F&SF BK UNICORNS VOL 2.indb

by Gordon Van Gelder

  “Well, I can take Mollie upstairs and—” Cele said, but she gave up in mid-sentence, accepting her responsibility to her sisters. Steiner could see the trapped frustration in her face. “All right,” she said resignedly, “I suppose we should just go upstairs. . . .”

  “I’ll take a walk with you, Stephen,” Kate said.

  “Either we’ll all take a walk or we’ll all go upstairs together,” Cele said, her hands gently shaking, whether from age or anger, Steiner didn’t know. But he felt guilty, for he had sacrificed Cele to them just so he could be alone . . . Cele deserved better than that. The poor old girl. . . .

  But Steiner was on his feet as soon as his sisters disappeared into the side entrance of the hotel. It’s too hot out here anyway, he told himself, sweating under his polyester powder-blue shirt and matching slacks. He wore a white jacket and white loafers. As he passed, the gossips and wrinkled sunbathers nodded to him and said, “Good morning, Judge.”

  Steiner hadn’t been a judge for thirty years, and even then had served only one term. But Steiner liked the title—it opened “doors” for him. Everyone called him “Judge” at the very exclusive Boca Club, where he was a member. In fact, he had had the heraldic blue and white and gold emblem sewed on all his sports jackets. Of course, he didn’t attend very many functions there, as they were very expensive. But he had been known to take his dates to the club for swanky luncheons. Perhaps Mariana would visit him at his home in Fort Lauderdale, and he could take her, too. . . .

  He was immersed in that daydream as he stepped through the coffee shop beside the pool area and into the large kitchen behind. There were busboys and waiters and waitresses bustling around, carrying large aluminum trays in and out of the two wide swinging doors that led into the dining area. Cooks and helpers were working at sinks and long wooden tables. Squashed prunes and apples and matzo brie and puddles of soup and juice and coffee discolored the white tile floor.

  Mariana stepped backward into the kitchen, pushing the door open. She was holding a tray filled with glasses and dishes and silverware.

  “Mariana!” Steiner said, overly loud. She turned to him, looking surprised, but no one else seemed to notice his presence . . . or care.

  She put the heavy tray down on one of the tables and said, “Yes, Judge? Is something wrong?” She tilted her head in a most attractive manner, Steiner thought.

  “Yes . . . I just thought—” and suddenly the words left him. He felt awkward and foolish . . . and suddenly paranoid that she would think he was a “dirty old man.” But that was plain stupid! he told himself. She doesn’t even know why I’m here yet. “Do you have any plans for this evening?” he blurted out. But even as he spoke, he realized that he had lost the advantage entirely . . . that now she was in the position of power.

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Judge,” she said, looking uncomfortable. “I’ll be taking care of your table tonight, is that—”

  “No . . . I mean, would you care to have a drink with me after dinner, after you’ve finished working. Perhaps we could meet at the Fontainebleau . . . by the bar. It’s very nice there.”

  “Well . . . I don’t know.” She was actually blushing. That’s a good sign.

  “I’ll be waiting for you at poolside at ten o’clock,” Steiner said with authority, feeling much better about the venture now.

  “I’m really not supposed to be going out with the guests,” she said coyly, her eyes averted from his. “I could get fired, and—”

  “Well . . . I’ll be waiting for you at”—Steiner looked at his thin gold watch for effect—“ten o’clock sharp.”

  “I’ve really got to get back to work, please. . . .”

  “Ten o’clock,” Steiner said smartly, using his best judicial tone. Mariana nodded once, shyly, her eyes still averted from his.

  Steiner turned heel back to the pool area.

  Once outside, back in the sun, he felt relieved and full of nervous energy. He felt like a schoolboy dreaming about the girl he was going to take to the senior prom. He couldn’t stand the thought of going back to his room or sitting in the hotel lobby, which smelled of old age and was filled with urns of fake flowers and plants. He couldn’t bear to look at another old man or woman. He couldn’t sleep, and he had just eaten.

  He just wanted to be alone and daydream. . . .

