Chapter 4
"Mamma, am I a bad boy?" Gavin crept into Satine's bedroom where his mother was lying facedown upon her bed. He crawled up beside her and placed his little hands on her back. "Mamma?"
Satine looked at her son, her face stained red from crying. "No, darling, why do you ask that?"
"Mummy, you look different." Gavin looked up at her with incredulous eyes as though she were a goddess and said, in his sweet British accent, "You look pretty."
Her hair was again red.
There was a letter on her doorstep when Satine returned home from the theater that night. "The Shopkeeper's Daughter" had finished its successful run, and she'd been praised as "London's bonny Daisy." That was what they called her. Daisy. She was now working on another play, this one a drama entitled, "For the Roses." Satine played Isabelle Rose, the tragic heroine in a play that was much like her story with Christian.
Eagerly she tore it open and read the contents. In a slanted, decidedly male script, these words were written:
"Satine,
I don't know what I'm supposed to say or how I'm supposed to feel. You must forgive me for my outburst those few days ago. It was unreal, seeing you there at my door, looking like a ghost. Still I can't believe that you're actually alive.
Fate is a strange thing. It can bring us together or tear us apart. And I hope it isn't doing the latter.
I'm leaving London.
Christian."
On feet of air, Satine raced to her desk, tore a sheet of paper from the desk, and began to write.
"Christian," she began in her careful, looping cursive,
"I had no choice but to hear you. You stayed in your case time and again. I thought about it. You treated me like I'm a princess; I'm not used to lying in bed. You asked how my day was...
You've already won me over in spite of me. Don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet. Don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are. I couldn't help it; it's all your fault.
Your love was thick and it swallowed me whole. You're so much braver than I gave you credit for.
You are the bearer of unconditional things. You held your breath and the door for me. Thanks for your patience.
You're the best listener that I've ever met. You're my best friend...best friend with an effect. What took me so long? I've never felt this healthy before. I've never wanted something rational. I am aware now...I am aware now.
You've already won me over in spite of me. Don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet.
Satine."
It was time. Time for a new beginning, time to move on. Christian had packed his bags, given the landlady the keys to his flat, said farewell to the few people he had cared about in London. He was going to leave. Where? He didn't know. He would be transient, moving from place to place. It was clear she wanted him to go. She didn't want him in her life anymore. But oh, how he wanted her in his.
Looking about the empty flat, Christian envisioned her there in the doorway, her only word the whisper of his name.
She had been so beautiful.
So ghostlike.
Had it all been a dream? Was this just a crazy Absinthe-inspired flurry?
No.
It was real.
"For you, Sir." A young boy in knicker pants and a jaunty cap woke Christian from his reverie.
"Thank you." He took the small parcel from the boy's hands and gave him a few coins.
"G'bye, Sir." The child took the money greedily and raced down the flights of stairs.
It was a letter. Written in an all too familiar hand that had once scribbled secret notes to him. Scented with that musky rose-vanilla perfume she always used.
It was written in a sort of prose. Something he understood completely. She wanted him back. She wanted to start over again. Wipe the slate clean of all the past wrongs and right them. She wanted to love again.
"Why are you acting so giddy, Satine?" Marie cornered her adopted daughter in the hallway of Satine's apartment.
"Oh, nothing, Marie." She giggled and floated away like a lovesick schoolgirl, leaving Marie standing there utterly confused.
"She's up to something..." Marie muttered.
He couldn't find the courage to leave. Christian stayed. He stayed for her, for Gavin, for himself. Mainly for himself.
But he didn't call on her, didn't see her or her son in the market though he searched in vain for them, didn't write her another letter.
He walked at midnight.
They'd done that often.
She did the same thing.
Late at night, after Marie and Gavin were soundly asleep, Satine would rise, dress, and leave her apartment. She would walk London's empty streets, humming to herself in a dreamlike state. "I go out walking after midnight just like we used to do..."
