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 October 16, 1990
Dear Jane,
Words fail me. My poetry fails me. Even music fails me.
I am truly adrift now, because nothing makes sense anymore. I have spent so many months in my dogged pursuit of Orlando, spent so much time pining for him and dreaming of him, and now I am at a loss.
Because we finally made love.
This should be a cause for joy, you are thinking – I should be swinging from the rooftops, singing at the top of my lungs. Instead I feel… I don’t know what I feel. Which is why I write to you, Jane. Because you are the only one who knows the whole truth. I hope you can help me make sense of it all.
Where do I begin? After that night on the roof, my clumsy attempt at seduction, after I feared he would be closed to me forever, I was sure I’d squandered my last chance. But financial circumstances, of all things, pushed us together.
You see, one can only continue a penniless existence (in the manner to which I’d become accustomed) for so long. Spending every available moment mourning Satine, and then yearning for Orlando, had depleted the last of my meagre resources. The landlady was… not understanding, and I was faced with the thing that had terrified Satine the most – a life on the street.
Orlando invited me to stay with him - a logical solution to the problem. After patching the floor (properly, this time) I claimed a little corner, behind a Japanese screen, as my own. A small, cramped space, but the couch is really quite comfortable, and I was happy to be able to remain close to Orlando. We quickly fell into a routine.
Every morning I woke early, rose and dressed, and found a place to sit and watch him wake – a truly beautiful sight. He’s like a kitten when he sleeps, as well as when he wakes. He burrows into the blankets, curled up, sometimes with only that lush mane showing to the world. When he wakes, his face emerges. First his nose twitches, as if he’s testing the air. Then he rubs his eyes with tight fists, while yawning.
And then he opens his eyes to the day.
And I was making sure to be there for that, because every day that little spark of life was growing brighter, and every day watching him wake brought me more joy.
The first morning he woke to find me perched beside the bed, watching intently, he was startled, but he soon grew to accept, even expect it. He has not altered the manner in which he wakes, except to make sure he always opens his eyes in my direction. I’m not sure how it is he always knows where I’ll be, as I don’t always sit in the same place. I wonder if I breathe heavily.
If that is the case, you can’t blame me, Jane. Anyone would. Breathe heavily, I mean. While he’s doing all that kittenish fussing with his fists and his eyes, his long legs are stretching, his back arching. The blankets move and shift, clinging to the curves of his body, and it’s truly inspiring to watch. His hips are a work of art.
Our day proceeds, calmly, routinely. I make it my job to fix breakfast; the kitchen was Toulouse’s, and Orlando can get a bit weepy at times.
“I’ll make some tea,” he’ll sometimes say, and I wait and wait, and go to the kitchen to find him standing by the counter clutching Toulouse’s apron to his chest with a desolate look in his eyes, or holding a favourite serving platter, spattered with his tears. So I’ve taken over kitchen duty, especially in the morning when, so soon after his dreams, Toulouse is always closest to him.
At breakfast we discuss our plans for the day. We’re both quite busy – he painting portraits, me with my writing. He has a few commissions from some of the wealthier in the underworld. His portrait of La Goulue graces the entrance to her new show. Did you see it? It is reminiscent of Toulouse’s style, perhaps not as skilled, but it has its own sort of grace. I love his art. It reflects his soul. Harmonious colours, a little sad, and shapes that make you want to reach out and trace the lines with your fingers.
I have been working on a new show for Le Chat Noir. It pays a pittance, but enough for me to contribute to the expenses and feel a bit less of a leech.
I do, on the surface, gain the most from our arrangement. A place to stay, food, a chance to bask in his beauty. And what does he get from it? Someone to distract him from his work, the noise of a typewriter all day long, increased traffic as Satie, the Argentinean and others come to discuss the play or fetch me for rehearsals, the constant mooning of a lovesick boy.
