Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [19]
They rode another five minutes in silence. Gabe suddenly softened. What was the point of being nasty? That was his father’s domain. He said, “You look nice.”
She started to say something, but changed her mind.
Gabe said, “Really, Yasmine. You look very nice.”
She faced him for the first time. Her eyeliner was slightly smudged. “I’m really sorry I’m so late. My family is always late. I should have warned you. If you wanted me to come at one, you shoulda said twelve. I thought going to the opera was a real fancy thing.”
“Sometimes it is.” Gabe said to the taxi driver, “Can’t you go any faster?”
“I already go sixty-five.”
“Go seventy-five. There’s no one in front of you.”
“You pay for my ticket?”
“Yes, I’ll pay for your ticket.”
“You the boss.”
Again the cab shot forward. Gabe checked his watch. They had about a half hour to go and were about a half hour away. “Nothing in L.A. is formal, especially a matinee.”
“Now I know. I’ve never been to the opera. I’ve never even seen any kind of live stage performance.”
“Your parents don’t believe in culture?”
“They have culture, just not American culture. In Iran, I’m sure my father was very cultured. He didn’t learn English until he was thirty. Why would he go to the theater here? All the nuances would be lost on him.”
“Point well-taken. That was rude. Sorry.”
She fidgeted with the beads on her evening bag. “I look ridiculous.”
He tried out a smile. “No one’s going to be looking at you because we’ll be stumbling through the dark when we come in.”
“Sorry I made you miss everything.”
“We won’t miss everything. We’ll just have to wait until there’s a natural interlude before they’ll seat latecomers. It’s no big deal to me. I’ve seen La Traviata before.”
“You have?”
“Yeah, I saw it about four years ago at the Met.”
Her made-up eyes got wide. “You did?”
“Yeah. I used to live in New York.”
“Oh golly.” She sat back and sighed, closing her eyes. “That’s my dream.”
“To live in New York?”
“No, to go to the Met.” She sat up. “Who sang Violetta?”
“I’ve got to think. It was a while ago . . . I think I saw Celine Army.”
“She’s great!” She faced him, her eyes not quite meeting his. “But Alyssa Danielli is better.”
“I don’t know about better. They’re different.”
“Well, I like Danielli’s voice better. It’s sweeter.”
“I’ll go with you on that one.” He regarded her made-up face with her smeared eyeliner. “How does someone who’s never heard a live concert come to have such a discerning ear?”
She shrugged. “I’m an alien.”
Gabe held back a smile. “Liszt used to introduce Chopin by saying that he was from another planet, so maybe that’s not so bad.”
“Maybe.” Yasmine pulled out a mirror and lipstick from her purse. When she saw her face, she became horrified. “Oh, my God! I look like a freak!”
“You look fine—”
“I’m totally embarrassing . . . like I came off a binge in Intervention.” She pulled out a premoistened lotion wipe from her purse and started blotting her eyes. All that did was make it worse. Her lower lip began to tremble. “God, I’m a mess.”
She began to attack her face with the towelette, taking off gobs of gook. With each swipe, she smeared more and more makeup. Tears began to trickle down her cheek.
Gabe rolled his eyes. “Stop, stop, stop.” He took the wipe from her. “Just calm down. You look fine. Hold still.” Carefully, he started removing the paint from her skin until it was gone. “There you go.”
With trepidation, she looked in the mirror and said nothing.
“I don’t know why you’d want to cover your face in all this shit,” Gabe told her. “You’re much cuter without it.”
“I told you Persians dress up for occasions. Besides, now I look around ten.”
“But a very cute ten.”
She finally smiled and then carefully applied some lip gloss. “Thanks for bearing with me.”
Gabe shrugged. “You know, as long as you’re making changes, you should take your hair down. No one our age wears their hair like that unless they’re in a bridal party.”
She made a sour face and started pulling bobby pins out of her hair.
“Need help?” he asked.
“I think you’ve done quite enough,