Chapter 1
The Script
Christan took the time to shave, to pull out nice clothes, to actually eat something that just might be called a meal.
He felt odd doing all of this. Three years ago, getting dressed properly and eating a real meal would not have been foreign to him at all. But now, after three years of doing nothing but writing and re-reading their story, it had taken his life away. He noticed that when he put his slacks on, they were rather big in the waist, and he knew he never had any weight to lose anyway.
He groaned, but tightened his belt as tight as it would go, tucked his shirt in and just made do with tightening his suspenders.
He was grateful his shoes still fit.
Once he felt he was presentable, Christian grabbed a random hat off of a table by the door and went on his way, carrying the script of 'Moulin Rouge' under his right arm.
Christian knew where he was going. Toulouse had told him of a man named Henry Williams, a kind of nobleman by birth, who had moved to Paris from London with his daughter after his wife had died.
Toulouse had met Williams at the Moulin Rouge, he had been a high paying customer, a "high paying customer, indeed."
Christian shook his head at the memory, a small smile playing about his lips. He turned the corner onto the main road, passing in front of the Moulin Rouge. He gave it barely a glance, because he refused to dwell in the memories here. They might make him turn around and go back home, because his uncertainty was terrible as it was.
He strolled by, walked around the corner, let out a sigh. He had a couple more blocks until he reached the 'crème-de-la-crème' neighborhood, as he and Satine had jokingly called it, although he knew that that was where Satine had once dreamt of living before she had met him, that that had been where her heart laid. But circumstances can change dreams, people can come into your life and change everything, and Christian was one brutally aware of this.
He sighed again, then smiled at a woman who strolled by, her hand tucked firmly into her escorts crooked arm as they strolled along the street, looking at the shops. She gave him a tiny smile in return as he cocked his hat.
It made him feel a bit alive again.
He reached the neighborhood he had been aiming for, then pulled the scrap of paper that had the address on it that Toulouse had scribbled in his bold, wide cursive.
As Christian walked along the streets, staying close to the gates that separated the lawns from the sidewalk, the lawns from the neighboring lawns, he noticed that all the townhouses looked alike. He doubted very much that this was where the man lived, but was probably his office.
Across the street from the row of tall, skinny, three-story townhouses, was a large, lush green park. A carriage was going along the far side, where a creek ran, and there were trees lining the walk, and Christian could see even from where he stood, tulips were just beginning to bloom, in many vivid, shocking colours. A rich-looking couple dressed to the nine's were walking a little Scottish terrier.
Christian sighed. The world had not changed. It was the same.
Gripping his script, Christian unlatched the black, wrought iron gate that had kept him from entering into the immaculate yard and walked to the front door, unsure if he was to knock or just go in.
He knocked.
A few moments later, a prestigious looking butler came to the door, holding it open, but in a way that he was blocking any form of entrance by keeping his hand on the door. His face was rather impassive and he stared at Christian for a moment before asking, "Yes?"
"I'm here to see Mister... Mister Williams."
"Do you have an appointment?" The words oozed off of his tongue in a thick British accent.
"Um, no, but..."
At that second, the words "Ah! Christian!" in a very familiar voice made Christian smile. Henri Toulouse-Lautrec, all four feet eight inches of him, waddled to the door, and he was, as always, immaculately dressed, and grinning in that drunken way of his. He just about shoved the butler out of the way, who sniffed and made room for Toulouse by walking away, and pulled Christian inside. "Are you finally out of that hole of yours?" Henri was asking, still pulling Christian down the corridor. It was richly furnished, with wooden walls with carved paneling and an arched ceiling. Antique chairs were placed in random places, along with side tables and trunks and paintings. "Are you here to see Henry, Christian?"
Christian nodded, looking down at the dear little man.
"Good, good. I will tell him for you. He will see you." Toulouse had led him to the end of the hallway, past the sitting rooms and parlors, to a closed door.
Yes, this was probably his office and/or seasonal home, rather than his main residence.
"I've missed you, Christian," he heard Toulouse say, which was rather unusual. "Since the Moulin Rouge shut down, I've had to find other work, and it's just not as fun." Toulouse shook his head, as if to ward off bad feelings, smiled and knocked briskly on the door before opening it and walking in.
