PETER S. BEAGLE

Professor Gottesman and the Indian Rhinoceros

Peter S. Beagle was born in New York City in 1939.

Although not prolific by genre standards, he has published four well-received fantasy novels, and his first such, A Fine and Private Place, was widely influential. In fact, Beagle may be the most successful writer of lyrical and

evocative

modern

fantasy

since

Brad-bury,

something he proves once again in the gentle, wry, wise, and whimsical story that follows, in which a reclusive professor reluctantly takes on a very unusual roommate .

. .

Beagle’s other books include the novels The Last Unicorn, The Folk of the Air, and, most recently, the critically acclaimed The Innkeeper’s Song, which certainly must be in the running for the title of most successful fantasy novel of the 1990s to date. His short fiction has appeared in such varied places as Seventeen

and Ladies Home Journal— as well as in fantasy anthologies such as New Worlds of Fantasy and After the King, and has been collected in The Fantasy Worlds of Peter S. Beagle. His film work includes screenplays for Ralph Bakshi’s animated film The Lord of the Rings, The Last Unicorn, Dove, and an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. He has also written a stage adaptation of The Last Unicorn, the libretto of an opera, The Midnight Angel, and a popular autobiographical travel book, I See By My Outfit. His most recent book is the fantasy anthology Peter S. Beagle’s Immortal Unicorn, edited in collab-oration with Janet Berliner.

Beagle lives in Davis, California, with his wife, the Indian writer Padma Hejmadi.

Professor Gustave Gottesman went to a zoo for the first time when he was thirty-four years old. There is an excellent zoo in Zurich, which was Professor Gottesman’s birthplace, and where his sister still lived, but Professor Gottesman had never been there. From an early age he had de-termined on the study of philosophy as his life’s work; and for any true philosopher this world is zoo enough, complete with cages, feeding times, breeding programs, and earnest docents, of which he was wise enough to know that he was one. Thus, the first zoo he ever saw was the one in the middle-sized Midwestern American city where he worked at a middle-sized university, teaching Comparative Philosophy in comparative contentment.

He was tall and rather thin, with a round, undistinguished face, a snub nose, a random assortment of sandyish hair, and a pair of very in-tense and very distinguished brown eyes that always seemed to be looking a little deeper than they meant to, embarrassing the face around them no end. His students and colleagues were quite fond of him, in an indulgent sort of way.

And how did the good Professor Gottesman happen at last to visit a zoo? It came about in this way: his older sister Edith came from Zurich to stay with him for several weeks, and she brought her daughter, his niece Nathalie, along with her. Nathalie was seven, both in years, and in the number of her that there sometimes seemed to be, for the Professor had never been used to children even when he was one. She was a generally pleasant little girl, though, as far as he could tell; so when his sister be-sought him to spend one of his free afternoons with Nathalie while she went to lunch and a gallery opening with an old friend, the Professor graciously consented. And Nathalie wanted very much to go to the zoo and see tigers.

“So you shall,” her uncle announced gallantly. “Just as soon as I find out exactly where the zoo is.” He consulted with his best friend, a fat, cheerful, harmonica-playing professor of medieval Italian poetry named Sally Lowry, who had known him long and well enough (she was the only person in the world who called him Gus) to draw an elaborate two-colored map of the route, write out very precise directions beneath it, and make several copies of this document, in case of accidents. Thus equipped, and accompanied by Charles, Nathalie’s stuffed bedtime tiger, whom she desired to introduce to his grand cousins, they set off together for the zoo on a gray, cool spring afternoon. Professor Gottesman quoted Thomas Hardy to Nathalie, improvising a German translation for her benefit as he went along.

This is the weather the cuckoo likes,

And so do I;

When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,

And nestlings fly.

“Charles likes it too,” Nathalie said. “It makes his fur feel all sweet.”

They reached the zoo without incident, thanks to Professor Lowry’s excellent map, and Professor Gottesman bought Nathalie a bag of something sticky, unhealthy, and forbidden, and took her straight off to see the tigers. Their hot, meaty smell and their lightning-colored eyes were a bit too much for him, and so he sat on a bench nearby and watched Nathalie perform the introductions for Charles. When she came back to Professor Gottesman, she told him that Charles had been very well-behaved, as had all the tigers but one, who was rudely indifferent. “He was probably just visiting,” she said. “A tourist or something.”

The Professor was still marvelling at the amount of contempt one small girl could infuse into the word tourist, when he heard a voice, sounding almost at his shoulder, say, “Why, Professor Gottesman—how nice to see you at last.” It was a low voice, a bit hoarse, with excellent diction, speaking good Zurich German with a very slight, unplaceable accent.

Professor Gottesman turned quickly, half-expecting to see some old acquaintance from home, whose name he would inevitably have forgotten.

Such embarrassments were altogether too common in his gently preoccupied life. His friend Sally Lowry once observed, “We see each other just about every day, Gus, and I’m still not sure you really recognize me. If I wanted to hide from you, I’d just change my hairstyle.”

There was no one at all behind him. The only thing he saw was the rutted, muddy rhinoceros yard, for some reason placed directly across from the big cats’ cages. The one rhinoceros in residence was standing by the fence, torpidly mumbling a mouthful of moldy-looking hay. It was an Indian rhinoceros, according to the placard on the gate: as big as the Professor’s compact car, and the approximate color of old cement. The creak-ing slabs of its skin smelled of stale urine, and it had only one horn, caked with sticky mud. Flies buzzed around its small, heavy-lidded eyes, which regarded Professor Gottesman with immense, ancient unconcern.

