Watching from the Edge of an Afterparty

The end of the week, and I finally head to one of the Intern afterparties at the Principle Mysticists Convention. I heard from Magister Parades and Kenneth about how much fun these parties could be, if you found your own ways to enjoy them. But quite frankly, they seem like basically any sort of party I could go to back home. Sure, the variety of people is a lot bigger, and there are way more languages being used casually, but the feeling of the party is essentially the same one of AJ’s. A bunch of people who don’t particularly like one another and are concerned about what they can and can’t say and do using alcohol to convince themselves they’re not going to say something terribly problematic. The only real difference is, at least here the alcohol is legal for basically everyone. I take a sip of my beer, I made sure it wasn’t too alcoholic, and begin to take in the details.

As I scan the room, I do see plenty of people enjoying themselves. Heather, maybe a bit too much, chatting with some people that are attractive, though fortunately not really her type. Therein lies the problem though. Heather seems very much not worried about accidentally sleeping with any of these apprentices, which means she isn’t worried about sharing too much. It does mean none of them seem to be too worried about sharing. Not sure whether that’s intentional by someone, or just a natural result of the drinking. There are a pair of apprentices off in a corner speaking some language that I don’t think is Italian but sounds weirdly similar, as they argue over some kind of book that looks almost like someone’s planner. From here I can’t tell what, but the lettering doesn’t look like the Latin alphabet.

Then my eyes are drawn to someone who, like me, is standing to the side of the events, watching intently. A much more serious and darker demeanor, but still focused. He’s sipping his drink as well, though it seems to be a mixed drink of some kind. Interesting. He seems uncomfortable to be here, and the drink isn’t helping him like it helps some of the other introverts at the party. Interesting.

I turn my attention back to my people. Vince is out here chatting with a bunch of people from other disparate regions. Seems like he formed a crew days ago, as all seven seem pretty comfortable with each other. Good on him. Heather, on the other hand, seems to be with some people she isn’t super familiar with. I hear some French, Spanish, and English accents, along with a good number of American accents. So she’s sticking to the Americans as best she can, though not entirely. That’s probably good, it avoids most of the sticky political nonsense. Mostly, at least.

After a bit of watching, hearing some rumor talk about weird goings on in America, Australia, and Hong Kong, my beer is empty. I don’t want to be caught without a drink, so I head over to the semi-open bar. I give a polite nod to the catering person who’s serving the drinks, and say, “Could I have another?”

He nods, heads back to the cooler, and pours me another glass of beer. As I’m waiting, the other lurker comes over with an empty glass of his own. The catering bartender returns with my beer. The man says, “Boris,” he says with an unsettling smile, then says something in a language I swear I recognize from my teenage years, though heavily accented. It sounds almost like Romani, though I wasn’t nearly close enough to my old friend and his cousins to know what it means. He looks over at me. “Not enjoying yourself, American colleague?” he asks, in overly accented English. Interesting. Either he believes the Spanish accent will help him in whatever he’s planning, or he wants me to think he’s not as well versed in English as he probably is.

“What do you mean?” I ask. I notice in the corner of my eye the catering bartender putting the vodka away and bringing a partially full glass over toward the cooler.

“You staying at the side, sipping drinks, not engaging. Seems to me like you’re not enjoying this event.”

I shrug. “I was expecting something more, I don’t know, special,” I reply, “But this is just a college party with different people.”

“I suppose that is disappointing,” he says. The bartender comes back, handing him a full glass of clear liquid that bubbles slightly. He nods and smiles, taking the glass and sipping it. Whatever else is in there is hiding the smell of the vodka very well.

“By the way, you’re not one to talk,” I shoot back, “You’ve been doing the exact same thing.”

He laughs. “I’ve been told I am unsettling to be around,” the man says, then with a shrug, adds, “But I need to make sure I don’t miss anything important.” He begins to walk back towards his perch.

I follow. “So why here, and not the more important people’s afterparties?” I ask. I want to keep him talking to figure him out, but I’m also a bit curious. He seems the sort that, like my advisor, would be more interested in the mechanisms of power.

He grins ever so slightly. It sends a shiver down my spine. “The Apprentices always know more than they’re given credit, and haven’t generally developed the proper state of paranoia that I’ve found Magisters seem to hold in high regard.”

He’s not wrong. Everyone else here is drinking and sharing excessively and sharing rumors freely. If you want to hear rumor, this has far more flying around than the other afterparties. But no real opportunities for advancement. “Interesting point,” I reply. Then, I introduce myself. “I’m Sage. Here representing Maestro Leyten.”

He nods, pauses, then as though just realizing the rudeness, adds after a bit too long, “Sorry, right. I am Felo. I am here as a representative of Great Maestro Noguera.”

He stands there, scanning the crowd. Though, like myself, his focus is on Heather’s group more than the others. “Is something about that group of Apprentices overly interesting?” I ask him, gesturing with a nod towards the ten apprentices in a crowd.

