Mrs. Hobart laughed. “I don’t think so. He was dating someone for six months—they just broke up.”
“It’s drugs, then.”
“You’d know that better than I would.”
“I don’t sell the hard stuff, you know that.”
“Listen—why don’t you ask him yourself if you’re so curious?”
“Oh, sure. Excuse me, but do you have any antisocial habits I should know about? And by the way, you wouldn’t happen to have any horrible diseases, would you?”
Mrs. Hobart shepherded Carol into the dining room, and Rozal followed them. “You don’t know how lucky you are, being married,” Carol said, turning back to her hostess.
The guests in the dining room seemed to have talked themselves out; Carol and Mrs. Hobart took their places in silence. Rozal could hear the rain beating on the roof. Peter leaned back in his chair. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I brought something you might be interested in.”
Rozal set down a coffee cup and looked up at him, wishing she had some pretext to stay in the dining room. Or could this be the present he said he’d gotten her? As if in answer to her question he said, “Stay here, Rosie—you’ll like this.”
He stood and went to the living room. Mrs. Hobart exchanged glances with a few of the guests, her eyebrows raised above her china coffee cup. Mr. Hobart whispered something to her, and she said, “Well, I certainly have no idea. He never tells me anything, you know that.”
Peter returned with a flat box the size of a book. “Oh…” Rozal said involuntarily.
He winked at her. “I thought you’d like this, Rosie my love,” he said. “You’ve seen these before, then?”
She reached her hand out to touch the box, but Peter had already turned to show it to Steve. “I found these in that new neighborhood downtown, where all the refugees live,” Peter said. “They said it’s the first time they’ve gotten a shipment of cards from Amaz.”
“What are they?” Carol asked. “Are they like tarot cards?”
“Apparently you’re supposed to play a game with them,” Peter said. “That’s what the man who sold them to me said, anyway. Isn’t that right, Rosie?”
Rozal shook her head, wishing she had the words to explain. “They say—they tell us what happen in my country. In Amaz.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Hobart asked.
“Like on television. We have no television, so we read the cards.”
“You mean like the news?” Carol asked.
“Beka,” Rozal said, so grateful for the word she reverted to her own language. “Yes. They tell us the news.”
“Actually you’re supposed to play a game with them,” Peter said, frowning a little. “See? It looks like Bingo.” He opened the box and took out little boards, which he passed around to everyone at the table.
Carol laughed, delighted. Keith turned his board over and studied the elaborate pattern on the back. “Come on, Helen,” he said to his wife, who had not touched her board. “Let’s play awhile.” Helen looked around the table, seeming anxious that her husband not make another blunder, but when she saw the others collect their boards, she relaxed.
Rozal looked on, feeling wretched. This was not the way you treated the cards at all. You had to read them for the latest news first; it was only when they became outdated, when all the timeliness had gone out of them and another pack was issued, that you played games with them. Or you told fortunes; she had been the best in her village for coaxing meaning out of the cards.
She ached for news of Amaz, something to counter the rumors she and every other immigrant heard every day. Who had come to power while she had been struggling to find her way in America? Which faction had triumphed? Were the famines finally over?
Peter began to read the instructions. Was this the present he had promised her? She felt cheated, so bitterly disappointed that she could barely pay attention.
But Peter had said that a shipment of cards had come in. She could buy one the next time she went downtown to visit her friends. She relaxed and began to watch the game. It seemed odder than she could say to look on while these people, most of them strangers, played a game familiar to her since childhood.
“ ‘Announcer will take card from deck and read face,”“ Peter read. Everyone laughed. ”Rosie! Hey, Rosie, what does this mean? Look, it’s written in Amazian, too. Here, translate this for us, will you?“
The language she spoke was called Lurqazi, not Amazian. She took the instructions from Peter but did not try to read them; she had had to leave school when she was eight. “You have to take the card from—from here—”
“The deck,” Mrs. Hobart said, encouraging her.
