Chapter Three

When I was just seventeen I ran away from home
To be with all the pretty people
To be on my own
Bright lights and trains and bedsit stains
And pavements paved with gold
And I believed in everything that everybody told me
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I found myself in a lonely place with a suitcase full of dreams
And I soon grew up to realize what living in the doghouse means
But everyday I told myself good things would happen soon
"Cause I knew that I was going to be a legend in my living room
**********
Now everyday on a dead end street is where I spend my time
The dust has been collecting on the corners of my mind
But I've shed my tears in bitter drops until the thorn trees bloomed
To take the spiky fruit to crown myself the Queen of Doom

--Annie Lennox

Outside my window, the Red Windmill still turns, still burns brightly each night. It's gaudy and beautiful, and it beckons like a sweet to those with insatiable appetites.

I don't know why this surprises me. Did I really expect the departure of the Sparkling Diamond to bring the Moulin Rouge to a crashing halt? Perhaps.

Am I disappointed that the Windmill-in fact, the whole world-turns without me? Perhaps. It's not that I wish to go back to my former life, oh no. But sometimes, I wish I could be any place other than where I am. Some place where that damned windmill isn't staring back at me. I suppose it does hurt my pride to realize that I was always replaceable, no matter what flattering lies Harold told me.

Harold-damn him. It isn't bad enough that he claimed he loved me, but never bothered to get me proper medical care when he knew I was sick, and then lied to me about it until it served his purposes. (His cherub, he called me, his little chickpea. Such nonsense.) Worse still was that he was willing to sell my soul, whatever there is of it, to fill his pockets. Yes, I consented to sell my body night after night, but this was another thing altogether. And I, of all people, who made a living of lies, should have seen right through him. I thought I was the greatest courtesan Paris had to offer-which one of us was the greater whore, dear Harold? If you'd been more concerned with me than with your ledgers, would I now be spending all my hours cooped up in this dreary little garret?

It's not that I'm complaining, mind you, about living with Christian. He does his best to take care of me, although lately his attention and care have fallen off a bit. I suppose that's to be expected, now that I'm feeling better-no longer bed-bound, at any rate. I suppose that counts for "better", even if blood still soils my handkerchief when I cough. And that can be concealed easily enough.

It's just that, suddenly, going to the market stalls to haggle for turnips or carrots while wading through the muck in the streets, trying to avoid puddles and manure-suddenly it all sounds like a great deal of fun.

It also sounds like more effort than I can possibly manage. Just getting myself dressed each day is quite the achievement. Especially since I've got no one to draw the laces of my corset or button my dress up the back. Christian tries sometimes to help, but he's as hopeless as any other man in that regards--why are they always so good, then, at unfastening my clothes?

I do try to keep myself occupied. I've read all of Christian's battered little volumes of poetry over and over. I even think I'm beginning to understand Shakespeare, what with all those funny old words that even Christian can't explain to me. I'm rather proud of that, given that English is not my mother tongue.

Silly thing to be proud of, isn't it? I have to laugh at myself when I stop and read my scribblings-and there's no other word for it. It's not a memoir; no one else will ever see it. (One writer in the household is quite enough, thank you.) It's nothing so formal as a diary, even, those books with pink moiré covers and tiny gold locks that the young ladies carry about. Just jottings on the back of Christian's discarded papers, which I pick out of the rubbish bin and smooth flat when he's not looking. (I do have to be careful. He had a little snit last week that these were drafts of his stories and he might need to refer back to them later. Never mind that he'd just tossed them in the waste bucket.) It's a little game that fills spaces in the empty hours.

Quite an effective one, though. I can sit down to write in the morning after Christian has left for the day to show his stories 'round to the various publishers. Before I know it I hear the footfalls on the stairs that tell me he's returned for the evening. Only then do I realize the last rays of light are dying in the sky and I'm shivering slightly because I haven't put on my shawl or stoked the fire in the stove. Then I'll be in for a scolding.

I also tidy up the garret, but that's no bother. There's only so much housekeeping I can do in one room-make the bed, empty the chamber pot from the night before, clear away the bottles and the dirty wine glasses Christian's left about. He also leaves his manuscript papers on every possible surface, but he gets cross with me if I touch a single page. The walls almost look alive when the breeze rustles all the pages tacked to them like feathers.

He's off during the day more often now, less worried about leaving me alone. He doesn't look so terrified whenever I cough, as though I might be taking my last breath. Then again, he doesn't seem to notice much at all anymore when I cough. Should I take that as another sign that I'm recovering? I don't know. Am I recovering?

The doctor no longer says I'm dying, at least not in front of me. What things he and Christian whisper to one another in the hallway, I can only guess. I know they mean well, but it's rather rude, really-having other people talk about you and not be included in the conversation. I guess I should say "doctors" but it never matters which one comes. They all say and do the same things, poking and prodding and feeling around-oh, do get that cold little thing off my chest, please! Yes, I'm sure they enjoy themselves royally. Their little thrill for the day, I imagine. Glad to oblige you, doctor. Except I do recall that I'm the one who used to get paid for the privilege.

