Midnight rain,
On glass and black frame,
Gaslight fills
The wet streets
With an amber glow.
Dark hooves clatter
Across wet cobblestones,
Before falling silent
Outside
The doors of Nocturna.
In a small room
Above the club,
Ridley Slocum
Awaits.
His razors
Lie in perfect order.
His scissors
Catch the candlelight.
Not a single hair
Rests upon the floor.
Slocum is a barber.
Few possess his reputation.
The Barbery
Occupies the western corner
Of Nocturna’s first floor.
A room of polished mahogany,
Black iron,
Brass,
And firelight.
A single black leather chair
Sat proudly
Before an enormous mirror,
Its frame is carved ebony.
Every instrument
Occupied its appointed place.
Sheffield shears.
Bone-handled combs.
Ivory brushes.
Silver bowls.
Cut-throat razors,
Their edges so perfectly honed
They seemed almost invisible.
A small fire
Crackled quietly within
A cast-iron grate,
Filling the room
With cedar,
Warm leather,
Pipe tobacco,
Bay rum,
And sandalwood soap.
It was impossible to imagine
A cleaner room.
Or one more perfectly arranged.
Its master
Was no less remarkable.
Ridley Slocum
Looked as though
He had lived
Several entirely
Different lives.
His head was shaved
To polished perfection.
Small,
Round spectacles
Balanced neatly
Upon his nose.
Beneath them,
A magnificent
Blonde handlebar moustache
Curled proudly
Towards his temples.
His white barber’s coat
Was immaculate.
So too were the tattooed arms and hands
Emerging from rolled sleeves.
Ink travelled
Across both forearms,
Wrapped around his fingers,
And climbed towards his neck,
Where two simple words
Could be read.
To Cut?
Beneath his left eye,
A solitary black teardrop.
Slocum never explained
Any of them.
And nobody Ever asked him to.
A soft knock interrupted
The silence.
“Please come in”
The door opened.
Gideon Rook
Stepped inside,
Removing
Rain-speckled gloves
With practiced care.
“Good evening,
Mr Slocum.”
Ridley smiled.
“You’re early.”
“I usually am.”
“One of your better habits.”
Gideon laughed softly.
“I’ll take that
As a compliment.”
“It was intended as one.”
Ridley gestured towards the chair.
“As always.”
Gideon settled himself
Into the great
Black leather seat.
The barber
Fastened
A crisp white cloth
Around his collar,
Before draping
A steaming towel
Across his face.
For a moment,
Only the fire
Could be heard.
Then Ridley spoke.
“Busy evening?”
“The Annual Dinner Dance”
“So it is.”
“The club will be full.”
Ridley nodded,
working shaving soap
Into a rich,
Warm lather.
“And after you?”
“Mr Carreau.”
“Naturally.”
“And then Mr Brillows.”
Ridley smiled.
“My annual trilogy.”
“You’ve prepared us
For every banquet
These past
Twenty-one years.”
“I have.”
“And you’ve never
Missed one.”
“Neither have you.”
The barber folded back
One corner of the towel.
“You’ve been worrying.”
Gideon smiled.
“Have I?”
Ridley lifted his razor.
“You forget what I do for a living.”
The polished blade
Glided effortlessly
Across Gideon’s cheek.
“I spend my evenings looking at faces.
Most gentlemen tell me everything
Long before they speak.”
“And what does mine say?”
“That your mind arrived here
Several minutes before the rest of you.”
Gideon chuckled.
“I suppose that’s true.”
“What troubles you?”
“The usual things.”
Ridley waited.
“The staff.”
“The members.”
“The evening.”
“I simply wish everything to be perfect.”
The barber paused only long enough
To wipe his razor clean.
“You know,
Mr Rook…”
“Hm?”
“Marcel worries about appearances.”
“I know.”
“Edgar worries about everyone else.”
“I know.”
Ridley smiled.
“And you…”
He carefully turned Gideon’s chin
Towards the light.
“You worry whether everyone
Feels welcome.”
Gideon remained silent.
After a moment,
“I’ve always believed a gentleman
Should never notice how much work
Has gone into making him comfortable.”
Ridley nodded.
“Which is precisely why they always do.”
Another careful stroke.
Another impossible degree of precision.
“People remember
How a place made them feel.”
He rinsed the blade.
“They rarely remember
The man who quietly
Opened the door.”
The room fell silent once more,
Broken only by the gentle crackle
Of the fire.
At last,
Ridley stepped back.
He examined
His work from every angle.
Not hurriedly.
Not proudly.
Simply thoroughly.
He folded the towel.
Brushed a single,
Invisible speck from Gideon’s shoulder,
Then adjusted his collar
By a scarcely noticable amount.
“There.”
Gideon looked into the mirror.
“I see very little difference.”
Ridley smiled.
“Exactly.”
Gideon rose,
Fastening his waistcoat.
“What do I owe you?”
Ridley waved
The question aside.
“You’ll settle the account at Christmas.”
“As always.”
The two gentlemen shook hands.
Firmly.
Quietly.
Like men
Who had long ago
Learned that respect
Required very few words.
As Gideon reached the door,
Ridley called after him.
“You’ll send Marcel straight up?”
“I shall.”
“And please remind Edgar…”
Gideon turned.
“…not to smile quite so much
Before I trim his moustache.”
For the first time that evening,
Ridley laughed.
“So he still does?”
“Every year.”
“Then some traditions are worth preserving.”
The door closed.
Ridley returned his razor
To its exact place.
Straightened a brush
Already perfectly straight.
Stirred the fire.
And waited
For the next guardian
of Nocturna
To climb the stairs.
