Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
There are those
Who visit Nocturna
For the rarest spirits,
The whispered stories,
Or the peculiar company
One finds nowhere else.
Yet the regulars,
Those who have lingered
Long enough
To call the place home,
Will tell you
That the evening
Never truly begins
Until Mr Gideon Rook
Offers a gentle nod
And quietly says,
“This way,
If you please.”
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.
Louis de Villepin
Was a perfectionist.
As flamboyant
As he was talented,
His remarkable nose
Could distinguish
Hundreds of fragrances,
Even after
they had long vanished
From the air.
Nestled above
Nocturna‘s grand mahogany staircase,
Beyond an unassuming velvet curtain,
Lay rooms
Known only to a handful
Of trusted members.
A gentleman’s smoking room
With a wrought-iron balcony,Quiet reading chambers,
Guest apartments,
And, at its heart,
A private dining room,
Reserved each month
For the Curio Club….
Gideon Rook carried
An aged bottle of rum
And two crystal glasses
Towards Booth Six.
Before he reached the velvet curtain,
A booming laugh rolled across Nocturna,
Followed by the unmistakable voice
Of Captain Abercrombie Marlowe….
Time,
And the restless city,
Forgot old Selwyn Lane.
Its weathered buildings,
Once alive with commerce,
Slowly emptied.
Doors closed.
Windows gathered dust.
One by one,
Their occupants
Simply went elsewhere.
Although some remain empty
To this day,
All quietly found
New custodians.
Purchased,
Not by developers,
Nor speculators,
But by club members
Of Nocturna.
Many gifted their buildings
To the club itself,
Allowing the sanctuary
To grow
Patiently,
Silently,
One adjoining wall at a time.
Behind ancient brickwork,
Doorways became archways.
Storerooms became libraries.
Warehouses became museums.
Forgotten offices
Became quiet reading rooms,
Cabinets of curiosities,
Map vaults,
Conservatories,
Trade halls,
And discreet apartments
Reserved for distinguished guests.
To the city,
The block still appeared
Forgotten.
Weathered.
Half abandoned.
But appearances
Have always been deceiving
When it comes to Nocturna.
Within those old walls,
Life quietly flourished.
Books found readers.
Collectors found discoveries.
Artists found inspiration.
Friends found one another.
And every twelfth night,
of the month,
The sanctuary grew
A little richer.
Nocturna is no longer
Merely a private club.
For many,
It has become
A way of life.
An entire city block,
Quietly devoted to curiosity,
Craftsmanship,
Scholarship,
Wonder,
And the preservation
Of beautiful impossibilities.
Three times yearly,
When the moon reaches an agreeable position,
The members gathered
Before the great carved oak doors
That separated
The warmth of Nocturna
From its hidden courtyard.
The lanterns burned softly.
Perfume drifted beneath the ancient arches.
Someone coughed politely.
Someone else
Had already begun drinking…
The little ornate black box
was carried into the Nocturna Club,
By a little person.
Her name was Latty Flouse,
Or at least that’s the name
She chose to use here.
How old she was,
Nobody knew,
Her hair was perfectly white,
And stuck out
from beneath her black bonnet,
The train of her dark floral dress
dragged behind her,
Her tiny gloved hands,
Grasped her prize tightly.
As she greeted attendant Gideon Rook,
Who promptly
Showed her to a private booth,
Where he extended a small set of
Mahogany steps concealed within
the ornate booth bench.
Without a word Latty
Stepped up into the booth
And slid the box onto the table.
Mr Rook then departed
to collect her tea.
Raspberry was her tea of choice.
“Good evening, Mr Bloom”
She announced.
To the smartly dressed
and equally diminutive gentleman,
seated opposite her.
“My dear Latty,
is that what I think it is?”
He replied excitedly.
“Oh it is, please,
Be my guest”
Oleg Bloom,
Was a peculiar little man,
Always dressed in a dark pinstripe suit
with deep purple waistcoat,
And matching purple velvet slippers
that were currently
Tucked up onto the large bench seat.