The office was rather large, with huge bookcases on either side of the room made of mahogany wood that matched an extraordinarily beautiful desk. Floor-length burgundy drapes held back by golden tassels revealed a large window that exposed the backyard, which was just as pristine as the front yard.
Christian heard a grunt a few feet in front of him. Sitting behind that big, beautiful desk, was a big, not-so-beautiful man. Mr. Williams had come to his feet, and Christian took him in a moment before speaking. He wore a three-piece suit made of navy blue fabric, and a gold watch chain glinted contrastingly against it. He had salt-and-pepper hair, and a large, ruddy face that made the glasses he was wearing look tiny. But the thing that truly intimidated Christian was his height. He was maybe two inches over six feet, against Christian's five foot nine structure.
But he didn't let the intimidation he felt show, but smiled and was about to speak when Toulouse came up. "Henry, this is Christian Taylor. Christian, Henry Williams." He then took it upon himself to explain to Henry as to why Christian was there and what a great writer Toulouse believed Christian to be. When he was done with his little speech, he smiled at them both, patted Christian on the back and made his way out, closing the door behind him.
The silence stretched out between them for a moment, before Mr. Williams unclasped the hands he had put behind his back and gestured to a seat in front of his desk. "Take a seat, will you, Mr. Taylor."
"Thank you, sir." Christian took a seat. And before he could speak, Henry said, "So have you brought anything with you that I can read before we even get started on whether I'd like to publish your work or not?"
Christian's eyebrows rose at that. He wasn't used to being asked something so bluntly, nor met anyone to straight-to-the-point, but he figured he might as well go with the flow. "Yes, actually, I have." He stood up and handed the large bundle of sheets over to Mr. Williams, who eyed it. "The Moulin Rouge, eh?"
"Yes, it's... it's based on a true story."
Mr. Williams looked up at Christian with a look that told Christian he could care less for the moment. Christian resisted the urge of wringing his hands together and sat tall in the seat. Either he would get this published, or he wouldn't. Mr. Henry Williams wasn't the only publisher in Paris. He wasn't Christian's only hope.
Mr. Williams flipped back the title pages, then sat back and began to read. Christian stared at his aloof face, waiting. Five minutes later, Mr. Williams let out a laugh. "You can't be serious, Christian." He said, smirking. "Romance? Love? Even about a brothel? You honestly can't be serious, Mr. Taylor."
Christian stared at him. "You haven't read it all, Mr. Williams. It's about... it's about life. It's about the turn of the century, what they called the Bohemian lifestyle. It tells about-."
"I don't give a damn what it's about, Mr. Taylor." Henry Williams said in a matter-of-fact voice. "No one will ever read it. No one wants to read about... about love and romance." He shook his head, slapping the draft onto the table. "I'm sorry," he said in a sarcastic-tone that was hidden by a small smile, "but why don't you try writing something that's realistic?"
Christian was outraged. "Realistic? I wrote it based on true events, that has to be realistic." He raised half out of his seat, gesturing to the pile of papers. "That is my life!"
"Mr. Taylor, Mr. Taylor, no need to raise your voice." Mr. Williams pulled off his glasses and began to polish them with a white felt cloth. "I'm merely telling you what the public won't read. Your life, real life, or not," he added after a pause, looking up at him.
"But you, one man, couldn't possibly know that."
Mr. Williams turned rather red at that, placing his glasses back on his blubbering face. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Taylor. I did not become a successful publisher not knowing what the public doesn't want to read."
Christian left out the fact that that was because Mr. Williams usually published only old writings, some even as old as Aristotle. Because that's what the public wanted - proper writing, like the writings of the Enlightened Era thinkers and philosophers. They didn't want realism, now, did they?
Christian stood up his full length this time, reaching over and grabbing his script. "Well then, forgive me for wasting your time, Mr. Williams. And forgive me for not knowing how wise you are on what people want." Christian had no idea where the angry words came from, but they were heartfelt, so he said them. He didn't know if he'd live to regret them or not, but Christian knew he had no life Henry could ruin, so he went on his way, not caring, leaving a furious Mr. Williams.
As he closed the door rather loudly, shaking his head furiously, not knowing his own face was extremely red, Christian turned to walk down to the corridor to the front and make his exit. But as he was turning, he ran straight into another person.
