Anya walked into what must be the dirtiest room in Monmarte. And the smallest. This was where she was to achieve a glamorous life? The very slums of Monmarte? It was the only chance she had. She had to make a living somehow. And if being a prostitute was the way to do it, Anya didn't care.
The room was extremely narrow, the wooden, decaying door on the side of a dark alley. The roof was decaying as well, small droplets of water falling on the ground. There were several bunk beds aligned on the sides.
Some women were on them, reading magazines, or staring at Anya. On the walls, there were posters from the Moulin Rouge hung. There were also costumes hung on racks. Feathers, can-can skirts.
Anya made her way to the back, holding up her purple skirt. Her light purple heels wobbled as she walked in the tight spaces. She made her way to the end of the room. This is where Harold had told her to meet him.
Anya tucked her flowing red hair behind her ears. Her blue eyes sparkled with all the lights that hung on the ceiling. I guess electricity is the only thing Harold can afford. She thought to herself.
After her first meeting with Harold, he immediately phoned her and told her to go meet up with him right away. She didn't know why.
Anya reached the end of the room.
Harold, who was a very pudgy man with a thick red beard, and curly red hair that was very frizzy, sat at a cheap wooden desk. His hands were folded.
"Anya…I have someone you should meet."
Christian blinked and walked away from the window. "I'm going to see her." He decided, speaking softly to himself. Christian walked towards the hole in the ceiling. Even thought it was boarded up, he could still yell up to Toulouse.
"Toulouse, I'm leaving for a while. I'll be back." Christian yelled up. He waited for an answer.
"Toulouse?" There was no answer. Toulouse had left.
Harold never expected to see the Duke again. Ever. Especially after…Satine. Harold had stood up to the Duke. He had averted the Duke from killing Christian, and had given the Duke the unhappy ending. He thought the Duke would never show his face again. After Satine's death, the only contact they had was the Duke's letters signing the closure of the Moulin Rouge.
It was thanks to the Duke that Harold had to sell women in the slums of Monmarte.
Nevertheless, Harold was in a local bar, drinking another night away. He finally dragged his fat, drunken body up. Zidler left the bar; wandering the lonely, cold streets of Monmarte. Suddenly, he bumped thin little man with a long mustache wearing a very expensive coat. He also had manservant with him. Despite the rich and costly appearances, this man had looked tired and haggard. A faint stubble had formed on his chin and bottom of his face near his mustache.
Zidler couldn't see clearly, partly because of all of the drinks had made his eyesight cloudy, and there was only a faint glowing streetlight.
"Sorry." Zidler mumbled incoherently.
The man stood up a little taller, his face now illuminated in the light. Zidler looked up into his eyes. Zidler's eyes widened. It was the Duke. Zidler's senses became a little bit clearer now. Zidler turned to the manservant, with a big, bald head. It was Warner!
"Duke?" Zidler was afraid to say the words.
"Zidler. It's you." His snake-like voice said. The Duke was holding a cane, but it seemed to be worn. Just like his shoes. The Duke looked like money, as usual, but money that was slipping out of his fingers.
Zidler was stunned. How could he possibly talk to this man?
"I. . . I heard you were in Paris. At least-"
"Yes. It appears I've been having some…financial trouble. I'm here to collect any money I have left in my accounts here."
"I see." Zidler said quietly, hoping he could leave.
"Zidler...I hear you run a little business here?"
Zidler was skeptical. What did the Duke want with low-class prostitutes? Had the Duke really become washed up?
"Courtesans have proved to be too expensive. I suppose your rates have lowered?" The Duke chuckled to himself. Over what, Zidler was not sure. Zidler looked up at the Duke, unsure of what he was going to say next.
Zidler decided to speak first. "Well, yes. But Duke, nothing for your…tastes."
Why am I kissing his ass? Don't you remember what he did! Zidler thought to himself.
"Perhaps you can show someone to me. I'm in need of a bit of entertainment around here. Financial business, you know how it is."
Zidler tried to blink, trying to consume all this. But his head hurt too much. Instead, Zidler just nodded. He felt himself handing the Duke a card of his address.
The Duke nodded, walking away.
Zidler closed his eyes, wondering what he had just done.
What's done is done. At the end of the day, it's all business. The show must go on, was all he could think.