Requiem
Dedicated to: Nita, Mita, Dita, and Lita, my Red Room Rubies! I PROMISE I'LL TRY TO WRITE!
The smell of the Moulin Rouge was intoxicating. Exotic flowers festooned every open space; heavy hothouse orchids meshed with pristine white lilies; roses with their dizzying fragrance overpowered the dainty daisies. Vibrant irises contrasted against the bright pink of the sweet peonies.
Everyone, everyone who mattered in the Moulin Rouge Underworld, had sent their consolation to the Diamond Dogs, to Harold, to Marie. They'd lost their Sparkling Diamond.
Not one sent anything to the poor writer who sobbed uncontrollably in his garret.
I was there. I sat unbeknownst to everyone in the back of the theater, the makeshift chapel for Satine's funeral. They wouldn't bury her in the church, they said. She was an unholy angel, unholy in profession but not in soul, mind, or body. The rain poured steadily from the gray clouds, more profusely than the tears that gathered in so many eyes.
The pallbearers, the strong but fading Moulin Rouge dancing boys, brought in the casket. Oh, it was magnificent. Zidler had spared no expense on his precious Diamond. Rich, gleaming mahogany with real gold inlay, red velvet lining the interior.
Satine, in her final sleep inside of it, was lighter than air. When they laid her down very gently, the dark skinned man wiped away the tears that were flowing freely down his cheeks and let his hand graze her fragile skin. She was all in white; Marie had dressed her diamond one last time. In her flowing red hair, perfect white lilies-of-the-valley were twined. She smiled serenely in death, slender, pale hands crossed across her heart. And in the hollow of her throat lay a tiny gold necklace with the tiniest chip of a diamond embedded in it.
He was there. The Duke of Monroth. He sat before the coffin holding "his property," looking like a satisfied rabbit. If he couldn't have Satine, then no one could. My blood boiled to see him sitting there so arrogantly. I wanted to. . .oh, I wanted to do things to him that a proper lady wouldn't dream of doing, I hated him so. For truly, he had killed Satine.
A woman with the most luxurious black hair, her face devoid of the makeup so often worn by the Diamond Dogs, impeccable features covered by the light black veil she wore, stood and went to the piano. She played with trembling fingers as more and more guests filtered through, and I had to tear my eyes from her to watch the arriving mourners.
A group of men with haggard faces and glazed-over eyes sat down a few rows ahead of me. They looked tired, worn, hapless, melancholy. The little man with the walking stick dabbed at his eyes constantly, whispering "Poor Cwistian" every so often. The others seemed to be in a daze. I could detect the influence of the powerful Bohemian drug, absinthe. I feared that these men had been dancing with the Green Fairy far too long.
The girls, Zidler's Diamond Dogs, all but one weeping into their handkerchiefs, came next. They were a cloud of black, the only colors being their magnificent hair. Only one was dry-eyed. The young woman with the icy blue eyes and shining black hair looked back at me and fleetingly, I saw a touch of tenderness pass through her face. She looked aloof but sorrowful, like a woman who had done something terrible. But nobody could forgive her now.
Everyone knew it. This was the end. The end of the glamour and glitz of the Moulin Rouge, the end of the Belle Époque, the end of Bohemianism and the end of Montmartre as we all knew it. Everything, everything, everything had died along with Satine. It was all going into the grave with her.
And then, the final guests entered the makeshift chapel. Harold and Marie Zidler, in the darkest of blacks, sat beside their "family" of whores and dancers. Harold, a graying man with eyes that used to glow like the fable of Santa Claus, was now wailing into the arms of his wife. "Where is he?" I heard him whisper. "She can't. . .she can't go without him here."
There were no upper-class men, men who'd probably used Satine's favors, paid for her love, seated in the Moulin Rouge.
The woman at the piano stopped her playing. There was silence for a moment, all eyes on the casket of Satine, a shuddering silence. Harold had regained his composure, and he stood to speak. Standing behind the coffin that held the body of Satine, he wiped at his eyes one more time before finding his voice.
"I stand here before you a repentant man. This is all my fault. I. . .I killed Satine. Yes, I killed her. I who loved her as my daughter. For it was I who brought her into this wretched profession.
Satine was a woman everyone loved. You could not be around her without falling under her spell. Most of you knew her solely as the Sparkling Diamond, the talented young woman who could sing and dance better than anyone. That was Satine, yes. But Satine the woman, not Satine the courtesan, was a completely different person. She was young at heart, almost naïve. She loved to read; she buried herself in literature and tried to write poetry. Satine longed to get away from here. She wanted to be like the great Sarah Bernhardt.
And I kept her here, a beautiful bird in a gilded cage. I kept her from flying, and I'm sorry. I tried to keep her from falling in love, from living the life she deserved."