I don't even see a doctor that often anymore, which suits me fine. I only get a visit when when Christian can scrape together enough money from selling a few stories to the women's magazines. It's always the first thing he spends money on, and I want to tell the poor stubborn boy to stop wasting it. But it shows me that he still cares about me, and those little proofs mean everything nowadays.

"She is doing as well as can be hoped for," the doctor says, after his little poking-and-prodding act is up.

She. He addresses Christian always, and speaks of me as though I were not sitting right in front of him. (Damnably rude, these doctors.)

And I do wonder, what does all that mean, "as well as can be hoped for"? That I'm getting better? That I can expect a full recovery? That I truly am dying, but no one has the courage to tell me the truth? Christian usually asks the questions before I am able to-all but that last one, of course. He never asks that.

"It means, M'sieur, that she has not declined since I have last seen her. That in itself is remarkable-"

"So she is getting better, then. She will get better." Sometimes he says that as a statement, other times as a question. It depends on his turn of mind.

But the doctor doesn't make a reply at first; he only folds his stetho- whatever it's called, that cold chest-prodding thing-he folds it up and lays it carefully inside his worn leather satchel. His brows are furrowed, and he's considering what to say. (I ought to know.)

"You need to encourage her to eat more, M'sieur, even if her appetite is poor-lots of meat, beef especially. Strengthens the blood. And I cannot urge you too strongly to get her to a sanitorium as soon as possible. She needs to breathe clean mountain air, plenty of it, and receive medical attention day and night-"

"She does receive care day and night." Poor Christian. His voice is low; I can tell he's smarting from the doctor's well-intentioned but careless remark.

"There are excellent ones in Switzerland, of course." The doctor continues his little speech as though Christian hadn't said a word. He's not about to get sidetracked from his script. "Also, some new ones in California, I understand. In the meantime, M'sieur, make sure she takes this twice daily- -" he pulls from his bag a dark bottle of what I know to be one horrid- tasting tonic or another, "-and administer laudanum only as absolutely necessary." Then he tips his hat to me and murmurs "Au revoir, M'moiselle." It's only the second time he's acknowledged me, the first being when he walked in the room and asked me to unfasten my dress. (I ought to be used to that one by now. Men really are all alike.)

Then it almost becomes a game between Christian and myself-though I don't think he'd see it that way--as to which one of us will be the first to force a smile and say "That was encouraging" to the other one.

Poor Christian.

I wish sometimes that that he'd just stop wasting money on those stupid doctors, who always repeat the same script visit after visit. I want him to stop wasting money on nasty medicines which I can't even keep down anyway. Perhaps then we just night be able to afford a little meat on the table for supper! But he needs the doctor to come more than I do, I think. He needs so badly to hear-well, if not that I'm healed, at least that I'm not getting any worse. That I'm not dying, not at the present moment. And that alone gives him his little particle of hope to cling to.

But if I'm not cured and I'm not dying, then what am I? Lingering? Ugh. I'm forbidden to leave the garret by myself and I'm too weak yet for anything but the shortest walks. Christian and I can't make love, which must be God's great joke on me. He's the only man in my life I ever wanted, and now that I've got him I can't have him.

And, except for Toulouse (who's very sweet but does pester me so about posing for him!), the most company I have during the day are the sparrows and swallows on the window ledges. They only come 'round because I feed them, little beggars. At least they come 'round at all, whatever their motives. I have not gotten one visit from Harry or Marie in over three months. Probably afraid of the royal scolding I'd give them.

A half-life in the shadows-that's what my life feels like now. Or perhaps I am the shadow.

I suppose I should be terribly grateful I haven't got syphilis. Oh, syphilis is truly horrible. I remember Delphinia, one of the "veterans" of the Moulin Rouge-all of 29 years old-being slowly disfigured by it. It ate her nose away and left her with a bloody hole in the center of her face. She had to wrap a scarf around her face like an Arab shiek; servicing clients was out of the question, as was singing or dancing. A pity, too; before that she had been one of the most beautiful and sought-after courtesans at the bordello, with a silver-tipped voice I couldn't ever hope to match. A true queen. It was she, in fact, who most often occupied the Red Room in the Elephant, that awful monstrosity of Harold's, before I did.

Once Delphinia was no longer of any use to Harry, he took the simplest, cheapest and most expedient course of action: he put her in a lunatic asylum, reasoning that the illness would eventually devour her brain and she was headed that way in any case. The last time any of us girls saw her, Harold was helping her into his carriage and telling her they were going for a short ride to take in the country air. Of course he returned alone, unusually pale and quiet, but nothing more was ever said about it. He never so much as uttered her name again.