Yet I’m over the sickness, in a way. I could never get over wanting him, (that would be impossible) but I’ve become used to him being there, being so beautiful, being so unattainable. I have not repeated my embarrassing advances; there’s been no need. I’ve found that being next to him, watching him wake, making sure he eats, encouraging him in his work, listening to his soft low voice, that is enough.
Almost enough. Until now. I still wanted more, but I could endure it. At least it hurt less. That was probably due to the life returning to him. The dull, listlessness has disappeared, bit by bit. Slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes grow brighter and brighter. Even when he weeps, they shine. And when they gaze upon me with fondness, I feel warm inside. But not just in that place inside. I feel warm all over. I was starting to think that was enough.
Sometime in September, we began to touch each other, a casual pat on the shoulder or a squeeze on the arm. Friendly, reassuring gestures. Not romantic. More of an acknowledgement that all people need contact, safe and comforting contact with each other. And that neither of us deserves to be alone and lonely forever.
The first touch startled me. I had such a rush of feeling, electricity running through my veins. Then I realised he had merely rested his hand on my shoulder as he peered over it to read the passage I had just written.
The second I remember even more vividly. I had just finished washing myself and , I will admit, I had been touching myself somewhat intimately. (Everyone has needs.) I went to his work area, and he took my hand to lead me to the window. The sunset was beautiful, and I fully understood his desire to share it with me, but it was secondary to the pleasure of his hand in mine.
But he had no idea what I’d been doing with that hand only minutes before, and meant nothing by his friendly gesture. And once I convinced myself of that, the third touch was easier to endure. As the touches became more frequent, each individual contact meant less, to me. Less, and more at the same time. Because each touch was evidence that he was comfortable with me. That he trusted me.
And the sexlessness of each touch underscored that he wanted no more than those touches.
By yesterday morning, I was as resigned as I could ever be to a platonic co-existence.
And then everything changed.
I was at Le Chat Noir for the dress rehearsal. The show is shaping up nicely. Nothing spectacular, certainly not Spectacular Spectacular, but a solid revue. But nothing is ever ideal. There was a problem with the lighting, and the lead actresses were bickering over costumes. My head started to hurt and I decided to go out for some air.
Clean and crisp air. Unusual for that part of town. I walked through the streets, trying to clear my head. There was the show, the constant pressures of the above-mentioned penniless existence, the deep yearning that, even though it wasn’t surfacing nearly as often as it once did is always present, and of course, the time of year.
One year.
One year since.
I sat in a little park and closed my eyes. I could still picture Satine perfectly. The smile on her face, the sparkle of her eyes, her long, graceful limbs, the scent of her perfume.
The drops of blood at the corner of her mouth.
All my memories of her are overlaid with that final image. I try to imagine her in my arms, warm and full of life, loving me, but I always end with the feel of her body growing cold, her weight growing heavier, the sickly smell of rose petals around me and the roar of applause on the other side of the curtain as the oblivious audience demands the encore that will never come.
The months of despair, the self-destructive bouts of drinking and drugs, the anguished wails of despair – they existed for longer than our entire affair.
As has my friendship with Orlando.
I feel awful when I think that I might be using Orlando as some sort of substitute for Satine. Tall and slender, with a gift for making me feel as if I’m the only man in the world. Two peas in a pod. But that was their job, wasn’t it? Making men believe what they want to believe.
And maybe that’s why I chose to fixate all my energy on Orlando. The unattainable. Not for the taking, because he can’t be taken. Doesn’t wish to be taken. Or he’s already, perpetually taken. So I would never have to betray Satine.
The inevitable dissatisfaction of that arrangement wasn’t enough to make me leave, because the comfort I did get from Orlando was so much more that I could hope for from anyone else.
I left the park and wandered, seemingly aimlessly. My feet knew where they wanted to go, even if I did not. I rounded a corner and there he was.
Orlando. Just sitting at a café, with a concerned expression on his lovely face, little line on his forehead, brows quirked in disquiet, mouth set in a thin line, not quite grim but certainly not cheerful. As if he carried the weight of the world.
