Of Soirees and Stars

Twice or thrice a year, the Beaulieus host a nocturnal party. It begins in the moments just after the sun has sunken beneath the horizon and ends when the stars fade and give way to the blush of dawn. These functions are partly to stay in touch with faraway friends or acquaintances they’ve hardly seen, and partly, Sage suspects, to provide the Beaulieus with new opportunities for business ventures. Whatever the reason, they occur in autumn when the leaves are in full flares of colour.

The invitations are sent to far flung cities, embossed in gold and decorated with Nepalese paper.

For these occasions the artifacts are cleared from surfaces and replaced with champagne glasses with rainbow coloured flutes.

La Maison Beaulieu is bedecked with rich tapestries and lengths of fabric, silks and lace from distant corners of the world, the more casual of which are usually draped over the backs of chairs or hung from curtain rods. For the parties they replace these with the finer of their fabrics collection, bolts of satin from Transylvania, covered in crystals or embroidery in gold thread, and hang them everywhere they can. They suspend them from the ceiling so it appears as a rainbow, dripping with azure, rose, sienna and lavender. 

Music is provided, bands found who are adorned with gold and copper masks with crystals that wink and catch the lantern light. They carry polished instruments and while they meet the eyes of curious guests or music lovers who watch them for a moment, enjoying the ethereal blends of jazz and classical, they are silent the entire night.

Further entertainments happen on especially festive occasions, when the Beaulieus choose to celebrate their latest accomplishments, or the comings of new ones. Dancers arrive in black or white costumes, conservative amongst the rainbow of guests, but striking and elegant. They spin and jump with incredible grace, as though they were made of water and wind instead of flesh.

On occasion, instead of the dancers there are magicians, who stand on the makeshift stage with long capes and pristinely kept black top hats, who release doves from the folds of their jacket with the flourish of a white-gloved hand. Sage watches them and claps politely, but she keeps her eyes where the magician does not direct them, watching what no one else sees. She is aware of the slight of hand, yet she does not wish to shatter the illusion and chooses to remain out of conversation at these times, to avoid speaking her mind or having to lie.

The staff of the Beaulieus’ house, usually dressed in black, are dressed in blue, easily identifiable, though their faces remain a mystery because they are shrouded with masks. The Beaulieus think it festive, and each mask twinkles at the corners of the eyes with silver and gold stars. They balance silver trays above the bustle of crowds and serve champagne and ice wine earlier in the evening, before the food is served, and coffee and tea in the last hours of dawn.

Food is provided from the time of the last arrival of a guest to the minute of their departure. A parade of pastries and delicacies shaped into flowers, stars, whole blossoming gardens of fruit and icing. Five pointed aniseed cakes, honey dipped apples and late berries in cream. Mint and gooseberry jellies are molded into orchids and roses, miniature castles are erected in marzipan, and meringues burst with rich and exotic flavours of cream, no one of the same, so many are sent around groups of companions for tasting.

Sometimes, when these parties fall within a month of Sage’s birthday, the Beaulieus present her with an early- or late- birthday cake and share the occasion with the guests. The guests clap politely, and though many shake her hand or press a light kiss to her cheeks, she can hear them whispering that they were unaware the Beaulieus even had a daughter. The excitement of her birthday gives way to scheduled show for the evening and she blends into the crowd once more.

They are a sought after sensation, elegant soirees.

Sage is once very fearful of these soirees, feeling claustrophobic in such crowds, shy in her best gowns with her hair piled on her head and adorned with nets of crystals and pearls. She becomes fond of them, when she grows accustomed to the size of the party, the numerous introductions and compliments. When she iss older she becomes expert at blending into the crowds and making her own introductions, and quietly exiting the main rooms to enjoy some peace among the alcoves filled with familiar books before returning, feeling refreshed. Now she watches the crowds with interest, maintaining conversations with infectious laughs and clever comments, just long enough to appear polite and interesting, before feigning a previous promised engagement or errand she must attend to. She sits back in a comfortable chair out of the way, watching the events of the evening unfold, preferring the solitude to better watch the guests.

She sees the man in black only once and remembers him with great clarity. When she has recovered from her shock and risen from her seat she cannot see him among the flock of guests ablaze with vibrant suits and gowns. When she later questions the Beaulieu’s they do not seem to recall such a guest, but they look over their list and are genuinely apologetic when they have no record of an invitation to the nameless man in black.

Her favourite pastime, when not listening to conversations or watching physical interactions – slight gestures of fingers on a wrist, a hand around a waist or a glance from under eyelashes that tell much more than words do – is to play with the star lanterns that hang in each room. The Beaulieus have an interest in the stars, a love for the celestial, and it has become a signature for them in business and scholarly pursuits. Thus began their tradition of marking the parties as their own by hanging each room with a multitude of stars. Each star is made of expensive paper imported form Italy or Japan, cut out with shapes of smaller stars, flowers, spirals or leaves. Within them are tiny lanterns that cast rippling shadows on the walls and on the faces and shoulders of visitors. To Sage, they each appear as their own star. She prefers these parties in the summer, when it is warm enough to open the glass windows, or the doors to the gardens so that the breeze causes the star lanterns to sway gently.

It is at one of these parties that Sage learns of the circus. The circus never notifies cities or residents of its arrival, no proprietors send letters, no bulletins are put up, it is not featured in the local paper. News of the circus travels by word of mouth, which Sage believes is the most efficient method. She suspects there are more gossipers in the world than there are readers of newspapers.

She overhears mention of a circus, open only at night, traveling unannounced throughout the world with no apparent route, that has opened just outside the city. The words come from a man she has known since she was thirteen and first invited to the Beaulieus’ party. He is a professor of history in the university in Dublin. He wears his customary blue suit, she has never seen any variation of his outfit on these occasions, and his silver rimmed glasses. He is speaking to two women Sage might have met briefly, but has forgotten the names of.

They are a party who speaks on things en vougue, current ballets and theatre productions. That the circus comes up is no surprise to Sage, who has seen circuses in multiple countries. It is the way he speaks of it, like a man waking from a beautiful dream, still lost in a fantastical haze, that intrigues her.

“It is only open at night, it turns silver under the moon. I cannot explain it, it is beyond the celestial. Our hosts might like it; I know I’ve spent two nights there. Not sure when it leaves, only arrived a few nights ago. No, I’m afraid a simple description will not suffice, my dear. You must go see it for yourself.” The women look amused, as though he is a young boy eager to share an interesting fact from a school day, but his expression is serious.

Sage makes her way to the group, smiles and introduces herself. They shake hands before she speaks, “I’m deeply sorry for overhearing, but what of this circus?”

The women grin to each other. “Oh dear, you’ll start him off again.”

The professor frowns. She learns very little, but she is told where to find it, and she thanks him before remembering she must go speak with her mother. She walks in the direction of her mother, yet instead, reclines on a daybed. The circus would seem a good way to spend a night, maybe two, if it is as fantastic as the professor exclaimed.

It is a few hours before dawn. She gazes at an ivory star suspended above her until bright spots dance before her eyes.

Text by Lucie MacAulay