But there was no other person in the vicinity who might have addressed him.

Professor Gottesman shook his head, scratched it, shook it again, and turned back to the tigers. But the voice came again. “Professor, it was in-deed I who spoke. Come and talk to me, if you please.”

No need, surely, to go into Professor Gottesman’s reaction: to describe in detail how he gasped, turned pale, and looked wildly around for any corroborative witness. It is worth mentioning, however, that at no time did he bother to splutter the requisite splutter in such cases: “My God, I’m either dreaming, drunk, or crazy.” If he was indeed just as classically absentminded and impractical as everyone who knew him agreed, he was also more of a realist than many of them. This is generally true of philosophers, who tend, as a group, to be on terms of mutual respect with the impossible. Therefore, Professor Gottesman did the only proper thing under the circumstances. He introduced his niece Nathalie to the rhinoceros.

Nathalie, for all her virtues, was not a philosopher, and could not hear the rhinoceros’s gracious greeting. She was, however, seven years old, and a well-brought-up seven-year-old has no difficulty with the notion that a rhinoceros—or a goldfish, or a coffee table—might be able to talk; nor in accepting that some people can hear coffee-table speech and some people cannot. She said a polite hello to the rhinoceros, and then became involved in her own conversation with stuffed Charles, who apparently had a good deal to say himself about tigers.

“A mannerly child,” the rhinoceros commented. “One sees so few here. Most of them throw things.”

His mouth dry, and his voice shaky but contained, Professor Gottesman asked carefully, “Tell me, if you will—can all rhinoceri speak, or only the Indian species?” He wished furiously that he had thought to bring along his notebook.

“I have no idea,” the rhinoceros answered him candidly. “I myself, as it happens, am a unicorn.”

Professor Gottesman wiped his balding forehead. “Please,” he said earnestly. “Please. A rhinoceros, even a rhinoceros that speaks, is as real a creature as I. A unicorn, on the other hand, is a being of pure fantasy, like mermaids, or dragons, or the chimera. I consider very little in this universe as absolutely, indisputably certain, but I would feel so much bet-ter if you could see your way to being merely a talking rhinoceros. For my sake, if not your own.”

It seemed to the Professor that the rhinoceros chuckled slightly, but it might only have been a ruminant’s rumbling stomach. “My Latin desig-nation is Rhinoceros unicornis,” the great animal remarked. “You may have noticed it on the sign.”

Professor Gottesman dismissed the statement as brusquely as he would have if the rhinoceros had delivered it in class. “Yes, yes, yes, and the man-atee, which suckles its young erect in the water and so gave rise to the myth of the mermaid, is assigned to the order sirenia. Classification is not proof.”

“And proof,” came the musing response, “is not necessarily truth. You look at me and see a rhinoceros, because I am not white, not graceful, far from beautiful, and my horn is no elegant spiral but a bludgeon of mat-ted hair. But suppose that you had grown up expecting a unicorn to look and behave and smell exactly as I do—would not the rhinoceros then be the legend? Suppose that everything you believed about unicorns—everything except the way they look—were true of me? Consider the possibil-ities, Professor, while you push the remains of that bun under the gate.”

Professor Gottesman found a stick and poked the grimy bit of pastry— about the same shade as the rhinoceros, it was—where the creature could wrap a prehensile upper lip around it. He said, somewhat tentatively, “Very well. The unicorn’s horn was supposed to be an infallible guide to detecting poisons.”

“The most popular poisons of the Middle Ages and Renaissance,”

replied the rhinoceros, “were alkaloids. Pour one of those into a goblet made of compressed hair, and see what happens.” It belched resoundingly, and Nathalie giggled.

Professor Gottesman, who was always invigorated by a good argument with anyone, whether colleague, student, or rhinoceros, announced, “Isidore of Seville wrote in the seventh century that the unicorn was a cruel beast, that it would seek out elephants and lions to fight with them. Rhinoceri are equally known for their fierce, aggressive nature, which often leads them to attack anything that moves in their shortsighted vi-sion.

What have you to say to that?”

“Isidore of Seville,” said the rhinoceros thoughtfully, “was a most learned man, much like your estimable self, who never saw a rhinoceros in his life, or an elephant either, being mainly preoccupied with church history and canon law. I believe he did see a lion at some point. If your charming niece is quite done with her snack?”

“She is not,” Professor Gottesman answered, “and do not change the subject. If you are indeed a unicorn, what are you doing scavenging dirty buns and candy in this public establishment? It is an article of faith that a unicorn can only be taken by a virgin, in whose innocent embrace the ferocious creature becomes meek and docile. Are you prepared to tell me that you were captured under such circumstances?”

The rhinoceros was silent for some little while before it spoke again.

“I cannot,” it said judiciously, “vouch for the sexual history of the gentleman in the baseball cap who fired a tranquilizer dart into my left shoulder. I would, however, like to point out that the young of our species on occasion become trapped in vines and slender branches which entangle their horns—and that the Latin for such branches is virge. What Isidore of Seville made of all this…” It shrugged, which is difficult for a rhinoceros, and a remarkable thing to see.

“Sophistry,” said the Professor, sounding unpleasantly beleaguered even in his own ears. “Casuistry. Semantics. Chop-logic. The fact remains, a rhinoceros is and a unicorn isn’t.” This last sounds much more impressive in German. “You will excuse me,” he went on, “but we have other specimens to visit, do we not, Nathalie?”

“No,” Nathalie said. “Charles and I just wanted to see the tigers.”

