Truth, beauty, love.

Salon de Natalie was a frequent haul for Mona. Not only did the owner share her name, but the company found in the estate was enjoyable as well. But really, she connected the salon to monsieur Arturo de Martin, as he was the one who stuck around on most nights, who enjoyed a smoke or two, or perhaps a pill. In more ways than she’d like to admit, Mona was similar to the singer.

There they were, he longing, she seated in the armchair, smoking, leaning into the cushions. Looking around the room, she locked eyes with a young man who seemed quite intrigued. Mona sent him a charming smile, then turned to the singer.

“As lovely as he looks, he is not,” she assured him. “Being in or out is quite a relative term. And I tend not to follow the crowd when it comes to these things.” She extends her box of cigarettes to him, an offering. “I’m getting bored with these, you know? I need something stronger.”

If she wouldn’t claim the young man, he would. Or at least that was how he felt before he remembered that it would do him well to restrain his salacious behaviors those days. 

When it came to Mona’s composed nature, and her ability to (seemingly) keep herself together despite the bad habit they both shared, Arturo envied her. Had he ever looked so cool when he was at his best? It was doubtful. Cool was not exactly in Adagio’s repertoire; not when he was always at the center of attention. 

He plucked a cigarette of his own and brought it between his lips. 

“Such as?” Arturo muttered, scooting closer to the hophead as smoke swept around them. He waited for two young men to leave their little corner of the room before murmuring to Mona, “cocaína? Opium? I have to stay away from the Lotus for a while. At least when Delione is there. It’s a long story.” If it was cocaine she wanted, he would be happy to provide, just her company would have been payment enough.

As her heels continue to hit the old stone street, well worn by the pair of lovers and the rest of Paris, it is almost easy to imagine that they are eight years younger and just experiencing all of this for the first time. The slope of both their shoulders, as if carrying the heaviest of burdens, prevents her from fading into the past and living this day as if it were a scene from a movie rather than being almost stiflingly present. She supposed that she was grateful for that though, as Arturo was one of the only people in her life that she had ever learned to be truly present with. That, however difficult or scary it may be, was a gift in itself. 

Her fingers trace over different textiles and hair pins as they walk, smiling grateful merci’s to each vendor they pass. She stops for only a moment to marvel at a pair of golden starburst earrings, wide smile brimming across her face as she lifts them up to Arturo’s ears. 

“I have always thought gold suited you, haven’t you?” In only a moment she has handed the vendor a couple of francs that were plucked from her clutch, and the earrings are tucked into a brown paper bag, and into Arturo’s pocket. “I couldn’t pass them up, you are always my star after all.” 

A moment falls between them as they continue walking, unsure of how to ask him what she needs to ask.

“Have I ever given you reason to be afraid of me? It’s only a simple favor that I need.” She looks up at him and rests her temple on his shoulder. “Do you remember how you used to help me practice?” 

The early morning, the walk, but the earring especially all felt like he was walking closer to a trap of some sort, but he wasn’t certain why. He chalked it up to the typical paranoia he felt these days (sober or high), but even doing that did not quell his fears. 

For a man who loved to accept gifts from just about anyone and everyone, since his downfall the man hated such things. He did not want to be considered a charity case and avoided any opportunity to be seen as one. But, at the moment the little brown paper bag sunk to the bottom of his pocket, all the maestro felt was a deep sense of sorrow that clashed with the morning sunshine. 

Have I ever given you reason to be afraid of me?

“Almost daily, mí amor,” he teased and squeezed her hand. A favor? For the life of him, he could not imagine what it was she was going to ask, and with each passing moment his anticipation worsened. 

“Back when I was with the Moulin? Yes. We spent hours on that stage, just the two of us. Why do you ask this?” 

It was as if his mask had shattered into pieces, and fallen all over the floor. There was no way he could maintain his alter ego, not with the bomb this stranger had just dropped on him. He had to have plans to tell. If he was going to keep it a secret, why would he bring it up at all?

