Fido Shrew,
A curious little gentleman,
Hunched of back and bent with age,
Arrives at Nocturna
Promptly upon the twelfth night.
With a courteous tap
To the brim of his black felt hat,
He acknowledges Hargraves,
Who returns the greeting
With a single respectful nod.
In one hand,
Shrew carries an ebony cane,
Polished smooth
By many decades of faithful service.
In the other,
A small black wooden cage,
Within which sits
A glossy magpie.
Her name is Matilda.
As they pass through the foyer,
She greets the house
With a cheerful warbling song,
As though announcing
An old friend’s arrival.
Without hesitation,
Shrew makes his way
Through the smoke-softened main room,
Past whispered conversations,
Books exchanged in silence,
And glasses catching
The amber glow of lamplight.
He slips into a private booth
At the rear of the club,
Where a heavy curtain
Of black velvet
Trimmed with lace
Is quietly drawn.
There,
He waits.
Not long afterwards,
McKinley Gripe arrives.
A short, broad gentleman,
Impeccably dressed
In a well-tailored black suit.
His neatly combed grey beard,
Small round spectacles,
And weathered leather satchel
Have accompanied him
For as many years
As anyone can remember.
He offers Hargraves
A warm greeting,
Before being shown
To the same secluded booth.
“Ah…
Lovely to see you.”
He declares cheerfully,
Allowing his satchel,
Heavy with books and manuscripts,
To fall upon the vacant chair
With a satisfying thud.
Shrew peers over his spectacles.
“Lovely to see me?”
His dry, crackling voice replies.
“Since when?”
Gripe smiles.
“I was talking to Matilda.”
He gently taps
The magpie’s cage.
The bird answers
With an indignant warble.
Both old men
Burst into laughter.
The curtain closes.
No one hears another word.
Gripe and Shrew
Have kept this peculiar appointment
For longer than most members
Can remember.
Since they themselves
Were young gentlemen.
On the twelfth night
Of every second month,
They meet.
They exchange barbs.
They exchange books.
Manuscripts.
Letters.
The occasional impossible curiosity.
A glass of red wine
Is usually shared.
Sometimes a fine cigar.
Always conversation.
For precisely
One hour
And six minutes.
Never longer.
Never shorter.
When the hour concludes,
The curtain parts.
One gentleman departs.
Then, several minutes later,
The other.
Never together.
No one knows
What passes between them.
Nor where either man goes
Beyond the wallpapered sanctuary
Of Nocturna.
No one asks.
That,
After all,
Is one of the rules.
And this curious little ritual
Is but one of many
Hidden quietly
Behind the black iron door
Of Nocturna.
