Fairy Tale No Longer—Chapter Four: Penny Dreadfuls

"Make way for Orpheus"

All people said,

"That is a fortunate man";

And now what storms are beating on his head!

Call no man fortunate who is not dead.

The dead are free from pain.

--William Butler Yeats

Christian James should have known idealism would only last so long. Particularly when bread was in short supply.

He put on his best brown suit and left the garret early each morning (except on Sundays), usually before the first glimmer of sunlight had a chance to strike the dirty windowpanes. He tucked a freshly-typed copy of his latest manuscript, which Satine lovingly wrapped in brown paper and string the night before, under his arm before he softly kissed the crown of her head and strode out the door. And each evening (except on Sundays) he came home, after the sun had exhausted itself for the day, and kissed Satine's limp hair on the very same spot he kissed it each morning.

Every day and every evening, he left and returned with great diligence and determination. He was certain that his stories would quickly find an appreciative publisher, who would sell the books to an appreciative audience, which would bring him much acclaim and not a little money, which he of course would accept with great appreciation.

He was certain--at first. Then, he was optimistic, then hopeful, then...grimly determined. Still he trudged out each morning (barring Sundays, of course) and knocked on the door of every publisher within walking distance of the boardinghouse. Never mind that his best brown suit, the one that he'd worn so proudly when he first arrived in Paris, was starting to look much the worse for wear.

He tipped his hat politely to the receptionists—some pink-cheeked, some withered—in the tiny waiting rooms. He sat down on hard chairs amongst countless other writers, men young and old. All wore frayed clothing like his own, all had ink-stained fingers like his own, all clutched precious parcels like his own. He patiently waited his turn to be led into musty, windowless offices; piles of books had been shoved aside on the floors to create narrow paths leadingto similarly-littered desks. He tipped his hat again and painted a smile on his face as he presented his manuscript to the men who were nearly engulfed behind those massive desks and mountains of paper. Men with cold hands and bleary, disinterested gazes who tossed Christian's heart and soul onto those shifting piles with the hearts and souls of hundreds of other writers. All of which were carefully bundled in brown paper and string, like his own.

"We'll look this over and let you know. Good day, monsieur."

Satine often teased him on the poverty of his French, but it didn't take Christian long to translate the true meaning of that phrase--in any language. Particularly after the pile of rejection letters on his writing table grew thicker than the manuscript itself.

The text of these missives was always brief and to the point: Thank you for your submissionshows a great deal of promise...regretfully, we are not interested in publishing it at this time...wish you success...Sincerely...

The first few such letters, jacketed in thick and unrevealing envelopes, had been greeted by the young writer with genuine astonishment: "Why don't they want to publish it?" And, by his beloved muse with all the indignation she could muster: "They must be either blind, or stupid, not to see how good your work is—that's the only possible explanation!"

Christian read and re-read the typewritten words on the bland white pages, as though at some point the black letters might magically re-arrange themselves into a more agreeable form: Thank you for your submission...We are pleased to inform you that we wish to publish your fine novel...enclosed is a contract for your signature and a cheque as an advance on the royalties...many more to follow...Sincerely...

And on those nights when he had just enough wine in his blood, he could almost make himself see those words he so desperately needed to see. (On those nights when he consumed absinthe, on the other hand, he couldn't see anything at all except acid-green explosions and dancing, winged sprites.)

Regardless of how many rejections came in the post, Satine always picked up her diatribe against the city's heartless editors from wherever she'd left off the last time: "Uncultured, unfeeling cretins! Oh, but never mind about those fools, darling; there must be several hundred publishing houses in Paris."

Christian glanced over the top of the letter at his lover standing before him, and noticed that she was beginning to tremble whilst her breathing became more labored. Though, she seemed not to take notice of it herself. Not at first.

"It only takes one—one person—the right person—" She dug in her pocket for a handkerchief when the coughs became too forceful to ignore. "—to see what a—a great writer y—you are."

The white cloth in her hand fluttered upward, like a dove, to her mouth. An oddly beautiful image, the young storyteller thought to himself.

