The Assimilated Cuban's Guide to Quantum Santeria Page 14

  It was New Year’s Eve Day and he had yet to buy champagne. He had thought, before the arrival of his unexpected horn, that he would spend New Year’s at a quiet bar near his apartment, where time-ravaged retirees winced down drinks and told blue jokes and performed minute exegeses of last night’s game. Now, of course, that was out of the question. But alcohol had saved him; it was the only thing, not medicine or drug or advice or therapy or anything else, that had allowed him to endure his separation from his wife. He doubted he would survive New Year’s unless he got so drunk he forgot to die of heartbreak.

  So he would have to venture out. But how to cover the horn? It rested too low on his forehead to by hidden by the brim of a hat, but too high to be shielded from sight by wide-brimmed sunglasses. Was there any way for a sane man in this society to reasonably cover his forehead?

  He settled on a bandanna. Our man was Mr. Martín Esposito, 51, a balding high school English teacher with the plush-doll physique one expects of a high school English teacher. He no longer owned sneakers, nor jeans, nor even a t-shirt. His bandanna was actually a dishtowel that received a sudden and unexpected promotion. And so our man, in a white long-sleeved shirt and gray dress pants and a belt and black matching shoes and, last of all, a red paisley dishtowel-cumbandanna, sallied forth in search of New Year’s champagne.

  4.

  As he ran for his car, he felt like every satellite in the sky was trained on him. He fumbled with his keys and used the wrong one twice in a row before finally getting his car door open. He slammed the door shut, took a breath, then looked around the neighborhood. Nobody was out. He took another breath, this time of relief. Probably no one at all had seen him.

  The drive was uneventful. He pulled into the parking lot of the liquor store, turned off the car, then checked the bandanna in the rearview mirror. It looked silly, but it remained in place, the horn beneath it only a vague, indeterminate lump that no one would be able to identify. Solidifying his resolve, he exited the car and entered the liquor store.

  He and the owner—a craggy, shaggy man whose other job might have been “Ancient Mariner”—were the only two souls in the store. The owner watched him in a distracted way; he was the only thing moving in the small liquor store besides the flies, which the owner had been watching before he came in and would go back to watching once he left.

  He made straight for the champagne, picked out a bottle almost without looking at it, walked toward the cash register, realized he had picked out the most expensive champagne in the store, replaced it on the shelf, picked out something in his price range, and, finally, walked to the register, clutching the bottle like a wrung-necked chicken.

  The owner asked “That all today?” and he said, “Yes.” The owner asked “Need any lottery tickets?” and he said, “No thank you.” The owner asked “Got any plans for tonight?” and he pointed to the bottle, and said, “Just that.” And they both let out a one-huff laugh.

  Then the owner pointed at the bandanna and asked, “What, you lose a bet or something?”

  On cue, the bandanna untied itself and fell onto the counter.

  They both stood there looking at each other, the owner’s eyes locked onto the horn, and Martín watching the owner’s reaction. Finally, Martín reached for the bottle, now in a paper bag, and asked, “May I have my champagne now?”

  The owner surrendered the champagne, saying as he did, “Your wife must’ve been screwing around on you for a long time.”

  He laughed a little then, mostly in surprise that the owner knew of that old legend. And then he stood still for a minute. And then he began to weep the most earnest tears of his life.

  “No,” he said. “Not her. Me. I cheated on her. With a teacher at school. Who wasn’t beautiful or smart or anything. She just showed interest. That’s all it took: interest. That’s how pathetic I am. And for that I ruined everything.”

  The owner watched him dispassionately as he cried like Gilgamesh wailing for his lost friend Enkidu; like Isis for Osiris, cut to pieces by his jealous brother Set; like Demeter for Persephone, destined to spend half of every year in Hades with Hades.

  Then, knowing no other way to deal with emotion, the owner pulled the bottle of champagne out of the bag and popped the cork. “Let’s you and me drink this,” said the liquor store owner, “and you can tell me all about it.”

  5.

  He had called his estranged wife’s cell phone, but it was his Pre-Med daughter who picked up.

  “Hi, Pápi!” she said with alcohol-fueled cheer. He heard outbursts of laughter and the relentless beat of party music behind her. “Happy New Year!”