  He found himself walking along the sand toward the ocean. Perhaps he’d walk along the beach to the Fontainebleau, have a drink, and then return down Collins Avenue, thus making a circle. But once he reached the Fontainebleau and saw the pool and bar to his left, he just didn’t feel like stopping. He was too filled with energy to stop and sit, so he continued walking, enjoying the brisk breeze coming off the ocean, the healthy smell of the salt air, and the pounding of the surf just inches away from his sand-encrusted white loafers. He dreamed about Mariana . . . and imagined himself as a young man courting her, a young man with thick black hair and a strong, handsome face. A strong man eyed by every bikini-clad woman he passed. . . .

  But Steiner was beginning to swelter in the afternoon heat. The sun was unbearable, and Steiner had misjudged how much of it he could take. The ocean breeze, which was at first cool and refreshing, now felt hot and muggy. He turned around and started back to his hotel.

  Thank goodness he didn’t have far to go.

  Steiner wouldn’t have seen the unicorn if it hadn’t made a snorting noise as he passed. It stood behind a dozen one-man red and white sailboats leaning against against an old pier that was in disrepair. It stood in the shadows, as if to cool off.

  The unicorn carefully stepped out from the boats and gazed at Steiner with its ocean-blue eyes. It pawed the sand with its heel, sending ribbons of sand into the air to be carried away on the wind.

  Steiner stopped, transfixed again by the unicorn. He broke out in a sweat, but it was cold sweat, and from fear rather than heat. “What do you want?” he asked, feeling foolish talking to an animal like this, but he had to break the spell with something . . . a word, the sound of his voice. Suddenly Steiner was aware of a myriad of tiny details: the soft pinkness of the unicorn’s muzzle; the white whiskers growing out of its chin and nostrils; its coarse, shaggy white mane and fetlocks; its cloven hooves worn from the sand; and the strange, ridged black horn that looked as if it had somehow erupted from the animal’s forehead. In fact, it looked glassy, as if it might have indeed been formed from lava. In the bright sunlight it took on a reddish sheen, which seemed to deepen at the tip. Steiner was acutely aware of the splashing and gurgling of the surf, but he couldn’t make out any human sounds, except for his own quickened breathing. This was an empty stretch of beach. Steiner was shaking, and he felt weak. The animal was so large. It looked like a huge Morgan, with its muscular back, strong neck, and large head. It stood square, its legs right under its shoulders. The unicorn was overpowering . . . yet it seemed to be gentle. It didn’t move, but seemed to be made of porcelain and coal. It just stared at Steiner; and it was as if the unicorn’s eyes were blue magnets pulling him closer . . . and Steiner imagined how it would be to ride this great beast, to feel its bulk beneath him and the wind whistling in his ears and the salt spray biting his chest and face. He could ride it along the beach . . . along the ocean.

  The unicorn took a cautious step toward Steiner.

  Suddenly Steiner remembered last night and broke the reverie. He stepped back in terror, almost falling over his own feet. The unicorn took on an entirely different guise as Steiner remembered how he had wanted to jump from his window at the mere sight of the beast. The unicorn—as if reading Steiner’s thoughts—whinnied and pawed the sand. Then, ready to charge, it lowered its head.

  The sharp black horn was pointed directly at Steiner.

  And Steiner saw the unicorn for what it was: death. Death in its simplest, most beautiful guise. “No,” he whispered to the beast. “No!” he screamed, hating it. He turned from the unicorn and ran, his narrow-toed Italian white loafers heeling into the soft sand.
His eyes burned and seemed to go out of focus as he ran. His heart felt as if it were pounding in his throat. He could hear the unicorn behind him. He could feel the unicorn’s horn at his back, ready to slash him wide open.

  But Steiner wasn’t ready for death. He wanted to live. He had to live. If death was going to take him, it would have to take him on the run. Steiner wasn’t going to make it easy. He wasn’t going to slip into any eternal slumber with a toothless good-bye. Not Steiner.

  He ran as hard as he could, the blood pulsing in his chest and head, making him dizzy, until he tripped over a tangled, polished piece of driftwood and fell headlong into the sand. He turned backward, resolved to face death with his eyes open.

  But the unicorn was gone . . . disappeared. There were no tracks, except for his own, no outline of equine heel or bar or furrow in the soft white sand. Steiner tried to catch his breath. He felt at once relieved and anxious. He had been chased by something. His breathing began to return to normal, but he had a flash of searing pain in his abdomen, and his arms and shoulders felt heavy and began to ache. He broke out into a cold sweat. He felt clammy and chilled and nauseated. It was the fall, he told himself . . . and the exercise. He hadn’t run like that in forty years.