An un-beautiful hacking sound flared forth from her chest and spiraled up her throat. "Then every—everything will—will be—diff—differ—"

"Yes, sweetheart, you're right. It will be different." The "Voice of the Revolution" (as Toulouse had once dubbed him—or had that been the absinthe talking?) tossed aside the rejection letter, and led the former "Sparkling Diamond" (as Harold Zidler had crowned her at the pinnacle of his greed) to her bed. "It will be better, I promise. He fumbled through the contents of the nightstand drawer for a dark glass bottle. "Here's your medicine—"

"Don't—mind me—silly little cough—I—I'm fine." A spot of crimson on white linen provided the usual punctuation mark to her sentence.

"You know what the doctor says." He poured the thick syrup into acracked cordial glass and pressed it into her hand. She wrinkled her nose and downed it in one go, grimacing at the taste. "Take it all up, that's it," he encouraged her. "I'll send out five more manuscripts tomorrow, don't worry. You're right. There must be several hundred publishers in Paris."

Yes, there must have been several hundred, at least. Christian had the growing pile of letters on his desk to prove it.

Christian did manage to sell a few stories to one avant-garde periodical or another, which generally closed down within a few short months due to mismanaged finances. Enthusiasm, it seemed, was always in far greater supply than money. He was, however, able to earn just enough to allow him say that, technically, he was making his living as a writer. What sort of living was another question altogether.

Sometimes it was a choice between Satine's medicines and coal for the stove; other times, a decision had to be made between fuel and food. In either case, the coal usually lost. Christian was not about to deprive Satine of prescribed tonics, whether or not they seemed to do any good; and blankets could always be heaped on the bed for warmth, whereas a meal was not so easily replaceable.

Meanwhile, the rejections flowed in as the money flowed out; the same pair of hands might havetyped them all: regretfully, we have decided... regretfully, we cannot...we regret to inform you...we regret...we regret...

After several months the regrets would have accumulated unopened in the rubbish bin, had it not been for Satine. "Aren't you going to open it?" she asked one evening, after he dropped the latest missive unceremoniously in the garbage.

"Whatever for? I already know what it says—the same thing as all the others—"

"You don't know that, yet." She slit the envelope open with the sterling paper knife that he had received as a birthday gift from his mother, while he was still a schoolboy.

"What does it say?" He wrestled with the cheap corkscrew Toulouse had "loaned" him a month ago, and gracelessly opened an even cheaper bottle of red wine. The bottom half of the cork broke into shards that floated on the surface of the dark liquid. "Well? I'm right, aren't I?"

"Never mind about them, Christian." He shrugged in response as she laid the letter atop its' predecessors. Then she tossed her head in that old way of hers', a haughty-seeming gesture that had once made him believe that the cares of the world were none of her concern. The truth of the matter had been, in fact, that he was too naïve and to see the awesome weight that hung over her head. He saw it now, though; he saw it as clearly as he often saw the bloodstains on her handkerchiefs, now matter how hard she tried to hide them from him by stuffing them in her pockets.

Because the cares of the world were his now, too.

But that didn't stop her from forging one of her well-crafted smiles for him. "Why, there must be thousands of publishers in this country; I'm sure you haven't even begun to scratch the surface. If you type up some more cover letters, I'll bundle them up with the manuscript copies—"

"I haven't got any more copies typed up."

"Oh. I see." She chewed her lower lip until it bled—a nervous habit she'd never been able to defeat. "I suppose I could type one up if you teach me how to use this machine. It doesn't look too hard; I've watched you do it often enough." She sat down in front of the Underwood and studied the keys with an intensity she'd once reserved for memorizing his script.

"Two-hundred-plus pages would take you all night plus several days following, Satine."

"All the more reason to start on it right away. It's a good thing I'm a fast study--unless I choose to take my time. Remember our 'rehearsals'?"

The wicked smile that curled across her lips was one he hadn't—oh, I have not seen that smile in the longest time.

