Tag: dreaming

Edgar Brillows is a craftsman,
Not of wood or stone,
But of cocktails.

A creator of merriment,
His crystal creations
Smoked,
Sparkled,
Changed colour,
Or bloomed
Like flowers
Within the glass.

A slight man with greying blonde wavy hair,
Brillows maintains
Impeccable grooming
And immaculate attire.

Wearing a short Van Dyke beard
And neatly trimmed moustache,
An ivory waistcoat
Embroidered with silver thread,
A polished silver pocket watch,
A tailored black suit,
And a crisp white apron.

Attire aside, it is his professional skills
That really set him apart from others,
Personally memorising countless exotic recipes,
Discovered from all over the world.

He has many admirers,
Most of all club regular Frau Knochen.
Nocturna Manager Marcel Carreau
is always amazed,
At Brillow’s incredible talent,
His skill commands
The respect it receives.

This evening,
Leaning flirtatiously with one arm
On the bar is Lenore Morrow,
Twin sister of Leon Morrow.

The siblings are this month’s entertainment,
A musical double act known as Leon & Lenore.

It seems Lenore has taken
quite a liking to Brillows.

Carreau watches from his booth,
Smiles and shakes his head.

“Remarkable…
He has no idea.
Poor Monsieur Brillows.”

The Frenchman chuckles to himself.

“He should be thankful Monsieur Carter-Smythe
Isn’t attending this evening
With Frau Knochen”

Leon Morrow
is young, handsome,
and brash,
As is his twin.
Both siblings have very long straight hair
As black as night.

Both are porcelain skinned,
and dressed in exquisite black attire.
Leon’s tailored suit is an exotic three piece,
Lenore’s gown is flowing and glistens
with a hint of tiny gemstones.

Leon is a skilled pianist,
Lenore, an accomplished vocalist.

They take the stage and thank the audience,
As Leon prepares himself at his glossy black piano,
The lovely Lenore blows a kiss
to a somewhat embarrassed Mr Brillows,
Who respectfully bows in return.

For precisely
Thirty minutes,
The duo performed.

And bow to the stage as the curtains draw.

They appear amongst the crowd soon after,
Carreau shaking hands and pecking cheeks.

Before the crowd gathers around them,
Mr Brillows appears with a silver tray,
Containing two tall crystal glasses
Filled with a mysterious purple elixir,
which releases a white fog
As though dry ice
Had been added.

With a bow he returns to the bar,
Under the watchful eye and smiling face
Of a delighted Ms Morrow.

The evening slowly settled
Into its familiar rhythm.

Laughter drifted.
Secrets were whispered.
Old friends embraced.
New acquaintances were made.
Books changed hands.
Artefacts found new custodians.
Glasses were emptied,
Then quietly refilled.

From his place behind the bar,
Edgar Brillows saw everything.

Who sat with whom.
Who arrived together
Who left alone.
Who laughed the loudest.
Who cried the hardest.
Who argued.
Who quietly purchased impossible curiosities,
Before disappearing into the mist.
Who lingered
Long after everyone else.
Who quietly said goodbye.
Who never returned.

Yet never once
Did he repeat a single word.

Stepping behind the bar beside Brillows,
Marcel Carreau smiled knowingly.
“You know everything,
Don’t you, Monsieur Brillows?”

The barman paused,
Polishing the rim of a crystal glass.

A faint smile touched his face.

“No, Monsieur.
I know only
What people choose to leave behind
In empty glasses.”

Carreau laughed softly
and returned to his position.

“The glass always remembers.”
He whispered to himself.

The music resumed.

Conversation drifted once more
Through velvet booths
And candlelight.

Outside,
Rain washed
The cobblestones
Of Selwyn Lane.

Inside,
Edgar Brillows
Quietly polished another crystal glass,
As though
Nothing remarkable
Had happened at all.

For that was the peculiar burden
Of a good barman.

He remembered everything.
And repeated
Nothing.

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?