“Yes, the deck, and read what it says. And then if you have that picture on your card, you cover it with a stone. And if you have these pictures here—” She drew lines on the card with her hands, vertical, horizontal, diagonal.
“See, it’s Bingo,” Peter said. “Where do we get all those stones, though?”
“Poker chips,” Mrs. Hobart said. “John, where did you put the poker chips?”
Mr. Hobart stood heavily; he had had a little too much to drink. Carol studied her card. “Look, there’s a picture of a cactus here. And ugh, look—here’s a snake.”
Mr. Hobart returned with the case of poker chips. “Now what?” he asked.
“Now I take card from deck and read from face,” Peter said. “Okay. Okay, it looks like a house. Anyone have a house?”
“I do,” Keith said.
“My man!” Peter said. “One poker chip for you— here, pass it down. And the next card—”
“No,” Rozal said. Everyone turned to look at her. “Now you read the—here. Read what it says.”
“Hey, look at this,” Peter said, unfolding the instructions. “It’s got—they look like fortunes. House, let’s see. House—here it is. ”Beware of build on unstable land.“ There you are, Keith—beware of build.”
Everyone laughed but Helen. Now Rozal remembered that Keith and Helen had talked a little about their new house during dinner. The card must mean that they couldn’t afford it. She glanced at Helen; the tightness around the other woman’s mouth told her everything she needed to know.
These people weren’t that different from the ones whose fortunes she had read in Amaz. They had the same hopes and fears and desires, and their bodies gave away what they tried so hard to hide with words. But she saw that they didn’t understand the power of the cards, that they had no idea what they were doing. If she said something, would they stop? She didn’t think so.
“Okay, next card. Cactus. Hey, good one, Carol.” Someone passed Carol a chip. “And the cactus means—”
“Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know,” Carol said. “Prickly, right? Sharp and unpleasant.”
“Cool water in a dry country,” Peter said, reading.
Everyone turned to look at Carol, who blushed. “Not bad,” Mrs. Hobart said. “Come on, do another one. I want to see what they say about me.”
Rozal had sagged forward a little in relief. The cactus meant that the drought in Amaz had ended. She had seen it on Carol’s board but that didn’t mean that it would turn up in the deck. So—unstable land meant that the country was still in the hands of bad leaders, but at least the water had come, and the famine might end.
She glanced at the well-fed group at the table and saw that they had guessed none of this. They were only interested in what the game might say about themselves; they didn’t realize that the cards held more than one meaning. A story they could not guess at unfolded all around them.
Peter drew another card from the deck. “Looks like—scales.” He showed it to the rest of the party. “Scales of justice. Do you have that in Amaz, Rosie?”
Rozal nodded, unable to speak. Justice would come to Amaz, then. She was crying a little, and she wiped her eyes quickly so that no one would notice.
“Here!” Keith said, looking up from his board.
“Keith!” Peter said
. “Who said you’re supposed to win this game? I haven’t gotten a single one yet.”
Keith grinned. “Read it.”
“Justice, balance. A wise man speaks unwelcome words.”
“A wise man,” Keith said, still grinning. “What do you know.”
“What do they mean by unwelcome words, though?” Carol asked.
“You did tell me my last picture sucked,” Mr. Hobart said.
Helen stirred, and with that gesture Rozal understood a great many things. Keith needed to write for Mr. Hobart’s next picture; he had bought the house on the strength of his expectations and then had antagonized Mr. Hobart by speaking frankly to him. Helen, sitting beside Keith and squeezing his hand, meant to make certain he said nothing unpleasant the entire evening.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
Mr. Hobart waved his hand. “No, no—you’ve groveled quite enough for that already. And look at Steve here—he’s spent dinner telling me how much my current picture sucks.”
“Yeah, but he’s an actor,” Keith said. “Everyone knows actors don’t know anything.”
He had meant to be charming, Rozal saw, but because there was some truth in what he said—Mr. Hobart listened to screenwriters far more than he listened to actors—Keith had managed instead to insult Steve as well as Mr. Hobart. Helen saw it, too, and she tightened her grip on her husband’s hand.