“I suspect the same as you,” Felo replies, “I have an amiga there whose state of mind is slightly concerning.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, poorly feigning ignorance.

“Your eyes linger on that group and the far-travellers more than the other groups of apprentices. I suspect the American among the seven is close to you, as is one of the Americans in the group of ten, as the American Villae tend to have more Americans than non-Americans,” he explains.

He isn’t wrong, I suppose, though it feels a bit offensive. “You notice a lot,” I state. It’s not a question, but a statement of fact.

“I need to,” he replies, “I like knowing things, and people don’t tend to like gossiping with me.”

“So, what,” I muse aloud, to see his response, “You trade information you see for favors or information or something of the sort. Make people feel comfortable with you as a transactional relationship of some kind?”

He laughs, sending another shiver down my spine. “Trade in favors and information?” he says back to me, “Never. Transactional relationships inspire overt feelings of obligation. The longer that lasts, the more people want to escape from it. No, a friend of mine helped me realize the real key. You want people to want to help you, not just feel like they ought or need to. Life is much easier if people think they’re the ones in control.”

I nod, it makes a haunting amount of sense. It also puts a lot more in context. “There’s no alcohol in there, is there?” I muse, quietly enough that he’s the only one to hear.

“Interesting theory,” he says, then adds, “And how many light beers have you gone through in these last three hours?”

I just started my second. He has a point. How did he convince the bartender to serve him what must just be straight seltzer while pretending it isn’t. “Did you know this guy, um, Boris I think you said, before today?”

Felo shakes his head. “Technically yes, Boris has been here all week.”

Technically. That means it is behind the point. Alina does the same thing when she’s hiding her real meaning behind something factual. So there is something else to it. “So how long did it take for you to convince him to do this for you?” I ask.

Felo’s face is cold, detached. “Minutes,” he states as though it is the most basic thing in the world, “Most people like saving the day. It’s just a matter of seeing what way someone wants to be a hero.”

I look over at Boris. He seems like a fairly normal guy. Proud of what he’s doing. His focus seems to be on keeping people comfortable. But Felo makes people less comfortable, according to his own admission, so that doesn’t make much sense. I shake my head. “I’ll figure it out by tomorrow.”

He finally smiles again, reminding me that it feels much less uncomfortable when he’s not smiling. “Good. Learning that will help you in the future, if you want to lurk rather than engage.”

I sigh, shaking my head. “It’s not that I dislike engaging with people,” I insist, “It’s just this party atmosphere isn’t my cup of tea.”

“Cup of tea?” he asks. “Oh, right, tasse de the. Personal taste, no?” I nod. Felo then asks, “In that case, what is?”

“Take one of those breakaway groups, two to five, put them in a casual restaurant or simple bar, or even like a study room, that’s great. The more people you add, the more stressful it becomes to manage them all.”

He nods. “I see. Interesting. Have you tried not managing?”

“I can’t. I need to keep track of everything, make sure everyone is having at least a not-terrible time.”

He shakes his head. “You misunderstand. Not here, but when you are back at the home. Try pushing, not pulling.” I furrow my brow, and he explains. “When you say manage, I think you mean pulling, where you see goals and pull people towards the positive. But it is much easier with more people to nudge them towards the goal and let them find it on their own. Some more dense people might need more than one nudge, but the more people around, the more like a herd they become. And you don’t herd sheep by leading them, but by directing those that straggle towards where you don’t want them to go back into the group.”

“Are you comparing our colleagues to sheep?” I jokingly ask.

He shrugs, his smile now slightly less terrifying. I think I might be getting used to it. That’s an unsettling thought. “Maybe,” he answers, “As I told you before we left the bar, people do find talking to me unsettling.”

Something draws his attention away from me. I try to listen, to pay attention. As I do, I realize what he’s been doing. He doesn’t need to worry about listening because he is reading lips. Over in Heather’s group, one of the other Americans is talking. One of the men, who is trying to impress the Spanish accented woman. Likely Felo’s friend. “I don’t care what you think, your advisor is nowhere near as bad as mine,” he’s saying. So Felo is concerned over how much his friend has revealed about their life. Interesting. The American continues, “I mean, she somehow knows every secret. Imagine an advisor that already knows every bad decision you’ve made since you’ve been there when you want simple advice about what to do next in life. Bringing up your text chains with exes when you ask about relationship advice. It’s terrifying.”

The woman laughs. “Take that, now add that they’re never around. The moment they aren’t required to be on campus, they bike all the way across town to get away from you, so unless you stalk them, or know someone who does, you can’t get that terrifying advice half the time,” she shoots back. From the expression of satisfaction on Felo’s face, that was something he wanted revealed. Which doesn’t make much sense. No change would make sense, but victory from her revealing that little information doesn’t fit. So he has an ulterior motive related to what’s being discussed. I can’t help but be curious about what that is.