Calendar of Regrets

March

January February March April May June July August September October November December   & & &313' swollen with anticipation, Iphigenia closes her eyes and parts her lips to receive Achilles’ first kiss. She immediately feels she has done this before. They are alone in Achilles’ tent on their wedding night, the grand ceremony behind them. All the others have tumbled away into the past. The somber betrothal, the sacrifices, the banquet, too. It is time for the sacred unveiling. Achilles stands before her, slender, strong, chest and arms and legs agleam with oil, teeth flawless, breath licorice and mint, eyes cucumber green. He takes her wrists in his hands, bends toward her. Around them, a night sky of votive candles. Iphigenia thinking: I would sacrifice my life to save him. It is that clear, that untroubled. But just before Iphigenia does what Anthea asks her to do, she catches sight of a skirmish erupting beside her: five attendants wrestling a terrified deer forward, its neck and hindquarters roped. No, a goat. No, a bull. No, a The attendants have lifted the buck so that its kicking hooves cannot touch earth. Hanging there, it twists madly, strangling, struggling against the flock of hands trying to hold it down, its rolling eyes an outburst of shock and panic. Quickly, Agamemnon commands, glint appearing in his enormous 314 b & LANCE OLSEN ' right fist. The priests make way. Anthea lets loose Iphigenia’s wrists, orders her assistant to let loose her ankles, helps the frightened girl off the altar. The attendants hoist the deer onto the gray slab in her stead, force it onto its side. Its legs skitter, trying to find purchase. In a single gesture, Agamemnon advances, yanks back its head to expose its throat, and, driving down the knife, tearing sideways, intoning: Each of us must forgo in his own way. This is called heroism. Each of us must give what he least wishes to give. This is called duty. Through forfeiture, our people hound success. For favorable winds, I do what is demanded of me. A cable of blood arcs from the thrashing animal’s neck. It sprints briefly on its side, gargling forth its life. Its chest heaves, then its body goes flaccid as a stand of wet flax. Agamemnon steps back, blood dripping from his knife blade, and searches the skies for a sign. Nothing. Again, nothing. Then, slowly, the breeze picks up. Steadies. The atmosphere blues. A half-smile develops across Agamemnon’s face. The goddess Artemis has not been paying attention. He is almost sure of it. She has not noticed the substitution. Today we are lucky men, he announces proudly, turning toward the crowd. Today we are saved. Achilles is more than twice her age, twice her knowledge and wisdom. He possesses a hundred times her experience. He has seen the sun set at the end of the world. He has seen an island levitate, each snake on Medusa’s head bow down in prayer, a rainstorm turn hard and white like sand, only cold, a flaming dragon fall from the night sky. Iphigenia adores the very idea of all that understanding embodied in this doorway to her future. & calender of regrets ' b 315 She digs her nails into his shoulder blades as he has asked her to do, learning him, his body’s geography, what it has to offer, what it takes pleasure in, learning about the nature of the cosmos through its furious movements. Slides down into a weightless sleep in which she does not believe she is sleeping where, on a long white band of beach, surrounded by hundreds of lounging seals, she watches a brawny middle-aged man with scraggly thinning hair wrestle a creature that refuses to sustain its shape. He has been at it for hours. The creature transforms itself into a thick writhing python, a snarling leopard, a snorting pig, a beautiful blond female angel with a bloody wing, and, finally, a great splash of seawater that melts into the sand and is gone. The man rises, weary, beaten, and turns to face the vast ocean once more. But just before Iphigenia does what Anthea asks her to do, she catches sight of the glint on the white-capped waves below. A furious wind grows out of nowhere. The sky dims. Thunder paces back and forth along the plum...