He looked a proper gentleman, in his hat and suit, neatly shaved, hair tamed, sipping a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette calmly. He had a newspaper, but was not reading it. I had no idea what he was doing in this part of town. He hadn’t mentioned any planned outings over breakfast.
Then I noticed him. The other man. Orlando was sitting next to a dapper gentleman, an older stocky fellow with pince nez and an umbrella at his side, although there was no imminent threat of rain. They were talking quietly, so quietly I couldn’t hear them no matter how close I crept, hiding behind the other patrons.
Orlando’s face relaxed. He sipped his tea, relief washed over his features.The older man rose, shook Orlando’s hand firmly and gave him a tender smile before leaving. Orlando sat for a time, staring at the people walking on the boulevards. Then he suddenly rose and set out for home.
I followed. They didn’t really need me at the rehearsal anyway. I watched him loiter along the streets, window shopping and gazing at this and that. His manner was casual. Too casual.
And I felt the cold stab of jealousy.
The smile that man had given him. It was far too personal. Intimate, even.
Everything came rushing back to me at once. Satine telling me she had to sleep with the Duke, the dancers of the Moulin Rouge mocking my pain, the coldness of her eye when she told me she didn’t love me anymore.
I waited a few minutes after Orlando went up to our rooms. Gave myself time to rein in my passions. I wanted to rush up the stairs and confront him, demand to know whom he’d been seeing and what they’d been doing. I already knew what, or I thought I did, and it was ripping my heart to shreds. But I needed to hear it from his lips.
He was painting when I entered our rooms, taking advantage of the last light of the day. I watched him touch up the façade of a café in the background of a painting. He cleaned his brush deliberately and turned to greet me.
“Christian, you’re home early,” he said evenly.
I muttered some excuse about the lighting difficulties and how a writer is the last person the stage crew wants wandering around in time of crisis. “So, how was your day?” I asked.
Orlando shrugged. Didn’t answer. I tried to pretend there was nothing unusual, nothing uncomfortable in the air. Touched my arm lightly and asked if I was well. Said he was worried about me. Me.
I went outside, unable to look at him. Betrayal was one thing, but this blatant disregard, this base deceit…
“I went to see M. Bourges today,” Orlando’s voice came from behind me. Soft, as always, and quiet.
“I don’t think I know him,” I said stiffly.
Orlando moved behind me, so close I could feel the heat from his body travelling through the chilly air. “He was Henri’s friend. A doctor.”
Ah, a doctor, I thought. Doctors have a lot of money.
“He says… he says I am fine.”
I had no doubt of it.
“He says that somehow I managed to avoid… he has been checking my health regularly and I show no signs.”
Signs of what? you might ask. I did ask.
“Syphilis, of course,” Orlando said. “I don’t… the doctor is fairly certain… at least he’s says it’s been long enough that if I were ill, there would surely be signs by now.”
It had not even occurred to me. As I told you, it wasn’t a physical lust I felt for Orlando. Well, perhaps it was, but I never went beyond imagining that first kiss. The thought of Orlando ill… fatally ill… dying like Toulouse did… like Satine did…
Orlando pressed his body against my back, breathed softly against my neck, his lips so close I could sense their shape.
It took a moment to grasp what he’d said. All these months, while I’ve been struggling to reconcile myself to the prospect of eternal platonic friendship… all this time he’s been worried about infecting me. Protecting me. Keeping me safe.
That M. Bourges. Henri’s friend. The doctor.
I whirled around, barely able to contain myself. “You mean you… you’ve been waiting?”
He nodded solemnly. He had his head ducked down, in that shy way he has. “I couldn’t stand the thought of hurting you, Christian.”
He had been waiting. “For how long?”