“Is that so,” Steve said flatly. “Did you know I have a master’s degree in philosophy?”
“No—look, I’m sorry. Do you really?”
“No,” Steve said, and everyone laughed. Keith sat back with relief. He thought the crisis had passed; he had missed the fact that no one had really relaxed. Mrs. Hobart lit another cigarette, though her last one still smoldered on the saucer in front of her. Steve glanced at his watch, and Carol looked at him anxiously, clearly hoping he would stay. The rain sounded loud on the roof.
“Whew,” Peter said. “Next card. Or should I just give it up entirely?” Everyone called for him to continue. “Okay. The lion.”
“Yo!” Steve said. “That’s me—the lion. What does it say?”
Peter looked at the instructions and laughed. “Cruel,” he said.
“What?”
“Cruel. That’s all it says. Here, look.”
“That can’t be me—I’m a pussycat. It’s got to be a mistranslation. Here, Rozal. What does this say?”
Rozal moved forward to take the instructions from his hand. There was a growl of thunder from outside, and all the lights went out.
Someone laughed; she thought it might be Peter. “Get the candles!” Mrs. Hobart said, sounding a little frightened. “Rozal, you know where the candles are, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Rozal said. She felt her way toward the kitchen. Lightning jumped outside, briefly illuminating her way, and the thunder roared again. “Hey, it’s the lion,” Mr. Hobart said, behind her. “Just what the card said.”
A few people laughed, but Rozal knew Mr. Hobart was right; the cards predicted small truths as well as large ones, current events and things that might not happen for years. A light glimmered ahead of her, and she saw that the cook had managed to find the candles and light one. She took the silver candelabrum and four candles from the cabinet, lit the candles and set them in the candelabrum, and headed back.
“Can you read this by candlelight?” Steve said as she came up to the dining room table.
She took the instructions from him. “Kaj, cruel,” she read. Perhaps she should he and tell him it meant strong, or manly. But by the shivering light of the candles, she saw Carol looking at him, wide-eyed, and she knew that she couldn’t lie for Carol’s sake. “Cruel, yes,” she said.
No one spoke for a moment. Then Carol said, “What the hell—it’s only a pack of cards.”
Suddenly Rozal saw a brief glimpse of the future, something that had happened to her once or twice before when she read the cards. Steve and Carol would become lovers; she would be water in a dry country to him for a little while, until his temper and jealousy got the better of him. She wanted to warn Carol, but she knew the other woman wouldn’t believe her.
The lightning struck again. Each face stood out as sharp and meaningful as a card. She saw the patterns and currents swirling among them, and she knew from the way they looked at her that now they saw her for what she was, a fortune-teller and wisewoman.
Peter took a long breath and turned over the next card. “Garden,” he said.
“I’ve got that one,” Mrs. Hobart said.
Peter squinted in the candlelight and read the instructions. “A shelter shaded by leaves, a place of protection,” he said. Then he laughed, almost involuntarily. “Refugee,” he said.
No one laughed with him. Everyone sat hunched over his or her card, drawn in tight against what might be coming. “Let me see that,” Mrs. Hobart said, reaching out for the instructions.
“Refuge,” said Keith, the writer. “They mean refuge.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Hobart. “Oh, thank God.”
“Next card,” Peter said, speaking quickly as if anxious to finish. “Looks like a beautiful woman. Anyone have this one?”
“I do,” Mr. Hobart said.
“Good. Beautiful woman, let’s see. Here it is.”
“Well?” Mr. Hobart said. “What does it say?”
Peter looked up at his father. His face was expressionless in the candlelight, all his good humor leached away. “I’m not going to read it,” he said.
“What?” Mr. Hobart said. “What do you mean— you’re not going to read it? Give me that.”
“No.”
“Peter—”
Silently, Peter gave his father the instructions, and in that motion Rozal saw twenty-five years of similar gestures between father and son. Mr. Hobart scanned the list of cards, looking for the beautiful woman.