He turned to her casket, tears running freely down his face. For a moment we watched through our tears as he kissed her softly and whispered loudly, "I'm sorry, Satine. I love you."
And then another wail shook his body, and the chocolate-skinned man went up to help Harold hobble back to his seat.
Marie stood, dabbing at her eyes. "We at the Moulin Rouge all have our stories of Satine. To tell them all would take us several weeks. We all loved her so, and together we wrote a letter to her. Hopefully, wherever her spirit is, she's listening right now. Nini?"
The woman with the icy blue eyes, Nini, walked slowly to the coffin, her heels clacking loudly in the silence of the room.
"Satine," she spoke, her voice quavering. "You never knew how much we loved you. You never knew how important you were to all of us. We couldn't have made it without your kindness, your grace, and your love for each of us. You treated us like family, yet you thought we didn't return your love. Oh, Satine, we did."
She paused a moment to clear her throat and wipe at her eyes. Then she spoke again. "Especially me. I didn't show it. You thought I hated you. In a way, I did. You were always the center of attention, the prettiest, the smartest, and the most talented. And you were all three. Though I made cutting remarks, said some things I didn't mean, made myself believe I hated you, I know now that I didn't. Satine. . .I loved you. Satine, I'm sorry for everything. And Satine? I'll. . .I'll miss you."
She, too, was overcome with emotion and had to sit down.
Christian couldn't bring himself to leave his garret. He sat outside on the balcony, staring down at the Moulin Rouge. They were mourning the death of HIS Diamond, his one and only true love, the only woman he'd ever love. She wasn't coming back. They couldn't reconcile this time, for she was dead. But her last thoughts, her last moments, had been with him, and that gave him peace. The rain soaked his skin but he didn't care. Christian hoped he'd catch fatal pneumonia so he could die too.
"You've got to go on, Christian. You've got to go on…"
Always would those words linger.
Somehow, he found the courage to stand and to walk to the Moulin Rouge. He had to pay his last respects to his dead Diamond, his darling, beautiful Satine. Christian was numb to any feeling other than the conflict of love and sadness.
No one heard the door open. No one but the girl with the sad blue eyes that looked up slightly when he entered and sat down, dripping wet, in the back of the theater. Christian's eyes traveled down the aisle to glimpse his love in her death-sleep, but they stopped when he saw him. The Duke. Rage made him clench his fists and pound them on his shaking knees.
China Doll touched the keys of the piano again, bringing music into the sorrow-blanketed Moulin Rouge. The chords, those eerie, wistful chords she was playing, sent a glorious shock of inspiration into Christian's heart. He stood and silently walked down the aisle as she played, going to the side of Satine's casket. She was an angelic vision of white, white flowers in her shimmering hair, and the necklace, that necklace he'd scraped and saved to buy for her, rested on her neck, a final token of their love.
We all watched as the sopping young man went to her side and touched her face. The woman at the piano kept playing, and unbeknownst to us, the young man was singing softly to the body of Satine.
"Some say love, it is a river, that drowns the tender reed," sang Christian, voice strong.
"Some say love, it is a razor, that leaves your heart to bleed." His voice was gaining power now, reverberating throughout the Moulin Rouge.
"Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless, aching need," still he gazed at her peaceful face, taking in what would be his last glimpse of Satine for a long while.
"I say love, it is a flower, and you it's only seed."
The Duke of Monroth squirmed in his seat. Always that damned writer showing up and ruining everything! He thought he'd ruined the boy forever! But no, there he was, dripping wet, sending rivulets of water across the shining floor to the Duke's feet. Always a way to taint him. Always coming back.
"It's the heart afraid of breaking that never learns to dance," sang Christian to Satine. Who knew what was going on in his mind? Toulouse knew; Christian was seeing the first day he'd met Satine. Nini knew; Christian was falling in love with her again. Harold knew; Christian was experiencing her kiss for the first time. Marie knew; the explosion of fireworks when you fall in love. And I knew; he was feeling her spirit right there beside him.
"It's the dream, afraid of waking, that never takes the chance.
It's the one who won't be taken, who cannot seem to give.
And the soul, afraid of dying, that never learns to live."
He was staring at the Duke of Monroth now. An icy, hating stare that bored through the heartless man, who shrunk away like a frightened mouse.
"When the night has been too lonely, and the road has been too long," sang Nini, coming up beside Christian, who looked surprised.
"And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong," he added, smiling a bit at her.
"Just remember in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows," Nini sang softly along with China Doll's beautiful piano playing.
"Lies the seed, that with the sun's love, in the spring becomes the rose."
Christian kissed Satine one last time and whispered, "Come what may" into her ear before gently shutting the coffin. The Duke of Monroth was gone.
And I, watching this scene with tears clouding my vision, smiled, for in death my sister was happy.