  But one thing was certain: he had seen a horse with a horn. It might have been some sort of publicity trick, but it was no hallucination. Steiner wasn’t the type to hallucinate. He might have had some crazy thoughts when the beast was chasing him, but then, who wouldn’t? He felt foolish, running as he had. The damned thing obviously hadn’t been chasing him, or he would have seen it when he had turned around. Actually, if it had really been chasing him it would have run him through with that horn in no time flat.

  Still . . . it had to be some sort of publicity stunt, Steiner thought.

  Steiner told his sisters he wasn’t feeling very well and stayed in his room. He forced himself to take a swallow of brandy and tried to sleep, but he felt feverish. Frenzied, unconnected thoughts flashed through his mind. He tucked himself under the covers. The pain seemed to lift.

  I’m not crazy, he thought, raising himself up on his right elbow to gaze below. The ocean was turquoise green in the shallows and deep cyan blue farther out. The sun was bright and warm and reassuring. Although no one was swimming in the pool, there were over thirty people sitting in deck chairs and chatting while others walked about. Everything was perfectly all right, exactly as it should be, as ordinary as bread.

  Then Steiner saw the unicorn lift its head out of the ocean.

  At first, he thought he was seeing a wave, a distant whitecap, but there was no mistaking that black fluted horn. There were those blue eyes and thick white mane and muscular neck. The unicorn rose out of the water, revealing itself little by little as it moved into the shallows, until the water was only up to its knees and it walked forward, kicking, lifting its long legs out of the water, onto the beach. The unicorn was dripping wet and as big as life. It stood on the edge of the empty beach and looked up at Steiner, as foamy water purled past its hooves. It knew Steiner was there. It had come for him again.

  “Go away!” he shouted, as he shakily got up from his bed. As the pain began to radiate into his shoulders and arms and chest, he pulled the curtains closed.

  But he knew the unicorn was still out there, waiting. . . .

  Steiner felt much better by dinnertime. He had rested, and the aching in his arms and chest was gone, as were the sweats and fever. Steiner was prone to night sweats, anyway. He was apprehensive about opening the heavy curtains, so he left well enough alone . . . he had had enough excitement for one day.

  He dressed informally in tan shirt and slacks and went downstairs to pick up a newspaper in the lobby. He leafed through it outside the shabby hotel shop that sold magazines, newspapers, aspirin, suntan lotions, cheap trinkets, and sunglasses. He was disappointed—there wasn’t even a mention of a circus, or a carnival, or a runaway horse . . . or a unicorn. Well, someone must have seen the damn thing, too, he thought. Surely, it will be in tomorrow’s papers.

  He put the newspaper back on the rack and met his sisters for dinner in the dining room. He felt a bit hesitant about seeing Mariana before their forthcoming tryst at the Fontainebleau, but it couldn’t be avoided. If he didn’t show up for dinner, she might think he was ill or not interested, and she might not meet him later. Still, he felt uncomfortable. But when she took his order, and Steiner smiled at her, she returned it. She even blushed. That made Steiner feel very good indeed.

  Everything else went along as it had for the past five days. Cele and Kate and Mollie discussed the menu and chose each dish with care, but when the food actually came, each one complained bitterly that she should have ordered a different entrée. Kate complained about her sore mouth. Mollie talked about her children and “the grandkids” and told Cele that the veal was the wrong color.

  After dinner and a wink at Mariana, Steiner accompanied his sisters to the obligatory 7:30 show in the ballroom, where the hotel rabbi—a slick stand-up comedian, who had made records and played the Catskills every year—was performing. Steiner didn’t listen to the stale jokes. He kept glancing at his watch. After the show, he kissed his sisters good night and went to his room to change into fresh, more formal clothes for his date with Mariana. He felt a bit weak and dizzy, but he was determined to go out tonight, as if he had to prove something to himself.

  As he entered the room, he examined himself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. He had a shock of white hair, which was yellowed a bit in the back; deep brown eyes; a thin nose; and a full, sensual mouth—it was a strong, angular face that had loosened with age. Although the face-lift two years ago had helped, lines still mapped his face. But he certainly didn’t look his age.