  “Happy New Year, honey. Why do you have your mom’s cell?”

  “She didn’t want to carry it, so I told her I would, so I could call you later, but now you’ve called me!”

  “Right. Well, is your mom around? I wanted to talk to her for a minute.”

  “Really? Because you know dad,” and his daughter’s voice became low and conspiratorial, “I think she wants to talk to you too. I think she misses you.”

  “Did she say that?”

  “Kind of. But it’s more what she’s not saying. She’s been having stomach pains for the last few days. I told her we should go see a doctor, but she said, ‘I think maybe I’m just missing your father a little.’ So see? She misses you. I think things are looking up for you two.”

  “Don’t be so sure, honey. Has your mom told you why we’re trying this trial separation?”

  “You know, she said people grow apart, and maybe it’s not permanent, and mostly just a big load of shit.”

  “She was protecting me. She didn’t want you to hate me. But that’s not fair to her.” He took a breath, imagined Perseus working up the courage to strike, finally, and behead the Medusa. “I cheated on her. With another woman. That’s why we’re separated.”

  He let the silence remain until she was ready to talk again. Finally she said, “I thought that’s what happened. If I was with you now, Dad, I would slap you.”

  “And I’d deserve it. But for right now I just want to do right by your mom for a change. So could you put her on the line? I have some thing I need to tell her. And something of hers I need to return.”

  “Okay, Pápi. You know I love you, right?”

  “I know. And I love you. And even though I messed up our marriage, maybe forever, I love your mámi, too.”

  “I know. Let me go get her. Happy New Year.”

  “Happy New Year, honey.” And as he waited for his estranged wife to get on the line, he fondled, with melancholy and affection, the bone in his hand that just a while ago had protruded from his forehead. It wasn’t a horn after all, once it had run its entire course, there at the liquor store as he drank champagne with the store owner and wept and told him everything: but a human rib, one that was no longer a part of him. The only thing to do was to give it back.

  The Magical Properties of Unicorn Ivory

  Vocations don’t grant vacations. I’m supposedly on holiday in London when I get an offer no reporter could refuse: to see a unicorn in the wild.

  I’m with my friend Samantha, hanging out at a small pub after a long night’s clubbing, still wearing our dance-rumpled party dresses, dying to get out of our heels. Sam’s father Will owns the place and tonight he’s tending bar, so it’s a perfect spot for late-night chips and hair-of-the-dog nightcaps. Plus, most of the clientele are in their 50s. We wouldn’t have to spend all evening judo-throwing chirpsers.

  Or so we thought. Sam tics with her neck; I look over her shoulder and see a guy sitting alone staring at us over his drink. He could be my dad, if my dad had forgotten to bring a condom to his junior prom. Short, stout, but really fit; looks like a cooper built his torso. The man’s never heard of moisturizer. He’s wearing a black pinstripe shirt with a skinny leather tie, black pleated pants and black ankle-boots. I am sure some cute sales girl had dressed him—because nobody who cared about him would’ve let him leave the house looking li
ke dog’s dinner.

  And now—shit—I scrutinized him too long. He comes over, beer in hand.

  “Ladies,” he says.

  “We’re not hookers,” says Sam. “I know these dresses might give a gentleman the wrong impression.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I add, big smile.

  “Right,” he says, and turns on his heel.

  “Hold on, Gavin,” says Will, who’s just pulled up with my Moscow Mule. “Don’t let these two termagants scare you off. Make a little room for Gavin, Sam, will you?”

  Gavin considers us a moment, then pulls up the stool next to Samantha and offers his hand. “Gavin Howard.”

  “Oh!” says Sam. She’s suddenly unironically warm—a rare demeanor for her. “You’re the forest ranger. Dad’s told me about you. I’m Sam.”

  I put out my hand. “And I’m Gabby. Gabby Reál.”

  “A pleasure,” he says, then proceeds to purée my knucklebones—one of those insecure guys who has to try to destroy the other person’s hand. Charming.

  “This man’s a national hero,” Will says to me. “He’s keeping our unicorns safe.”