He listened to the other’s words, careful not to speak until he had decided exactly what to say. He followed him home. Even though he’d taken precautions to avoid just that, it had happened, and he obviously hadn’t been alert enough to notice.

“I live in the flat above the shop.” He admitted quietly, only as some explanation for why he hadn’t come down for a while. It wasn’t an argument, or even an excuse - but he needed to say something, and that was simply what came out. He was sure Arturo had figured that out anyway, but he couldn’t stop himself from saying it.

Phillip is a better name.

“It’s my middle name.” He could only pray that people weren’t listening in on their conversation. He would hate to see this end up in the papers in the next week - or even just spread by word of mouth. He stared at Arturo for several more seconds, before sighing softly. “Do you want something from me?”

Arturo waited patiently, taking in the boy’s response at such a reveal. It was understandable, of course. Had anyone been so bold as to follow him around during his youth, they would have had far more to uncover than bookshops and fake names. Thankfully, he lived within the belly of the beast—that damned Moulin Rouge—so he never had to leave. Had he never moved to Montparnasse, perhaps the beast would have protected him from the sordid fate he now wallowed in. 

Do you want something from me?

The truth of the matter was that Arturo was not certain what he wanted out of this. He did not anticipate doing something so right (yet so wrong) and thus had not thought so far into the plan to come up with what he wanted in return. 

He was the one staring now. The cigarette’s ash grew longer between his fingers as he thought.

 “Redención,” he said, quietly. “Admiration.” 

He would not get it from Elliot, nor Phillip, he knew that much. But he could use the boy as a javelin of sorts. 

“Yeah, and look what that got him,” Annette snorted to herself as she crosses the room, pulling off the first layer of her costume so she no longer has to combat the heat of it. Not simply in her stays and stockings, she much more comfortable.

She’s not exactly shy when it comes to her body and Arturo; she can’t imagine the things he’d seen in his time at the Moulin, and he’d waltzed in on her dressing with Charlotte on enough occasions that she’s sure there’s very little to her form that could be a mystery to him any longer.

“I hate to disappoint her,” the fairy answered as she hung her wings over the back of her vanity chair, returning the crab to Turo’s palm before she moves to place herself on the chaise lounge.

She hated to disappoint anyone, which had been her downfall on more than one occasion. Patrons, employers, friends. (Her long-dead mother, her unknown father, herself).

“Though I’m sure that’s a sentiment that you’re rarely acquainted with,” she quips under her breath with a scoff as she raises her eyes to him.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

Arturo plopped himself down on one of the pink chairs he recognized as being a part of Charlotte’s room way back when. Combined with the green, they made the place look far too much like the rooms he’d been locked in during his time in India; which wasn’t to say they didn’t look nice. 

Living in the Moulin way back when had made him a witness to many things. Annette’s svelte form did nothing for the man. It never had, but that notion would (and should) have been a compliment to her. 

He was far more a fan of curves; which was a preference that could be traced all the way back to Cuba. Freud would attribute it to his mother—He would attribute it to the similar build of a cello. Curves were crescendos, and he was a musician, after all. Needless to say, he paid the fairy no mind. 

“You really think so little of me,” he said with a smile as he placed the crab back into the pocket of his lapel with one hand, and searched the remainder of his pockets with the other. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for until he came across a forgotten hand-rolled joint he must have forgotten about long ago. 

The thing was placed between his lips and lit within the minute. 

"Does she speak to you about my disappointments?” 

They swarmed him like flies, and Gabriel swatted away each and every one of them but still they attacked. Empty flattery, fake concern, with some not even bothering to hide the morbid curiosity about the critic who almost died; in the men’s room, he could hear them jest, that it was a pity that he had not gone up in flames only for them to fall silent upon realizing he was there. He took it all in stride, like water off a duck’s back, but Gabriel would not let them see him struggle pathetically with a piece of cigarette.

He inhaled deeply, and the smoke filled his lungs as Gabriel relished the calm. The afternoon rain gave Paris a distinct smell and the sound of water hitting the ground like the static of a radio. it drowned out everything. Well, almost everything.

“Ah. I know you. You are the one from the papers, oui? The one with the sharp pen.”