  He began to feel anxious here in the room, but he made a point of not going near the closed curtains. He could hear the faint murmur of the surf; it was like gentle white noise. He wondered if the unicorn was still out there as he changed into a smart-looking chocolate-brown suit with a matching tie and a white-on-white shirt. His brogues were a bit scuffed; he reminded himself to buy polish. He concentrated on small details.

  But he couldn’t leave the room this time without finding out if the unicorn was still out there. He pulled open the drapes and looked out the salt-stained window . . . he looked by the pool and on the beaches . . . he looked at the white-crested black waves of the ocean.

  The pool area and the beach were empty.

  There was not a unicorn to be seen.

  Steiner took a small table in front of the enclosed driftwood bar poolside at the Fontainebleau. The pool was huge and kidney-shaped, and Steiner enjoyed a tall whiskey and soda while he watched floodlit water cascading down a stonework waterfall into the pool. Palms were spaced around the pool area, and green and blue lights gave the place a festive, romantic atmosphere. To his left were the glass doors that led into the Fontainebleau shopping center; to his right, across an expanse of lawn, was the new ten-story addition to the hotel. Cozy paths wound their way between palmettos and hibiscuses, and the ocean was a dull, dark pounding behind him. Guests in evening clothes, in jeans and tube tops, in bathing suits and clogs, in gaudy slacks and Hawaiian shirts promenaded past him. Two callow-looking, teenaged lovers walked by, hand in hand, followed by a small group of executives and their wives. The whole world seemed to be carved into twos. But Steiner felt strong with excitement and anticipation; he felt dashing, good-looking, if just a trifle tired.

  As he sat, waiting, two women who looked to be in their late thirties sat down at the wooden table beside him. One was dumpy-looking and plump; she wore clogs, white Bermuda shorts that were too tight for her, and a very revealing pink halter top. Her hair was blonde and coarse, obviously bleached. Her companion, in contrast, looked quite demure. She was tall and skinny, with short-cropped brown hair and a long, hollow-cheeked face. She wore a blue outfit—a blue blazer and a pleated white and blue skirt which was actually quite stylish. But she had the wo
rst teeth that Steiner had ever seen. Her two front teeth were long and crooked and widely spaced, and one protruded beyond the other. Obviously, they should have been pulled long ago. She must be a country girl, Steiner thought. Country people don’t take care of their teeth . . . they hate dentists.

  Steiner ignored the women and waited for Mariana. He gazed at the path that led from the shopping center: the direction that Mariana should be coming from. He sipped his drink and eavesdropped on the conversation of the men at the bar. From what he could overhear, they were microprocessor executives from Atlanta here on a convention. They talked mostly about getting laid.

  The blonde woman kept smiling at the men at the bar. To Steiner’s surprise, the ploy worked, because when the waitress came to take her order, one of the men insisted on buying the blonde woman a drink. He was rather good-looking in an athletic sort of way . . . what the hell would he want with someone like that? Steiner mused. Steiner couldn’t help but stare. The man sat down, winked at his friends at the bar, and put his arm around the back of the blonde woman’s chair. She was cooing and shifting about, smiling and nuzzling closer to the man as introductions were made. The other woman craned her long neck slightly to join in the conversation, but she looked uncomfortable, although she was the type who always looks uncomfortable. Steiner watched the executive lean forward to get a better look at the blonde’s breasts; but Steiner was caught staring by the tall woman, who was looking directly at him. She smiled at him without revealing her teeth. Steiner nodded curtly and turned away.

  That’s all I need, he told himself. But he was getting anxious. Where was Mariana, anyway? It’s ten o’clock already. I was a fool not to have gotten her home phone number. Dammit! Perhaps I can call the hotel . . . she just might be working late. Steiner called from the bar, where the rest of the men were taking bets on whether their friend would get laid or not. Steiner watched the burly executive making his pass at the blonde. Then Mr. Lareina, the maître d’, came to the phone and told Steiner that Mariana had left shortly after nine. “All right, thanks,” Steiner said and hung up. He wasn’t going to abase himself by asking for her home phone—Lareina wouldn’t give it out, anyway.