The Trial
Chesterfield shuddered, deep into his tasteful afghan-knit throw cover.
He'd never really liked Barcelona (she didn't really fit in with the rest of the décor), but the way that this was carrying on unsettled him.
He glanced behind him at his wife and smiled inwardly at how solidly Ottoman sat on her neatly carved legs, her upholstery subtly different from his own but complimenting it well. She was crying, though, the tears running down the scrollwork. She'd made an effort to befriend the artful chair when she'd arrived, and make her feel welcome in the living room. She must be taking this very hard, and was probably interpreting this as an attack on her as well.
The elderly armchair, Victorian, shouted as Barcelona was led in. "Her! Her! I had the nice spot next to the fireplace, and I was always privileged to hold Mr. Mann before she came along!"
Chesterfield was appalled. Not only was Victoria shouting in an extremely disgraceful manner, it wasn't as if Barcelona had connived to get that spot. She'd been placed there, and had striven to do her duty, like a proper piece of furniture. Also, well, Victorian was shouting at old Settle, who was older than she was. Victorian's eyesight hadn't been very good since she'd been restuffed year before last (fortunately, Settle was a deaf as he was creaky and was unlikely to note the abuse).
Steinway, stately in his collection of family photos, clanged out a low C chord. "Order!"
Barcelona snuffled into her now somewhat spotted leather. Chesterfield tried not to think about the wear spots now marring her formerly sleek surface or the way that the paint on her curved legs was chipped. Barcelona was odd-looking, but she was beautiful in her own way.
"Barcelona, you are hereby charged with disturbing the peace, sedition, and treason."
The gasp was audible as fabric breathed and wood creaked. Chesterfield dropped one of his throw pillows, but picked it up and set it back into place before anyone noticed.
Treason? was the thought that was on every mind.
Barcelona whimpered.
"No, no," she said in a thin voice.
"SILENCE!" Steinway bellowed, pressing his pedals to make the sound prolong and echo. "You were heard to say, on the morning of Sunday the 4th, that you wished that Mr. and Mrs. Mann get rid of the - and I quote - old stuff - and bring in something more modern."
"I was just talking about the carpet!" Barcelona wailed. "You yourself said that it's awfully worn."
The silence was awful.
The carpet was, truth be told, threadbare and so faded the original pattern was all but invisible. Everyone knew so, and many said so regularly.
But it was part of the room, and had been there nearly as long as old Settle, who had come with the house.
Furniture-pieces, by their nature, are deeply conservative. They pretended that change wasn't winding its way towards the house, and ignored the chatterings of the IKEA pieces in the boy's bedroom. After all, none of the pieces in the living room spoke Swedish.
But Barcelona was different. It didn't matter that her design was over 80 years old, she was emphatically new in her entire ethos. She had been designed by Mies van der Rohe, for Chrissake. Him of "less is more" and ponderous squares of plate glass. Eighty years or eight, she was emphatically modern. She apparently spoke excellent Swedish, and would chat with the IKEA pieces, much to the chagrin of everyone else in the living room. Also, when a new tablecloth had appeared (hideous in its green check), she'd complimented it, saying that it set off the wallpaper very well and went with Drop-Leaf's blond finish nicely.
(Ottoman said that she was merely being polite, as poor Drop-Leaf needed some kind words at that time, but...)
More words were said, and Barcelona pleaded and begged in her cultured Catalan accent.
But it was for nothing.
She'd been heard to confess that she thought that Steinway was out of key (he was, truth be told - even Settle knew that) and that the End-Table twins were crooked.
So in the end, judgement was passed and she was exiled to the attic.
But not that long later, Mr. Mann decided to turn Charlie's room into a study (now that he'd gone off to college), and Barcelona was brought down and installed in the place of pride, next to a plain desk he'd gotten at a discount store.
---
This has been an entry for therealljidol. The prompt for this piece was "confession from the chair." Constructive criticism is welcomed.