Lance Olsen: Calendar of Regrets

And—

And, in the midst of this thought, Bosch becomes aware of himself again because something in his chest slips.

The surprising sensation arrives between inhalation and inhalation, a bluewhite spasm sluicing through his left arm, billowing down his back.

He is perfectly well.

He is anything but.

His hands become anvils. His legs become lather.

This is not, he is certain, as it should be.

Somewhere below him he hears his paintbrush clitter across the wooden planks.

Stunned, he tries to locate equilibrium, rotate fussily, take a step toward the heavy oak door that will lead him directly to Aleyt. He can hear her footfalls in the hall. She will know what to do. She always does, only—

Only—

Only something is sitting on his shoulders. Something is sinking him. At the edges of his flustered vision, he glimpses talons.

A hairless tail rubs his neck.

No dreams, Hieronymus Bosch thinks. These are not dreams, not at all, not for one—

With his next breath, a strut of his easel leaps up beside him, huge as an elm. The mirror on the far wall shrinks to the size of a silver fly. His paintbrush becomes a broom chafing the tip of his nose.

It strikes the painter he is no longer on his feet. No. He must be on his elbows and knees, ridiculous froggy rump raised in the air, dizzy as a blizzard, crawling, endeavoring to crawl, but making very little headway.

If only he could revolve slightly in a counterclockwise direction, he would place himself in a propitious position to push off toward that door which seems to reside, all at once, in another country.

He shores up his resources, takes a crack at it. The effect is not at all what he had anticipated. Bosch's right cheek is caressing cool floorboard. Wet strands dangle off his chin. Watery mites slip down his neck. The situation shames his prim northern European sensibilities, but not as much as what his body dares do to him next.

What his body dares do to him next is soil itself in a hot murky rush.

A dike fails without warning, and his soggy trousers are suddenly steaming.

Good God, he tells himself, eyes closed, head down, ass up, in an effort to buoy his spirits, circumstances could always be less satisfactory than they are in fact at present.

One should never disregard such significant information.

There are, all said and done, Bosch is sure, no more than two and a half meters between him and hall. It is a fairly straight shot. On a middling day, he could traverse the expanse in three strides, four seconds. He merely needs signal Aleyt, and help will reveal itself. Frozen there, Bosch pictures his wife going about her everyday industry on the other side, wiping off a lamina of dust along the mantel, perhaps, or, perhaps, settling back in her sitting-room rocker to read a line or two of scriptures before lunch, oblivious of what is happening just a few steps away.

Bosch channels the sum of his psychic fuel toward burrowing himself into her awareness.

If ever there were a time in his life for the telepathy of love to prove itself, pull hope out of its hat, this most certainly would be it, and—

And—

And nothing happens.

Nothing happens some more.

Nothing, that is, save the coalescence of a crisp understanding within him. Bosch, Bosch now fathoms, has been mistaken.

Absolutely.

For the last thirty-odd years, he has existed in error. The truth, he comprehends in a blast of searing lucidity, is just this: he does not want to die. Concluding is the very last thing he wants to do. He is not indifferent. No. He is passionate. He wants a bath. He wants a bed. He wants to see his wife again.

His present plan is to stay married to her for another ten thousand years.

What could possibly be any simpler?

And so—

And so—

And so, once again, he assembles his strength and sets off.

Instead of gaining ground, however, he finds himself examining the ceiling.

He has ended up turtled on his back.

Far above him, wood slats do not resemble wood slats any longer so much as an eddying mist. Stranger still, he can pick out, if he narrows his eyes sufficiently, concentrates, a collection of shady shapes up there. Human silhouettes. Rough. Amorphous. Like charcoal sketches.

Six or seven of them hanging in chairs around a hanging table.

They are laughing. They are having a party. They are sharing conversation and drink over dinner. Corks thwop. Glasses clink. Knives clatter. Bosch narrows his eyes further, listening, becoming no more than his attention.

One voice lifts in exasperation above the rest.

A man's.

No! it exclaims. Good God, no! That may be many things, Jerome, it is saying, but

art ? Surely art isn't one of them.

Of course art is one of them, dear boy, fleshy Jerome said reaching for his wine glass. He sipped, turned to Estelle: Your husband's certainly being contrary this evening, isn't he? Then back to Robert: The delicious red, green, yellow? The heavy black outlines? The pleasure that pair of monkey men in the painting exude in the face of just, well, being ? It's like making your way through a spring street fair down in the Village. What could possibly be more wonderful?

Don't mind him, said Estelle. She raised her last forkful of salmon risotto and her busy turquoise bracelet jangled. Robert's contrary every evening. Why should this be an exception? She slipped the fork between her lips.

Mirth broke out around the table. Everyone faced Robert, eager to hear his rebuttal. He leaned back in his chair, chewing, taking in his dinner guest with a deliberately exaggerated look of befuddlement.

Jerome, he said. Jerome. They're sucking each other's dicks , Jerome. Two guys are sucking each other's dicks . They're sixty-nining each other. That's not wonderful. Longo is all right. Tansey is tolerable. But Keith Haring? Please. And the execution? Why don't you ask me about the execution. Go ahead, Jerome. Ask me.

Jerome sighed and answered as if answering an imbecilic child: You know what somebody once said the difficulty with the idea of utopia is? There's no red-light district in it. Fine, Robert. Fine. Why don't you enlighten us all about the execution?

The execution's execrable. It has about as much sophistication as an episode of Pee-Wee's Playhouse .

I love you exceedingly, dear boy, but you're really quite mad. And, if the truth be known, I rather enjoy Mr. Herman and his nutty theater. Larry Fishburne as Cowboy Curtis is almost enough to make one want to wake up early on Saturday mornings.

Robert didn't like joking at his expense. Patting his mouth with his napkin, he said, toneless: Keith Haring isn't about art, Jerome. Keith Haring is about doodles. Doodles and those posters hanging on sophomoric dorm-room walls alongside Starry Night and that Duran Duran gang. Anyway, how in the world can you take that schlemiel seriously? He wears his baseball cap backward , for godsakes.

I believe we refer to that as being camp . And everyone knows bands like Duran Duran exist for the sole purpose of being made fun of, bless their silk suits and three-note melodies. What's wrong with that?

Robert rolled his eyes, opened his mouth to speak, and the maid, a shy Puerto Rican elf with overlapping front teeth, appeared and commenced clearing away dishes. Estelle asked if anyone might like an espresso or cordial. She wore a baggy grayblue dress with a large crimson rose just below the collar and possessed a left-leaning jaw. Robert extracted a cigarette from his case lying on the tablecloth next to his plate and lit up. In the midst of exhaling two spikes of smoke, he caught himself.