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.”
No one could recall precisely
When he had first arrived.
The oldest members
Claimed
He had always been there.
New members assumed
He had only recently
Taken the position.
Neither observation
Was entirely incorrect.
He appeared
To be a gentleman
In his early forties,
Though no one
Could quite explain
Why he never seemed
To grow any older.
His complexion,
White as untouched snow,
Hair like spun ivory,
Eyes
Soft grey beneath
Pale silver lashes,
Marked him
As an Albino.
Yet there was
Nothing fragile
About him.
He moved
With remarkable grace,
Silent,
Measured,
Never hurried,
Never late.
Every black suit
Fit as though
Tailored each evening.
A pristine
White silk shirt.
An ivory waistcoat
Delicately embroidered
With silver thread,
Visible only
When candlelight
Caught it just so.
A polished
Silver pocket watch
Rested upon his waistcoat,
Its chain
Perfectly arranged.
His pointed
Van Dyke beard
And immaculate moustache
Appeared so carefully groomed
That one suspected
Even the mirrors
Stood a little straighter
Whenever he passed.
He escorted guests
To secluded booths.
Remembered names.
Favourite wines.
Preferred whiskies.
Who disliked loud music.
Who preferred
The fireplace.
Who required silence.
Who merely required
Someone to notice
They wished to be left alone.
Many remarked
That he anticipated
Every request
Moments
Before anyone
Had thought
To make it.
He was
Gentle.
Observant.
Discreet.
Rarely surprised.
Respected equally
By club members,
By cooks,
By musicians,
By attendants,
And by management alike.
If Nocturna
Possessed a heartbeat,
Many believed
It was Gideon Rook.
One particularly busy evening,
When rain
Tapped softly
Against stained glass,
A newcomer
Named Mr Darrow
An apiarist
Invited by a longstanding member,
Allowed excellent whisky
To convince him
He possessed
Excellent judgement.
Unfortunately,
The whisky
Was mistaken.
By his fourth glass,
Mr Darrow’s voice
Had grown louder
Than the pianist.
He declared,
For all nearby tables
To hear,
“That waiter
Has ignored me
For half the evening!”
Several conversations
Stopped.
Marcel Carreau,
The eagle eyed
Club manager,
Appeared almost instantly.
“I do apologise,
Sir.”
“The apology,”
Slurred Darrow,
“Should come
From him.”
He pointed
Toward Gideon,
Who stood nearby,
Calm as ever,
Holding a silver tray.
Those who knew Gideon
Simply exchanged
Puzzled glances.
Ignored?
Impossible.
If Mr Rook
Had overlooked a patron,
The moon
Had likely forgotten to rise.
Still,
An accusation
Was an accusation.
Marcel’s expression
Hardened.
Before he could speak,
Mr Edgar Brillows,
The barman,
Quietly appeared
Beside him.
“I wouldn’t worry
Too much.”
Marcel frowned.
“This concerns
One of my attendants.”
Brillows smiled.
“Actually…”
He polished
An already spotless glass.
“…it concerns
Your employer.”
Marcel blinked.
“My employer?”
Brillows continued polishing.
“Mr Rook.”
Marcel stared.
“…Mr Rook?
“The owner.”
Silence.
Surely
He had misheard.
“The waiter?”
“The owner.”
“The attendant?”
“The owner.”
Brillows nodded without looking up.
“The Rook family
Have owned Nocturna
For generations.”
Marcel laughed.
Then stopped.
Brillows
Wasn’t joking.
“You mean…”
“The gentleman
Carrying glasses.”
“The one
Escorting guests?”
“The very same.”
Marcel looked
Across the room.
Gideon
Was helping
An elderly lady
Into her chair,
Smiling warmly,
Entirely unaware
That his secret
Had just escaped
Across the polished oak bar.
Or perhaps…
Entirely aware.
Determined
To defend his employer,
Marcel strode
Purposefully
Toward Gideon.
Before he arrived,
He paused.
For he noticed
Something curious.
Mr Darrow’s glass
Had never once
Been empty.
Fresh water
Had quietly appeared
Beside his whisky.
A fresh ashtray.
A clean napkin.
His dropped spectacles
Recovered unnoticed.
His chair shifted away
From a draft.
Every need,
However small,
Had been anticipated.
Ignored?
Quite the opposite.
Marcel stopped walking.
The accusation
Was nonsense.
He turned instead
Toward the imposing
Daniel Hargraves.
“Please escort
The gentleman outside.”
Hargraves,
Already moving,
Needed no further invitation.
But before
He reached the table,
Gideon
Placed one gentle hand
Upon his sleeve.
“Allow me.”
Hargraves nodded.
Immediately.
Mr Rook approached
The increasingly embarrassed
Mr Darrow.
He did not argue.
Did not lecture.
Did not embarrass him.
Instead he smiled.
“I’m terribly sorry,
Mr Darrow.”
The man looked confused.
“I should have realised
You were admiring
Our observation hive.”
“Our…”
“The bees
In the courtyard.”
Mr Darrow blinked.
“You keep bees?”
“A few.”
“I was hoping
To ask your advice.
Your reputation
As an apiarist
Precedes you.”
The drunken man’s anger collapsed
Almost instantly.
Within minutes,
The conversation
Had turned
To alpine honey,
Blue-banded bees,
Tasmanian leatherwood,
Forgotten orchards,
And blossoms
That opened
Only beneath moonlight.
By evening’s end,
Mr Darrow departed smiling,
Apologising repeatedly
For having been,
As he put it,
“A complete and utter fool.”
One month later,
A remarkable basket arrived.
Inside,
Were jars of honey
Unlike any
The kitchen staff
Had ever seen.
Leatherwood.
Orange blossom.
Chestnut.
Black sage.
Lavender.
Snow gum.
And several varieties
Without labels.
Accompanied by a note.
To Mr Gideon Rook.
Please accept my sincerest apology
For my disgraceful behaviour.
Your kindness
Was greater than I deserved.
Signed,
Brian Darrow
Gideon smiled.
Then carried the entire basket
Into the staff room.
One by one,
Every member received a jar.
The chefs.
The attendants.
The musicians.
Housekeeping.
Hargraves.
Mr Brillows.
Finally,
Marcel Carreau.
As Gideon placed a jar
Into his hands,
Marcel hesitated.
Then,
Unable to resist,
He smiled.
“Thank you…
Boss.”
For just the briefest moment,
Gideon’s eyes
Sparkled
With quiet amusement.
He simply inclined
His head.
“My pleasure
Mr Carreau.”
Nothing more.
Across the room,
Mr Brillows
Caught Marcel’s eye.
The barman offered nothing
But a knowing wink
And the smallest
Of smiles.
The matter
Was never discussed again.
Nor did it need to be.
For titles,
Impress strangers.
Rank
Comforts the insecure.
Power
Announces itself.
But true stewardship
Needs none of them.
So each evening,
As candles flickered
To life,
The owner of Nocturna
Straightened his ivory waistcoat,
Collected
A polished silver tray,
And quietly asked,
“This way,
If you please.”
And every member,
Without ever realising why,
Felt perfectly
At home.
