[Quote Aesthetic of the Chapterish]
...
The Château sits atop a hill.
Backpedal. Of all the hills in all the valleys I've ever come across in my travels, I never did quite see a hill as divine as this. It is grand and solid, and owns the quiet country terrain where in which it is nestled. It is the same château where the Fin de L'année was held for decades before and where it will surely be held for decades to follow.
Just before the winding path that ushers travelers to the mansion's foot, there is a gate to pass through, manned by cracked gargoyles, guarding the Château from unwanted wanderers. The gargoyles almost seem human with their grotesque faces maimed by wild ivy snaking around their necks, a foreboding noose.
The Guest Collective snakes up the hill, Brooks and I leading the way for our particular party. At the base of the stone steps, you can't see the top of the roof. The Château was a mountain in another life, it's true! The black shingles blend into the night sky and there is no telling where one ends and the next begins. The glowing windows, blazing with the promise of jubilance inside, shine like stars in the sky.
One by one, the groups of guests vanish before us, disappearing over the threshold like dust into the wind. We stop before the thick wooden doors, very ornate and emblazoned with some sort of crest. Just below the crest, a shining black sign supporting golden letters donned Fin de L'année.
This castle is a speakeasy and our invitation card is the password. I unclip my clutch and fish under the phone, condom, and lipstick for the card. I pull it out and present it to the bouncer.
"Welcome to the Roar." The man says, checking my card and folding it on the corner.
The heavy doors stand delightfully ajar, the last deconstructed barrier separating guests from the frivolity inside. My fingers barely dance over the carvings in the door before I am ushered forward and subsequently engulfed in the air of it all, swallowed by a sea of secret.
I walk into a grand foyer with marble floors and a staircase that separates onto two landings. There's a cigar lounge on the left. Fuck cigars smell good. An enormous crystal chandelier-lamp hangs directly above the entryway.
My jaw is... somewhere on the floor.
By merely stepping inside it is to say the least: An equivalent of passing through the Veil of Time. An air of mystique swallows you whole, promising a drowning in which you'll revel. The atmosphere is tangibly 1920: Everything from the golden-plated phonograph emitting jazz notes to the castle of champagne glasses, effervescent, rising to the ceiling and overflowing with a steady cascade of bubbly. I think Fitzgerald wrote about this.
It's all very murder mystery, only no one is dead and there's no secret to solve. The party is the secret. Looking around at the guests, I wonder who they are –what their lives are like –how they ended up here. Pearly white strands snake around women's necks; men's top hats cast shadows on the walls.
Everyone is fancy. Some seem famous. Feel famous. Maybe we do too. Maybe they are tycoons or politicians or starving artists. Maybe they're actual artists. Maybe socialites. Maybe just twenty-something kids from the east coast. Yesterday we were strangers. Hell, an hour ago we were strangers. Now, we are sharing a clandestine rendezvous at a hidden château nestled in the Colorado Mountains.
The glossy marble floor spills onto the terrace along the back wall. There is a fountain in the courtyard that overlooks the backside of the hill. Bulbous string-lights crisscross the cobblestone outside. The yard boasts quite a view of the resort village below –the orange lights glowing like stars against an inkblot sky. The train took us farther than I realized.
"Two words." Trix says in my ear, taking me by the hand. "Photo. Booth."
I follow her eyes across the promenade to the side lawn. My jaw is going to hurt from all the dropping. A magnificent tent is erected before the edge of the forest. Deep red and ivory trappings hang around the posts, the entrance lined with lights. It's like a vintage carnival marquee, bright and full of life against the silhouette of trees.
A standing camera is in the opening. It's wooden with velvet cloth and looks like an old accordion. A flashing bulb goes off and a small puff of smoke bursts into the air.
"Holy," I breathe in. "Cow. Holy cow."
She laughs at me and pulls me over to it.
"Welcome ladies," the man outside the canopy tips his hat to greet us. "Would you care for a photograph?"
"We would care for one. Deeply." Trix smiles, her red hair almost matching the tent curtains.
"Please step inside," the man says. "Surely you want to remember the group of you." He looks at the people five feet behind our heads.
"Come on!" Trix waves to the rest of them. I see Brooks roll his eyes before smirking and walking to join us, Nate and Travis in tow.
We arrange ourselves like it's prom. Whether intentional or just a subliminal callback to high school, I'm not sure. Brooks stands on the end, next to Travis. Nate is next to him and Alex is on the other end. I line up next to Trix, Meg and Katie. We stand in the front with our backs to the guys.
Brooks places his hand on the small of my back. I smile to myself, pleased and relieved he can't see my face right now. Fuck. This ~feeling~ is about to be encapsulated in an antique photo. Years from now once I've wizened up, once this night is just another memory, this photograph will be proof. It'll look like one of those cheesy sepia portraits you take at the boardwalk. It'll look like it actually came from a time-capsule.
Still, I smirk. Brooks's hand stays there and his other finds mine loose at my side. Our fingers lace together. My left hand finds Trix's and we hold hands too.
"Three, two, one."
FLASH. Smoke. The faint smell of something burning, like when a sparkler is lit in autumn.
"The photographs will develop by the end of the night. You can pick them up next year." The man smiles.
We laugh at him and thank him with praise as we leave the carnival canopy. More people have arrived since we entered the makeshift photo booth.
"Ok. We're still empty handed. Why are we empty handed?" Alex laughs.
"I spotted the bar inside. Shall we?" Travis says, pulling Trix's hand.
"Lead the way," she nods.
I walk next to Brooks. Our fingers still lightly laced together. I didn't let go after the photo. He didn't either. It's not lost on me.
We find the bar inside. It's on a second platform, next to the champagne flute chandelier. The decadence though. An Art Deco menu is propped behind the bar. It is cocktails o'clock. French 75, Sidecar, Gibson. Oh my.
A third platform, taller than the rest, is a stage. It's lined against the side of the main lounge, opposite the bars. The curtains are drawn to reveal a Burlesque show.