That was the first night Harold told me to take a client to the Red Room. Delphinia's few possessions-magazine cut-outs of contented mothers and fat babies displayed in cheap frames, buttery kidskin gloves with the odd button missing, playbills with her name as the top-billed act--had already been removed. Never one to waste time, Harold.

********************

After the doctor leaves the garret, Christian stands by the door with his hands shoved into his pockets as far as they'll go, except when he strokes back his hair from his face, which only makes a worse mess of it. He'll rock back and forth on his heels or pace the room a bit, while his eyes dart about and he mumbles something I haven't a hope of hearing. I know he's doing calculations in his head but, compared with words, numbers are not his strong suit. He will try-he'll try so hard!-to figure out a way to send me to a sanitorium, to make the few dollars we have between us stretch all the way to Switzerland or California . But the numbers simply don't add up. Then his shoulders sag and he sinks back on his heels.

But after all of this Christian still paints on a smile for me and blathers a few words of encouragement-for his own morale as much as my own.

It pains me to watch him suffer so, it really does. It hurts more than the fire in my chest and thoat, more than the coughs that seize me violently in the night and offer me no rest. There is no medicine for what Christian is suffering. He wants more than anything for me to live-not just to linger, but to be truly well again. I want that, too, and I know he'll do anything in his power-is doing everything-to make it so.

I have hazy memories floating about in my head of Christian taking me to the countryside surrounding Paris when I first fell sick. I was still only half-conscious if that most of the time, but the memories repeat themselves frequently enough that he must have done it often. Perhaps we went to the same places where we picnicked when he was first courting me. I recall him wrapping me up in a shawl and blanket and lifting me ever so gently into a carriage of some kind-maybe the omnibus? Or perhaps Toulouse hired a cab for us. I do remember quite clearly how miserable the journey was for me; the springs of the cart rattled and jolted ceaselessly over the cobblestones until every inch of my body screamed. I buried my face against Christian's shoulder so he couldn't see me wince.

I remember, too, the relief when we finally arrived at our destination. The blossom-dotted grass he laid me upon felt like a down mattress. And no matter how much I tried to push away my wrappings under the warm sun, he insisted I remain bundled up. "No, Satine, I don't want you catching your dea-catching a chill out here."

He'd lay beside me and read poetry from one of his little books while I drowsed. I think he also read Shakespeare's plays, but I'd fall asleep before the end of the first scene. He'd give me little sips of water, catch the rain of blood in his handkerchief when I coughed, and gently wipe the scarlet crust from my lips. Sometimes he'd do nothing but stare at me for hours on end, as if that alone could prevent me from slipping away.

"The sunshine feels good, doesn't it, darling?" He'd stroke my hair or caress my cheek. "And the air here is so much cleaner than Montmatre-drink it in, my love, drink in great draughts of it." If a sanitorium wasn't possible, he would certainly give me the next best thing.

And I loved him for that. I loved him for how much he loved me, for how much he cared and how hard he tried. At the same time I wanted to scream at him: Let go of me. Stop trying so hard to cling to me, to keep some damaged scrap of me here just so you won't be left alone. Please, please, Christian, just leave me here, leave me on this hill to die. Walk away and start your life afresh. Don't let yourself be dragged down with me. Please.

I was terrified that he would leave me, and terrified that he wouldn't.

None of this was ever said aloud, of course; the words always died in my throat. Just as he never told me how terrified he was of losing me, though I saw it plainly behind his crooked smile. Practiced liars, the both of us are. I've been at it a longer, of course, but he's learned quickly enough. Too quickly. I wish to God he hadn't.

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Disclaimers (the legal stuff): "Moulin Rouge!" and it's characters the property of Bazmark Productions and Twentieth-Century Fox, copyright 2001. "Legend in My Living Room", lyrics by A. Lennox and Peter-John Vettese; copyright La Lennoxa Ltd. & Copyright Control, 1992.

Confessions: A follow-up to Yvi's superb "Palingenesis" in case anyone needs reminding (or your wandered in on the middle of the "movie", so to speak.) Tip o'the nib to drama princess's "Faded Diamonds" for inspiring the name "Delphinia". (I cry every single time I read that story-so beautiful and so real. Simply one of the best short stories I have EVER read, period.) Another tip o'the nib to Christine Bubbles' "The Peacock and the Swan" (a gorgeous and truly original love story from a truly talented writer) for use of the term "veteran" to describe Delphinia. Special nod of appreciation to the amazing Ms. Kidman.

Dedication: To my muses and angels, Yvi and Norah (black tangled heart). They are true collaborators in this work, inspiring me with their artistry, critiquing and guiding me every step of the way, graciously gifting with me astonishing ideas to make the story better, ideas I never would have come up with on my own. Thank you so much--I love and adore you both.