Chapter 2: The Lies of Theater
Paris was a city that never slept, but sunrise the following morning found the city as silent and calm as ever, and the first rays of sunlight fell uninterrupted on the cobblestone roads and sidewalks. Light crept gradually and gently through curtains and windows, even those tightly shut like those in the apartment of the young writer. The sudden intrusion of day break on the writer caused him to stir and groan from where he lay slumped over his typewriter. He opened his eyes slowly and squinted at the sheets of paper that lay before him. After returning from the bar he had written the second act of his latest play and started on the third before sleep finally claimed him. Glancing over what he had written, he realized that he had been more affected by the absinthe than he had thought, and crumbled up the pages and let them fall to join his other discarded scenes on the floor of the apartment. He retired to his bed in frustration, laying on his back and wincing against the ache that was starting to pound in his head. He heard the first of the early morning fruit-sellers begin their rounds and sighed, stuffing his head under his pillow to catch some much needed sleep.
When the writer woke next, the position of the sun in the sky revealed that it was early afternoon, and he could hear the bustle of activity that occurred outside of his window, and the voices of children at play almost made him smile. Almost. He forced himself to get out of bed and looked to see if he had anything edible in the apartment. Too much absinthe always made him hungry. It had the same effect on her, once. He continued rummaging through his cabinets with a pained look on his face. Even damned hangovers reminded him of her. He found half of a loaf of bread that was only partly stale and sat on the counter, for lack of chairs in the kitchen, ripping off pieces of the bread and eating them slowly. He reflected for a moment on the glamorous, bohemian life that he lived and nearly smiled again, this time in irony.
The bread was gone soon enough, and Christian returned to his desk, picking up his pen and twirling it uselessly in between his fingers. He weighed his options for the day. He could sit and write, which would have been ideal, except the words simply would not come. He had to write if he wanted to live, and maybe, just maybe, he did not want to live badly enough. When writing was impossible, he slept, but sleep meant dreams, and dreams always ended, leaving him with thoughts of her that plagued his mind and made surviving so much harder. Rather than sleeping, he tried to write, something, anything, and often the day ended with only short poems unworthy of publication, usually describing a detail of her that he missed more than he realized until the poem had been written.
Christian's melancholy and self-pitying train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a knock on the door of the apartment. He was startled and did not move, but looked at the door. He knew that he had paid his rent, and was at a loss at who would possibly come to find him. He knew next to no one in Paris, and he had made sure that those he did know would not be able to find him. The knocking grew more persistent, and instead of ignoring the incessant pounding, curiosity got the best of him and he rose to his feet and opened the door.
His eyes rose in surprise and distaste as a man he had not seen in quite some time shoved his way into the apartment and shut the door behind him. Christian was so shocked that he did not speak or move, but after he recovered his voice, he swung the door back open forcefully and said, his voice low and threatening, "Get out, Zidler." The tall, brazen man turned around with a flourish, and looked as if he were about to force a lighthearted laugh, but his exaggerated grin faded when he saw the poisonous look on Christian's face.
"I've come to talk business," he said flatly, his feet planted where he was in the middle of the room.
"I don't want your work," Christian said, his hand holding the door open.
"You need it," Zidler replied, and glanced around the apartment. "You're living like an animal, and from the looks of you, you're starving yourself. You have great talent and you're letting it slip away."
"Perhaps I once had great talent, yes, but I do not do the work I used to. I write tragedies now," he said, and tragedy was written all over his face.
"Christian, she wouldn't have wanted this. You know it. All I'm asking is that you consider this commission. It's not for me. I'm merely an agent now, a manager. It's for the opening show of a new theater. It will not be another Spectacular, Spectacular. The owner is a young man, rich, and in pursuit of the bohemian ideals. He wants something multi-faceted, a musical, but with both heart, depth, and pain. I don't know another man that could write such a show."
"My life has had both heart, depth, and pain, and it would not make a show that many people would enjoy watching. Because it's the truth and theater is nothing but a lie!"
"It all doesn't have to be a lie, Christian! Spectacular, Spectacular wasn't! The courtesan chose the sitar player. She chose you! Perhaps the happy ending was much more short-lived than any of us would have wanted, but it was happy, and so were you. For a brief moment you were both happy together; it's the truth and you know it. Snap out of it, Christian, leave this apartment, leave these tragedies, and look to the future!" Zidler grew increasingly impassioned as he spoke, waving his arms, his face flushing, sweat collecting on his brow.