“ ‘Treachery, betrayal,” “ he said. ” ’The woman does not belong to the man.“” He looked up at his son. “So? What does that mean? Why wouldn’t you read that?”
“You know perfectly well.”
“I’m afraid I don’t—”
“Do you want me to tell everyone? I will if I have to. I’ve certainly got nothing to lose.”
Mr. Hobart laughed. “Peter, if you’ve got something to say—”
“You slept with Debbie, didn’t you? And you didn’t even have the decency to do it before we got married—you had to wait until afterward—”
“Peter, you can’t believe—”
“It was more fun to wait, more exciting, wasn’t it? More of a conquest—see, the old man’s not quite dead yet, not if he can interest his son’s lawfully wedded wife—”
“Peter, stop that. You have no right to say those things—you have no proof—”
“Of course I have proof. She told me. She felt so bad about it that she finally came out and told me. Why do you think she isn’t here tonight? She never wants to see your face again.”
Mr. Hobart turned to his wife. “Janet, I never— You have to believe me—”
“Of course I believe you,” Mrs. Hobart said. The gaiety was gone from her voice; she sounded almost as if she were talking in her sleep. “Peter, why are you saying these dreadful things?”
“I’m not saying anything, Mom,” Peter said. “It’s the cards talking. The cards just told you everything you need to know.”
“It’s only a game, Peter,” Mrs. Hobart said. She reached for a cigarette.
The lights came on. All around the table people blinked against the brightness. One by one they dared to glance at each other, seeing in each others’ faces a harshness that hadn’t been there earlier. “Well,” said Carol, pushing back her chair, “it’s late—I’ve really got to go.”
“Me, too—” “Thank you for a wonderful dinner—” “We’ll see you again—” Rozal hurried to the entryway closet to get their coats.
As she went she saw a last picture of Mrs. Hobart, the smoke spiraling up from her cigarett
e as she stared bleakly at the board in front of her. It would take awhile, Rozal knew, but after all the accusations were spoken, after Mr. Hobart had moved out and started the divorce proceedings, she would learn to be, finally, a shelter shaded by leaves, a place of protection.
Courting Rites
Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Humphrey Bogart used to star in the sort of hard-edge, black-and-white film that “Courting Rites” could easily be made into. But let’s cast Lauren Bacall or Mary Astor as the detective this time (if we don’t opt for Kathleen Turner as V.I. Warshawski)—a gumshoe who isn’t as tough as her trade, but who’s as smart as any of the movie detectives who wait behind those glass doors for clients to walk in with problems that are always, always more than they seem. Maybe even smarter. Those detectives usually turn up in Los Angeles and New York. Ms. Winters works out of Nevada, where the rents are cheap.
From this winner of the John Campbell, the Hugo, and the World Fantasy Awards, we have the tale of the hard-boiled detective with a heart that’s soft—but not that soft.
I should have known the case would be difficult from the start. He walked into my office, sure as you please, confident he could charm any woman within range. Maybe he could have once; he had a face that even at his age registered beauty. Problem was, the face should never have grown old. His silver hair and startling blue eyes only accented the idea that this man should have died young.
“Miss Winters?”
I nodded. I allowed men of his age certain liberties when it came to addressing me. Any man under forty-five would have been reminded curtly that the proper title is “Ms.”
“How may I help you, Mr.”—I glanced at the appointment book—“Silas?”
He smiled. “Silas is my first name.”
“And your last?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He took the chair in front of my desk. His clothes, dated and slightly formal, carried the faint scent of pipe smoke. It added an exotic feel to my rather staid office.
There are, perhaps, a thousand P.I.s in LA, which is why I left. I took all my ready cash and set up shop in Nevada, where the land and the rents are cheaper by hundreds—sometimes thousands—of dollars. I set up a fancy office—plush blue upholstered chairs, matching carpet, framed prints on the wall, all-important air-conditioning, and room for my part-time secretary in the months I needed her. I had hoped it would give clients the idea that I was well-off—a woman who knew what she was doing. It helped with tourists. But I got the sense that this man was not a tourist.
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