Satine [ONGOING]

PROLOGUE

A girl dragged her feet down across the gravel in the streets of Montmartre, keeping close to the edge of buildings to shield her frail body from the snow. Her woollen scarf was wrapped tightly around her body as she shivered, searching for refuge. In the daytime, you could see her standing in train stations, by fountains, or by the river, singing, her hat placed at her feet to collect a few coins with only one thought in her head: One day. One day she would be on stage, singing, dancing, acting, whatever it was, she would see the faded silhouettes of people with their wide grins or wet salty cheeks stare back at her in awe. She would make people laugh, she would make them cry, make them forget their lives for a while, and the energy they gave off would transfer to her making her all giddy, her cheeks would flush red just as they had done when she sung a solo for her church choir, only amplified by about a hundred. But in the cold night, there was no audience to give herself to. There was nothing she could do but wait for sunlight. She had sung for years, since she was only little, as well as played the piano. Though she had never truly thought it would lead her to the streets, shivering in the snow, a few coins in her pocket, her throat sore and no one to turn to. She could blame no one but herself for her deplorable living condition, after all it had been her choice. The thought of her parents, in their big stone house, surrounded by a slanted garden covered with daisies and dandelions as far as the eye could see, brought tears to her eyes in the darkness. She imagined the sunlight in her face as her little sister laughed behind her, creating a melodic echo paired with the taste of fresh alpine air as she shut her eyes and rested against a cold tough brick wall. Memories were things she only liked to cling onto after the brutal night tore down her otherwise unwavering optimism. In the daylight, memories held her back from the taste of freedom that the city gave off. There were memories of her father, moustache curled, eyes stern as he muttered and mumbled on about honour and war and her mother, confined to the village, never daring to venture up the mountains were birds sang free, where rivers rushed down urgently toward the valley, going on about what was proper, what was right and most importantly what was wrong. Things that were proper the girl did not find interesting enough to question or argue about. Her choir dress, her thin gloves and the length of her sleeves, the way she held her fork, none of which sparked particular interest or dislike. What was right could vary kindness, empathy, love but not all kinds of love she came to realise. What was wrong, she realised as years passed encapsulated her thoughts and in many ways a larger part of her personality, but mostly her dreams and her parent's judgement was final and non-negotiable. And that was why she had taken her shoes, her papers, her money and left in the dead of night. Her eyes red, both regret and excitement gnawing at different parts of her mind as she walked, ran, jumped onto trains with unspecified destinations. Optimistic and foolish not to mention extremely dangerous, but it was better than wasting the one life she had imprisoned by ideas that weren't even her own. The world was wider and near magical without the judgmental gaze of an entire village to care about. There were artists, painters, actors all across this vibrant city, unapologetic in their endeavours no matter what. Everyone's main concerns were not dictated by the thoughts of others, but by the desire to live, in every sense of the word: survive and live. They were not out in winter though, after the holiday seasons they all disappeared. Though the money was scarce and as winter went on for an unimaginable almost insurmountable amount of time, the young girl, when her stomach was empty, hurting, thought of her father and his stiffness, both in mind and body. At least she would never be like him and that was a relief. "Evening M'dmoiselles." A raspy voice suddenly woke her up. A snarky tough voice with a bit of a chuckle. She pulled herself back up from the damp ground wearily, her eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights. Around her were two men. "Oh, don't be scared," One of them snarled, reaching for her face, her hair. Her skin crawled at the idea of his dirty hands against her skin. "Get off me!" She slapped his hand away."Oh, feisty, huh? What are you doing here?"She said nothing, tongue tied by some form of fear. This was unfortunately not uncommon. They laughed at each other, and one of the men grabbed onto her satchel, ripping it open and rummaging roughly. "Nothing in there." She shot at them both, "Not even a centime." trying not to think too much of their much stronger frames and therefore their capabilities. Perhaps they only wanted money. They exchanged quick glances, and a large grin shaped underneath