They collapsed, Christian uttering a few explicit words in French as he landed on his rear. Papers flew, there were gasps and a small howl of pain from the person Christian had run into. Once the papers landed, Christian reached up to rub the knot on his forehead. "Ow," he said, before looking over to apologize.
A girl, or a woman maybe, he couldn't really tell through his hazy eyes, sat, mirroring Christian's position. She was sprawled, rubbing her head. She stared back at him, and as Christian's eyes cleared, he saw a teenager. Not a girl, not quite a woman. She was maybe nineteen or twenty. "Sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry, sir." She got up onto all fours, began to collect papers. "I'm so sorry," she said again, scooping papers up.
"It's okay, it's okay." Christian got up onto his knees and began to help her. He saw her face then, taking in how beautiful she was, before grabbing her wrist and gently pulling her back. "It's okay, calm down."
She smiled back at him, handing him a stack of papers, the Moulin Rouge paper on it upside down. "I think these are yours," she said. She had collected them very quickly, and was now straightening another stack of papers.
Christian stared at her. She had bright, jade green eyes, fringed by coal black lashes, in a face that seemed made of porcelain, and thick, dark brown hair streaked with lighter tones of copper and reds. It was extremely curly, and pulled back on top of her head, and ringlets were at her ears. She smiled at him, then, causing him to come out of his reverie. "Sorry," he said to her, "Didn't mean to stare. You just..." he didn't know what to say. He was embarrassed, but she was beautiful. He shook his head, "Must have been the bump," he said, grinning. He pushed away all emotion. He reached down and helped her up. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry," she said again, grinning a bit and holding her stack of papers to her chest. "I've got to run this story in to my Papa," she explained, rolling her eyes a bit. "It's... nothing."
Christian felt rather odd, standing here with this girl he hardly knew and chatting as if they'd known each other for years. But then... Papa? He took in the expensive dress, the beautiful face. Of course. His smile turned rather icy. "Ah. Well. Lovely. Good day." He walked away from her, leaving her rather bewildered.
Christian wanted to cry as he walked out into the sunshine. His thoughts were back on the conversation. Unrealistic? Well. I'll show you.
The Script
Christan took the time to shave, to pull out nice clothes, to actually eat something that just might be called a meal.
He felt odd doing all of this. Three years ago, getting dressed properly and eating a real meal would not have been foreign to him at all. But now, after three years of doing nothing but writing and re-reading their story, it had taken his life away. He noticed that when he put his slacks on, they were rather big in the waist, and he knew he never had any weight to lose anyway.
He groaned, but tightened his belt as tight as it would go, tucked his shirt in and just made do with tightening his suspenders.
He was grateful his shoes still fit.
Once he felt he was presentable, Christian grabbed a random hat off of a table by the door and went on his way, carrying the script of 'Moulin Rouge' under his right arm.
Christian knew where he was going. Toulouse had told him of a man named Henry Williams, a kind of nobleman by birth, who had moved to Paris from London with his daughter after his wife had died.
Toulouse had met Williams at the Moulin Rouge, he had been a high paying customer, a "high paying customer, indeed."
Christian shook his head at the memory, a small smile playing about his lips. He turned the corner onto the main road, passing in front of the Moulin Rouge. He gave it barely a glance, because he refused to dwell in the memories here. They might make him turn around and go back home, because his uncertainty was terrible as it was.
He strolled by, walked around the corner, let out a sigh. He had a couple more blocks until he reached the 'crème-de-la-crème' neighborhood, as he and Satine had jokingly called it, although he knew that that was where Satine had once dreamt of living before she had met him, that that had been where her heart laid. But circumstances can change dreams, people can come into your life and change everything, and Christian was one brutally aware of this.
He sighed again, then smiled at a woman who strolled by, her hand tucked firmly into her escorts crooked arm as they strolled along the street, looking at the shops. She gave him a tiny smile in return as he cocked his hat.
It made him feel a bit alive again.
He reached the neighborhood he had been aiming for, then pulled the scrap of paper that had the address on it that Toulouse had scribbled in his bold, wide cursive.
As Christian walked along the streets, staying close to the gates that separated the lawns from the sidewalk, the lawns from the neighboring lawns, he noticed that all the townhouses looked alike. He doubted very much that this was where the man lived, but was probably his office.