  Now that is interesting. Back in the States, we’ve heard reports of unicorns appearing in forests throughout Great Britain. But in this age of photo manipulation it’s hard to get anyone to believe anything anymore.

  So I say as much: “Plenty of Americans don’t think unicorns are real, you know.”

  “Oh, they’re real, Ms. Reál,” says Gavin, pleased with his wit. As if I hadn’t heard that one 20 billion times.

  “Americans,” says Samantha. “You never think anything interesting could possibly be happening anywhere else in the world, do you?”

  The Brits share a chuckle. I don’t join in.

  “We shouldn’t insult our visitor,” says Will. “I mean, if she were to tell us snaggletoothed pookahs started appearing in California, I suppose I’d want better proof than a picture.” He leans to Gavin and adds, “Gabby’s a reporter for The San Francisco Squint. Her column’s called ‘Let’s Get Reál.’ Two million read it every week, don’t you know.”

  Gavin sizes me up. No, it’s a deeper, more serious stare: he appreciates me, like a squinting jeweler. “I’m all for reality. I have no patience for falsehood. I wish more people would ‘get reál.’” His voice gets weirdly sincere.

  I lean toward him and say, “Me too. My column’s subtitle is ‘Truth or Death.’” I smile and sip my Mule.

  It’s not the first time I’ve flirted to land an interview. Gavin drinks the rest of his beer but never takes his eyes off me. Neither do Will or the slightly-disgusted Sam, who sees exactly what’s happening.

  But screw her; a story’s a story. Gavin sets down his glass and says the words I am longing to hear: “You know, I’m working the New Forest this weekend. If you’d like, it would be my pleasure to take you with me. You might just see a unicorn for yourself.”

  I thought this would make a nice fluffy piece for my column. I mean, unicorns!

  Gavin—who is completely professional and hands-off, thank God—and I are having a delightful Sunday-morning hike through some less-traveled parts of the New Forest. It’s everything an American could want of an English woods: fields of heath; majestic oaks and alders; rivers that run as slow as wisdom itself; and ponies! Thousands of ponies roaming feral and free like a reenactment of my girlhood fantasies.

  Of course, that sets my Spidey-sense tingling. Wouldn’t it be easy enough for rumors of unicorns to sprout up in a place with so many darling ponies ambling about?

  This is what I am thinking when we come across a thick, almost unbroken trail of blood.

  “Hornstalkers,” Gavin says. And when he sees I’m not following: “Unicorn poachers. Of all the luck.”

  He calls it in on some last-century transceiver. HQ wants more information. They tell him to send me home and to follow the blood trail with extreme caution. “Do not attempt to apprehend them on your own,” says HQ.

  “Understood.”

  “I mean it, Gavin. Don’t go showing off in front of your lady- friend.”

  “I said ‘Understood.’” He stows the transceiver and adds: “Wanker.” And then to me he says, “Well Gabby, it’s poachers. Dangerous people. HQ says I’m supposed to send you home.”

  “Just try,” I reply.

  “Atta girl.”

  We hustle through the wilderness, following a grim trail of blood, snapped branches, hoofprints and bootprints. Gavin jogs ahead, while I do my best to keep up. He’s a totally different person out here, absolutely in-tune with the forest. He’s half hound, loping with canine abandon through this forest, then stopping suddenly to cock his head to listen, sniff the air.

  It’s also clear he’s used to running with a high-powered rifle in-hand. He told me, as he strapped on its back-holster before we left his truck, that he was bringing it “just in case.” So here we are.

  He stops suddenly and crouches. I do too. From one of his cargo-pants pockets he pulls a Fey Spy, a top-of-its-class RC flying drone that looks like a green-gold robot hummingbird.

  He tosses it into the air and it hovers, awaiting orders; using a controller/display-screen the size of a credit card, he sends the little drone bulleting into the forest.

  I peer over Gavin’s shoulder at the display and am treated to a fast-forward version of the terrain that awaits us. Gavin’s a great pilot. The drone zooms and caroms through the woods with all the finesse of a real hummingbird.

  And then we see them: the poachers, two of them. They wear balaclavas and camouflage jumpsuits, the kind sporting-goods stores love to sell to amateurs.