Gabriel opened his eyes and found himself with company. “Sí,” the critic nodded and he let his gaze wander on the man’s features. A spark of recognition and mild surprise flashed on the Spaniard’s face upon realizing who it was he was talking to.

“Adagio,“ he remarked. “You’re the pianist.”

The wince that occurred the moment his old persona, that ghost, was brought back was hidden in the upturned collar of his coat as Arturo looked away from the critic. The look of surprise he found in the other’s face when he turned his attention back bewildered him. 

Many people looked at him with a similar surprise these days, but for the most part, he was able to read their expressions to know if they were a fan or foe. Those days he’d been met with more of the former. It made those few moments when he encountered an old fan (ideally someone who did not frequently read the papers) that much better. 

“Sí. You are a fan of jazz?” 

“Maybe it’s that simple. I suppose dogs are that way.” Phillip said with a chuckle. “Not that you can compare a tiger to a dog.” It was laughable just thinking about the difference in the creatures. Although, he supposed it was true. If the tigers were well fed enough, and kept to their own area, maybe they wouldn’t go after the other animals. Although, house cats would still hunt down birds and mice, despite being fed their fair share. 

“Why is that?” The Crooner’s brow furrowed curiously. Many people asked about how he handled the fame, and he doubted this would be a conversation he hadn’t already had a hundred times. He had no reason to think it would be any different.

However, as the stranger spoke again, the discomfort in the air was palpable. His lighthearted expression weakened slightly, but he still had no reason to believe the conversation was headed anywhere real… until it suddenly did. The facade of Phillip fell almost immediately, and Elliot was staring at him with wide eyes, mouth hanging slightly agape. A deer in the headlights. 

It took several moments of silence for him to find the courage to speak. Surely, his reaction had taken away any possibility of denying it. “How?” He finally asked, his body tense and his face worried.

The smile that broke on Arturo’s face as he watched the young man tense up was nothing short of dastardly. “Por favor, please," the maestro lazily waved a hand in the air, “there is no need to be anxious.” Maybe not for him.

“It was not easy to find out, believe me. Ever since I heard the whispers of the incredible young crooner, I just... I had to find out, but the thing is, nobody seemed to know anything about you other than your name. Phillip. I like that. Strong name.” 

Words were replaced with smoke as he puffed once more, and tapped the ash into the crystal dish between them. 

“So, you know, I was curious as anyone would be, and so I followed you home one night.” He shrugged. “I do not have much of a life these days, you see.” The corner of his lips quirked into a smile. “When you had not come out of the bookshop for some time, I decided to go inside and read for a little while, and that was when I heard it– Elliot.” 

For a short while, Arturo simply sat there, smoke curling from his mouth like the demon he was as he stared at the young man. “Phillip is a better name.” 

“I’d made a pledge to our mutual friend,” Annette informs him, voice low as she closes the door to her dressing room behind the two of them and locking it promptly after checking the corridor for witnesses. The last thing she needed was a rumor flying about to Charlotte about her entering a room alone with Arturo after hours.

She didn’t mention Monsieur Holst’s name out loud. It felt crass and unnecessary to bring up that grief in a moment where it seemed like the pair of them had a number of things that needed forgetting.

“That my dance lessons at the Moulin would be paid for and the only payment I need to have made was that I not dabble in the substances. However, that didn’t seem necessary to adhere to overseas.”

Netty sighs and takes the crab as it is placed in her palm. She’s acquainted well with it now – the cocaine – but it seems strange to be in company. Almost every time she had partaken in it in New York, she had been on her own.

“Don’t tell Charlotte,” Annette orders Turo in a rarely heard bossy tone, holding the small spoon to her nose and inhaling.

It took him longer than he would have cared to admit to realize which of their mutual friends Annette was referencing. The dearly departed, whose passing he had yet come to terms with, and highly doubted he ever would. If anger were a candle, it had been lit the very moment he learned of the mobsters passing and burned brightly ever since. Arturo didn’t know why this was, and every attempt to figure it out had been blocked by something going down his throat or up his nose.