“Well, we have seen the tigers,” Professor Gottesman said through his teeth. “And I believe it is beginning to rain, so we will go home now.” He took Nathalie’s hand firmly and stood up, as that obliging child snuggled Charles firmly under her arm and bobbed a demure European curtsy to the rhinoceros. It bent its head to her, the mud-thick horn almost brushing the ground. Professor Gottesman, mildest of men, snatched her away.

“Good-bye, Professor,” came the hoarse, placid voice behind him. “I look forward to our next meeting.” The words were somewhat muffled, because Nathalie had tossed the remainder of her sticky snack into the yard as her uncle hustled her off. Professor Gottesman did not turn his head.

Driving home through the rain—which had indeed begun to fall, though very lightly—the Professor began to have an indefinably uneasy feeling that caused him to spend more time peering at the rearview mirror than in looking properly ahead. Finally he asked Nathalie, “Please, would you and—ah—you and Charles climb into the backseat and see whether we are being followed?”

Nathalie was thrilled. “Like in the spy movies?” She jumped to obey, but reported after a few minutes of crouching on the seat that she could detect nothing out of the ordinary. “I saw a helicopiter,” she told him, attempting the English word. “Charles thinks they might be following us that way, but I don’t know. Who is spying on us, Uncle Gustave?”

“No one, no one,” Professor Gottesman answered. “Never mind, child, I am getting silly in America. It happens, never mind.” But a few moments later the curious apprehension was with him again, and Nathalie was hap-pily occupied for the rest of the trip home in scanning the traffic behind them through an imaginary periscope, yipping “It’s that one!” from time to time, and being invariably disappointed when another prime suspect turned off down a side street. When they reached Professor Gottesman’s house, she sprang out of the car immediately, ignoring her mother’s welcome until she had checked under all four fenders for possible homing devices. “Bugs,” she explained importantly to the two adults. “That was Charles’s idea. Charles would make a good spy, I think.”

She ran inside, leaving Edith to raise her fine eyebrows at her brother.

Professor Gottesman said heavily, “We had a nice time. Don’t ask.” And Edith, being a wise older sister, left it at that.

The rest of the visit was enjoyably uneventful. The Professor went to work according to his regular routine, while his sister and his niece ex-plored the city, practiced their English together, and cooked Swiss-German specialties to surprise him when he came home. Nathalie never asked to go to the zoo again—stuffed Charles having lately shown an interest in in-ternational intrigue—nor did she ever mention that her uncle had formally introduced her to a rhinoceros and spent part of an afternoon sitting on a bench arguing with it. Professor Gottesman was genuinely sorry when she and Edith left for Zurich, which rather surprised him. He hardly ever missed people, or thought much about anyone who was not actually present.

It rained again on the evening that they went to the airport. Returning alone, the Professor was startled, and a bit disquieted, to see large muddy footprints on his walkway and his front steps. They were, as nearly as he could make out, the marks of a three-toed foot, having a distinct resem-blance to the ace of clubs in a deck of cards. The door was locked and bolted, as he had left it, and there was no indication of any attempt to force an entry. Professor Gottesman hesitated, looked quickly around him, and went inside.

The rhinoceros was in the living room, lying peacefully on its side before the artificial fireplace—which was lit—like a very large dog. It opened one eye as he entered and greeted him politely. “Welcome home, Professor. You will excuse me, I hope, if I do not rise?”

Professor Gottesman’s legs grew weak under him. He groped blindly for a chair, found it, fell into it, his face white and freezing cold. He managed to ask, “How—how did you get in here?” in a small, faraway voice.

“The same way I got out of the zoo,” the rhinoceros answered him. “I would have come sooner, but with your sister and your niece already here, I thought my presence might make things perhaps a little too crowded for you. I do hope their departure went well.” It yawned widely and contentedly, showing blunt, fist-sized teeth and a gray-pink tongue like a fish fillet.

“I must telephone the zoo,” Professor Gottesman whispered. “Yes, of course, I will call the zoo.” But he did not move from the chair.

The rhinoceros shook its head as well as it could in a prone position.

“Oh, I wouldn’t bother with that, truly. It will only distress them if any-one learns that they have mislaid a creature as large as I am. And they will never believe that I am in your house. Take my word for it, there will be no mention of my having left their custody. I have some experience in these matters.” It yawned again and closed its eyes. “Excellent fireplace you have,” it murmured drowsily. “I think I shall lie exactly here every night. Yes, I do think so.”

And it was asleep, snoring with the rhythmic roar and fading whistle of a fast freight crossing a railroad bridge. Professor Gottesman sat staring in his chair for a long time before he managed to stagger to the telephone in the kitchen.

Sally Lowry came over early the next morning, as she had promised several times before the Professor would let her off the phone. She took one quick look at him as she entered and said briskly, “Well, whatever came to dinner, you look as though it got the bed and you slept on the living room floor.”

“I did not sleep at all,” Professor Gottesman informed her grimly.

“Come with me, please, Sally, and you shall see why.”

But the rhinoceros was not in front of the fireplace, where it held still been lying when the Professor came downstairs. He looked around for it increasingly frantic, saying over and over, “It was just here, it has been here all night. Wait, wait, Sally, I will show you. Wait only a moment.”

For he had suddenly heard the unmistakable gurgle of water in the pipes overhead. He rushed up the narrow hairpin stairs (his house was, as the real-estate agent had put it, “an old charmer”) and burst into his bathroom, blinking through clouds of steam to find the rhinoceros lolling blissfully in the tub, its nose barely above water and its hind legs awkwardly stick-ing straight up in the air. There were puddles all over the floor.