Satine stumbled upon a children's playground. With a small whoop of joy, she ran to the swing and sat down upon it, pushing herself until she could touch the magenta-flowered chokecherry trees with her feet.
It felt like flying.
There was someone at the playground. Someone who was only a flash of vivid blues and deep, rich reds. He approached tentatively, not wanting to frighten the flying skirts and embarrass the poor woman. Christian hid (he'd never been good at hiding) pathetically behind a tree and watched the soaring figure on the swing.
Wait.
He'd seen that gorgeous creature on a swing before.
"Satine," he breathed, captivated as she slowed to a stop. In the moonlight, her ivory face was blue-tinted and her cheeks were flushed. Those azure eyes sparkled with childish delight while she laughed to herself and whirled about the trees, doing a mad waltz with an imaginary partner.
"May I join you, Mademoiselle?" He asked, revealing his poor hiding place. She gave a little gasp and stopped dancing, dropping her hands quickly to her sides and looking down at the ground. She kicked a pebble with her shoe and avoided meeting his eyes.
"Having fun?" He continued.
She nodded shyly and again looked down. Christian lifted her chin so her eyes were locked with his. "Dance with me."
"We have no music," Satine protested feebly.
"Has that stopped us before?" With his wide grin, he took her hands and hummed a Strauss tune, matching his steps to hers.
They waltzed without speaking for several minutes, neither knowing quite what to say. But after nearly ten minutes had passed, their dancing became clumsier and ridiculous. Both were weak with laughter when they'd finished, looking like two inexperienced teenagers at their first party.
Christian impulsively pulled Satine to his chest and kissed the top of her head. "I love you," he whispered.
She pulled away, took his hands, and looked him straight in the eye. With a quavering voice, she whispered, "Gavin is your son," and fled in a flash of blue skirts and flying red tresses.
He stood alone underneath a white-blossomed apple tree, staring at her fleeing figure in the moonlight.
The next night, he searched in vain for her at the playground. She wasn't there. No one had heard anything from London's bonny Daisy...not Marie, who was caring for Gavin when Christian stopped by to see his child (who was unaware that the nice man was his father). No one in her theater troupe had heard anything from her.
She'd just...vanished.
"Meet me in the red room. Lock the door and dim the lights."
That was all that was written on the tiny slip of paper he'd received in the mail. The Red Room. The elephant. The Moulin Rouge.
Impulsively, not caring what the consequences would be, Christian took the first train to Paris. The first train to her.
It felt almost foreign being back there after what had seemed like ages. The Moulin Rouge was just a reflection of what it had been. Nothing looked the way she'd remembered it. Satine swung open the doors that creaked loudly in protest and stepped inside the dark, dusty dance hall. Her feet, elegantly clad in brown leather heels, left marks on the once-shiny floor. It almost made her cry, seeing her beloved Moulin Rouge gone to pieces like this. There were bird's nests in corners. Tables and chairs were dilapidated and the majestic murals on the walls were beginning to fade.
And the elephant...fortunately, the elephant had been saved. Satine smiled softly, remembering how stupid she'd acted, rolling around like a crazy woman and screaming while Christian read his poetry. "How wonderful life is..." she whispered to herself. Her footsteps echoed throughout the great empty hall as she walked up to the Red Room. She lay on the dust-covered bed and looked up at the sky, thinking of her life prior to Christian, prior to Gavin, prior to everything that was so important to her now.
When he saw the footprints leading to the elephant, his heart nearly jumped into his throat. The lights were on in the elephant. Satine was there. He quickened his pace and almost ran up the stairs, through the legs, and to the stomach...the Red Room.
"Satine! Satine, my darling, my love..." He raced to her side and swept her into his arms.
She didn't pull away. She didn't act coldly. Satine responded eagerly to his fevered kisses. She pulled away for a moment, gasping for breath, and looked him in the eyes. "I love you." She whispered.
And, with all his heart, he whispered back, "I love you too."
THE END
(Aww, wasn't that sweet?)