The terms of the pledge sent his eyes rolling into the back of his head for many different reasons, but the biggest of them was jealousy. What a guy! Whatever love the old man had to give had been divided throughout the city, with the worst of it being given to Arturo, it seemed. The one who wanted it most. 

He watched quietly as she used his goods for as long as he could stand it. “Out of sight out of mind, yeah? You should have just agreed then done whatever you wanted. That is what he did.”  

“She is my wife,” he said dryly while spinning the ring around his finger. “I must tell her everything.”

Amid the haze of smoke that overtook the music room of Natalie Barney’s estate (of which there was no telling the source, as there wasn’t just one) Arturo found himself, as he did most nights, in the company of Madame Mona. Not only did she make for good company, but he knew that if he stuck around long enough there was a very good chance he could siphon some pills, powder, or herb from her as she indulged. Finally, he thought upon meeting the Hophead for the very first time, someone who knows the same demons. 

Atop a chaise he lounged, and watched as a young man made eyes at Mona from across the room. This was not an uncommon occurrence, as most people could not keep from looking at the artist when she was in the room, no matter who else was there. It was one of the many things that drew Arturo to her.

“Please tell me he is not one of your entourage,” he teased the moment she looked away from the youth. “I never know who is in or out anymore.” 

“Coño carajo.”

The squish of his shoes played a double-time rhythm against the sidewalk as Arturo ran to the Cinema du Pantheon to escape the afternoon downpour, uttering swears the entire way. Once free from the rain, he pat at the lapels of his jacket and dug through his pockets to see if the worst had not happened. Alas, the final cigarette he had foolishly tucked away without a case had been a casualty of bad weather. 

"Joder esta vida y la siguiente...”

Arturo turned to face the street, but realized he was not alone beneath the cinema’s facade. Through the stained glass doors of the theatre, he could see the many guests of some type of event going on inside; and he could only assume that man beside him had taken a moment to escape. What he would have given to feel the need to escape an event again... It wasn’t often that the old maestro was invited to the types of parties he would frequent back when he was somebody. 

He turned to the man, soggy cigarette in hand as evidence to help his desperate case. Arturo was about to ask if the man had another, but was then caught by the familiarity of the other’s face.

“Ah. I know you. You are the one from the papers, oui? The one with the sharp pen.” 

@arturodemarin ♡ listen. 

The smell of fresh bread, lilacs, and coffee are heavy in the air at the street markets this morning, and for only a moment, things between them are as normal as they ever were. Of all the things she had missed in her months away, their Sunday tradition was the one thing she had missed more than anything else. This is her favorite time of day, when the light from the sun is still golden and yellow from sunrise, but not yet bright enough to scare off the cold blanket left over the city by the cool nighttime. 

“Do you think there is anywhere in Paris quite as wonderful as this?” She smiles, pressing her cheek to his shoulder as they walk. In her opinion, there was nowhere in the world that could beat a crisp morning at the markets with Arturo de Marin, but she would keep that to herself. In her purse, bound with a blue ribbon from an old nightgown of hers, there is a cluster of letters that she had written to Arturo while she was in London that she had never sent. She is planning on giving them to him over breakfast if she can work up the courage.

“Before we get too far, I need to confess I have not been entirely honest in why I’ve brought you out here…” she sighs, looking up at him through thick eyelashes. “I need your help with something.”

For the first time in a while, Arturo could move about an early morning without it being an aching end-point of a night of recklessness. At her request, he’d managed to piece himself together well enough to get some sleep and rise early to trace the steps they use to take, week after week through the markets of Montmartre. Even if the few sous that were jingling in his pocket would not be spent there, it was the least he could do to manage a trip with Charlotte. 

“I have been many places, and I can tell you there is nowhere like this.” That was both a blessing and a curse, but neither of them were strangers to such truth. He squeezed her hand in his own as they strolled past the vendors setting up their stalls. 

“Should I be afraid?” 