Across the street from the row of tall, skinny, three-story townhouses, was a large, lush green park. A carriage was going along the far side, where a creek ran, and there were trees lining the walk, and Christian could see even from where he stood, tulips were just beginning to bloom, in many vivid, shocking colours. A rich-looking couple dressed to the nine's were walking a little Scottish terrier.
Christian sighed. The world had not changed. It was the same.
Gripping his script, Christian unlatched the black, wrought iron gate that had kept him from entering into the immaculate yard and walked to the front door, unsure if he was to knock or just go in.
He knocked.
A few moments later, a prestigious looking butler came to the door, holding it open, but in a way that he was blocking any form of entrance by keeping his hand on the door. His face was rather impassive and he stared at Christian for a moment before asking, "Yes?"
"I'm here to see Mister... Mister Williams."
"Do you have an appointment?" The words oozed off of his tongue in a thick British accent.
"Um, no, but..."
At that second, the words "Ah! Christian!" in a very familiar voice made Christian smile. Henri Toulouse-Lautrec, all four feet eight inches of him, waddled to the door, and he was, as always, immaculately dressed, and grinning in that drunken way of his. He just about shoved the butler out of the way, who sniffed and made room for Toulouse by walking away, and pulled Christian inside. "Are you finally out of that hole of yours?" Henri was asking, still pulling Christian down the corridor. It was richly furnished, with wooden walls with carved paneling and an arched ceiling. Antique chairs were placed in random places, along with side tables and trunks and paintings. "Are you here to see Henry, Christian?"
Christian nodded, looking down at the dear little man.
"Good, good. I will tell him for you. He will see you." Toulouse had led him to the end of the hallway, past the sitting rooms and parlors, to a closed door.
Yes, this was probably his office and/or seasonal home, rather than his main residence.
"I've missed you, Christian," he heard Toulouse say, which was rather unusual. "Since the Moulin Rouge shut down, I've had to find other work, and it's just not as fun." Toulouse shook his head, as if to ward off bad feelings, smiled and knocked briskly on the door before opening it and walking in.
The office was rather large, with huge bookcases on either side of the room made of mahogany wood that matched an extraordinarily beautiful desk. Floor-length burgundy drapes held back by golden tassels revealed a large window that exposed the backyard, which was just as pristine as the front yard.
Christian heard a grunt a few feet in front of him. Sitting behind that big, beautiful desk, was a big, not-so-beautiful man. Mr. Williams had come to his feet, and Christian took him in a moment before speaking. He wore a three-piece suit made of navy blue fabric, and a gold watch chain glinted contrastingly against it. He had salt-and-pepper hair, and a large, ruddy face that made the glasses he was wearing look tiny. But the thing that truly intimidated Christian was his height. He was maybe two inches over six feet, against Christian's five foot nine structure.
But he didn't let the intimidation he felt show, but smiled and was about to speak when Toulouse came up. "Henry, this is Christian Taylor. Christian, Henry Williams." He then took it upon himself to explain to Henry as to why Christian was there and what a great writer Toulouse believed Christian to be. When he was done with his little speech, he smiled at them both, patted Christian on the back and made his way out, closing the door behind him.
The silence stretched out between them for a moment, before Mr. Williams unclasped the hands he had put behind his back and gestured to a seat in front of his desk. "Take a seat, will you, Mr. Taylor."
"Thank you, sir." Christian took a seat. And before he could speak, Henry said, "So have you brought anything with you that I can read before we even get started on whether I'd like to publish your work or not?"
Christian's eyebrows rose at that. He wasn't used to being asked something so bluntly, nor met anyone to straight-to-the-point, but he figured he might as well go with the flow. "Yes, actually, I have." He stood up and handed the large bundle of sheets over to Mr. Williams, who eyed it. "The Moulin Rouge, eh?"
"Yes, it's... it's based on a true story."
Mr. Williams looked up at Christian with a look that told Christian he could care less for the moment. Christian resisted the urge of wringing his hands together and sat tall in the seat. Either he would get this published, or he wouldn't. Mr. Henry Williams wasn't the only publisher in Paris. He wasn't Christian's only hope.