"Mamma, am I a bad boy?" Gavin crept into Satine's bedroom where his mother was lying facedown upon her bed. He crawled up beside her and placed his little hands on her back. "Mamma?"
Satine looked at her son, her face stained red from crying. "No, darling, why do you ask that?"
"Mummy, you look different." Gavin looked up at her with incredulous eyes as though she were a goddess and said, in his sweet British accent, "You look pretty."
Her hair was again red.
There was a letter on her doorstep when Satine returned home from the theater that night. "The Shopkeeper's Daughter" had finished its successful run, and she'd been praised as "London's bonny Daisy." That was what they called her. Daisy. She was now working on another play, this one a drama entitled, "For the Roses." Satine played Isabelle Rose, the tragic heroine in a play that was much like her story with Christian.
Eagerly she tore it open and read the contents. In a slanted, decidedly male script, these words were written:
"Satine,
I don't know what I'm supposed to say or how I'm supposed to feel. You must forgive me for my outburst those few days ago. It was unreal, seeing you there at my door, looking like a ghost. Still I can't believe that you're actually alive.
Fate is a strange thing. It can bring us together or tear us apart. And I hope it isn't doing the latter.
I'm leaving London.
Christian."
On feet of air, Satine raced to her desk, tore a sheet of paper from the desk, and began to write.
"Christian," she began in her careful, looping cursive,
"I had no choice but to hear you. You stayed in your case time and again. I thought about it. You treated me like I'm a princess; I'm not used to lying in bed. You asked how my day was...
You've already won me over in spite of me. Don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet. Don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are. I couldn't help it; it's all your fault.
Your love was thick and it swallowed me whole. You're so much braver than I gave you credit for.
You are the bearer of unconditional things. You held your breath and the door for me. Thanks for your patience.
You're the best listener that I've ever met. You're my best friend...best friend with an effect. What took me so long? I've never felt this healthy before. I've never wanted something rational. I am aware now...I am aware now.
You've already won me over in spite of me. Don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet.
Satine."
It was time. Time for a new beginning, time to move on. Christian had packed his bags, given the landlady the keys to his flat, said farewell to the few people he had cared about in London. He was going to leave. Where? He didn't know. He would be transient, moving from place to place. It was clear she wanted him to go. She didn't want him in her life anymore. But oh, how he wanted her in his.
Looking about the empty flat, Christian envisioned her there in the doorway, her only word the whisper of his name.
She had been so beautiful.
So ghostlike.
Had it all been a dream? Was this just a crazy Absinthe-inspired flurry?
No.
It was real.
"For you, Sir." A young boy in knicker pants and a jaunty cap woke Christian from his reverie.
"Thank you." He took the small parcel from the boy's hands and gave him a few coins.
"G'bye, Sir." The child took the money greedily and raced down the flights of stairs.
It was a letter. Written in an all too familiar hand that had once scribbled secret notes to him. Scented with that musky rose-vanilla perfume she always used.
It was written in a sort of prose. Something he understood completely. She wanted him back. She wanted to start over again. Wipe the slate clean of all the past wrongs and right them. She wanted to love again.
"Why are you acting so giddy, Satine?" Marie cornered her adopted daughter in the hallway of Satine's apartment.
"Oh, nothing, Marie." She giggled and floated away like a lovesick schoolgirl, leaving Marie standing there utterly confused.
"She's up to something..." Marie muttered.
He couldn't find the courage to leave. Christian stayed. He stayed for her, for Gavin, for himself. Mainly for himself.
But he didn't call on her, didn't see her or her son in the market though he searched in vain for them, didn't write her another letter.
He walked at midnight.
They'd done that often.
She did the same thing.
Late at night, after Marie and Gavin were soundly asleep, Satine would rise, dress, and leave her apartment. She would walk London's empty streets, humming to herself in a dreamlike state. "I go out walking after midnight just like we used to do..."
