For it is the love of what you do that places you above all else to me."
It still stopped her heart when he called her by her full name.
Wordlessly, she spun again. She did not find herself easing into her imagination. She felt her internal rhythm, but nothing else. When she looked back at him, expecting his mouth to have curved into a smile, there was still a grim line.
It was as though he could read what was inside her head. "Now you are dancing for me, and not for yourself."
She turned to face him completely and narrowed her icy eyes at him. "Isn't that what you wanted?" she spat. When he didn't reply, she lifted her arms toward the ceiling and brushed her foot forward in preparation and pushed herself off the ground in a clean leap. Her white legs stretched with elegant strength, streamlined poise sleek as a cat's.
She landed, and let her gaze burn into his. "That's for me. I don't dance like that for you."
But she had danced so many other ways for him. With predatory steps earlier that evening. With sensual movement beneath sticky sheets. With her heart, in consent of every emotion he evoked inside of her. Even anger.
He brushed his hand across her waist, drawing her closer to him. Unaffected by her resistance, he caught her wrist as she brought her arms down from their arc.
"Close your eyes."
"I won't be dancing for me," she told him.
"Close your eyes," he repeated.
She bit her lip, perhaps to swallow a more cattish remark, but did as he told her. There was no awkwardness as they fit their bodies together, interlacing fingers and pressing cheek to cheek. Soon they glided together, rhythm smooth and unbroken. Their bodies performed the steps unconsciously. The darkness of their first dance would be forever seared on their souls. The second was like snow, and would engrave itself beside the one that love had painted black.
Her focus returned to the inside of her mind, but he pulled her into reality when he kissed her.
She lost herself momentarily, as though she had again risen to her untouchable world, where there was no impending production or fate to be sealed. When she broke the kiss, he released his gentle hold on her.
"Now dance for yourself."
Confusion flickered across her face like the last flames of a winter fire. She pressed her mouth into the same line his had been moments before. She said nothing, only let her hand flutter upwards as her gaze moved toward the chilled window. If she looked him in the face, she would not dance for herself. His eyes were still upon her. She felt him watching the hollow of her throat, the gentle swell of her chest as she breathed, the fine bones of her hips. She arched her back and splayed her arms, feeling release in the rippling crack of her spine and the soaring of her heart.
She would have resented him if he had chosen to call her beautiful, or remark about the elegance of her movements. The silence said more than any words could. An awed silence; a contemplative silence.
A needed silence.
The anger dissipated; the dread took flight towards the glowering moon and froze in the night. She looked back at him, and felt the moment imprint itself into her mind as true as the stars in the sky. He was smiling, and she extended her hand. He took it, and again, they found a universe free of pain.
They knew not what the production would bring, but they had one another.
And that was enough.