“Good morning,” the rhinoceros greeted Professor Gottesman. “I could wish your facilities a bit larger, but the hot water is splendid, pure luxury. We never had hot baths at the zoo.”

“Get out of my tub!” the Professor gabbled, coughing and wiping his face. “You will get out of my tub this instant!”

The rhinoceros remained unruffled. “I am not sure I can. Not just like that. It’s rather a complicated affair.”

“Get out exactly the way you got in!” shouted Professor Gottesman.

“How did you get up here at all? I never heard you on the stairs.”

“I tried not to disturb you,” the rhinoceros said meekly. “Unicorns can move very quietly when we need to.”

“Out!” the Professor thundered. He had never thundered before, and it made his throat hurt. “Out of my bathtub, out of my house! And clean up that floor before you go!”

He stormed back down the stairs to meet a slightly anxious Sally Lowry waiting at the bottom. “What was all that yelling about?” she wanted to know. “You’re absolutely pink—it’s sort of sweet, actually. Are you all right?”

“Come up with me,” Professor Gottesman demanded. “Come right now.” He seized his friend by the wrist and practically dragged her into his bathroom, where there was no sign of the rhinoceros. The tub was empty and dry, the floor was spotlessly clean; the air smelled faintly of tile cleaner.

Professor Gottesman stood gaping in the doorway, mutter-ing over and over, “But it was here. It was in the tub.”

“What was in the tub?” Sally asked. The Professor took a long, deep breath and turned to face her.

“A rhinoceros,” he said. “It says it’s a unicorn, but it is nothing but an Indian rhinoceros.” Sally’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Professor Gottesman said, “It followed me home.”

Fortunately, Sally Lowry was no more concerned with the usual splutters of denial and disbelief than was the Professor himself. She closed her mouth, caught her own breath, and said, “Well, any rhinoceros that could handle those stairs, wedge itself into that skinny tub of yours, and tidy up afterwards would have to be a unicorn. Obvious. Gus, I don’t care what time it is, I think you need a drink.”

Professor Gottesman recounted his visit to the zoo with Nathalie, and all that had happened thereafter, while Sally rummaged through his min-imally stocked liquor cabinet and mixed what she called a “Lowry Land Mine.” It calmed the Professor only somewhat, but it did at least restore his coherency. He said earnestly, “Sally, I don’t know how it talks. I do not know how it escaped from the zoo, or found its way here, or how it got into my house and my bathtub, and I am afraid to imagine where it is now. But the creature is an Indian rhinoceros, the sign said so. It is sim-ply not possible—not possible—that it could be a unicorn.”

“Sounds like Harvey, ” Sally mused. Professor Gottesman stared at her. “You know, the play about the guy who’s buddies with an invisible white rabbit. A big white rabbit.”

“But this one is not invisible!” the Professor cried. “People at the zoo, they saw it—Nathalie saw it. It bowed to her, quite courteously.”

“Urn,” Sally said. “Well, I haven’t seen it yet, but I live in hope.

Meanwhile, you’ve got a class, and I’ve got office hours. Want me to make you another Land Mine?”

Professor Gottesman shuddered slightly. “I think not. We are discussing today how Fichte and von Schelling’s work leads us to Hegel, and I need my wits about me. Thank you for coming to my house, Sally.

You are a good friend. Perhaps I really am suffering from delusions, after all. I think I would almost prefer it so.”

“Not me,” Sally said. “I’m getting a unicorn out of this, if it’s the last thing I do.” She patted his arm. “You’re more fun than a barrel of MFA candidates, Gus, and you’re also the only gentleman I’ve ever met. I don’t know what I’d do for company around here without you.”

Professor Gottesman arrived early for his seminar on “The Heirs of Kant.” There was no one in the classroom when he entered, except for the rhinoceros. It had plainly already attempted to sit on one of the chairs, which lay in splinters on the floor. Now it was warily eyeing a ragged hassock near the coffee machine.

“What are you doing here?” Professor Gottesman fairly screamed at it.

“Only auditing,” the rhinoceros answered. “I thought it might be rewarding to see you at work. I promise not to say a word.”

Professor Gottesman pointed to the door. He had opened his mouth to order the rhinoceros, once and for all, out of his life, when two of his students walked into the room. The Professor closed his mouth, gulped, greeted his students, and ostentatiously began to examine his lecture notes, mumbling professorial mumbles to himself, while the rhinoceros, unnoticed, negotiated a kind of armed truce with the hassock. True to its word, it listened in attentive silence all through the seminar, though Professor Gottesman had an uneasy moment when it seemed about to be drawn into a heated debate over the precise nature of von Schelling’s intellectual debt to the von Schlegel brothers. He was so desperately careful not to let the rhinoceros catch his eye that he never noticed until the last student had left that the beast was gone, too. None of the class had even once commented on its presence; except for the shattered chair, there was no indication that it had ever been there.

Professor Gottesman drove slowly home in a disorderly state of mind. On the one hand, he wished devoutly never to see the rhinoceros again; on the other, he could not help wondering exactly when it had left the classroom. “Was it displeased with my summation of the Ideas for a Philosophy of Nature?” he said aloud in the car. “Or perhaps it was something I said during the argument about Die Weltalter. Granted, I have never been entirely comfortable with that book, but I do not recall saying anything exceptionable.” Hearing himself justifying his interpretations to a rhinoceros, he slapped his own cheek very hard and drove the rest of the way with the car radio tuned to the loudest, ugliest music he could find.