THE END
Dedicated to: Nita, Mita, Dita, and Lita, my Red Room Rubies! I PROMISE I'LL TRY TO WRITE!
The smell of the Moulin Rouge was intoxicating. Exotic flowers festooned every open space; heavy hothouse orchids meshed with pristine white lilies; roses with their dizzying fragrance overpowered the dainty daisies. Vibrant irises contrasted against the bright pink of the sweet peonies.
Everyone, everyone who mattered in the Moulin Rouge Underworld, had sent their consolation to the Diamond Dogs, to Harold, to Marie. They'd lost their Sparkling Diamond.
Not one sent anything to the poor writer who sobbed uncontrollably in his garret.
I was there. I sat unbeknownst to everyone in the back of the theater, the makeshift chapel for Satine's funeral. They wouldn't bury her in the church, they said. She was an unholy angel, unholy in profession but not in soul, mind, or body. The rain poured steadily from the gray clouds, more profusely than the tears that gathered in so many eyes.
The pallbearers, the strong but fading Moulin Rouge dancing boys, brought in the casket. Oh, it was magnificent. Zidler had spared no expense on his precious Diamond. Rich, gleaming mahogany with real gold inlay, red velvet lining the interior.
Satine, in her final sleep inside of it, was lighter than air. When they laid her down very gently, the dark skinned man wiped away the tears that were flowing freely down his cheeks and let his hand graze her fragile skin. She was all in white; Marie had dressed her diamond one last time. In her flowing red hair, perfect white lilies-of-the-valley were twined. She smiled serenely in death, slender, pale hands crossed across her heart. And in the hollow of her throat lay a tiny gold necklace with the tiniest chip of a diamond embedded in it.
He was there. The Duke of Monroth. He sat before the coffin holding "his property," looking like a satisfied rabbit. If he couldn't have Satine, then no one could. My blood boiled to see him sitting there so arrogantly. I wanted to. . .oh, I wanted to do things to him that a proper lady wouldn't dream of doing, I hated him so. For truly, he had killed Satine.
A woman with the most luxurious black hair, her face devoid of the makeup so often worn by the Diamond Dogs, impeccable features covered by the light black veil she wore, stood and went to the piano. She played with trembling fingers as more and more guests filtered through, and I had to tear my eyes from her to watch the arriving mourners.
A group of men with haggard faces and glazed-over eyes sat down a few rows ahead of me. They looked tired, worn, hapless, melancholy. The little man with the walking stick dabbed at his eyes constantly, whispering "Poor Cwistian" every so often. The others seemed to be in a daze. I could detect the influence of the powerful Bohemian drug, absinthe. I feared that these men had been dancing with the Green Fairy far too long.
The girls, Zidler's Diamond Dogs, all but one weeping into their handkerchiefs, came next. They were a cloud of black, the only colors being their magnificent hair. Only one was dry-eyed. The young woman with the icy blue eyes and shining black hair looked back at me and fleetingly, I saw a touch of tenderness pass through her face. She looked aloof but sorrowful, like a woman who had done something terrible. But nobody could forgive her now.
Everyone knew it. This was the end. The end of the glamour and glitz of the Moulin Rouge, the end of the Belle Époque, the end of Bohemianism and the end of Montmartre as we all knew it. Everything, everything, everything had died along with Satine. It was all going into the grave with her.
And then, the final guests entered the makeshift chapel. Harold and Marie Zidler, in the darkest of blacks, sat beside their "family" of whores and dancers. Harold, a graying man with eyes that used to glow like the fable of Santa Claus, was now wailing into the arms of his wife. "Where is he?" I heard him whisper. "She can't. . .she can't go without him here."
There were no upper-class men, men who'd probably used Satine's favors, paid for her love, seated in the Moulin Rouge.
The woman at the piano stopped her playing. There was silence for a moment, all eyes on the casket of Satine, a shuddering silence. Harold had regained his composure, and he stood to speak. Standing behind the coffin that held the body of Satine, he wiped at his eyes one more time before finding his voice.
"I stand here before you a repentant man. This is all my fault. I. . .I killed Satine. Yes, I killed her. I who loved her as my daughter. For it was I who brought her into this wretched profession.
Satine was a woman everyone loved. You could not be around her without falling under her spell. Most of you knew her solely as the Sparkling Diamond, the talented young woman who could sing and dance better than anyone. That was Satine, yes. But Satine the woman, not Satine the courtesan, was a completely different person. She was young at heart, almost naïve. She loved to read; she buried herself in literature and tried to write poetry. Satine longed to get away from here. She wanted to be like the great Sarah Bernhardt.
And I kept her here, a beautiful bird in a gilded cage. I kept her from flying, and I'm sorry. I tried to keep her from falling in love, from living the life she deserved."
