Lance Olsen - Calendar of Regrets

A grown man, a not wholly undistinguished painter, a detester of the flesh and all earth's excesses… and this . Satan has one pure pleasure: waiting until you have forgotten him, moved on with your life, feeling, if not a certain variety of cheerfulness, precisely, then at least the deficiency of immediate despair, and stepping up beside you on the street, nestling up behind you in your bed, to remind you in his hissy whisper of just who and what you are not.

Nonetheless, if the truth be known, Bosch would much rather hear that hiss than its opposite, than silence, for its sound suggests by its very presence that Hieronymus is not quite done yet. The painter certainly does not feel quite done yet. To the contrary. Lying there, he senses life beginning to trickle back into him.

And so he settles, watching the vision of the market square that has started coalescing above him atom by atom. The spot is packed with people, merry shouts, carnival commotion. Bosch watches Bosch gather into being on a wooden platform in the middle of it all. He is clothed in his finest attire. Across from him stands Goosen flanked by two somber cloudbearded men dressed in the black robes of distinguished scholars. The crowd is chanting. At first Bosch cannot decipher what it is they are going on about. Then his brother steps forward, and the sound resolves into intelligibility.

They are, if Bosch is not wholly mistaken, cheering his name.

Not his brother's. Not his father's. His .

What an astonishing fact: Hieronymus Bosch is being honored. He is quite sure of it. Goosen reaches out, and in his slender hand appears an offering: a lambskin scroll — a prize, a decoration, Bosch is uncertain which — and the artist's lungs go light with love.

These people have come to see him. That's what they have done. They have come to pay tribute. All these years. A lifetime of not being seen. And here Bosch is, arriving into visibility.

Placing one palm on chest, raising the other in a sign of mock modesty, Bosch basks in the waves of admiration.

No, no , his gesture says, I could not possibly , but, of course, he can. He will. Goosen presses the gift upon him. Bosch accepts it. The multitudes erupt into jubilant roar.

Hieronymus! Hieronymus! Hieronymus!

Hieronymus! Hieronymus! Hieronymus!

Hieronymus! Hieronymus! Hieronymus!

The scholars nod in solemn unity. Bosch undoes the black ribbon binding the parchment, works the scroll open, bashfully turns it out for the throng to savor.

The problem, the painter suddenly suspects, is that something is not quite right. Something is not quite right at all. Rather than meeting the howls of approval he expects, Bosch meets only chirped laughter. He raises his chin slightly, checking. An outbreak here, there, as the few barely literate townspeople up front squint to figure their way through the stubborn alphabet, then pass along the news to their neighbors.

Before Bosch knows what is what, a wall of hilarity surges back and forth before him. His appreciative beam thaws, melts away, and, in its place, a hot confusion overflows him.

Panicky, he looks to his brother for reassurance. Goosen lends Bosch a gummy smile that says Don't worry — I'll protect you , then bursts out laughing himself. Head thrown back, stained teeth sharp and unruly, the yokel reminds Bosch of nothing so much as the maw of a predatory fish bearing down on him.

His big brother holds up the unrolled scroll for Bosch to read.

Time hangs.

Time hangs.

Bosch cannot initially pull the nouns, verbs, and prepositions into meaning. Then the appalling information reaches him: he is reading a list, not of his accomplishments, but of his foibles. Bosch is taking stock of the once secret catalogue of his shortcomings. There are, he is somewhat startled to see, remarkably many of them.

And now they are public knowledge.

And now the public is adoring each and every one.

With that, the scholars turn their backs to him, bend at the waist, hoist up their robes, and present their sagging hairy asses for his benediction. Farts tuba out. The crowd's laughter intensifies. Bosch's chest staggers, his face goes on fire, and—

And—

And the vision dissolves in a wintry rush. Bosch is once again back on the floor of his studio, sweating, reeking, waiting for the next humiliation to come calling. Somewhere, he senses his right hand waking up. He watches sidelong as it rises and commences a tottering search over the contours of his body, checking for proof that Bosch is still Bosch.

The painter inhales and exhales, collecting himself by degrees. He slowly lifts himself onto one tender elbow, onto the other. Braces. Waits for Lucifer to take note of him and swoop down. Waits a little longer. Decides, gradually, that he is in the clear, at least for the nonce.

In measured stages, he eases himself into a sitting position.

Lets his head steady.

The entire world remains his body.

And then, cautiously, he commences rubbing his limbs, hoping the heat will restore his identity. Beyond the noise called Hieronymus, he hears Aleyt moving from sitting room to hallway to kitchen, preparing to prepare the midday meal. He envisions the mug of amber ale and bowl of hare stew afloat with leeks, chopped garlic, bay leaves, and sage bits that will be waiting for him on the table. All he has to do, he knows that he knows, is reach it and his life will pick up where it left off. Give him a moment. He will, with effort, rise. He will, with effort, hobble down the hallway, strip, wash himself at the cut-down barrel with the dipper and mutton-fat soap out back. He will change into fresh clothes, make a stab at poise, make a stab at lunch, then take his daily stroll across the market square with his wife. That is what he will do.

Walking beside her, he will carefully explain to Aleyt what he has accomplished this morning, where he has been and with whom. The ginger snaps. The seizure. The visions. He will assure her he is perfectly fine, then beg her never to mention this incident to another living soul, including Bosch himself, because he intends to engage in an act of extended amnesia at the earliest possible opportunity. This is why God created a charity named Forgetting.

Walking beside her, he will love his wife more stubbornly than he has loved her in decades, and, afterward, will return to his studio for another afternoon's work, because that is how he has been sewn together.

And then?

And then, tomorrow, he will do it all over again.

Someday, he knows, he will bump into hideous Groot on the street, or at a service, or at the fair. They will, by force of circumstances, exchange pleasantries as if nothing occurred between them because, in the only sense that matters, nothing did.

And so, with a grunt, the painter lifts himself tentatively to his feet. His head swoops and whirls. He wobbles, shuffles a step forward.

Staring down at a single point on the floorboards to fix himself to this dreadful planet, he regains his footing, becomes aware of his own lukewarm filth sliding down his legs, the shit he has birthed.

The stench is crushing.

Bosch stands in it bowel bruised, belly sore, knee achy, tongue swelled, thought smeary, life worn. His knuckles throb for no reason that he can say, his right elbow where it must have banged as he went down, the back of his skull.

This is bad, he determines, and yet, given a little time, a little rest and recuperation, it will get much worse. Of that much Bosch is confident. Each hour will always bob up as a sour pill one must swallow until the bottle is empty and lying on its side, at which moment things will turn truly nasty because—

Because—

Because each morning, as you rise from your bed, the belief hums through your head that you are going to die, going to die, going to die, yes, surely, no doubt about it, but not today — an observation that will remain correct every morning of your life, except one, because—