The Mystery of Draker and Ververs

The two older gentlemen sat together,
Clad in velvet smoking jackets,
Their pipes sketching wild flourishes
Through the candlelit air
As though conducting
An invisible orchestra.

No subject was ever considered too peculiar.
The phases of forgotten moons.
The etiquette of ghosts.
Perfumes bottled from thunderstorms.
The proper attire for melancholic ravens.
Dreams that refused to belong
To the dreamer who dreamt them.

Outside,
Moonlight silvered the garden.
Inside,
Candles painted warm gold
Across polished timber,
Crystal and brass.

A great, black-framed bay window,
Overlooking Nocturna’s private exotic garden,
Had long ago become
The exclusive preserve
Of Mr Draker and Mr Ververs.

Once each month,
Without fail,
They occupied these armchairs
For the entire evening.

They would speak for hours,
Their conversations wandering
Like old forest paths,
Interrupted only by bursts
Of irrepressible laughter.

Whenever their teacups emptied,
They summoned Mr Rook,
Who appeared with quiet precision,
Bearing fragrant teas,
Fine spirits,
Or whatever curious refreshment
The evening happened to require.

Seamus Draker wore colour
With unapologetic enthusiasm.

His dark hair was cropped short,
His blue velvet smoking jacket immaculate,
His slippers embroidered
With his own monogram,
His white shirt crowned
By a paisley blue cravat.

His eyes possessed
The rare gift
Of smiling before
His mouth ever did.

Dante Ververs
Was fashioned from darker cloth.

Black from collar to cuff,
Broken only by
A discreet grey polka-dot pattern
Upon his collar.

Brow rimmed spectacles sat,
Above his curled silver moustache
And neatly pointed chin beard
Which rarely remained still,
For laughter constantly persuaded it
Into motion.

Throughout the evening,
Mr Draker would occasionally
Drop a tiny morsel
Onto a small silver plate
Resting beside his chair.

Moments later,
A black nose
Would emerge cautiously
From beneath the heavy tablecloth.

A morsel vanished.

Then so too
Did its mysterious recipient.

No member of Nocturna
Could confidently say
What breed
The tiny brown dog belonged to.

Nor did anyone know
Its proper name.
Mr Draker addressed the little creature
Only with “bella dolce”.

As with many things
Within Nocturna,
No one thought it wise
To ask why.

This evening’s discussion
Concerned an exceedingly delicate matter.

Whether abandoned umbrellas,
Left to weather beneath cemetery trees,
Eventually forgot
The names of the people
Who had once carried them.

Mr Draker maintained
That every umbrella retained
The final conversation
It had overheard before being abandoned,
And that, during sufficiently heavy rain,
One might still hear whispers
Escaping between their ribs.

Mr Ververs disagreed entirely.
He insisted
That forgotten umbrellas
Did not remember voices at all,
But instead became
Custodians of misplaced coincidences.

Lose one beside a grave,
He argued,
And somewhere else in the world
A stranger would suddenly remember
A birthday
That had never truly happened.

The debate continued
With extraordinary seriousness.
Notes were taken.
Diagrams were sketched
in pocketbooks.

Three impossible theories
Were proposed,
One carefully withdrawn,
And another unanimously condemned
As being
“Entirely too sensible.”

At last,
The candles had shortened,
The pipes had cooled,
And the garden beyond the glass
Had surrendered itself
To the final hours before dawn.

The two old gentlemen rose together,
Smiled warmly,
And embraced
With the familiarity
Of cousins
Who had shared
A lifetime of impossible conversations.

Their hats were collected.
Their coats buttoned.

Outside,
Two polished black carriages
Waited patiently
At the kerb.

Mr Draker climbed into one.
Mr Ververs into the other.

With a final exchange
Of cheerful waves
And promises
To continue the argument
Next month,

The carriages departed,
Rolling into the sleeping city,
Each disappearing
In opposite directions,

Leaving only the fading sound
Of horses upon wet cobblestones,
And one unanswered question,

Had the umbrellas
Been listening all along?