"Now," she picked up a piece of blank paper and held it poised over the typewriter's platen, "if you'll just show me how to load--"

"Satine, stop it!"

He snatched the paper from her hands with such violence that she gasped, and drew back involuntarily. Her white fists hovered protectively on either side of her face. "Are you daft, Christian? Are you drunk?"

He shook his head. "P-please, Satine, sweetheart" How could he explain? How could he say it? I can't type any more manuscripts. I haven't got enough paper, the ribbon is fading and I haven't enough money to buy either—unless, you don't mind not eating for a couple of days.

No, he was not drunk, just then; but he wished that he were. Green explosions and winged sprites would have proved a welcome diversion. He recalled, almost absent-mindedly, that wonderful first summer of the play's protracted "rehearsals", when Satine had danced for him and only him. How he never wanted the nights with her to end, as he drowned in her perfume and in her laughter. How he thought the only thing he'd ever need in life was to watch her twirl and glide across the tiny garret, in a flurry of scarlet locks and lace-trimmed petticoats.

"Darling, let this alone for tonight." He cupped his hand beneath her elbow and led her from the writing table, gingerly, though she still recoiled slightly at his touch. "Let's go sit on the balcony, eh? We'll have a drink together, and stare at the moon—we haven't done that in the longest time--it's very nearly full, tonight." He thrust his drinking glass towards her. "Have some wine with me--"

"Christian, don't." She pulled away from his grip and stared at him, wide-eyed, as though he truly were daft.

"Don't what?"

"Don't...don't give up." Her voice was very small as she settled on the edge of the mattress. She had turned away from him by this point, but he could detect the outline of a morose pout. Her fingers traced the patterns of stitching in the dingy yellow coverlet. "You have to believe in yourself, oftentimes, before anyone else will believe in you. You have to let your faith in the work sustain you, until other people recognize how good you are. And they will, too; it's just a matter of time."

His eyes fell on that stack of refusals, the latest one lying open on top where his beloved had left it. "No one believes in me or my stories, Satine. No one cares."

"I do." She turned around to face him. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears but her expression was fierce and determined—proud, he almost would have called it. "I believe in you. You can't give up. You can't—"Her breath emerged in shallow gasps; the fierceness vanished in the ether as suddenly as it had materialized. "Please, Christian, you mustn't—" Crystalline teardrops began their inevitable descent down well-worn tracks.

"Don't cry, Satine." More than anything else in the world, more than the ruddy rejection letters, even more than the bloodstains on her handkerchief, he hated—hated to see her cry. It reminded him of the opening night of his play—their love story—when he had failed her for the first time. In his rage and jealousy he had humiliated her, called her a "whore" in front of a theater full of strangers and abandoned her on the cold stage of the Moulin Rouge. He might have left her there and given up Paris forever, had he not heard her angelic voice calling out to him, singing the words of the song he'd written for her—for them—asking forgiveness for her deception and declaring her love for him to all who would listen.

And it reminded him of all the ways he had failed her since then: failed to take care of her, failed to provide for her, failed in his duties as lover—failed to even give her his name, as a man ought. He couldn't even afford a plain gold band with which to marry her, and she deserved that, at least; she deserved more, so much more.

"Please don't cry, sweetheart." He folded his arms around her and pressed her face against his shirt while she continued to weep quietly. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to lose himself in her kiss the way he used to, but even that simple thing was forbidden thanks to her illness—doctor's orders "I won't give up, I promise. I'll try again tomorrow."

"Tell me it—it will be all right," she whispered between sobs. "Tell me, Christian, and I—I'll believe you."

"Of course it will, you'll see."

Yes, there must have been thousands of publishers in France alone. And Christian James must have received a rejection letter from every single one of them.

Occasionally, he didn't have to wait for a letter.