  Between them walks a little girl. A little girl on a metal dog leash.

  I’d judge her to be eight or nine. She’s dressed for summer, tank-top and shorts and flip-flops; she’s muddy to her ankles. Her head hangs, and her hair, the colors of late autumn, curtains her face. The collar around her neck is lined with fleece. (To prevent chafing, I presume? How considerate.) The leash seems mostly a formality, however, as it has so much slack that its middle almost dips to the ground.

  “What the hell?” I whisper. “What’s with the girl?”

  Gavin, slowly and evenly, says, “Some hornstalkers believe that unicorns are attracted to virgin girls. So they kidnap one to help them in their hunt.”

  “What? You can’t be serious.”

  Gavin shrugs. “One too many fairy tales when they were kids, I guess.”

  I can only imagine what is going through that poor girl’s head. Kidnapping alone is already more evil than anyone deserves. But as a girl I loved horses, ponies and especially unicorns. If unicorns had existed in our timeline when I was young, they would have dominated my every daydream. I can’t imagine how scarred I would have been if I’d been forced by poachers to serve as bait. To watch them murder one right in front of me. Dig the horn out of its skull.

  Gavin gives my wrist a fortifying squeeze. Then he hands me the RC controller, takes out his walkie-talkie and, as quietly as he can, reports what he’s seen to HQ. I use the Fey Spy to keep an eye on the poachers. The group is moving forward cautiously. The girl’s stooped, defeated gait fills me with dread.

  Gavin has a conversation with the dispatcher that I can’t quite make out. When he’s done, he pockets the transceiver and looks at me. Then he holds out his rifle to me with both hands.

  “This,” he says, “is a Justice CAM-61X ‘Apollo’ sniper rifle. It has an effective range of 1,700 meters. It’s loaded with .50 caliber Zeus rounds. They’re less-lethal bullets. Bad guys get hit by these, they lose all muscular control, shit their pants and take a nap. Then we just mosey up and cuff ‘em.”

  I squint. “1,700 meters in a desert, maybe. You’d have to be halfway up their asses to get a clear shot, with all these trees.”

  He pats the rifle. “Not with these bullets, love. They’re more like mini missiles, with onboard targeting computers and everything. They can dodge around obstacles to reach their
target. Especially,” he emphasizes, “if we can create a virtual map of the forest between us and the target.”

  Lightbulb. “Which we can make with the Fey Spy.”

  He nods. “Listen Gabby. That girl’s in great peril. We’re on the clock here. We can’t wait for backup.”

  As a journalist, my ethics require me to remain disinterested when covering a story. Fuck you, journalistic ethics. “What you need me to do?”

  He points at RC display/controller in my hand. “You any good flying one of these?”

  “I’m a reporter. I make my living spying on people with drones.”

  Gavin smiles. Then: “I need you to fly the Fey Spy back to us, slowly and from high up in the canopy, so that it can map the forest between us and the poachers. Then fly it back over to them and keep them in the Fey Spy’s field of vision. It’ll automatically transmit the map of the forest to my rifle. Once it’s done, it’s as simple as bang bang bang. Everyone goes down.”

  I nod in agreement at first, before I realize this: “Wait. Bang bang bang? Three bangs? There are only two poachers.”

  His face goes green and guilty. “Well, we can’t have the girl running scared through the forest. She could hurt herself.”

  I wait a second for the punchline, because he can’t be serious. But of course he is. “Oh my God. Are you insane? You are not shooting the girl!”

  “She’ll just take a little nap.”

  “And shit her pants. You said she would shit her pants.”

  “She’s not even wearing pants.”

  “Gavin!”

  Gavin puts his finger to his lips.

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “Look, if you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears.”

  “I do,” I say. “You shoot the poachers. I’ll handle the girl.”

  Gavin’s dubious. “That girl’s undergone a severely traumatic sequence of experiences. I’m not sure a team of highly-trained psychologists could handle her right now.”

  “She’ll be even more traumatized if you shoot her. Look, I admit it’s not a great option. We just don’t have any better ones. As soon as you have a lock on the hornstalkers, you take them out. I’ll fly the Fey Spy to the girl and keep her entertained until backup arrives.”