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 lie 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 board, 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 afterwards—”
“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 cigarette as she stared bleakly at the board in front of her. It would take a while, 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.
AFTERWORD
When I wrote about the cards of Amaz I didn’t know that they had an analog in real life. But one day my friend Michaela Roessner showed me a deck of Mexican Loteria cards, and I saw to my amazement that something I thought existed only in my imagination was in fact very real.
In the instant Mikey showed me the cards I got the idea for “A Game of Cards”; I saw how the story could be written and how it would end. I wish they were all that easy.
SPLIT LIGHT
SHABBETAI ZEVI (1626–1676), the central figure of the largest and most momentous messianic movement in Jewish history subsequent to the destruction of the Temple …
Encyclopedia Judaica
He sits in a prison in Constantinople. The room is dark, his mind a perfect blank, the slate on which his visions are written. He waits.
He sees the moon. The moon spins like a coin through the blue night sky. The moon splinters and falls to earth. Its light is the shattered soul of Adam, dispersed since the fall. All over the earth the shards are falling; he sees each one, and knows where it comes to rest.
He alone can bind the shards together. He will leave this prison, become king. He will wear the circled walls of Jerusalem as a crown. All the world will be his.
His name is Shabbetai Zevi. “Shabbetai” for the Sabbath, the seventh day, the day of rest. The seventh letter in the Hebrew alphabet is zayin. In England they call the Holy Land “Zion.” He is the Holy Land, the center of the world. If he is in Constantinople, then Constantinople is the center of the world.
He has never been to England, but he has seen it in his visions. He has ranged through the world in his visions, has seen the past and fragments of the future. But he does not know what will happen to him in this prison.
When he thinks of his prison the shards of light grow faint and disappear. The darkness returns. He feels the weight of the stone building above him; it is as heavy as the crown he felt a moment ago. He gives in to despair.
A year ago, he thinks, he was the most important man in the world. Although he is a Jew in a Moslem prison he gives the past year its Christian date: it was 1665. It was a date of portent; some Christians believe that 1666 will be the year of the second coming of Christ. Even among the Christians he has his supporters.
But it was to the Jews, to his own people, that he preached. As a child he had seen the evidence of God in the world, the fiery jewels hidden in gutters and trash heaps; he could not understand why no one else had noticed them, why his brother had beaten him and called him a liar. As a young man he had felt his soul kindle into light as he prayed. He had understood that he was born to heal the world, to collect the broken shards of light, to turn mourning into joy.
When he was in his twenties he began the mystical study of Kabbalah. He read, with growing excitement, about the light of God, how it had been scattered and hidden throughout the world at Adam’s fall, held captive by the evil that resulted from that fall. The Jews, according to the Kabbalist Isaac Luria, had been cast across the world like sand, like sparks, and in their dispersal they symbolized the broken fate of God.
One morning while he was at prayer he saw the black letters in his prayer book dance like flame and translate themselves into the unpronounceable Name of God. He understood everything at that moment, saw the correct pronunciation of the Name, knew that he could restore all the broken parts of the world by simply saying the Name aloud.
He spoke. His followers say he rose into midair. He does not remember; he rarely remembers what he says or does in his religious trances. He knows that he was shunned in his town of Smyrna, that the people there began to think him a lunatic or a fool.
Despite their intolerance he grew to understand more and more. He saw that he was meant to bring about an end to history, and that with the coming of the end all things were to be allowed. He ate pork. He worked on the Sabbath, the day of rest, the day that he was named for or that was named for him.
Finally the townspeople could stand it no longer and banished him. He blessed them all before he went, “in the name of God who allows the forbidden.”
As he left the town of his birth, though, the melancholy that had plagued him all his life came upon him again. He wandered through Greece and Thrace, and ended finally in Constantinople. In Constantinople he saw a vision of the black prison, the dungeon in which he would be immured, and in his fear the knowledge that had sustained him for so long vanished. God was lost in the world, broken into so many shards no one could discover him.