"Your story is very fine, Monsieur James; you have a great deal of talent and potential." The publisher who sat in a leather armchair behind a massive mahogany desk—MonsieurAlphonse Guerre, in this instance—paused for a great length of time. He tucked his sober grey tweed suitcoat back with his arm and revealed a paisley silk waistcoat that was a bit too loud to be truly proper. A heavy gold watch chain was draped across, emphasizing a thick torso. His girth was nowhere near that of Harold Zidler's but, Christian decided, this was a man who obviously enjoyed his pastries and port. "Regretfully, however..." The publisher paused again.

Was the answer so self-evident he didn't need to supply it? Christian suddenly realized he was squirming in his chair, and hoped Monsieur Guerre didn't notice. "Well?"

"I'm afraid we are not interested--"

"Why not?" Christian interrupted hotly, fidgeting with a loose thread on the edge of his own jacket. It was unusually bold of him to ask, but he had the man in front of him—damn it, why not take the opportunity?

"This is simply not the sort of book we publish. It wouldn't suit our readership." Monsieur Guerre produced two slender paperback novels with bright, splashy cover illustrations. "To be quite frank, Monsieur, our readers are not looking for subtlety or sophistication; nor do they care about elegant phrasing. All they want is—how do you English say it?—'a ripping good yarn'. And that is what we provide."

Christian picked up the books lying in front of him. Penny dreadfuls. The name reflected the price and the quality of the prose equally. Mass-produced, sold at apothecary shops and corner kiosks, and gobbled up like candy by those with simple tastes. Young girls and bored wives seemed especially easy prey to their lurid tales and exotic settings.

Then again, so were the girls in the bordello. Christian remembered groups of them gathered around either Nini or Travesty during rehearsal breaks, giggling, squealing and swooning as virtuous heroes protected fainting damsels, villains sneered and rattled swords, and soldiers galloped across desert and plain in the name of God and Civilization. All of it garnished with blood spilled aplenty, and just enough eroticism to bring a blush to the cheeks while skirting the edges of strict propriety and legality. None of it written with any grace or style to speak of.

"Ridiculous," he once sniffed at a particularly overwrought passage of prose.

"Compared to what?" Nini had shot back, indicating the Moulin's unfinished stage set with a toss of her head. "That soddin' masterpiece of yours?"

Christian frowned at the memory as he examined the cover illustrations of the books in front of him. A horde of thick-lipped, bug-eyed savages brandished spears as they closed in on a blond-haired fellow with broad shoulders and equally broad chin. The scene took place in a jungle—or so Christian surmised from the roughly-sketched palm trees filling the space behind the hero. Said hero had apparently fired the shotgun he held in his hand, as crimson blood gushed forth from one of his dusky attackers. Christian thought of Chocolat for a moment: argueably handsome, undeniably graceful, and so very gentle, and was suddenly embarrassed on the dancer's behalf.

A man wearing the garb of an American cowboy adorned the cover of the other novel. At least that's what Christian thought the hero was meant to be, judging from the rather silly, oversized hat and the prominent gunbelt. Again, the hero brandished a pistol in one hand, whilst the other supported a swooning lady. Her dress was torn from neck to waist, revealing an ample bosom and a glimpse of a pink nipple. How do they get away with selling this stuff on the streets? Christian wondered silently. It's amazing they don't get arrested for the threat to public morals. The cowboy and the lady stood on the very edge of a cliff, threatened by a tan-faced villain with a curling black mustache and a sombrero; a thick knife was clenched between the Mexican's teeth.

Christian opened the book at random.

--"Oh Pierre," she sighed, breast heaving. "We are doomed, utterly doomed!"--

A cowboy named Pierre? Hardly likely, Christian was sorely tempted to say aloud. Instead, he continued reading:

--"Fear not, my love, I shall protect you! We shall prevail against those dastardly villains!"--

"If you can write something like that," Monsieur Guerre interrupted, "we're always looking for writers to add to our—again, how would you say?—l'etable?"

"'Stable' ?" Christian tossed the book down on the desk in front of him.

"Oui." The older man leaned back in his leather-covered armchair, smiling slightly. "We have several writers under our employ who are paid a flat fee for each book they produce. There is no worrying about royalties, and all of that nonsense. If you are interested..." Here again, the publisher paused for effect.

