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—
Because—
Because, Bosch sees, this is as good as it gets. Because this is what sorrow feels like. Because for now sorrow is the best Bosch can crib in his hands.
Bosch is, that is to say, not all right, yet he could be much less all right than he is at present.
He is not really alive, yet he could be much deader.
And so—
And so—
And so he pushes off, dragging his feet toward the heavy oak door.
Reaches out for the latch. Lifts. Opens.
Appraises.
Shambles through.
Into the shocking afternoon.
Into the radiant daylight.
His next breath.