He raised his head, looked up at me through those long lashes. “Since that night, on the roof. Before that I couldn’t even think of it. It was too soon. It would have felt like betrayal to even think of it. But when you spoke those words... I know how much you loved Satine, and I don’t mean to take her place. I couldn’t even try. But I thought, or at least I’d hoped you returned my feelings.” He said all this in a rush, as if afraid to linger over any words. Lingering might cause him to change his mind. Or me to change mine.
“I don’t want you to take anyone’s place, Orlando. I only want…” What did I want? “I only want to be with you.” There, the truth. “I hope I’m worth the wait,” I heard myself whisper.
After all, I had no experience with another man, and hardly any experience at all, except with a courtesan, and to be honest, one does not have to be terribly experienced when with someone who has enough experience for the both of them.
But then, Orlando had experience.
He gave me a smile of such incomparable beauty, my heart fluttered in my breast. “Let me love you,” he whispered, drawing me close to him.
The touch of his lips to mine far surpassed any of my childishly inadequate fantasies. It set off a cascade of sensations. Lust. Yearning. The loneliness of the past year welling up inside me, changing into something warm and beautiful.
I ran my hands up his arms to his shoulders. So confusing. My fingers expected slim, bare arms and delicate collarbones leading to a long, white neck. Instead, there were muscles under his coarse shirtsleeves, not large but certainly defined. His shoulders were broader than what I was used to. His neck as long, but not as delicate.
His sparse beard tickled my throat when he sampled the skin there. His lips were smooth, but not as soft as what I was used to. His hair, lush and rich, was too short, too thick, too wavy, too dark. He tasted different. His tongue moved confidently, he nipped lightly at my lips. Aggressive. Confident.
Satine had been confident as well, but in a passive way. Even when she thrust herself upon me, it was to give of herself entirely. Things were more equal with Orlando. More… manly.
I pulled back and sucked air into me desperately. Orlando nuzzled under my ear, scratching my throat with his beard. I’m sure my beard was harder on him than his was on me. Orlando had insisted I trim it a few times, but it was still quite unruly. He ran his fingers over it, and I remember that Toulouse always wore a beard. When he put his hands in my hair reminded me of Toulouse’s dark hair, sometimes tamed, sometimes in wild disarray, depending on the extent of his alcohol consumption. I thought of how Satine’s hair would become dishevelled when we made love. When I closed my eyes, I saw a river of rich red, hiding pale skin and piercing blue eyes.
Why could I not get them out of my mind?
Orlando’s hands on my waist brought me back to reality. Yes, I wanted to be here, in the now. I wanted this more than anything. His large hands stroked my lower back, tightened on my waist to guide me inside, toward the bed. His bed. Toulouse’s bed.
If he could bear it, so could I. I let him tip me back onto the mattress. I slid up until I collided with the headboard, a ridiculously ornate, carved affair with an oval centrepiece. The cool, smooth, curved ceramic caressed my cheek as I pulled Orlando on top of me.
He weighed more than I expected. I should have been expecting it. After all, he is taller than I am. But I didn’t care. It’s not as if I haven’t had a lover who was taller than me. I sank down, into the pillows, and tugged him to me so I could feel all of him spread over me.
Orlando pushed his hips into mine and I could feel him there, hot and hard and not at all what I had ever experienced. That was good. At least I had no one to compare him to.
I hoped I would compare favourably with Toulouse. I doubted it. Even someone as in love as I had been listens to gossip, and from what I’d heard, Toulouse must have had an impressive talent indeed.
Lips were on mine again. Orlando tasted of the coffee he’d been drinking at the café. I licked the inside of his mouth. So different. So delicious. We were writhing together, both hard and both ardent. He slid down my body, and I squeezed my eyes shut, clenched my fists at my side, willing away the sound in my head of the rustle of silk as Satine slithered across me.
Before I could even reach for him, he was peeling off his clothes. Ah, Jane, I believe not even Toulouse could do him justice. Lithe and graceful. He plucked at my clothes and removed them just as deftly, and then we were naked and hot, skin to skin, with his mouth against my throat.