Christian glanced down at the villainous Mexican who threatened the cowboy and his lady. The crudely-drawn face reminded him ever-so-slightly of the Narcoleptic Argentinean, but without the tango dancer's smoldering elegance.

"It is not great literature; I will grant you that. But, it is an income."

Distant church bells chimed the twelve o'clock hour. Monsieur Guerre pulled out his gold pocket watch, nearly as big around as Christian's palm, and checked it against the tolling bells. He replaced the timepiece in his vest pocket and set a cream-colored business card on the desk in front of Christian.

Christian noticed his hand shook slightly when he picked up the card, and hoped the man across the desk didn't notice it, too. It was awful, this stuff, a mockery of all his ideas and aspirations. He wanted to fling the card in the man's face—how dare you even think I should lower myself in this manner—

But...but..he gripped the card tightly and noted the publisher's ample physique. It would be nice to have a decent meal on the table for once, the boy reflected. Food costs, and Satine's medicines cost, and coal for the stove costs, and everything is so dear when you haven't an income.

Christian searched for words, and swallowed...hard.

"Think on it, young man. Now, if you will excuse me," Monsieur Guerre rose from his seat, Christian's cue to leave. "I have another appointment"

"Yes, yes, of course. Thank you for seeing me. Merci." Christian mumbled distractedly, and rose a touch too quickly to be considered truly polite. He crossed the room and had his hand on the doorknob when he heard his name being called.

"Monsieur James? Monsieur James!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Monsieur--your story?" The publisher held out the manuscript that the boy had forgotten in his haste.

"Ah, yes, thank you. Merci" Christian tucked it under his arm. He hoped the burning flush he felt in his cheeks wasn't outwardly visible.

Monsieur Guerre also proffered the novel with the cowboy, the lady and the Mexican on its' cover. "Here, keep this; you might find it useful. Au revoir."

In the dim lobby Christian nearly collided into a dapper fellow about his own age, with sandy hair and a slender, finely-waxed mustache adorning his upper lip. The man was dressed in what looked to be the best Savile Row or its' imitators had to offer: a dove-grey wool suit, a matching bowler, a stiffly-starched and pressed blue-and-white striped shirt with a high collar, and a silk four-in-hand knotted about his throat. Black patent high-buttoned boots and immaculate kidskin spats completed the ensemble. In one gloved hand the gentleman carried a dark leather case that appeared to be heavily weighed down; with the other hand, he tipped his hat slightly in Christian's direction. "Pardon, monsieur."

A member of the "stable", Christian guessed.

"Entre, Michael, entre!" Monsieur Guerre's suddenly-cheerful voice floated out from behind his desk. Christian took in the other writer's elegant garb and shining shoes as "Michael" swept past him and closed the office door.

The boy then found himself alone except for the receptionist, who sat behind a small desk. She was young, younger than Satine, perhaps. Then again, Satine had aged so much, lately, it was difficult for him to tell such things anymore. The young woman's simple blouse and skirt were far more modest than the publisher or the writer's fine, expensive suits. Her's was a bright face, round and pink; her blond hair was upswept in the latest fashion, and her delicate chin rested on curved fingers. She smiled at the young poet, sympathetically it seemed to him.

She was pretty--very pretty--

He ran out of the room, down the stairs and to the street, not minding the puddles left over from the morning's rain or the old women who cursed him when he bumped into them, and causedthem to spill eggs or apples from their baskets. He ran all the way home, and stopped only when he got to the door of the garret. Only then did he wonder how his trousers had gotten so damp and muddy, and where did that egg yolk on his shoes come from? Only then did he glance down at the already-creased and sweat-stained business card in his hand, then at the lurid novel cradled in his arm atop his own rejected and nearly-abandoned story, then back at the card again.

A mockery, a mockery of his art, of his ideas...

But...but...