the shadow of their berets. She felt as if she might suddenly be sick. Her hands reached out on the walls behind her, searching for something, anything as an escape. Her fingers traced the crumbling damp brick urgently, as sweat dripped down her forehead. She could feel the man's breath in her face when his hands reached for the silver chain around her neck. "Mh, pretty thing this." He muttered. "Just like you." He whispered into her ear, the girl gulped, her limbs starting to tremble. When suddenly, her hands found something loose, her fingers gripped onto it and with all her force she pulled the fragment out of the wall and flung it across the whisperer's face. He let go of her chain and thus set her free. With her heart in her throat she ran away as quickly as she could until her lungs physically could not surmount the unimaginable pain of the cold air. Stopping by the river she fell to her knees, coughing and shaking. Her skirt soaked in damp dirty water as she gulped. One day, One day, One day She kept telling herself, until the words seemed empty and miserable. The slow movement of the Seine eventually calmed her, the peace and quiet by the water was refreshing in the city. She never seemed to get much rest. She found a tree underneath which was a small wooden bench, she laid down across it with slow, laboured movements. Her scarf wrapped her from head to toe, but she did not feel warm or safe in any way. The winter was slowly breaking her down, she wouldn't last much longer. Luckily, winter shortly morphed into spring, April gave way to its rainy weather and then the girl's prospects suddenly brightened, much like the weather, which gave some sun occasionally between the clouds. Parisians were now out on the streets again, which meant she had money. Every week she could rent a room at a boarding house for two days, take a bath and sleep in a bed. A true luxury. She took her spots by the fountains and train stations again, twirling in her newly washed dress, a true display of her resilience, which finally seemed to pay off. On May first 1933, she spent her morning trying to pick muguet by the river to follow one of her favourite traditions. Back in Servoz, her rural Alpine village, children used to wake up early on the first of may to pick muguet and then give them out to all passersby right by the church wishing a good labour day. Fête du travail. She remembered having her hair braided, covered in the white flowers to the point where her sense of smell was entirely thrown off by the intoxicating aroma of the lilies. To her own surprise she managed to find some and evidently she prioritised decorating her brown plaits with them before an ever growing bouquet found itself between her tough hands. She made her way toward Place André-Breton and got to work. People smiled at her as she handed the flowers out with a gleeful smile. A few coins tinkered in her small collection hat. She didn't want to force anyone to pay for the lilies, as they were a gift more than anything, but people donated anyway. Once the flowers had run out, the next phase of her day plan was to sing. She sang her entire spring choir repertoire before a small crowd formed around her, children hiding behind their mother's skirts stared at her wide eyed and she was happy to wave back at them, or invite them to sing along if they knew. Though most people were far too busy to stop in their tracks, it was still nice to have some form of audience. Some more coins were thrown or carefully placed into her hat. "Merci," She said to them all as they placed their donation. "Merci beaucoup." Suddenly, as the crowd dissipated and she was about to leave, a tall woman with a grey chequered trench coat walked up to her. A wide pair of glasses made her eyes pop out abnormally. The girl gave a smile. The woman lowered her glasses slightly and then hummed. "Bonjour, madame?" the girl said hesitantly as she had still not said a word. "Bonjour." She said back, searching in her handbag for something briefly, before pulling out a bunch of paper sheets. She handed them to her. "Mademoiselle," She said, her voice was clear and strong, not necessarily harsh nor tender. "Can I ask you if you can read these?"The girl raised her eyebrows as she reached for the bunch of papers, they were nothing but sheet music. An entire pile of sheet music. She flipped through them slowly and even recognised a few songs. "Yes, I can read these, madame." She said, looking up at the taller figure, expecting some form of explanation. "They are pretty simple, I used to play piano-""Piano, you say?" The woman interrupted, surprised but certainly in a good way as a large grin shaped on her face. "Tell me, Dear, How old are you?" "I am fifteen, Madame." "And what is your name?" She didn't necessarily know it yet, but this woman was about to turn her life upside down, a change so massive and all encapsulating that this day no longer required a One day mentality as this was Day one.