Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge is, of course, property of 20th Century Fox, Bazmark, and no doubt a few other respective companies; all the movie characters found within this fanfiction are not mine, and all song lyrics used were ones used within the movie. No copyright infringement is intended.
Revision Note: Though it has been nearly a year since I first began this story, and it was completed several months ago, I have recently gone back through and looked over it, and decided it wasn't quite an accurate reflection of my skills as an author any longer. I'm not to be misunderstood, of course – this story has been, and always will be, a labor of love, and holds a special place in my heart for so many reasons. However, I have decided to revise and rewrite parts of it, and you will find that several of the shorter chapters have been expanded upon, along with more 'between scenes' added.
Author's Note: Not to forget my dedication, this story is first and foremost dedicated to Brad, for being my very own penniless writer, and my muse as well; without his loving support and coercion into pursuing an in depth look at the character of Satine in the first place, this would not have been possible. Also, though at the time of this update it is yet an unfinished work, his story There was a boy . . ., under the pen name NotQuiteShakespeare, is to be considered something of a companion piece to this. Thanks also go out to everyone who's read and reviewed this, and kept me going in the rough times – this is for you.
Into the Underworld
The most common assumption everyone makes about the self-proclaimed 'creatures of the underworld' is that we were all born into this life – that our mothers had all been little more than common courtesans, and our fathers merely a customer who'd happened along and, through some twist of fate, had an unfortunate side effect as a result. It isn't an uncommon occurrence, though it's often one that can land a courtesan on the street if she has an employer who isn't willing to allow her the unprofitable months it would take to have a child, should she choose to keep it.
It cannot be blamed on the people who believe such things that they do so – for after all, in a society of austere behavior and carefully dictated etiquette, it is difficult for those perfectly normal pictures of propriety to believe that one of their own could make the proverbial 'fall from grace' that it would take to land them in such a situation.
In my case, however, such assumptions were only that. My mother and father were married, and for the most part, I'd like to believe they were in love. Though they both died when I was only a small child, I have vague memories of them, and I know that I took my looks from my mother – my long, dark red hair, pale skin, and startling blue eyes made for an unusual, if interesting combination.
My height, on the other hand, was something my father gifted me with, my mother having been more the petite and delicate – and no doubt aristocratic – lady. For a long while, I resented the fact that it made me taller than most children my age, though eventually I came to appreciate the ability to look eye-to-eye with a man, even if they more often preferred that I take on a far more humble demeanor.
I recall very little about how or when my parents died, only that I was very young, and soon afterward given off to the care of a Parisian aunt – who for all I remember was my mother's older, disapproving spinster of a sister. Under her guardianship, I endured only constraints I forever longed to break free of, and years of threats to be sent off to an orphanage whenever I misbehaved.
My aunt called me a silly, fanciful girl, and insisted I should abandon my notions of becoming famous. She disapproved of singing, believing – as only those without any could – that children were meant to be seen and not heard, and as for dancing – well, dancing was another matter entirely, though not any more acceptable than singing.
Once I reached an age at which I decided her idle threats wouldn't be tolerated any longer, I ran away, taking only a porcelain doll I'd been given by my parents, and what belongings I could stuff into a small leather valise. Had I been older or in less haste to get away from what I saw as my inevitable prison, I might have thought to take money – but then again, how long would a handful of francs have lasted in the hands of a little orphan girl?
Not very long, of course, especially not on the streets of Montmartre. Even to this day, it strikes everyone with a certain sense of wonder that I could have ended up in the place that has been called a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah, much less that I could have survived as long as I did. I stole what I needed to get by, until the fateful day upon which I met Harold Zidler – while trying to pick his pocket, no less – a man who would change my life more than anyone else with whom I have crossed paths as of yet.
I suppose Harold took pity on me, or perhaps he simply recognized my future 'potential,' though in my pre-adolescent state, I can't say I was different than any other street urchin, and by no means what one would call attractive. Whenever I chanced to see my reflection, I was met with an unflattering vision of a pale face with freckles that had yet to fade, and a build that was at best too thin for my height.
Harold and I reached an agreement, however – I would work for him, and in return he would provide room and board. It wasn't a bad arrangement, and certainly preferable to living on the streets, eking out an existence that was barely living at all.
The Moulin Rouge itself was unlike anything I'd ever seen; with my recollection of life before my parents' death like a faded photograph, the only things I had to compare the infamous nightclub to were my staunchly conservative aunt's home (always neat an orderly, and rather drab), and the filthy streets of Montmartre. Needless to say, the lavish – if somewhat gaudy – surroundings were different, and I somehow managed to feel at home in the strangeness of it all.
I started out under the supervision of Marie, for the most part little more than a seamstress – and I soon found that the skills I'd learned in the care of my aunt, otherwise thought useless, came in handy, such as the ability to mend and sew. In the beginning, I had the simple tasks, such as reattaching beads and buttons that had popped loose, until I finally progressed to repairing rips and tears in the elaborate costumes. How such damage occurred, Marie most often chose not to tell me; in retrospect, I suppose she would have liked to have seen me remain innocent as long as possible.
By the time I had reached the status of actually helping fit the girls into their costumes, I was sixteen, and Harold decided it was far beyond time that I learned to sing and dance. I'd picked up a few things here and there from the older girls, but my talent was otherwise uncultivated, and I jumped at the chance. Performing was something I'd eventually begun to dream about, anticipating the day upon which I might be able to join the spectacle of the Moulin Rouge's extravagant shows.
Harold was a patient enough teacher, and the fact that I caught on fast only helped things along – though I'm sure he was quite annoyed along the course of time that I had taken to acting to such an extent that I didn't want to stop even when he tired. 'The show must go on' was an adage he coined often enough around the performers of the nightclub, but it was something I turned on him frequently in those days, until he finally conceded the fact that he had nothing more to teach me – and I was finally ready to join the can-can line.
I seized this opportunity to let my star shine as brightly as it would, and fortunately for me, it glistened. As the years passed and I became more experienced – gradually moving beyond the simple roles of dancer and singer to the more scandalous I'd for a long while only heard when alluded to – I gained a reputation there at the Moulin Rouge as the Sparkling Diamond. I became Harold's star attraction, and as long as I was bringing in the money, there were few luxuries he wasn't willing to afford me.
I loved the spotlight – it was as if I was born to be at the center of those shining lights. For me, acting wasn't about being someone else, it was being myself. The Sparkling Diamond, that wasn't me – that was only an act. But there was a difference between that and actually immersing myself into a role, into finding sympathy for a character, and my love for it eventually culminated in a longing that went beyond the more simplistic desires of a mere courtesan or can-can dancer.
Harold recognized the fact I had talented, but also my increasing restlessness with the fact it was being put to waste. Any girl could smile attractively, bat her eyelashes, and use her body to her best advantage, but I aspired to greater things.
My fondest dream was to be a real actress, on a real stage, in a real theatre, not some cheap woman whose acting skill extended only so far as to play out the fantasies of whatever customer was willing to pay enough money at the time.
I knew how much men were willing to pay for me – but I wanted to test my own worth to myself.
And luckily enough, Harold had a plan.