Satine stumbled upon a children's playground. With a small whoop of joy, she ran to the swing and sat down upon it, pushing herself until she could touch the magenta-flowered chokecherry trees with her feet.
It felt like flying.
There was someone at the playground. Someone who was only a flash of vivid blues and deep, rich reds. He approached tentatively, not wanting to frighten the flying skirts and embarrass the poor woman. Christian hid (he'd never been good at hiding) pathetically behind a tree and watched the soaring figure on the swing.
Wait.
He'd seen that gorgeous creature on a swing before.
"Satine," he breathed, captivated as she slowed to a stop. In the moonlight, her ivory face was blue-tinted and her cheeks were flushed. Those azure eyes sparkled with childish delight while she laughed to herself and whirled about the trees, doing a mad waltz with an imaginary partner.
"May I join you, Mademoiselle?" He asked, revealing his poor hiding place. She gave a little gasp and stopped dancing, dropping her hands quickly to her sides and looking down at the ground. She kicked a pebble with her shoe and avoided meeting his eyes.
"Having fun?" He continued.
She nodded shyly and again looked down. Christian lifted her chin so her eyes were locked with his. "Dance with me."
"We have no music," Satine protested feebly.
"Has that stopped us before?" With his wide grin, he took her hands and hummed a Strauss tune, matching his steps to hers.
They waltzed without speaking for several minutes, neither knowing quite what to say. But after nearly ten minutes had passed, their dancing became clumsier and ridiculous. Both were weak with laughter when they'd finished, looking like two inexperienced teenagers at their first party.
Christian impulsively pulled Satine to his chest and kissed the top of her head. "I love you," he whispered.
She pulled away, took his hands, and looked him straight in the eye. With a quavering voice, she whispered, "Gavin is your son," and fled in a flash of blue skirts and flying red tresses.
He stood alone underneath a white-blossomed apple tree, staring at her fleeing figure in the moonlight.
The next night, he searched in vain for her at the playground. She wasn't there. No one had heard anything from London's bonny Daisy...not Marie, who was caring for Gavin when Christian stopped by to see his child (who was unaware that the nice man was his father). No one in her theater troupe had heard anything from her.
She'd just...vanished.
"Meet me in the red room. Lock the door and dim the lights."
That was all that was written on the tiny slip of paper he'd received in the mail. The Red Room. The elephant. The Moulin Rouge.
Impulsively, not caring what the consequences would be, Christian took the first train to Paris. The first train to her.
It felt almost foreign being back there after what had seemed like ages. The Moulin Rouge was just a reflection of what it had been. Nothing looked the way she'd remembered it. Satine swung open the doors that creaked loudly in protest and stepped inside the dark, dusty dance hall. Her feet, elegantly clad in brown leather heels, left marks on the once-shiny floor. It almost made her cry, seeing her beloved Moulin Rouge gone to pieces like this. There were bird's nests in corners. Tables and chairs were dilapidated and the majestic murals on the walls were beginning to fade.
And the elephant...fortunately, the elephant had been saved. Satine smiled softly, remembering how stupid she'd acted, rolling around like a crazy woman and screaming while Christian read his poetry. "How wonderful life is..." she whispered to herself. Her footsteps echoed throughout the great empty hall as she walked up to the Red Room. She lay on the dust-covered bed and looked up at the sky, thinking of her life prior to Christian, prior to Gavin, prior to everything that was so important to her now.
When he saw the footprints leading to the elephant, his heart nearly jumped into his throat. The lights were on in the elephant. Satine was there. He quickened his pace and almost ran up the stairs, through the legs, and to the stomach...the Red Room.
"Satine! Satine, my darling, my love..." He raced to her side and swept her into his arms.
She didn't pull away. She didn't act coldly. Satine responded eagerly to his fevered kisses. She pulled away for a moment, gasping for breath, and looked him in the eyes. "I love you." She whispered.
And, with all his heart, he whispered back, "I love you too."
THE END
(Aww, wasn't that sweet?)