|
About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
|
A Cup Full of Humble Fragrance #470772 added November 23, 2006 at 5:47pm
Restrictions: None
After the Cancan
“Grant me the power through tonight,” Calanthe prayed, as Diamanta stroked Aymon Riviere’s rosy beard and said, “When are you going to introduce me to Monsieur Henri?” Diamanta’s voice was low and husky, unlike Calanthe’s girlish, whispery one.
“No need for introductions, Mademoiselle Diamanta,” Henri said. “I know who you are, for I have already sketched you. That red plume on your hat highlights the composition.”
Remi Legrand, the owner of the Moulin Rouge who sat near Henri, nodded in approval of the sketch on the table and turned to Calanthe.
“And you, my dear, I see that leg is still bothering you.” Calanthe felt her fishnet stocking twist around her swollen, misshapen leg. She nodded and raised her chin to put on a masquerade smirk.
Remi faced Aymon. “Bravo Mon Ami, if Diamanta can dance like Calanthe used to, we’ll soon have a new star.”
“I am the best dance and theater impresario, if I may say so,” Aymon grinned, full of himself.
“Soon, it will be over,” Calanthe muttered to herself, “after the cancan.”
“Once again, Mesdames and Monsieurs, welcome to Moulin Rouge,” the announcer roared cheerfully. “And now… The Cancan…”
Through the drunken cheers, swirling their skirts and kicking their legs, Fleur, Edmee, Brunella, Fifi, Antoinette, and Yolette rushed to the middle of the dance floor. Eyes focused on the girls, dancing, thrusting, panting, throwing their body parts at the spectators as if re-scripting their juicy stories and champagne dreams, even if the crowd only saw what they wanted to see.
Calanthe, however, was watching only Aymon, as she rewound her recall.
During one wintry Parisian afternoon, Calanthe met Aymon in the dim cubbyhole of a grocery store where Calanthe was stacking blocks of cheese. She twisted her head around when the floorboard creaked. A red-haired gentleman whose hat was two sizes too small was staring at her.
“I will take your order in a minute, Monsieur,” she said.
After tipping his hat, Aymon handed her his card. “But I am not here for groceries, Mademoiselle. I am here for a business proposal.”
It was some proposal, indeed. Aymon promised Calanthe applause, hypnotized crowds, luminous costumes, a journey in the world of entertainment: The Moulin Rouge.
Intoxicated with the dance, Calanthe learned the cancan quickly. She danced from her soul, free as a white ibis in graceful flight, as Aymon directed and encouraged her.
“You are a goddess, Calanthe. Move faster, kick higher. Remember your power. Think fire; think passion.”
Calanthe obeyed.
In a few months, Calanthe was dancing in the dream world of vibrant lights and red windmills of Moulin Rouge. First, she danced alone in wondrous rapture, aroused by the cheers of the crowd. Then, in jubilation, she danced with the other girls, legs kicking in the air and elbows locked together in flesh.
The camaraderie among dancers was inimitable, and not only at the Moulin Rouge. Under Aymon’s sponsorship, the dancers lived together in the same pension, and Calanthe soared as the brightest star of Moulin Rouge, dancing the cancan and teasing desires in others until she took her last bow every evening.
One late night, Suzette, the oldest dancer who had become Calanthe’s friend and roommate, was shot to death in front of Aymon’s house in the Pigalle district. The rumor of an iffy murder circulated around; it was said that Clovis, Aymon’s servant, had taken Suzette for a prowler. Calanthe was suspicious, since it was Aymon who had asked Suzette to his house.
“I hope he doesn’t kill me,” Suzette had joked once. “Something always happens to old, useless dancers here.”
Several months after Suzette’s murder, Calanthe fell on ice and broke her leg. The leg didn’t heal well and Remi told Calanthe her dancing days were over.
Recalling Suzette’s fate and fearing for herself, Calanthe visited Clovis in jail. Clovis said, “Mademoiselle, Aymon Riviere shot the woman, then gave me the gun. Not bad though, with only a year here and the promise of reemployment by Monsieur Riviere.”
Calanthe had deciphered a cruel truth.
So now, Calanthe sat, feeling powerful like a statue of strength, as Aymon fixed his gaze on Diamanta.
That morning, Calanthe had given Suzette’s diary to the police chief Victor Moreau. In it, Suzette had written about dancers who were called to Aymon’s house only to be found dead later somewhere in Pigalle.
“Serious accusations, Mademoiselle,” Victor Moreau had said. “Aymon Riviere may be difficult to locate.”
“He is presenting Diamanta to Remi tonight, in Moulin Rouge.”
“His new find, eh? For sure, I’ll attend to the matter.”
Cancan was over. A lanky man with a top hat and curved back entered the club, his eyes searching the crowd. Victor Moreau…finally. Calanthe felt raw inside with anticipation. Soon, her real legacy would start living on for generations of dancers.
Through the buzz of the crowd, Victor Moreau edged toward their table. For a moment, Calanthe experienced a swaying vertigo as if she was coming down a spiral of stairs too quickly.
The police chief greeted the group; then pulled a chair to sit near Diamanta, blowing her a kiss. Abruptly, the air became suspended, suffocating, and steamy.
Victor Moreau winked at Aymon. “Aymon, Mon Ami, Mademoiselle Calanthe Gaillard asked me to arrest you for some little murders.” Then, he threw his head back with a jovial laugh.
Aymon’s eyes pierced through Calanthe. “You foolish girl, you imbecile! How could you believe my best friend would do that to me?”
“I could instead handcuff you for vice or slander,” Victor Moreau turned to Calanthe. “Yes, Mademoiselle, the police chief can do that. He can do anything he wants.”
“You might as well leave, Calanthe,” Remi ordered. “This is unacceptable. We don’t need traitors here.”
Calanthe rose, wrapping her brown overcoat about her and not even feeling the texture of the cloth, her shock too immediate for any strong emotion. Henri limped after her.
“Come with me, Sweetheart,” the painter said. “The Pigalle district has laws of its own.”
|
© Copyright 2006 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Joy has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