Above his long white beard,
Stared two inquisitive blue eyes.
Oleg and Latty were Mycologists
And had spent their entire lives,
As global mushroom hunters.
Individually they have travelled the world,
in search of the rarest specimens.
Together they have single handedly populated
The Nocturna garden beds with
The most beautifully coloured fungi.
“I say Latty, this is remarkable”
Smiled Mr Bloom,
As he removed the lid from the box.
Gideon Rook soon returned,
Placing a small silver tea set on the table.
Out of professional courtesy,
He did not comment,
But was quite surprised by the
Bright glowing mushroom in the box,
it’s blue phosphorescent glow
Filled the booth,
Illuminating its smiling inhabitants.
Whom Rook now observed,
Were holding hands
Either side of the box.
Staring deeply at one another,
Not noticing,
That tea had been served.
Without looking away from Bloom
Latty asked Mr Rook to send for
Club manager Mr Carreau.
A request he promptly obeyed,
With a small bow.
Marcel Carreau was already on his way,
The astute Frenchman
Catching Rooks eye immediately.
He warmly greeted the pair.
“Bonsoir, Madame et Monsieur,
And what do we have here?”
Latty looked up at Carreau smiling,
“The Somnolucis Caerulea…
It’s the Dreamfire Lantern.”
“From the Vale of Sleeping Stars”
Added an exuberant Mr Bloom
“Oh you don’t say”
Replied Carreau.
Latty continued,
“According to legend,
the fungi grows where fragments
of fallen stars become buried
beneath ancient woodlands.”
Excitedly Mr Bloom adding,
“Its radiant blue glow never fades
and is said to brighten whenever
two soulmates meet.”
The pair returned their gaze
to each other.
“We’d like to add it to the
Nocturna collection.”
Latty continued,
Without looking away.
Marcel Carreau smiled warmly.
“It would be Nocturna’s honour
To become its custodian.”
Latty finally looked away
From Mr Bloom.
“It belongs here.”
“So do we.”
Mr Bloom smiled.
“I couldn’t have said it better.”
Carreau inclined his head.
“Then allow the club
To thank you.”
His eyes drifted briefly
Towards the bar.
Edgar Brillows
Already understood.
Moments later,
Gideon Rook arrived
With a polished silver tray.
Upon it rested
Two elegant crystal glasses,
Each filled
With a luminous sapphire cocktail,
Its pale mist
Drifting gently
Across the tabletop,
Reflecting the mushroom’s
Unearthly glow.
Carreau smiled.
“A small toast,
To remarkable discoveries.”
He quietly withdrew,
Drawing the velvet curtain
Behind him.
The conversations of Nocturna
Returned once more
To a distant murmur.
Inside the little booth,
Neither tea
Nor cocktails
Were touched.
Latty Flouse
And Oleg Bloom
Simply sat together,
Hands entwined,
Watching the soft blue radiance
Of the Dreamfire Lantern.
Until it became impossible
To tell
Whether the mushroom,
Or the two smiling mycologists
Were glowing
Most brightly.
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,
Marcell 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 courtyard garden
Of Nocturna
Lies hidden
At the heart of the club.
It is no ordinary courtyard.
There is no open sky.
Instead,
An immense glass ceiling
Spans the space above,
Filtering the moonlight
Into a soft
Silvery glow.
The night sky
Feels close enough
To touch,
Yet remains
Beyond the glass.
Ancient stone paths
Wind quietly
Between raised beds
Filled with rare herbs,
Curious flowers,
And exotic plants
Collected by club members
from distant lands.
Some bloom only
By moonlight.
Others perfume the air
With fragrances
Unknown beyond these walls.
Members wander slowly,
Teacup,
Book,
Or notebook in hand,
Finding quiet corners
In which to think,
Read,
Or simply listen
To the gentle movement
Of leaves
Beneath the moonlit glass.
It is said
That no plant
Within Nocturna’s garden
Has ever truly died.
Only waited patiently
For the right season
To bloom again.