"How did it go, Christian?" Satine queried when he finally entered the room. She stood on the balcony overlooking the Moulin; her dark silk dress had clung revealingly to her corseted figure in better days, but now hung sack-like from her emaciated frame. The late afternoon light seemed to pass through her paper-thin skin to reveal the bones in her hands, like those new-fangled x-ray machines he'd heard about from the last World's Fair.

Tiny pieces of bread were scattered on the balcony before her, greedily snatched up by a crowd of twittering sparrows and cooing pigeons. She broke off a piece for herself scarcely larger than those she served her winged friends, and nibbled on it slowly as she took in his rumpled appearance.

"I—I—" He thought to scold her for the waste of food but couldn't get the words to come out properly. Later, after I've had a chance to sit down and collect my thoughts, after I've had a drink, then I'll speak to her about it--

"Did you have to splash in every puddle along the way?" Her teasing tone barely hid her annoyance. "I just washed that suit the other day, you know."

"I—I—"

"Oh, never mind, I'll wash it again." She tugged the jacket and waistcoat off of him. "You don't have any appointments tomorrow, do you? I hope not—it takes two full days for your suit to dry. You really ought to be more careful."

"I—I—"

"So tell me, how did it go today? Not very well, I take it, hmm? That's all right; every man who says 'no' brings you one step closer to the man who will say 'yes'. Just remember that, and--" She cocked her right brow as he stared at her. "The tiger really has got your tongue, hasn't it?"

"'C-cat,' "he managed to sputter out.

"Cat, tiger—it's all the same, isn't it?"

Two spots of rouge bloomed, harsh and florid, on her pale, gaunt cheeks. He couldn't help but notice. And he couldn't help but remember the healthy flush of the receptionist's face, as lovely as a bouquet of summer tea roses.

"Whatever's the matter? Christian?"

--a decent meal on the table—

He searched, once again, for the right words, and swallowed...hard.

And on Sundays—

On Sunday mornings the young poet's best brown suit hung from a hook above the stove, drying slowly, so that it might begin life anew on Monday. Satine washed it by hand on Saturdays in the modest copper tub that they also bathed in and kept hidden under her bed when not in use. Or at least she gave the job her best effort, until the task wore her out and he took over. Bachelorhood had forced him to pick up basic housekeeping skills such laundering and cooking, and such skills were coming in handy now caring for himself and a sickly lover.

On Sunday mornings, Christian crawled out of his cot and allowed himself the lazy indulgence of climbing into Satine's bed, while the sun painted the walls with a fresh coat of golden color. The iron bedstead creaked and complained as Satine shifted over on the mattress and her poor poet settled in next to her. He buried his face against thin breasts that could not have suckled a child much less a grown man, and tried to ignore the sharpness of her ribs beneath his hands.

"Please, Christian, don't..." She squirmed uncomfortably against his embrace.

"Sorry, didn't mean to disturb you." He pulled away abruptly. "Do you want me to go?"

"No, dear, I want you not to hold me quite so tight as that. I can almost feel my ribs crack!" She gave an embarrassed half-laugh, as if her own fragile mortality was some sort of joke.

The bronze bells of Sacre Coeur rang out their clarion call to the cathedral's flock--the faithful, the dutiful, and the guilt-ridden alike. Satine sighed, and coughed the morning's first cough.

Christian tried to ignore that, too.

Moulin Rouge! and it's characters © 2001 Baz Luhrmann, Craig Pierce and 20th Century Fox. Fairy Tale No Longer original plot bunnies and characters © 2003 Janice M. Janostak.

Credits: "Make Way for Oedipus" by William Butler Yeats—yes, I changed "Oedipus" to "Orpheus" to suit the purposes of the story. (Blame Mr. Luhrmann and his "Orphean myth". Don't blame me. My apologies to the author, however.)

Dedications: For "Lady McClellan" for being such a wonderful beta, editor and friend, and helping make this chapter much stronger than it was originally! For Yvi, for providing the initial inspiration (see dedications in previous chapters). For Norah, Lecky, Kelsey, Cinna, and Nicole G. for the unending love and support. And for all my readers and reviewers, who prevent me from giving up on this madness.