When the final guest
Has gathered their coat,
When the last teacup
Has been cleared away,
When laughter
Has dwindled
To memory,
And Marcel Carreau
Locks the great oak doors
For another evening,
Nocturna belongs
To Neko.
She emerges
Without announcement,
A ripple of shadow
Separating itself
From deeper shadow,
As though
The old club itself
Had quietly decided
To stretch.
No one remembers
The first time
She appeared.
Nor does anyone know
When she first arrived.
Yet every generation
Of members
Has spoken
Of a black cat,
Simply referred to as
Neko.
Some insist she has lived
Far longer than any ordinary creature.
Others smile politely,
Convinced
Each Neko has simply inherited
The name.
No one argues
For very long.
Some mysteries
Are happier
Left undisturbed.
By day,
She is almost never seen.
Visitors occasionally discover
A single black hair
Upon a leather chair,
Or hear
The softest footfall
Echoing
Beyond a closed corridor.
Sometimes,
Someone catches
The briefest glimpse
Of a black tail
Disappearing
Around a corner.
When they hurry after it,
There is nothing.
Only silence.
Daniel Hargraves
Has more than once
Found her sleeping
Within his small alcove
Beside the entrance,
Curled comfortably
As though guarding
The threshold herself.
Marcel Carreau
Often discovers
His favourite
Leather Chesterfield
Still faintly warm,
As though
A distinguished guest
Had only moments before
Taken their leave.
He simply smiles,
Brushes away
A single black hair,
And says nothing.
For he understands,
As all long-serving staff do,
That Nocturna
Has its own traditions,
And some
Require no explanation.
Long after
The lamps are lowered,
Neko begins
Her inspection.
She moves
Without haste,
Padding softly
Along polished timber floors,
Between velvet curtains,
Past forgotten portraits,
Ancient cabinets,
And shelves
Filled with impossible books.
She pauses
At every doorway,
As though counting
The souls entrusted
To the building’s care.
The old conservatory,
Where moonlight
Filters gently
Through coloured glass.
The library,
Still fragrant
With leather,
Ink,
And cedar.
The silent ballroom,
Where echoes
Of forgotten melodies
Seem reluctant
To depart.
The private dining rooms,
Where the Curio Club
Leaves behind
The lingering aromas
Of impossible feasts,
And conversations
That no ordinary world
Would ever believe.
She visits them all.
Nothing escapes
Her quiet attention.
Some believe she searches
For mice.
Others think she hunts
Restless dreams,
Chasing them
Into forgotten corners
Before morning arrives.
Edgar Brillows
Once remarked,
While polishing glasses,
“I’ve never seen her
Ask for food.
Only permission.”
No one knew
Quite what he meant.
Yet somehow,
Everyone understood.
The oldest members
Speak of stranger things.
A lonely traveller,
Overcome with grief,
Who felt
A warm body brush gently
Against his leg,
Though no cat
Could be found.
A frightened child,
Visiting with her grandmother,
Who laughed
At someone invisible
Curled asleep
Beside the fireplace.
An elderly gentleman,
Taking his final visit
To Nocturna,
Who smiled softly,
Bent down,
And whispered,
“Goodbye, old friend.”
No one else
Saw anyone there.
When the night
Has finally surrendered,
And every room
Has been visited,
Neko slips away
To a corner
Known only
To herself.
Somewhere
Within the old club,
Beyond the final lamp,
A small wooden box
Lined
With black velvet
Awaits her return.
She kneads
The soft cushion
With quiet satisfaction,
Turns once,
Twice,
Then settles,
Her golden eyes
Growing heavy.
Outside,
The city sleeps.
Inside,
Nocturna Dreams.
And nestled
Within its ancient heart,
Its oldest guardian
Dreams too.
For when evening
Calls once more,
And the great doors
Open again,
The members will return,
The conversations
Will begin,
The music
Will drift once more
Through candlelit rooms,
And somewhere,
Just beyond
The edge of sight,
Neko
Will be watching.