Mr. Williams flipped back the title pages, then sat back and began to read. Christian stared at his aloof face, waiting. Five minutes later, Mr. Williams let out a laugh. "You can't be serious, Christian." He said, smirking. "Romance? Love? Even about a brothel? You honestly can't be serious, Mr. Taylor."
Christian stared at him. "You haven't read it all, Mr. Williams. It's about... it's about life. It's about the turn of the century, what they called the Bohemian lifestyle. It tells about-."
"I don't give a damn what it's about, Mr. Taylor." Henry Williams said in a matter-of-fact voice. "No one will ever read it. No one wants to read about... about love and romance." He shook his head, slapping the draft onto the table. "I'm sorry," he said in a sarcastic-tone that was hidden by a small smile, "but why don't you try writing something that's realistic?"
Christian was outraged. "Realistic? I wrote it based on true events, that has to be realistic." He raised half out of his seat, gesturing to the pile of papers. "That is my life!"
"Mr. Taylor, Mr. Taylor, no need to raise your voice." Mr. Williams pulled off his glasses and began to polish them with a white felt cloth. "I'm merely telling you what the public won't read. Your life, real life, or not," he added after a pause, looking up at him.
"But you, one man, couldn't possibly know that."
Mr. Williams turned rather red at that, placing his glasses back on his blubbering face. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Taylor. I did not become a successful publisher not knowing what the public doesn't want to read."
Christian left out the fact that that was because Mr. Williams usually published only old writings, some even as old as Aristotle. Because that's what the public wanted - proper writing, like the writings of the Enlightened Era thinkers and philosophers. They didn't want realism, now, did they?
Christian stood up his full length this time, reaching over and grabbing his script. "Well then, forgive me for wasting your time, Mr. Williams. And forgive me for not knowing how wise you are on what people want." Christian had no idea where the angry words came from, but they were heartfelt, so he said them. He didn't know if he'd live to regret them or not, but Christian knew he had no life Henry could ruin, so he went on his way, not caring, leaving a furious Mr. Williams.
As he closed the door rather loudly, shaking his head furiously, not knowing his own face was extremely red, Christian turned to walk down to the corridor to the front and make his exit. But as he was turning, he ran straight into another person.
They collapsed, Christian uttering a few explicit words in French as he landed on his rear. Papers flew, there were gasps and a small howl of pain from the person Christian had run into. Once the papers landed, Christian reached up to rub the knot on his forehead. "Ow," he said, before looking over to apologize.
A girl, or a woman maybe, he couldn't really tell through his hazy eyes, sat, mirroring Christian's position. She was sprawled, rubbing her head. She stared back at him, and as Christian's eyes cleared, he saw a teenager. Not a girl, not quite a woman. She was maybe nineteen or twenty. "Sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry, sir." She got up onto all fours, began to collect papers. "I'm so sorry," she said again, scooping papers up.
"It's okay, it's okay." Christian got up onto his knees and began to help her. He saw her face then, taking in how beautiful she was, before grabbing her wrist and gently pulling her back. "It's okay, calm down."
She smiled back at him, handing him a stack of papers, the Moulin Rouge paper on it upside down. "I think these are yours," she said. She had collected them very quickly, and was now straightening another stack of papers.
Christian stared at her. She had bright, jade green eyes, fringed by coal black lashes, in a face that seemed made of porcelain, and thick, dark brown hair streaked with lighter tones of copper and reds. It was extremely curly, and pulled back on top of her head, and ringlets were at her ears. She smiled at him, then, causing him to come out of his reverie. "Sorry," he said to her, "Didn't mean to stare. You just..." he didn't know what to say. He was embarrassed, but she was beautiful. He shook his head, "Must have been the bump," he said, grinning. He pushed away all emotion. He reached down and helped her up. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry," she said again, grinning a bit and holding her stack of papers to her chest. "I've got to run this story in to my Papa," she explained, rolling her eyes a bit. "It's... nothing."
Christian felt rather odd, standing here with this girl he hardly knew and chatting as if they'd known each other for years. But then... Papa? He took in the expensive dress, the beautiful face. Of course. His smile turned rather icy. "Ah. Well. Lovely. Good day." He walked away from her, leaving her rather bewildered.
Christian wanted to cry as he walked out into the sunshine. His thoughts were back on the conversation. Unrealistic? Well. I'll show you.