The rhinoceros was dozing before the fireplace as before, but lumbered clumsily to a sitting position as soon as he entered the living room. “Bravo, Professor!” it cried in plainly genuine enthusiasm. “You were absolutely splendid. It was an honor to be present at your seminar.”

The Professor was furious to realize that he was blushing; yet it was impossible to respond to such praise with an eviction notice. There was nothing for him to do but reply, a trifle stiffly, “Thank you, most grati-fying.”

But the rhinoceros was clearly waiting for something more, and Professor Gottesman was, as his friend Sally had said, a gentleman. He went on, “You are welcome to audit the class again, if you like. We will be considering Rousseau next week, and then proceed through the ro-mantic philosophers to Nietzsche and Schopenhauer.”

“With a little time to spare for the American Transcendentalists, I should hope,” suggested the rhinoceros. Professor Gottesman, being some distance past surprise, nodded. The rhinoceros said reflectively, “I think I should prefer to hear you on Comte and John Stuart Mill. The Ro-mantics always struck me as fundamentally unsound.”

This position agreed so much with the Professor’s own opinion that he found himself, despite himself, gradually warming toward the rhinoceros. Still formal, he asked, “May I perhaps offer you a drink? Some coffee or tea?”

“Tea would be very nice,” the rhinoceros answered, “if you should happen to have a bucket.” Professor Gottesman did not, and the rhinoceros told him not to worry about it. It settled back down before the fire, and the Professor drew up a rocking chair. The rhinoceros said, “I must admit, I do wish I could hear you speak on the scholastic philosophers. That’s really my period, after all.”

“I will be giving such a course next year,” the Professor said, a little shyly. “It is to be a series of lectures on medieval Christian thought, beginning with St. Augustine and the Neoplatonists and ending with William of Occam. Possibly you could attend some of those talks.”

The rhinoceros’s obvious pleasure at the invitation touched Professor Gottesman surprisingly deeply. Even Sally Lowry, who often dropped in on his classes unannounced, did so, as he knew, out of affection for him, and not from any serious interest in epistemology or the Milesian School. He was beginning to wonder whether there might be a way to permit the rhinoceros to sample the cream sherry he kept aside for company, when the creature added, with a wheezy chuckle, “Of course, Augustine and the rest never did quite come to terms with such pagan survivals as unicorns.

The best they could do was to associate us with the Virgin Mary, and to suggest that our horns somehow represented the unity of Christ and his church. Bernard of Treves even went so far as to identify Christ directly with the unicorn, but it was never a comfortable union. Spiral peg in square hole, so to speak.”

Professor Gottesman was no more at ease with the issue than St.

Augustine had been. But he was an honest person—only among philosophers is this considered part of the job description—and so he felt it his duty to say, “While I respect your intelligence and your obvious intellectual cu-riosity, none of this yet persuades me that, you are in fact a unicorn. I still must regard you as an exceedingly learned and well-mannered Indian rhinoceros.”

The rhinoceros took this in good part, saying, “Well, well, we will agree to disagree on that point for the time being. Although I certainly hope that you will let me know if you should need your drinking water puri-fied.”

As before, and as so often thereafter, Professor Gottesman could not be completely sure that the rhinoceros was joking. Dismissing the subject, it went on to ask, “But about the Scholastics—do you plan to discuss the later Thomist reformers at all? Saint Cajetan rather dominates the movement, to my mind; if he had any real equals, I’m afraid I can’t re-call them.”

“Ah,” said the Professor. They were up until five in the morning, and it was the rhinoceros who dozed off first.

The question of the rhinoceros’s leaving Professor Gottesman’s house never came up again. It continued to sleep in the living room, for the most part, though on warm summer nights it had a fondness for the young wil-low tree that had been a Christmas present from Sally. Professor Gottesman never learned whether it was male or female, nor how it nourished its massive, noisy body, nor how it managed for toilet facilities—a reticent man himself, he respected reticence in others. As a houseguest, the rhinoceros’s only serious fault was a continuing predilection for hot baths (with Epsom salts, when it could get them.) But it always cleaned up after itself, and was extremely conscientious about not tracking mud into the house; and it can be safely said that none of the Professor’s visitors—even the rare ones who spent a night or two under his roof—ever remotely suspected that they were sharing living quarters with a rhinoceros. All in all, it proved to be a most discreet and modest beast.

The Professor had few friends, apart from Sally, and none whom he would have called on in a moment of bewildering crisis, as he had called her. He avoided whatever social or academic gatherings he could reasonably avoid; as a consequence his evenings had generally been lonely ones, though he might not have called them so. Even if he had admitted the term, he would surely have insisted that there was nothing necessarily wrong with loneliness, in and of itself. “I think,” he would have said—did often say, in fact, to Sally Lowry. “There are people, you know, for whom thinking is company, thinking is entertainment, parties, dancing even. The others, other people, they absolutely will not believe this.”

“You’re right,” Sally said. “One thing about you, Gus, when you’re right you’re really right.”

Now, however, the Professor could hardly wait for the time of day when, after a cursory dinner (he was an indifferent, impatient eater, and truly tasted little difference between a frozen dish and one that had taken half a day to prepare), he would pour himself a glass of wine and sit down in the living room to debate philosophy with a huge mortar-colored beast that always smelled vaguely incontinent, no matter how many baths it had taken that afternoon. Looking eagerly forward all day to anything was a new experience for him. It appeared to be the same for the rhinoceros.

