The Wet Ottomans

Book I: The Argument

The Ottoman – eh?  Let me count the arms.

“None, sah!” reports Midshipman Ripples;

“They’s made that way, and with no back neither,

“So as to offer comfort to cripples.”

Used in the empire of the same name

For adulterous romps and more, I suspect,

It arrived in America in 1789

As an “Ottomane of velours d’Utrecht”,

Bought by a Mr Thomas Jefferson,

Who happened to see it by chance

And used it to muse and relax on

After taking Louisiana from France

And writing the Kentucky and Virginia

Resolutions – secretly, mind –

So people would come for miles to see

The chair that had no behind.

Book II: The Events Preceding The Night In Question

“Jesus Christ, you need a steam room

“To dry these things out – they’re soaking!”

“How many are there – in total, that is?”

“Eighteen.”  “Eighteen?  You’re joking!

“Count them again, oh please,” pleaded Kate,

“Eighteen’s too many to rescue.”

How well she remembered the sodden ottomans,

Growing up under Ceaușescu,

As a young Romanian girl that year

When the floods came out of the sky

And everyone north of the Danube

Would kill for a pouffe that was dry.

Lou counted them from wall to wall

And, as she said, there were eighteen in all:

Two had disintegrated, three were just wettish

(Ideal for couples with that fancy fetish!)

While four were quite sodden and, as for the rest,

They ranged from drenched to damp at best.

“Do you think, if we turn the radiators on,”

Said Kate, skipping gaily upstairs,

“That we could dry them before Tim gets home

“And sees what we’ve done to his chairs?”

“This wouldn’t have happened in Jefferson’s day,”

Avowed Lou, grinding her incisor,

“But if we torch the whole fucking house,

“Then Tim’ll be none the wiser.”

Book III: The Ottomans On The Night In Question

Superindent Faraday puffed on his pipe

And surveyed the desolate scene:

A mangled mess of steel and glass

Where once Tim’s house had been

And he turned to Sergeant Keddie:

“What the blazes is this all about?”

“Blazes, sir?  A good one!

“Well, according to my snout,

“A man was seen emerging

“From the flames at about half-past five.

“If he’d left it any later, sir,

“He wouldn’t be alive.

“He claims it was his sister, Lou,

“Who set the house alight

(“His sisters live in Basingstoke

“But were staying overnight).”

“Let’s interview this sister, Lou,”

Said Faraday, looking tense,

But Lou swore blind she’d been asleep

And the mystery made no sense.

Faraday stared at the ceiling

And, perplexed, he scratched his head,

And pursed his lips and picked his nose

And eventually he said:

“This is no ordinary burning of ottomans,

“We’ll have to call in the Met.” –

For the strangest thing of all, you see,

Was that the ottomans were still wet!

Sure & Certain Hope

The next day I went to the Town Hall to register your death. I found the Register Office and handed over the documents I’d been given at the hospital. The clerk gave me your death certificate and a license authorising the funeral director of my choice to bury or cremate your body according to my instructions. On the clerk’s advice I bought seven extra copies of your death certificate. I was ready to move on to the next stage, like a participant in a treasure hunt. 

   While I was doing the paperwork with the clerk there was a man hovering quite close behind me. He seemed impatient for me to finish. I didn’t turn to look, but I could hear his quick, shuffling steps, never more than two or three in any direction, before he’d scuttle back as if to protect his place in the queue. When I turned to leave there was no queue. There was just this man smiling at me. He took me gently by the arm and led me out of the room into the corridor. We sat on a wooden bench.

   “I want to help you,” he said, “to understand what’s happening to you.”

   He explained that for some time to come there would be a vacancy in the air where you used to be—a vacancy precisely the same size and shape as you. He asked if I’d ever visited Pompeii and did I know how archaeologists located citizens lost in the volcanic storm almost two thousand years ago? Those empty pockets in the lava were eloquent impressions of lives, he said, and that was how he wanted me to think of the awful vacancy that had been occupied so brilliantly and for so long by you.

   He found it utterly understandable that I was for the moment unable to see beyond the narrow confines of my grief, but assured me that if I allowed time to perform its subtle alchemy, the sadness of a life lost would be transformed into a million happy memories of a life lived. And these happy memories (and this is where perhaps he took a step too far) would pour into that vacancy and then, when it was full, the magic would happen: this trove of remembered joys that was shaped exactly like you would step out of nature, wave a loving farewell and walk away from me into the radiance of eternity. And my grief would end.

   “And this is something I’ll actually see?” I asked.

   “You have my word,” he said.