Martyrs, a Paris love story

Blanche St-Ouen, Premiere dancer at the Moulin Rouge cabaret had danced her final Can Can. The red velvet curtain had come down on both her and her career. Her dancing was everything to her. Now she had nothing, nothing.

She stumbled down Rue Des Martyrs, ignoring the tears that washed the thick stage make-up off her face. The name of the street suited her well.

As she turned the corner, she heard a familiar croaking voice. Dropping a euro into her favourite homeless person's basket, she bent down and patted the blonde chihuahua in the lady's lap.

Standing up, Blanche looked at the blue and white street sign riveted to the brick wall opposite. She'd always been a martyr to her beauty, now her beauty was fading and her services at the Moulin Rouge were no longer required. All she had to fall back on was her nursing training which she'd never used, having been enchanted by the bright lights of the stage.

Marcel's words exploded in her head as she lurched on down the street, away from the artists at the Place Teatre at Montmartre who always wanted to paint her likeness; all she wanted to do was to shut out images of the dance hall that had been her life for the past ten years, but she couldn't shut out Marcel, never could.

"Moulin Rouge is not your whole life, Blanche, it's just an experience along the way. Your life, your calling, the best, is yet to be revealed."

"My life is here; it's all I ever desire, Marcel, no matter what you say."

"Don't you desire me, dancing girl?" He'd held out his arms and she'd willingly embraced him, and they fell in a tumble of arms and legs onto his tiny bed in his cramped apartment. He had his way of diffusing a situation, and his way was exciting. Afterwards, she lay in his arms, watching the slow rotation of the arms of the old windmill just outside her window. Her life was perfect...

***

It was a warm night for December. She sat at her tiny table in the Chat Noir, not far from Moulin Rouge, sipping an aperetif, watching the evening crowd on the street. While she watched, darkness fell and the lights came on, electrifing the Pigalle district in exciting reds and blacks. How pretty it looked, all dressed up for Christmas. But her Christmas would be bleak. There was no Marcel any longer - no one to hold her, to comfort her, to encourage her.

She'd lost everything that was important to her. No job. No Marcel. What would Marcel say to her now? He'd always been negative about her choices. He couldn't understand her fixation with her dancing career. He'd had a fantastic career himself at the Moulin Rouge, caring for and training the animals used in the show. The snakes were always his favourite. She liked to think it was because she swam nude in the tanks with them wrapped around her body like a modern-day Medusa, but she knew it wasn't that; Marcel just loved all living creatures.

"Snakes remind me of the countries I want to travel to," he'd said. "I want to work, to help those less fortunate than I am, as corny as that sounds. As soon as I have my medical qualification, I'll be gone."

"Oh, Marcel, that's so dangerous. I don't want you in one of those field hospitals in the Sudan or some other godforsaken land. Can't you be happy in Paris? With me? I'm never leaving Paris. It's everything I want."

Turning her back on Marcel, she'd tossed a euro into the homeless woman's basket, reaching down to pat the head of the tiny dog which looked up at her, hopeful-eyed.

"If only you could see yourself, Blanche," Marcel had said. "Your heart melts for Paris' homeless who are relatively pampered compared to those in war zones in Africa and elsewhere, and a spoilt dog that will get sick of getting nothing but pats from you, but your heartache doesn't extend to the real suffering in the world."

"Mon Dieu! What else can I do to help the refugees in the Sudan, Somalia, the Congo, Iraq, Syria? The whole world has gone mad! You know I donate to World Vision and Medicin sans Frontiers. On a dancer's wage, that's a sacrifice."

"You could come with me to the Sudan or wherever I'm posted to actually work with Medicin sans Frontiers. You're a trained nurse. Why not? You could do so much."

"My life is here in Paris. It always will be. That fierce sun would dry up my skin, suck the life out of me. I'd lose my looks."

"Blanche," she is haunted by the sadness in his voice, "beauty isn't just what you see, but what you are inside. Helping others is a thing of beauty."

***

She looked up from her aperitif just in time to see Varenne and Iena walking arm in arm, giggling, heading in the direction of the Moulin Rouge. Why did she torture herself sitting here, watching her friends make their way up the street? How she would miss the excitement of the dance. How she would miss the rehearsals, the costumes, the make-up, the make believe. But most of all, she would miss Marcel.

She and Marcel had been together for three years, but they'd never shared an apartment. He needed his own space for studying when he wasn't at the theatre, he'd always said when she'd asked him to move in with her in her funky little garret in Montmartre. True to his word, as soon as he'd qualified as a doctor, he left her, following his dreams.

The voices on the bar television soaked into her consciousness. She swivelled around in her chair and watched refugees trudging along a dusty road near the Turkish border, trying to escape the latest atrocities in Syria. Their meagre belongings bounced on their bent backs. Tiny children clung to their mothers' bright skirts. Some were crying, some were laughing as they danced down the road.

As she watched, a spokesman for Medicin sans Frontiers came on the television, giving an update on the millions displaced by the latest outbreak of war, asking for donations to assist the hundreds of thousands of refugees. She leaned closer, then drew back in shock as an image panned to a close up of Marcel's face.

"We won't claim that working for Medicin sans Frontiers is without risk," the spokesman said, "and the recent death of Marcel Maubourg proves this. We mourn the death of our gifted young surgeon who is a martyr to our cause. He was kidnapped and killed by insurgents while carrying out operations in our local field hospital. But Marcel would not have wanted his death to dissuade anyone with the desire and skills to help our mission here. These people are desperate. They have nothing, nothing. I beg you, if you have any medical training, consider joining us. We need you."

Blanche wiped her tears away. Her new life, her new beginning, was opening up before her.

She pushed aside her aperitif, placed change in the little metal tray, and walked out of the restaurant perhaps for the last time. It no longer felt like her special place.

Outside on the street, she dropped a euro into the homeless lady's basket and patted the dog. It jumped up and snapped at her face, narrowly missing her nose.

Blanche withdrew her hand and laughed...and laughed...and laughed. Just another thing Marcel was right about.

She looked along the street at the gaudy Moulin Rouge's flashing lights and at the long queues of tourists lining up for the latest show. They could have their show.

Blanche St-Ouen was off to do something beautiful with her life.