As the animal had foretold, there was never the slightest suggestion in the papers or on television that the local zoo was missing one of its larger odd-toed ungulates. The Professor went there once or twice in great trepidation, convinced that he would be recognized and accused immediately of conspiracy in the rhinoceros’s escape. But nothing of the sort happened. The yard where the rhinoceros had been kept was now occupied by a pair of despondent-looking African elephants; when Professor Gottesman made a timid inquiry of a guard, he was curtly informed that the zoo had never possessed a rhinoceros of any species.

“Endangered species,” the guard told him. “Too much red tape you have to go through to get one these days. Just not worth the trouble, mean as they are.”

Professor Gottesman grew placidly old with the rhinoceros—that is to say, the Professor grew old, while the rhinoceros never changed in any way that he could observe. Granted, he was not the most observant of men, nor the most sensitive to change, except when threatened by it. Nor was he in the least ambitious: promotions and pay raises happened, when they happened, somewhere in the same cloudily benign middle distance as did those departmental meetings that he actually had to sit through. The companionship of the rhinoceros, while increasingly his truest de-light, also became as much of a cozily reassuring habit as his classes, his office hours, the occasional dinner and movie or museum excursion with Sally Lowry, and the books on French and German philosophy that he occasionally published through the university press over the years. They were indifferently reviewed, and sold poorly.

“Which is undoubtedly as it should be,” Professor Gottesman fre-quently told Sally when dropping her off at her house, well across town from his own. “I think I am a good teacher—that, yes—but I am decidedly not an original thinker, and I was never much of a writer even in Ger-man. It does no harm to say that I am not an exceptional man, Sally. It does not hurt me.”

“I don’t know what exceptional means to you or anyone else,” Sally would answer stubbornly. “To me it means being unique, one of a kind, and that’s definitely you, old Gus. I never thought you belonged in this town, or this university, or probably this century. But I’m surely glad you’ve been here.”

Once in a while she might ask him casually how his unicorn was getting on these days. The Professor, who had long since accepted the fact that no one ever saw the rhinoceros unless it chose to be seen, invariably rose to the bait, saying, “It is no more a unicorn than it ever was, Sally, you know that.” He would sip his latte in mild indignation, and eventu-ally add, “Well, we will clearly never see eye to eye on the Vienna Cir-cle, or the logical positivists in general—it is a very conservative creature, in some ways. But we did come to a tentative agreement about Bergson, last Thursday it was, so I would have to say that we are going along quite amiably.”

Sally rarely pressed him further. Sharp-tongued, solitary, and pro-foundly irreverent, only with Professor Gottesman did she bother to know when to leave things alone. Most often, she would take out her bat-tered harmonica and play one or another of his favorite tunes—”Sweet Georgia Brown” or “Hurry On Down.” He never sang along, but he always hummed and grunted and thumped his bony knees. Once he mentioned diffidently that the rhinoceros appeared to have a peculiar fondness for

“Slow Boat to China.” Sally pretended not to hear him.

In the appointed fullness of time, the university retired Professor Gottesman in a formal ceremony, attended by, among others, Sally Lowry, his sister Edith, all the way from Zurich, and the rhinoceros—the latter hav-ing spent all that day in the bathtub, in anxious preparation. Each of them assured him that he looked immensely distinguished as he was invested with the rank of emeritus, which allowed him to lecture as many as four times a year, and to be available to counsel promising graduate students when he chose. In addition, a special chair with his name on it was re-served exclusively for his use at the Faculty Club. He was quite proud of never once having sat in it.

“Strange, I am like a movie star now,” he said to the rhinoceros. “You should see. Now I walk across the campus and the students line up, they line up to watch me totter past. I can hear their whispers—’Here he comes!’

‘There he goes!’ Exactly the same ones they are who used to cut my classes because I bored them so. Completely absurd.”

“Enjoy it as your due,” the rhinoceros proposed. “You were entitled to their respect then—take pleasure in it now, however misplaced it may seem to you.” But the Professor shook his head, smiling wryly.

“Do you know what kind of star I am really like?” he asked. “I am like the old, old star that died so long ago, so far away, that its last light is only reaching our eyes today. They fall in on themselves, you know, those dead stars, they go cold and invisible, even though we think we are seeing them in the night sky. That is just how I would be, if not for you. And for Sally, of course.”

In fact, Professor Gottesman found little difficulty in making his peace with age and retirement. His needs were simple, his pension and savings adequate to meet them, and his health as sturdy as generations of Swiss peasant ancestors could make it. For the most part he continued to live as he always had, the one difference being that he now had more time for study, and could stay up as late as he chose arguing about structuralism with the rhinoceros, or listening to Sally Lowry reading her new translation of Gavalcanti or Frescobaldi. At first he attended every conference of philosophers to which he was invited, feeling a certain vague obliga-tion to keep abreast of new thought in his field. This compulsion passed quickly, however, leaving him perfectly satisfied to have as little as possible to do with academic life, except when he needed to use the library. Sally once met him there for lunch to find him feverishly rifling the ten Loeb Classic volumes of Philojudaeus. “We were debating the concept of the logos last night,” he explained to her, “and then the impossible beast rampaged off on a tangent involving Philo’s locating the roots of Greek philosophy in the Torah. Forgive me, Sally, but I may be here for awhile.” Sally lunched alone that day.