“One would think the tigers would eat the peacocks… and everything else around. Were they not violent?” Phillip asked curiously, genuinely wondering how people could ever keep such an animal at bay. “Cuba, wow… You’ve really had some adventures in your life, haven’t you?”

Phillip couldn’t say the same. He’d never even left France, and even then, he’d never been far outside of Paris. His childhood home was only a few hours away by train, and he had attended boarding school in Paris, and that was it. Although he was interested in traveling, he had never taken initiative to make it happen. He had no reason to go anywhere, other than to satisfy his own curiosity, and even then, he wasn’t sure where he would even go. 

As Arturo asked about his growing popularity, the Crooner smiled slightly. It was nice to hear that there were murmurings about him - it provided validation for what he was doing.

“You flatter me - but no, I think I’m doing alright. Whenever it becomes too much, I find a way to relax, and then I’m fine.” That wasn’t quite true, but he did find that escaping in a book often helped.

"There is a way to tame them, I would assume. If they are fed enough by a hand, there may be no reason for them to use the claws.” Arturo gave a half-hearted shrug, as he wasn’t so much interested in the topic of animals beyond mere mention. Not when there was work to be done. To the mention of adventure, he simply nodded, and filled the pause in their speech with thoughts of his mother and his home that he regret allowing to swirl around his head. The smoke would swill them out. 

“I see.” Arturo spoke on a sigh. “I must say, that surprises me.” He was tired of beating around the bush, wondering if there could ever have been a time when the two of them could have been friends. Perhaps when he was younger, though he would be a fool to think his jealousy back then would ever have allowed him such a thing.

“I have no idea how you manage it." He inserted a pause that lasted far too long for either of their comfort. The sound of glasses being cleaned at the bar took the place of his words until he spoke again, saying, “A career in music as well as a steady position at the bookshop... You must be very tired, Elliot.” 

It’s almost tempting to smirk at the look he throws her – that she’s gotten under his smug skin even slightly. It would be easier if she didn’t feel the tinge of shame for even asking him for such supplements – for allowing him to know this tender new vulnerability she had. 

She had used to be better than this. Anthony had once made her promise.

Well, who would tell her secrets to the dead, anyway? 

“Cocaïne,” she answers, voice low as she averts her eyes, occupying them by glancing in the direction of the Master of Ceremonies. Her fingers continue to trace on the tabletop.

“We can go to my dressing room.”

         ❃❃❃

There was once a time when the the maestro fell in love with the process of bringing someone down with him to the depths where only the substance could send him, but like a melody played too many times, it had become boring to him. Painful, even; to the point where he often became nauseous at the thought of going through the motions, not because he wanted to, but because he needed to. 

“This must be a new development,” he said while trying to ignore the familiarity of the bowels of the Moulin, like avoiding an old friend he had a falling out with. That evening he had the golden crab in his pocket; a different kind of friend. It found itself in the pocket of his shirt at the beginning of the evening, placed there with the hope that Arturo would find Charlotte at some point. He supposed the other blonde made for good replacement company. 

“I had no idea you were fond of the stuff.” The tiny gold spoon that hung around the maestro’s neck on a chain was removed from around his head and dipped into the powder. He helped himself before he offered the goods to Annette. “You never once joined Charlotte and I, all those years ago.”

MEME ❃ @nettyfawn

what would your character make a scene in public about?

It’s easier if I just tell you the last time he made a scene in public, which was when he was emotionally shouting at the world outside of Anthony’s celebration of life as L’Enfer burned to the ground, which caused Annette to scratch his face up. 

for what would your character give their life?

Anything at the moment, honestly. It wouldn’t be noble.

what are your character’s major flaws?

LOL. He is a junkie, insecure narcissist, impulsive, bitter, old man past his prime who is hanging onto the past by a thread. 

what does your character pretend or try to care about?

Very little. Art and politics would be two very big things that Arturo cares little about. He has no interest in politics, and with art, if it is not music he has a hard time deciphering what is worth looking at. He abhors when groups of artists and critics stand around discussing paintings, the types of which he only wants to enjoy at face value. 

how does the image your character tries to project differ from the image they actually project?