In his frantic search for God he celebrated the festivals of Passover, Shavuot and Sukkot all in one week. He was exiled again and resumed his wandering, travelling from Constantinople to Rhodes to Cairo.
In Cairo he dreamed he was a bridegroom, about to take as his bride the holy city of Jerusalem. The next day the woman Sarah came, unattended, to Cairo.
The door to his prison opens and a guard comes in, the one named Kasim. “Stand up!” Kasim says.
Shabbetai stands. “Come with me,” Kasim says.
Shabbetai follows. The guard takes him through the dungeon and out into Constantinople. It is day; the sun striking the domes and minarets of the city nearly blinds him.
Kasim leads him through the crowded streets, saying nothing. They pass covered bazaars and slave markets, coffee houses and sherbet shops. A caravan of camels forces them to stop.
When they continue on Shabbetai turns to study his guard. Suddenly he sees to the heart of the other man, understands everything. He knows that Kasim is under orders to transfer him to the fortress at Gallipoli, that the sultan himself has given him this order before leaving to fight the Venetians on Crete. “How goes the war, brother?” Shabbetai asks.
Kasim jerks as if he has been shot. He hurries on toward the wharf, saying nothing.
At the harbor Kasim hands Shabbetai to another man and goes quickly back to the city. Shabbetai is stowed in the dark hold of a ship, amid sour-smelling hides and strong spices and ripe oranges. Above him he hears someone shout, and he feels the ship creak and separate from the wharf and head out into the Sea of Marmara.
Darkness again, he thinks. He is a piece of God, hidden from sight. It is only by going down into the darkness of the fallen world that he can find the other fragments, missing since the Creation. Everything has been ordained, even this trip from Constantinople to Gallipoli.
Visions of the world around him encroach upon the darkness. He sees Pierre de Fermat, a mathematician, lying dead in France; a book is open on the table in which he has written, “I have discovered a truly remarkable proof which this margin is too small to contain.” He sees Rembrandt adding a stroke of bright gold to a painting he calls “The Jewish Bride.” He sees a great fire destroy London; a killing wind blows the red and orange flames down to the Thames.
He is blinded again, this time by the vast inrushing light of the world. He closes his eyes, a spark of light among many millions of others, and rocks to the motion of the ship.
Sarah’s arrival in Cairo two years ago caused a great dea
l of consternation. No one could remember ever seeing a woman travelling by herself. She stood alone on the dock, a slight figure with long red hair tumbling from her kerchief, gazing around her as if at Adam’s Eden.
Finally someone ran for the chief rabbi. He gave the order to have her brought to his house, and summoned all the elders as well.
“Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you travelling alone in such a dangerous part of the world?”
“I’m an orphan,” Sarah said. “But I was raised in a great castle by a Polish nobleman. I had one servant just to pare my nails, and another to brush my hair a hundred times before I went to bed.”
None of the elders answered her, but each one wore an identical expression of doubt. Why would a Polish nobleman raise a Jewish orphan? And what on earth was she doing in Cairo?
Only Shabbetai saw her true nature; only he knew that what the elders suspected was true. She had been the nobleman’s mistress, passed among his circle of friends when he grew tired of her. The prophet Hosea married a prostitute, he thought. “I will be your husband,” he said. “If you will have me.”
He knew as he spoke that she would marry him, and his heart rejoiced.
They held the wedding at night and out of doors. The sky was dark blue silk, buttoned by a moon of old ivory. Stars without number shone.
After the ceremony the elders came to congratulate him. For Sarah’s sake he pretended not to see the doubt in their eyes. “I cannot tell you how happy I am tonight,” he said.
After the ceremony he brought her to his house and led her to the bedroom, not bothering to light the candles. He lay on the bed and drew her to him. Her hair was tangled; perhaps she never brushed it.
They lay together for a long time. “Shall I undress?” she asked finally. Her breath was warm on his face.
“The angels sang at my birth,” he said. “I have never told anyone this. Only you.”
She ran her fingers through her hair, then moved to lift her dress. He held her tightly. “We must be like the angels,” he said. “Like the moon. We must be pure.”
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