The Professor’s sister Edith died younger than she should have. He grieved for her, and took much comfort in the fact that Nathalie never failed to visit him when she came to America. The last few times, she had brought a husband and two children with her—the youngest hugging a ragged but indomitable tiger named Charles under his arm. They most often swept him off for the evening; and it was on one such occasion, just after they had brought him home and said their good-byes, and their rented car had rounded the corner, that the mugging occurred.

Professor Gottesman was never quite sure himself about what actually took place. He remembered a light scuffle of footfalls, remembered a sav-age blow on the side of his head, then another impact as his cheek and forehead hit the ground. There were hands clawing through his pockets, low voices so distorted by obscene viciousness that he lost English completely, becoming for the first time in fifty years a terrified immigrant, once more unable to cry out for help in this new and dreadful country. A face-less figure billowed over him, grabbing his collar, pulling him close, mouthing words he could not understand. It was brandishing something menacingly in its free hand.

Then it vanished abruptly, as though blasted away by the sidewalk-shaking bellow of rage that was Professor Gottesman’s last clear memory until he woke in a strange bed, with Sally Lowry, Nathalie, and several policemen bending over him. The next day’s newspapers ran the marvelous story of a retired philosophy professor, properly frail and elderly, not only fighting off a pair of brutal muggers but beating them so badly that they had to be hospitalized themselves before they could be ar-raigned. Sally impishly kept the incident on the front pages for some days by confiding to reporters that Professor Gottesman was a practitioner of a long-forgotten martial-arts discipline, practiced only in ancient Sumer and Babylonia. “Plain childishness,” she said apologetically, after the fuss had died down. “Pure self-indulgence. I’m sorry, Gus.”

“Do not be,” the Professor replied. “If we were to tell them the truth, I would immediately be placed in an institution.” He looked sideways at his friend, who smiled and said, “What, about the rhinoceros rescuing you? I’ll never tell, I swear. They could pull out my fingernails.”

Professor Gottesman said, “Sally, those boys had been trampled, practically stamped flat. One of them had been gored, I saw him. Do you re-ally think I could have done all that?”

“Remember, I’ve seen you in your wrath,” Sally answered lightly and untruthfully. What she had in fact seen was one of the ace-of-clubs footprints she remembered in crusted mud on the Professor’s front steps long ago. She said, “Gus. How old am I?”

The Professor’s response was off by a number of years, as it always was. Sally said, “You’ve frozen me at a certain age, because you don’t want me getting any older. Fine, I happen to be the same way about that rhinoceros of yours. There are one or two things I just don’t want to know about that damn rhinoceros, Gus. If that’s all right with you.”

“Yes, Sally,” Professor Gottesman answered. “That is all right.”

The rhinoceros itself had very little to say about the whole incident. “I chanced to be awake, watching a lecture about Bulgarian icons on the Learning Channel. I heard the noise outside.” Beyond that, it sidestepped all questions, pointedly concerning itself only with the Professor’s recu-peration from his injuries and shock. In fact, he recovered much faster than might reasonably have been expected from a gentleman of his years.

The doctor commented on it.

The occurrence made Professor Gottesman even more of an icon himself on campus; as a direct consequence, he spent even less time there than before, except when the rhinoceros requested a particular book.

Nathalie, writing from Zurich, never stopped urging him to take in a housemate, for company and safety, but she would have been utterly dumbfounded if he had accepted her suggestion. “Something looks out for him,” she said to her husband. “I always knew that, I couldn’t tell you why.

Uncle Gustave is somebody’s dear stuffed Charles.”

Sally Lowry did grow old, despite Professor Gottesman’s best efforts. The university gave her a retirement ceremony too, but she never showed up for it. “Too damn depressing,” she told Professor Gottesman, as he helped her into her coat for their regular Wednesday walk. “It’s all right for you, Gus, you’ll be around forever. Me, I drink, I still smoke, I still eat all kinds of stuff they tell me not to eat—I don’t even floss, for God’s sake. My circulation works like the post office, and even my cholesterol has arthritis. Only reason I’ve lasted this long is I had this stupid job teaching beautiful, useless stuff to idiots. Now that’s it. Now I’m a goner.”

“Nonsense, nonsense, Sally” Professor Gottesman assured her vigorously. “You have always told me you are too mean and spiteful to die. I am holding you to this.”

“Pickled in vinegar only lasts just so long,” Sally said. “One cheery note, anyway—it’ll be the heart that goes. Always is, in my family. That’s good, I couldn’t hack cancer. I’d be a shameless, screaming disgrace, absolutely no dignity at all. I’m really grateful it’ll be the heart.”

The Professor was very quiet while they walked all the way down to the little local park, and back again. They had reached the apartment complex where she lived, when he suddenly gripped her by the arms, looked straight into her face, and said loudly, “That is the best heart I ever knew, yours. I will not let anything happen to that heart.”

“Go home, Gus,” Sally told him harshly. “Get out of here, go home.

Christ, the only sentimental Switzer in the whole world, and I get him.

Wouldn’t you just know?”

Professor Gottesman actually awoke just before the telephone call came, as sometimes happens. He had dozed off in his favorite chair dur-ing a minor intellectual skirmish with the rhinoceros over Spinoza’s ethics. The rhinoceros itself was sprawled in its accustomed spot, snoring au-thoritatively, and the kitchen clock was still striking three when the phone rang. He picked it up slowly. Sally’s barely audible voice whispered, “Gus.

The heart. Told you.” He heard the receiver fall from her hand.

Professor Gottesman had no memory of stumbling coatless out of the house, let alone finding his car parked on the street—he was just suddenly standing by it, his hands trembling so badly as he tried to unlock the door that he dropped his keys into the gutter. How long his frantic fumbling in the darkness went on, he could never say; but at some point he be-came aware of a deeper darkness over him, and looked up on hands and knees to see the rhinoceros.

