Christian ran his fingers through is jet black hair. Adjusting his coat, and touching the prickles of beard, her nervously entered Pierre's �dition, a publishing business, with the thick stack of papers safely nestled in his arms. Those papers held what had been of his life for the past year. Now they were only memories. He felt tears swell in his eyes. Sighing, he reached out to the doorknob.
The store was dismal, light poured in through the dirty windows, and every speck of dust was illuminated by the bleak light. An old man with an obnoxious mustache stood behind a wooden paneled desk, gruffing as he sorted through a stack of papers.
"Ex.. excuse me," Christian blurted out, trying to show his presence.
The man looked up at him cock-eyed. "You the one who's come about the book?"
"Yes, that's me," he said gripping the papers strongly.
The man looked and snorted. "Bridgette!!" he called in a booming voice.
A young girl, younger than Christian came through the doorway. Her hair fell down in misfit brunette strands, a simple, plain dress on, much more conservative than what Christian had seen in the Moulin Rouge. He stared away.
"Yes father, I'm here and there's no reason to shout," she said calmly. She then looked up at the mysterious man. She looked deep into his eyes and immediately felt a pain. She shook her head. Simply her imagination.
"This man's um....." he began
"Christian"
"Christian is here about the book, would you send him to fill the papers?"
"Yes, father" she answered. "This way mousier," she said, retreating to a room behind the front desk,"
After Christian tried to settle into the ripped upholstered chair, he stared out the window. He wanted to run out of the room. If he published the book, he would finalize it. Her death. He loved the memories that poured onto the paper as he had typed it. Publishing was final. Death was final, but Christian had been able to stretch that border as he got consumed with writing. There was no turning back. He shuddered.
"Cold mousier?" she asked as she searched for the legal papers.
"No, I'm fine," he lied. Now he did feel cold. He tightened his grip even more on the papers. They were his life. Creases resulting from the tight grasp pushed into the document.
"Okay, I'm finally ready," she said sitting down, picking up a pair of reading glasses. "Now the name of your book?"
"The name," he said aloud. He hadn't given much thought. The first thought that came to his mind he blurted out. It wasn't a major decision and he didn't care.
"Memories of Satine," he answered.
"Memories of Satine?" she questioned. She looked into his eyes, and saw them slightly water. There was something dreadfully wrong, and she was anxious about what the story would hold. He kept his glance away from her, fidgeting with his hands, and staring blankly out the window.
"Alright," she said. After the slow and confusing battle of filling out the pile of paperwork, she said "Now the story,"
The moment Christian had dreaded. His face went black. He lifted the papers up. The story of his life. The story of his love. He handed it up and she grasped it quickly to grab it, for she was anxious to read as soon as he left. But he didn't let go. She looked perplexed into his face. She didn't want to begin a tug-a-war, and he didn't want to let go of Satine. Finally releasing his hands from his story, feeling and incredible emptiness fill him, he excused himself from his room. Bridgette watched him in confusion and interest. Before not a man had come in and acted and strangely and unique as he. She fiddled with the quill. She wanted to know more about this man, this, this Christian.
"Oh, papa what do ya mean?"
"Garbage." he muttered. "Completely servile. I don't want you reading this." Then he grabbed the papers in his hand and walked upstairs. Bridgette followed closely behind.
"Oh dad." she said exasperated. "I'm not a little girl, what could be so terrible?"
He didn't answer. Instead he began to pack a suitcase.
"Where are you going?" she asked stumped.
"To London, brother's machine is more suited for this work. I'll be gone for a couple of weeks. I assume you should manage nicely."
He stuffed a pair of trousers into the suitcase. Then grabbed his worn, leather coat, and lastly, the story. She examined the age lines in his face, the gray hair that had came so soon. Probably from mom's death and having to raise a little girl all by his lonesome.
"Bye for now, honey," he said, giving her a hug.
"I suggest you stay away from him, keep the doors locked from thieves," he said.
Bridgette gave him one last embrace, then a kiss on the forehead. She looked into his eyes. "Bye papa," she said.
With that, her father's foot moved across the squeaking floorboards, and with a jingle of the doorbell, was gone. Bridgette watched him make his way down the street from the upstairs window. She looked out onto the horizon. The sky was a dismal and darkening gray, the sign of a storm soon. She examined the wreckage of the Moulin Rouge. When she and her father had moved here, her father was in uproar with his cousin that he had not informed him how close it was to, as her papa said, a sinful palace. She had always secretly liked the Moulin Rouge, the big lights, colors, and the music that could be heard from her bedroom window playing into the wee hours of the morning. Now stood nothing more than the wreckage of what had been, and Bridgette still didn't know why the place had ceased to exist, but rumors had spread about a "spectacular and tragic" ending. Still, now it was gone, and the comforting noise of music had gone to a dead, black silence. Bridgette looked onto the road, and saw something that shocked her. A man laying on the road.