He turned to her casket, tears running freely down his face. For a moment we watched through our tears as he kissed her softly and whispered loudly, "I'm sorry, Satine. I love you."
And then another wail shook his body, and the chocolate-skinned man went up to help Harold hobble back to his seat.
Marie stood, dabbing at her eyes. "We at the Moulin Rouge all have our stories of Satine. To tell them all would take us several weeks. We all loved her so, and together we wrote a letter to her. Hopefully, wherever her spirit is, she's listening right now. Nini?"
The woman with the icy blue eyes, Nini, walked slowly to the coffin, her heels clacking loudly in the silence of the room.
"Satine," she spoke, her voice quavering. "You never knew how much we loved you. You never knew how important you were to all of us. We couldn't have made it without your kindness, your grace, and your love for each of us. You treated us like family, yet you thought we didn't return your love. Oh, Satine, we did."
She paused a moment to clear her throat and wipe at her eyes. Then she spoke again. "Especially me. I didn't show it. You thought I hated you. In a way, I did. You were always the center of attention, the prettiest, the smartest, and the most talented. And you were all three. Though I made cutting remarks, said some things I didn't mean, made myself believe I hated you, I know now that I didn't. Satine. . .I loved you. Satine, I'm sorry for everything. And Satine? I'll. . .I'll miss you."
She, too, was overcome with emotion and had to sit down.
Christian couldn't bring himself to leave his garret. He sat outside on the balcony, staring down at the Moulin Rouge. They were mourning the death of HIS Diamond, his one and only true love, the only woman he'd ever love. She wasn't coming back. They couldn't reconcile this time, for she was dead. But her last thoughts, her last moments, had been with him, and that gave him peace. The rain soaked his skin but he didn't care. Christian hoped he'd catch fatal pneumonia so he could die too.
"You've got to go on, Christian. You've got to go on…"
Always would those words linger.
Somehow, he found the courage to stand and to walk to the Moulin Rouge. He had to pay his last respects to his dead Diamond, his darling, beautiful Satine. Christian was numb to any feeling other than the conflict of love and sadness.
No one heard the door open. No one but the girl with the sad blue eyes that looked up slightly when he entered and sat down, dripping wet, in the back of the theater. Christian's eyes traveled down the aisle to glimpse his love in her death-sleep, but they stopped when he saw him. The Duke. Rage made him clench his fists and pound them on his shaking knees.
China Doll touched the keys of the piano again, bringing music into the sorrow-blanketed Moulin Rouge. The chords, those eerie, wistful chords she was playing, sent a glorious shock of inspiration into Christian's heart. He stood and silently walked down the aisle as she played, going to the side of Satine's casket. She was an angelic vision of white, white flowers in her shimmering hair, and the necklace, that necklace he'd scraped and saved to buy for her, rested on her neck, a final token of their love.
We all watched as the sopping young man went to her side and touched her face. The woman at the piano kept playing, and unbeknownst to us, the young man was singing softly to the body of Satine.
"Some say love, it is a river, that drowns the tender reed," sang Christian, voice strong.
"Some say love, it is a razor, that leaves your heart to bleed." His voice was gaining power now, reverberating throughout the Moulin Rouge.
"Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless, aching need," still he gazed at her peaceful face, taking in what would be his last glimpse of Satine for a long while.
"I say love, it is a flower, and you it's only seed."
The Duke of Monroth squirmed in his seat. Always that damned writer showing up and ruining everything! He thought he'd ruined the boy forever! But no, there he was, dripping wet, sending rivulets of water across the shining floor to the Duke's feet. Always a way to taint him. Always coming back.
"It's the heart afraid of breaking that never learns to dance," sang Christian to Satine. Who knew what was going on in his mind? Toulouse knew; Christian was seeing the first day he'd met Satine. Nini knew; Christian was falling in love with her again. Harold knew; Christian was experiencing her kiss for the first time. Marie knew; the explosion of fireworks when you fall in love. And I knew; he was feeling her spirit right there beside him.
"It's the dream, afraid of waking, that never takes the chance.
It's the one who won't be taken, who cannot seem to give.
And the soul, afraid of dying, that never learns to live."
He was staring at the Duke of Monroth now. An icy, hating stare that bored through the heartless man, who shrunk away like a frightened mouse.
"When the night has been too lonely, and the road has been too long," sang Nini, coming up beside Christian, who looked surprised.
"And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong," he added, smiling a bit at her.
"Just remember in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows," Nini sang softly along with China Doll's beautiful piano playing.
"Lies the seed, that with the sun's love, in the spring becomes the rose."
Christian kissed Satine one last time and whispered, "Come what may" into her ear before gently shutting the coffin. The Duke of Monroth was gone.
And I, watching this scene with tears clouding my vision, smiled, for in death my sister was happy.
THE END