“I want you inside me,” he purred against my skin.
Honestly, it must seem as if I protest too much, but the thought of that particular act had naever occurred to me. He shushed me and told me not to worry. I would love it, it wouldn’t hurt him, he wanted it, needed it.
I knew he wanted me inside him because that’s the one thing Toulouse never did. But I let him prepare me, fingers slick with oil, tugging and pulling me to full hardness. He seemed impressed by my size, and I couldn’t help remembering the first time Satine had seen me and been so surprised.
(Not when she thought I was the Duke. I’d assumed that was an act, as was the rest of it. But the first time were really together. She became quite giddy, actually.)
Orlando did no such cooing and gasping. He murmured appreciatively and quickly prepared himself, all the while kissing me and reassuring me. He turned his back to me and reached behind himself to guide me.
Such bliss. I can’t describe it. I clung to him, ran my hands over his smooth chest. Flat and hard, no soft curves, no pliant flesh. I reached down to hold him, hard and long and dry. I buried my face in his hair, and its darkness shut out the red. I pressed my whole body against his.
He rubbed his feet against mine, and I knew he was testing my height. My lips on his neck, my feet against his at the same time. Not a dwarf. Not Toulouse. I said his name, to remind him of who I was. To assure him that I was real.
Such a very long time since I’d known any intimacy. We rocked together, not as frantic as you might think we would be. There was no rush. We were joined and it was perfect, for a time. He was tight and hot and so welcoming. With every movement, every thrust, my pleasure increased.
His actions quickened, I began to lose my rhythm, he writhed in my hand, moaning. I urged him on, sounds without words, until I was dizzy from the pleasure of it.
And then he gasped and jerked in my hand, at almost the same instant I felt myself boil over. The cry that came out of my mouth was spontaneous. Completely natural. Absolutely inappropriate.
“Satine,” I gasped.
But I was not sure if he heard: he was too busy whispering.
“Henri.”
I stayed inside him for a long time, silent and still. He did not move. I barely dared to breathe.
That I could say that, do that to someone I care for and desire so much, shocked me to my core. It hasn’t been as long for him. I don’t blame him at all. But for me to say her name…
He did not mention it last night or this morning, and neither did I. We got up and bathed and had a drink and went back to bed. There was no lovemaking, but we slept in the same bed and held each other all night long. This morning, when he opened his eyes, he was inches from my face. He gave me the same gentle smile he does every morning, and I rose to fix us some breakfast.
It is an unusually warm day, for this time of year. I have taken my typewriter out on the roof to sit in the sun and disturb him as little as possible as he paints. But I cannot work. Cannot write about anything but him.
I should be at Le Chat Noir. It is opening night, but somehow that doesn’t matter to me. I’ve lost the will to see my work performed on stage. I only want to comprehend the events of the last twenty-four hours. More than that, I want to transcend them. I want to take him in my arms and make love to him over and over, until he thinks of Toulouse no more. Until I get the scent of Satine’s perfume and the feel of her body out of my mind.
But I can’t. I… can’t.
Jane, if there is any way. If you can help me through this. You pushed us together. You decided we should comfort each other, you’ve encouraged this from the start. So help me now. Help both of us. Tell me, how do we leave the past behind?
If we continue, if I can convince him to make another attempt, if I can bring myself to make love with him again, will it ever be just the two of us in the bed? Will we ever be free to love one another?
I have never felt so lost and confused in my life. I wish I could run away, hide from the world, never have to face the past of the future. Live only in the moment. And yet, my desire to be with him remains unabated. If only my poetry had not deserted me so, I might be able to express myself to him, to give voice to this helplessness.
It’s this place. It’s so full of memories. Don’t want to stay here. Don’t want to spend another day here. Oh, I want to split now. I just can’t quit now. He’s really got a hold on me.
Christian
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