Prologue

I lived with them on Montague Street
In a basement down the stairs,
There was music in the cafes at night
And revolution in the air.
...And when finally the bottom fell out
I became withdrawn,
The only thing I knew how to do
Was to keep on keepin' on like a bird that flew,
Tangled up in blue.
~ Bob Dylan, "Tangled Up In Blue"

Paris, France, 1900

"I'm telling you, Hawold. You need to get out."

"I don't need to go anywhere but back to the Moulin Rouge!" Harold Zidler muttered, as Toulouse-Latrec pulled him down the steps of Montmartre. "We have routines to choreograph ... and ..."

"And you need to rewax. Come on."

"Rewax?" Zidler echoed faintly, biting his lip to suppress some smart-aleck remark.

"Yes."

Rolling his eyes, Zidler decided to play along. Toulouse was one of the few people with more enthusiasm and stubbornness than he. "Alright. But if you try and get me falling-down drunk on that disgusting green swill of yours..."

"Absinthe is not THWILL," Toulouse objected. "Now, come on. ... Look. You spend every night making sure other people get entertained. And there are plenty of people out on the streets who make it their job to entertain you. Let them for once."

"Toulouse..."

Toulouse tipped his glasses down over his nose and looked up at Harold imperiously. "You'll do it."

"...... Fine."

Rounding the corner, as if to set an example, they came upon a small, somewhat ragged group. But that was none the less for its beauty. A violin was playing the sweet, sad song of something foreign, and a lithe figure was dancing to it. To their right, a monkey on a leash picked at the cobblestones.

Toulouse smiled. "Oh, Hawold. Look at the little monkey." He immediately went over to it, rummaging in his pockets for some tidbit to give to the animal. "Hewwo, monkey!"

Zidler, however, didn't seem to give a damn about the monkey. He made his way to the edge of the small crowd around the group, listening to the music, his eyes fixed on the dancer. "Toulouse," he called out discreetly. "Come here."

"Oh," Toulouse lamented, turning his pockets inside out. "Sorry, monkey." Shrugging, he went back to Zidler, a bit disappointed. "Yes?"

"Look at that girl. Look how she dances." Zidler motioned slightly with a nod of his head.

"It's really something," Toulouse agreed. "But the song is so sad."

To that remark, however, the showman made no comment. Nor, dancing still, did the girl. Her eyes were closed, and in that dance she seemed totally, utterly, alone. As the song ended, she drooped theatrically, and spilled in her skirts to the ground.

"She should be with us, Toulouse, on some decent payroll. Not out here on the street dancing for centimes." With that, Harold pulled a twenty-franc note from his jacket - the largest he had on his person - and placed it with the other money from the spectators. Several of them stared at him in awe, and a few began to talk amongst themselves, recognizing the showman from the infamous Moulin Rouge.

"Mon Dieu, Harry," Toulouse gaped, adding a franc note of his own. "That was generous..."

"She deserves it," He replied frankly.

The violinist, meanwhile, had moved on to the monkey and the organ, while the girl dusted herself off. Here it was possible to get a better look at her: as foreign as the song itself.

Zidler straightened out his jacket, clearing his throat quietly.

"Oh, no." Toulouse frowned. "Harold. You aren't honestly. ... Harold!"

Zidler merely cast a look over his shoulder at his old friend and strode forth from the crowd, towards the girl. Day off or no, he was still a master of the stage, knew talent when he saw it, and knew where that talent belonged - on his stage. "Bra-VO, my dear," he called out, applauding. "I must say, you are quite the wonderful dancer..." So saying, he tipped his hat and made a slight bow to the tall, graceful girl.

The girl either pretended not to hear or could not understand. Something flashed dangerously in her eyes, and she swept away, sashaying her skirts as she went by, towards the monkey.

"Harold," Toulouse called out again, chuckling nervously. "Eh ..."

"Damn," Zidler muttered. Being the owner of a bordello, he was quite sure he knew exactly what she was thinking. "I was merely complimenting you, mademoiselle ... no propositions intended at all," he called out apologetically.

She looked back--that was her first mistake. She came over--that was her second. Looking up, she inquired politely in something that sounded like Russian and American street English.

Zidler blinked. "Pardon," he shook his head apologetically. "I only caught about half of that. ... Toulouse?"

"I am not saying a word," Toulouse-Latrec shook his head.

She shook her head, and stated, "Er - messur - ya see, it's like dis -- ah..." This was followed by something rattled off in Russian.

Toulouse rolled his eyes.

"Like what?" Zidler blinked. "I'm terribly sorry, but I didn't catch that last bit."

"Er..." she paused. "How is it you say? You want is to...?" Finally, she blustered, "My name is Naomi."

"Ah!" He smiled, doffing his hat once more. "Harold H. Zidler, at your service, mademoiselle." With a smirk, he added, "And that naysayer over there making abstinent faces at me is, to make things easier on you, Henri Toulouse-Latrec."

Toulouse sent a belligerent look at Zidler before smiling at Naomi. "Mademoiselle," he nodded.

"Ah!" She smiled, doing a bit of a curtsey in Toulouse's direction. "The painter?"

Toulouse's face instantly lit up, and he waddled his way over to her, looking in his suit for all the world like a sophisticated penguin. "Indeed!" He smiled. "A pleasure to meet you."

Zidler winced slightly. Now that he'd found someone who knew his name, Toulouse was sure to engage in conversation on one of his favorite subjects - his art.

"I have met many...painters." A gamin grin flickered across her face. "Le Absinthe."

Toulouse gasped. "You are Le Absinthe? ... I've heard of you. Spwendid! You're even more sprite-like than the painters have made you to be..."

Zidler merely nodded slightly, trying in vain to follow along.

She blushed a deep crimson, and fidgeted with her skirts. "But you cannot want to talk to simple immigrant girl. Besides, it is late, and I must go." The man in charge of the little group had been packing up the monkey and the instruments, and he nodded at the girl.

"Wait," Zidler called out, holding up a white-gloved hand. "Where are you staying, Mademoiselle Naomi?"

She turned back, arching one brow. "Look through absinthe colored spectacles, and there you are sure to find Le Feé Verte." The monkey chattered, scrambled up to her shoulder, and they vanished into the crowd.

"Damn," Zidler sighed.

"Well," Toulouse griped, throwing his arms into the air, "you certainly outdid yourself that time, Harold. You and your pretty faces!"

"She would have done well at the Moulin Rouge, and you know it," Zidler huffed. "I just wish I hadn't come off sounding like some damned propositioner."

"Well, it isn't hard to do around here," Toulouse shrugged helplessly.

"Absinthe-colored spectacles," Harold muttered. "You know more about absinthe than I do. Where would she be?"

"You are not dragging me into this widicuwous wecwuiting spwee!" Toulouse blustered, his lisp fierce as his temper.

"....Ohhhh, yes, I am," Zidler nodded imperiously, grabbing Toulouse by the back of his collar and marching down the road. "You wanted me to get out. We're going to do what I've decided to do - Find. That. Girl."

Toulouse sighed. This was going to be a long night.