Lance Olsen - Calendar of Regrets

There are so many universes in the universe. It would not be an overstatement to suggest Bosch expected white tranquility, a spotless sense of wellbeing, but surely not this: tumult and bewilderment and an agitated gut. Surely the angels would never make such a racket — and, well, if these are not the noises of seraphs and cherubs clamoring around him, if he is not in heaven, but the other place, would he not feel rather warmer than this? Here the air is frosty and moist as if he were suspended topsy-turvy in some sort of gigantic cavern.

Wherever he happens to be, Bosch cannot shake the corroding awareness of how little difference his passing will make to so many. He calculates the number of people who will not miss him, and the sum is astronomical. Shaken, he begins again, this time trying to calculate the number of people who will miss him, and derives such a low sum he is forced to re-reckon to assure himself he has not made an error. Aleyt, undoubtedly. Yes. Absolutely. And beyond her? Beyond her, the children he did not have. His missing children's missing grandchildren. His parents, were they alive. His wife's, the same. His brother, had his brother treated Bosch as something other than an expendable social obligation to be met once or twice a year. Four or five uncles, five or six members of The Brotherhood, six or seven Cathars, each of whom, upon hearing report of his demise, will pause in some lane to remove his hat, lower and glumly shake his head, less out of any sense of real sadness than because removing one's hat and lowering and glumly shaking one's head is what one does upon learning of someone else's crossing the bar in public, regardless of one's own genuine viewpoint on the subject, then reseat said hat and push on into his errands without even the sip from another thought about the deceased except, feasibly, for some minor concern over who the painter's replacement might be on this committee or that, how the listener will phrase his note of condolence to the painter's wife.

Then, swiftly as it thronged Bosch, the uproar dissipates, shoots past, rises away at terrific speed, because—

Because—

Because Bosch has no idea why. He realizes unenthusiastically he is still on the descent, has been for quite a while now, if his sense of time is faring any better than his sense of space, a notion open to some speculation. He could not say with any conviction, naturally, but he has the general impression his drop has encompassed minutes, not seconds. Two? Ten? He would not want to hazard a guess. For all he knows, he may have been at it for weeks already.

Little by little, thinking these thoughts, he becomes sentient of another body falling alongside him. He can sense the heft of its company, hear the airstream of its presence. Curious, he opens his right eye for a second peep and has, he discovers, crossed into an extensive realm of grayness. Blackness has given up to grainy opal light as far as he can see.

Opposite him hurtles down the naked burned girl he spotted from his attic window all those decades ago during the great fire. He is confident he could reach out and touch her, if only he possessed the strength to raise an arm. Her blond hair flutters in a large shredded and singed teardrop above her head. One side of her body is skinless. Wisps of smoke flicker off her blackened flesh, evaporate quick as a cough in the wind. Her hands cup her privates, making her appear modest as Eve after the bite. Her eyes, which are taking in her traveling companion with interest, are precisely the wisterial of his wife's.

Do you by any chance fancy ginger snaps? she asks.

What's happening to us? Bosch shouts back against the bluster.

Because I simply can't get enough of them. They're my weakness. I can't help myself. Don't you love how special they make your tongue feel?

What's happening to us? Bosch repeats at the top of his lungs.

Oh, right. Sorry. I'm dead. You're dying. Not to worry. It shouldn't be long.

This is what it feels like?

Forever. Yes. Odd, isn't it. Not how they described things in the least. Then again, they wouldn't have had the faintest, would they? The stories people tell. I'm happy to say the worst is behind you. More or less.

The worst?

The shock. The jolt that startles and scares.

I was imagining the most horrible things. Lying on the floor. Swallowing my tongue.

You had. Have. You'll get used to it. Everyone does. But what do you think ?

About death?

Ginger snaps . The honey. The cinnamon. The ground white pepper. Isn't it extraordinary? Like a street fair below your eyes.

I haven't given it much thought.

Goosen has. I could eat them all day. Gave it quite a bit, in actual fact. Of thought, that is. It has two tastes, doesn't it. The sharp surprise, and then the — the what? — the flood of prospects.

Ginger snaps?

Death. A shame, really. He never was very keen on your paintings. But you already knew that. Always considered them rather… indecent , I suppose, is the word.

He went behind my back?

No, no. Didn't have it in him. He merely made certain of his sentiments… available . What I think I fancy most is the texture. Don't you? Crackly and chewy and melty all at once. You were more interested in doing your own work. No fault in that. What sort of artist would you be if you hadn't been?

He called me a heretic.

Everyone does. Did. Because… because you were , weren't you? Only snag was you believed you were good at keeping secrets. Still, then again, who doesn't?

You're saying our falling won't end?

There are various theories on the matter. Some maintain it's a logical impossibility to keep going and going until the end of time. Others aren't quite so sure. Personally, I've been at it now for — what year is this?

Fifteen sixteen.

More than half a century. Isn't that curious? You meet the most fascinating people. I once fell for rather a long way with an explorer from the future. Blond fellow with a sprained wrist. Trekked though the Far East. What stories he had — Oh, dear!

Bosch notices the girl has picked up momentum, is beginning to pull away from him. Her head is level with Bosch's belly, with his knees, with his ankles. Hope contracting, he peers down at the top of her smoking plume of hair.

Can't you stay a bit longer?

Oh, I do wish I could! she shouts up at him, exasperated. But I don't believe it's in the cards. Perhaps we'll see each other again sometime.

She adds something else Bosch cannot hear.

What? he calls after her. What was that?

Arabella! she shouts, face shrinking. My name! It's Ar-a-bel-la!

Goodbye, Ar-a-bel-la! he calls out after her.

She lifts a tiny white hand from her sheltered pudendum to wave discreetly, but does not answer, or, if she does, Bosch can no longer detect what it is she is saying.

Arabella becomes a lost clog drifting down far below him. A marble. A pinprick.

And then Arabella becomes nothing at all.

And then—

And then—

And then, plunging, the painter does no more than tilt back his head and squinch shut his eyes in preparation for his inevitable trip through eternity.

When he opens them again some time later, what he sees startles him: the daedal ceiling of his studio.

The veiny wood.

The non-eye of non-God not peering down.

Stunned, Bosch discovers himself on the floor beside his easel, gazing up, mouth dry as pumice powder. Perspiration saturates his shirt, squiggles down his temples. The notion comes to him that he stinks of oniony sludge and bitter pissoirs. He is lying in a swampy puddle of himself, his heart beating so hard he can see the pulses in his eyeballs.