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heels against the stage like a man driving nails. She watched him, and her tongue made a wholly
obvious flirtatious trip around the rim of her liquor glass. There was a two-drink minimum, and as I
have never liked the taste of alcohol, she was more than willing to prevent waste by drinking mine
as well as her own. Whether she was getting drunk or simply indulging herself, I do not know. It
didn’t matter. I became blind with jealousy, and dragons took possession of my eyes.
When the dancer was finished, when his half hour show was concluded, he came to our
table. His suit was skin tight and the color of Arctic lakes. His hair was curly and moist from his
exertions, and his prettiness infuriated me. There was a scene. He asked her name, I interposed a
comment, he tried to be polite, sensing my ugly mood, she overrode my comment, he tried again in
Castilian, th-ing his esses, she answered, I rose and shoved him, there was a scuffle. We were asked
to leave.
Once outside, she walked away from me.
My unicorn was at the curb, eating from a porcelain sèvres soup plate filled with flan. I
watched her walk unsteadily up the street toward Jackson Square. I scratched my unicorn’s neck and
he stopped eating the egg custard. He looked at me for a long moment. Ice crystals were sparkling in
his mane.
We were on the downhill side.
“Soon, old friend,” I said.
He dipped his elegant head toward the plate. “I see you’ve been to the Las Americas. When
you return the plate, give my best to Senor Pena.”
I followed her up the street. She was walking rapidly toward the Square. I called to her, but
she wouldn’t stop. She began dragging her left hand along the steel bars of the fence enclosing the
Square. Her fingertips thudded softly from bar to bar, and once I heard the chitinous clak of a
manicured nail.
“Lizette!”
She walked faster, dragging her hand across the dark metal bars.
“Lizette! Damn it!”
I was reluctant to run after her; it was somehow terribly demeaning. But she was getting
farther and farther away. There were bums in the Square, sitting slouched on the benches, their arms
out along the backs. Itinerants, kids with beards and knapsacks. I was suddenly frightened for her.
Impossible. She had been dead for a hundred years. There was no reason for it...I was afraid for her!
I started running, the sound of my footsteps echoing up and around the Square. I caught her
at the corner and dragged her around. She tried to slap me, and I caught her hand. She kept trying to
hit me, to scratch my face with the manicured nails. I held her and swung her away from me, swung
her around, and around, dizzyingly, trying to keep her off-balance. She swung wildly, crying out and
saying things inarticulately. Finally, she stumbled and I pulled her in to me and held her tight against
my body.
“Stop it! Stop, Lizette! I...Stop it!” She went limp against me and I felt her crying against my
chest. I took her into the shadows and my unicorn came down Decatur Street and stood under a
streetlamp, waiting.
The chimera winds rose. I heard them, and knew we were well on the downhill side, that
time was growing short. I held her close and smelled the woodsmoke scent of her hair. “Listen to
me,” I said, softly, close to her. “Listen to me, Lizette. Our time’s almost gone. This is our last
chance. You’ve lived in stone for a hundred years; I’ve heard you cry. I’ve come there, to that place,
night after night, and I’ve heard you cry. You’ve paid enough, God knows. So have I. We can do it.
We’ve got one more chance, and we can make it, if you’ll try. That’s all I ask. Try.”
She pushed away from me, tossing her head so the auburn hair swirled away from her face.
Her eyes were dry. Ghosts can do that. Cry without making tears. Tears are denied us. Other things;
I won’t talk of them here.