Christian turned away and walked the length of the room, his eyes cast downward, thinking. He looked up at the man, studying him, trying to see if the years had changed him as well. He had cared about Satine, somehow, but he had cared about the money she made him more than her well-being and happiness. He looked older now and somehow more honest, but Christian could not and would not forget the lies he had told and the pain he had caused. Satine's death had been inevitable, but Zidler had not been honest with either of them, and her best interests had not been in his heart.
"Why should I listen to you? All you cared about back then was money and business. Have you changed at all?" Christian asked.
"You were once hopeful and bright, now you are dark and depressed. Is that not proof enough that a man can become the opposite of what he once was?"
"That doesn't answer my question."
"You're still sharp, at any rate," Zidler replied, smiling. "There's more to me than profits and success, it's true. I'm married now and my wife is expecting our first child in half a year's time." His face softened, to Christian's surprise. "Being somewhat of an honest man has changed many of my perspectives. But," he paused and his smile widened to a grin, "I still know a great deal about what makes a good show. And I think that the success of this endeavor would be quite appropriate. That is, if we have a writer who is good enough." He stopped and it became quite clear that he was waiting for Christian's reply.
"When is the show set to debut?" Christian asked after a lengthy silence.
"If all goes well, the owner and I hope to open the show and the theater consecutively, in about nine months."
Christian's eyes widened. "Very ambitious of you."
"I know you can write a show that quickly. And with your musical direction, the actors can learn the pieces and perform the impeccably by opening night."
"I haven't written anything remotely 'happy' in five years," Christian said quietly.
"I think you will find a change in subject somewhat refreshing," Zidler shot back after a beat, almost prompting Christian to smile.
"Where will you find your actors?" He asked, trying not to sound too interested.
"We have somewhat of an ensemble assembled. A few old faces from the Moulin Rouge, though many new ones too. Theater is changing. It's not just a bohemian thing anymore. And we have our star. She's very different, you'll find." Zidler's voice took on a gentler tone when he spoke about the alleged "star," and Christian raised his eyebrow in question.
"You'll meet her soon. I believe she will prove to be quite inspirational."
"No," Christian said flatly, his fists curling into tight angry balls at his side. "I won't do this. You think you can lure me in with the promise of a whore to love me, but it won't work. It's not how it was! Can no one understand? The only person who understands is gone and she's never coming back. All I ask is to be left alone and still you find me and make a mockery of me, proving by your very words that you are so far from understanding. Get out of here Zidler, get the hell out." His voice rose to a yell and gradually decreased in volume, until his last command was more of an animalistic growl than the demand of a man.
"Christian, that's not what I meant! You're taking this too far, I'm not mocking you, I merely want to convince you that this show will be different than any other," Zidler protested as Christian forcibly removed him from the apartment. "She's a young girl, a legitimate actress, she deserves a writer like you! She's not like her, Christian!" He continued shouting once he stood in the hallway, the closed door separating him from Christian.
Christian locked the door, as if that action could prevent Zidler's words from penetrating into his brain. He was interested now and he hated that, he hated the fact that he considered, even for a second, becoming part of this production. He felt so physically sick that he thrust his head out the open window and took a deep breath of fresh air. The thought occurred to him that getting out of the apartment and working with other people could be like this breath of air, and then he shook his head to clear the thought. He couldn't perpetuate the endless lies of the theater. His plays were painfully truthful, and that was why they were hardly bought or performed. Those that were performed were attended and appreciated by only a handful of people. He slammed his hand against the window sill. He would continue to write his failures of plays and probably starve. He had once been willing to starve for the sake of love, and now he would do so for the sake of truth. That belief would have to be enough to live for, until death finally claimed him.
Christian found that death was undiscriminating and unforgiving. It could stay away from the very old seemingly mysteriously, but take a newborn babe seconds after its first breath. It could steal away a young woman, in the prime of her life, before she had the chance to experience true, liberating happiness. It could refuse to accept a wretched, broken man and render every day a living hell, simply by the fact that the man was still living. That was the way of life, death, and the world. There weren't enough plays written about the painful fact of living. Feeling refreshed and relatively inspired, Christian sat down at his desk and began another play that he would not finish, this time about the irony of a man who wished for death but instead received eternal life.