"Lisa Goldstein - A Game of Cards" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goldstein Lisa)

A Game of Cards
By: Lisa Goldstein
****
It all looks so civilized. A dinner party in the film community, attended by civilized,
cultivated people, served by a dark-haired woman who might well be a refugee from
the Third World. Family problems, problems with work, relaxation with a game of
cards.
WhatтАЩs wrong with this picture?
Only the eyes, flicking from face to face, counting up the betrayals. And the
refugee, hoping to survive for another day.
тАЬA Game of CardsтАЭ frankly reminds me of the game тАЬGet the GuestsтАЭ in
WhoтАЩs Afraid of Virginia Woolf? The question is, however, who gets them?
****
The doorbell rang at seven. Rozal looked through the peephole and saw two guests
framed as in a picture, a woman with short brown hair and a tall gangly man carrying
a bottle of wine. Helen and KeithтАФ theyтАЩd been at the house before. Rozal opened
the door.
тАЬBeautiful house,тАЭ Helen said, coming in and slipping off her coat. Rozal
nodded, not sure how to take this. Of course they knew the house belonged to Mr.
and Mrs. Hobart.
She hung the coats in the closet; they had a faint perfume scent, and the smell
that water brings out in wool. Was it raining, then? In the bustle that surrounded the
preparations for dinner, Rozal had not been able to go outside all day.
Helen paused at the framed mirror in the entryway and patted her hair. Keith
scowled and grinned at his reflection, as if resigned to what he saw. The bottle of
wine hung from his hand as though attached to it; he seemed to have forgotten it was
there. Rozal watched as they made their way through the thick off-white carpet in the
living room, leaving footprints as they went. The carpet had been vacuumed just
minutes before the party, and would have to be vacuumed again tomorrow.
She couldnтАЩt resist a quick glance in the mirror herself. Most Americans took
her for older than her twenty-four years, but then most Americans looked far
younger than their actual age. Her hair and eyes were brown and her complexion
dark; they had called her skin тАЬoliveтАЭ at the immigration office, and she had looked
the word up as soon as she got home, but sheтАЩd been none the wiser. She smiled at
the reflection; she had not looked so healthy, so plump, in many years.
The doorbell rang, and she hurried to answer it. A young blond woman stood
on the doorstep, Carol, another frequent visitor to the house. As soon as Rozal hung
up her coat, she heard the bell again. This time when she opened the door, she saw a
good-looking dark young man, balancing on the balls of his feet in impatience. He
had an amused, quizzical expression, as if he had put on a face to greet Mrs. Hobart.
Rozal had never seen him in the house before, but she recognized him
immediately from the movies she watched on her days off. He looked shorter than
she would have expected. He said something to her in Spanish, but she smiled and
shook her head: no, she was not Spanish.
Mrs. Hobart had seated Keith and Helen and Carol on the sectional couch,
and now rose to greet the new arrival. тАЬSteve!тАЭ she said. тАЬSo glad you could make
it.тАЭ
тАЬDrinks!тАЭ Mr. Hobart said, coming into the living room and clapping his
hands. Carol called for something Rozal didnтАЩt catch. Keith stood to hand over his
bottle of wine, and Mr. Hobart pretended to be angry at him; somehow it had been