Satine

SATINE (I)

Satine would often see her on stage, her wonderful hair caught glimmering in the stage lights, a wide smile etched on her face. She had the sort of smile that gave Satine tingles, the kind that brought light to the darkest of rooms. She would look for her backstage grinning like a child at the sight of her. Between the bills and the exhaustion that plagued her life in different ways, she was the ray of sunlight that dragged her back out into the world every morning, not only physically when she came knocking at her door, but in spirit too, the thought of spending another day was motivational enough to make her do close to anything, to brave any mountain. However, seven months ago, she had vanished. Her smile, her hair, her laugh, all of her was out of Satine's reach and at times it felt as if a grey vail had cast itself upon her life. The smell of spring flowers, warm coffee or even freshly baked bread, which just a year ago would have made her smile could feel stale and insignificant. Every challenge and obstacle took a stronger form, the young woman lived life as if she carried a heavy ankle cuff at her feet. The name Florence which had slowly become synonymous with home over the course the last six years was threatening to become a distant memory. As time passed she was desperate to cling onto her, the way she smelt like lavender with a touch of tobacco, the way she spoke like a true Parisian, the way she squeezed her hands tightly for reassurance before her cue was pronounced on stage and the way her eyes could soften so beautifully at the sight of Satine, despite often being stern and indifferent looking toward many others. All of it was out of her grasp. Florence didn't wish to be found, that much was clear, but somewhere deep down, Satine hurt knowing that Florence wouldn't even want her to find her. As if she was just like anyone else, a colleague, nothing more, when Florence had been a life-line to Satine for years. Ever since they had met at Madame Beauchamps makeshift theatre on the first of may 1933. She had not left a letter or a note but simply vanished off of the face of the earth. Satine could tear the world down for Florence, she had tried to track her down, but Paris was her city, not Satine's and if she truly had meant to disappear, it was unlikely that the little mountain girl from a small town in the Alps would figure the mystery out. Satine had considered that criminal activity could have played a part in the disappearance of her friend, but the police thought it to be highly unlikely, or so they said, to the young woman it seemed more like they didn't deem her important enough to care about. The way life could flip upside down from one day to another was nothing new to Satine Dumont, she knew it could be for the better, she also knew it could hurt, but she didn't know that she would never ever get used to it. It hit her like a brick each time and especially this time. One day Satine had been on the stage with Florence, making the audience whistle and clap, the scent of her and then the next, the most wonderful actress Satine had ever known was abruptly thrown out of their company — fired unjustly — whilst Satine scraped by with the few acting jobs she got. Making ends meet was difficult enough with a job in this industry but now on top of that theatres were gradually emptying. People had no more time for art and entertainment in times of war. Although Satine knew her livelihood was slowly dying, she did not let it get her down, she became stubborn. She was stubborn for her younger self, stubborn for the girl that slept on the streets for two months with only one goal in mind. She went down to the theatre every morning to rehearse, counting her blessings, after all she was lucky to be working at all. When she arrived in Paris eight years ago, a fifteen year old girl covered in blisters, greasy hair with nothing to keep her going but a dream, she could never have guessed the amount of shows she would come to participate in. The younger newly thrust into the capital Satine would probably not have thought she would ever find someone who wanted to cast her in anything, but she did and she had slowly but surely made theatre her main income. She lived in a small flat in Montmartre and had come to love the neighbours and the surroundings despite the rats and the mould in her small bathroom. The first years in this location were tough, the young girl had never been lonelier, having come from a small town where everyone knew everything about everyone, it was tough to start afresh, but she got through it because after all, that is what she had wanted, was it not? Every day on her way to work she walked past the same cafes and bakeries taking care to greet almost everyone. There was a certain baker — who also happened to live in the same building as her — that she really liked exchanging a few words with. He was very good at small talk. His name was Jean Thenardier, he was an adept of theatre, they could talk about the art and craft of it for hours, but they rarely got the chance. On june 6th 1940, the clouds were out over the blue sky, the birds chirped in their trees, it seemed to be a regular day. 234 days had passed since Florence had vanished. Satine had read the papers for once, and regretted it bitterly. The information within its pages was nothing but pessimistic misery and it was sending her mind in endless circles of worry. The war, the advances, economic decline. The sunshine and the birds were a distant echo. Nonetheless she waved at Monsieur Thenardier through his open window and gave him a cheery bonjour as if nothing was amiss. When really there was so much bubbling beneath the surface of her skin that she thought she might explode. He tipped his hat slightly and smiled at her through his light moustache.