“On my back,” it said, and no more. The Professor had barely scram-bled up its warty, unyielding flanks and heaved himself precariously over the spine his legs could not straddle when there came a surge like the sea under him as the great beast leaped forward. He cried out in terror.

He would have expected, had he had wit enough at the moment to expect anything, that the rhinoceros would move at a ponderous trot, fart-ing and rumbling, gradually building up a certain clumsy momentum.

In-stead, he felt himself flying, truly flying, as children know flying, flowing with the night sky, melting into the jeweled wind. If the rhinoceros’s huge, flat, three-toed feet touched the ground, he never felt it: nothing existed, or ever had existed, but the sky that he was and the bodiless power that he had become—he himself, the once and foolish old Professor Gustave Gottesman, his eyes full of the light of lost stars. He even forgot Sally Lowry, only for a moment, only for the least little time.

Then he was standing in the courtyard before her house, shouting and banging maniacally on the door, pressing every button under his hand. The rhinoceros was nowhere to be seen. The building door finally buzzed open, and the Professor leaped up the stairs like a young man, calling Sally’s name. Her own door was unlocked; she often left it so absentmindedly, no matter how much he scolded her about it. She was in her bedroom, half-wedged between the side of the bed and the night table, with the telephone receiver dangling by her head. Professor Gottesman touched her cheek and felt the fading warmth.

“Ah, Sally,” he said. “Sally, my dear.” She was very heavy, but somehow it was easy for him to lift her back onto the bed and make a place for her among the books and papers that littered the quilt, as always.

He found her harmonica on the floor, and closed her fingers around it.

When there was nothing more for him to do, he sat beside her, still holding her hand, until the room began to grow light. At last he said aloud, “No, the sentimental Switzer will not cry, my dear Sally,” and picked up the telephone.

The rhinoceros did not return for many days after Sally Lowry’s death.

Professor Gottesman missed it greatly when he thought about it at all, but it was a strange, confused time. He stayed at home, hardly eating, sleeping on his feet, opening books and closing them. He never answered the telephone, and he never changed his clothes. Sometimes he wandered endlessly upstairs and down through every room in his house; sometimes he stood in one place for an hour or more at a time, staring at nothing.

Occasionally the doorbell rang, and worried voices outside called his name.

It was late autumn, and then winter, and the house grew cold at night, because he had forgotten to turn on the furnace. Professor Gottesman was perfectly aware of this, and other things, somewhere.

One evening, or perhaps it was early one morning, he heard the sound of water running in the bathtub upstairs. He remembered the sound, and presently he moved to his living room chair to listen to it better. For the first time in some while, he fell asleep, and woke only when he felt the rhinoceros standing over him. In the darkness he saw it only as a huge, still shadow, but it smelled unmistakably like a rhinoceros that has just had a bath. The Professor said quietly, “I wondered where you had gone.”

“We unicorns mourn alone,” the rhinoceros replied. “I thought it might be the same for you.”

“Ah,” Professor Gottesman said. “Yes, most considerate. Thank you.”

He said nothing further, but sat staring into the shadow until it appeared to fold gently around him. The rhinoceros said, “We were speaking of Spinoza.”

Professor Gottesman did not answer. The rhinoceros went on, “I was very interested in the comparison you drew between Spinoza and Thomas Hobbes. I would enjoy continuing our discussion.”

“I do not think I can,” the Professor said at last. “J do not think I want to talk anymore.”

It seemed to him that the rhinoceros’s eyes had become larger and brighter in its own shadow, and its horn a trifle less hulking. But it’s stomach rumbled as majestically as ever as it said, “In that case, perhaps we should be on our way.”

“Where are we going?” Professor Gottesman asked. He was feeling oddly peaceful and disinclined to leave his chair. The rhinoceros moved closer, and for the first time that the Professor could remember its huge, hairy muzzle touched his shoulder, light as a butterfly.

“I have lived in your house for a long time,” it said. “We have talked together, days and nights on end, about ways of being in this world, ways of considering it, ways of imagining it as a part of some greater imagining.

Now has come the time for silence. Now I think you should come and live with me.”

They were outside, on the sidewalk, in the night. Professor Gottesman had forgotten to take his coat, but he was not at all cold. He turned to look back at his house, watching it recede, its lights still burning, like a ship leaving him at his destination. He said to the rhinoceros, “What is your house like?”

“Comfortable,” the rhinoceros answered. “In honesty, I would not call the hot water as superbly lavish as yours, but there is rather more room to maneuver. Especially on the stairs.”

“You are walking a bit too rapidly for me,” said the Professor. “May I climb on your back once more?”

The rhinoceros halted immediately, saying, “By all means, please do excuse me.” Professor Gottesman found it notably easier to mount this time, the massive sides having plainly grown somewhat trimmer and smoother during the rhinoceros’s absence, and easier to grip with his legs.

It started on briskly when he was properly settled, though not at the rap-turous pace that had once married the Professor to the night wind. For some while he could hear the clopping of cloven hooves far below him, but then they seemed to fade away. He leaned forward and said into the rhinoceros’s pointed silken ear, “I should tell you that I have long since come to the conclusion that you are not after all an Indian rhinoceros, but a hitherto unknown species, somehow misclassified. I hope this will not make a difference in our relationship.”

“No difference, good Professor,” came the gently laughing answer all around him. “No difference in the world.”

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