Vendela Vida - The Diver's Clothes Lie Empty

You return to the car and maybe it’s your imagination, but once you’re on the road again, the driver continues to sneak looks at you in his rearview mirror. He notices something is different.

The driver takes you back to the Golden Tulip and you thank him. You tell him you wish you could tip him, and he too looks dismayed that this is not an option. You flee the car quickly, wanting to escape his disappointment. You go to your room, which has still not been made up — the bedspread is contorted into an unwieldy bundle at the foot of the mattress — and pack up your things.

You take out the scissors you purchased at the beauty store and cut your long brown hair to shoulder length, like Sabine’s. You place all the hair you’ve cut onto a long piece of toilet paper that you’ve stretched across the sink counter. When you’re done you roll up the tissue with the hair inside and flush it down the toilet. You flush again.

You leave your key card on top of the television set. You walk through the lobby without informing anyone you’re checking out, without looking in the direction of the clerks at the desk. You exit through the front door with your luggage, and the black backpack over your shoulder, and turn right.

Something about this seems familiar to you. You remember that this is exactly what the thief did when he left the Golden Tulip. He pulled the backpack onto one shoulder, exited the front door, and turned right.

You walk down the boulevard, called Place des Nations Unies, dragging your suitcase, and you immediately sense your error. There are no other Western women walking down the street alone. You keep your eyes on the Regency in the distance and you move quickly through the crowds. The sun is high in the sky and it’s hot on your skin and too many faces are turning toward you. You half expect to see someone wearing your backpack.

When you arrive at the Regency, a doorman in a suit opens the door for you, greets you with “good afternoon,” and then stares out at the distance to see how you’ve arrived — by limo or van? You are pulling your suitcase and wearing Sabine’s black backpack and you realize that you’re probably the only person who’s arrived at the hotel by foot. You pass through a security portal and enter an enormous lobby. Its sofas are mocha colored and deep and plush. The kind of sofas that are easy to relax into, and difficult to rise from. White orchids are staged artfully throughout the lobby and Lauryn Hill music pulses softly through the speakers. Everyone is dressed as though going to a business meeting in London or an upscale lunch in New York. No one is dressed as though they are in Morocco — they are not dressed in long skirts and scarves and sandals, the clothes you imagined yourself wearing here.

To your left is the reception desk. The area in front of the desk is large and vacant and there is nowhere to sit. A theft would not happen here because there’s no place for a thief to linger, to watch. Two women stand behind the desk, available for anyone who might want to check in. No women worked behind the desk at the Golden Tulip.

You approach the kinder-looking of the two women, the one with long hair who smiles with her eyes, and tell her you don’t have a reservation but you called this morning and understand there’s room at the hotel. She studies the computer and confirms this. You give her Sabine Alyse’s passport and her credit card.

“I may want to use a different credit card eventually,” you say. “So I can get frequent flier miles. .” You congratulate yourself on giving a valid explanation. “Is it okay if I switch credit cards when I check out?”

She says that’s fine. She barely glances at the passport, but slides a form across the desk. You open Sabine Alyse’s passport and scribble down the relevant information.

You are asked if you would like help with your luggage and you decline politely.

As you wait for the elevator to descend from the tenth floor, you watch the numbers decrease 3-2-1, like a countdown to your fate. The elevator doors slide open smoothly like stage curtains and a young woman emerges. You do a double take because there’s something familiar about her. She looks at you too. Is it Sabine? Is that why she’s staring at you? Should you run away or approach her and say you’ve been looking for her to return something she’s lost? But it’s not Sabine.

You enter the elevator and study the woman’s profile as she walks across the lobby. You both have olive skin (but of course her complexion is better; everyone’s complexion is better) and dark brown hair. Her hair is longer than yours — it’s the length of hair you had before you cut it this past hour. You’re both around the same height and build, though she’s younger and her stomach is flatter. In America, you probably wouldn’t notice the resemblance, but here you do.

Your room is mostly white, with fluffed pillows and a light down comforter and white bathrobes and towels all awaiting you. You sit on the bed, you sit in the desk chair and swivel around. The view out the window is of the main square below. People are traversing the square and a band shell has been set up. It’s vacant now and you don’t know if the concert has already happened or if preparations are being made.

There are two bathrooms in your hotel room — one with just a toilet, far from the bedroom, and one with a bathtub and shower and sink. The light in the bathroom must be flattering because you don’t look like you haven’t slept for days and you have been robbed of almost every possession you care about and have spent the morning at the Casablanca police station.

Your face is thinner than when you left Florida, as though you’ve lost a pound or two since taking flight. As soon as you see this, you are ravenous. Hunger takes over you suddenly and completely, like fear. You scan the menu and decide on an omelet. You call room service and they greet you with “Good afternoon, Ms. Alyse.” You consider ordering in French but decide you have been through enough challenges for one day. You order your food. You wait. You lie on the bed for a moment. You are so tired but you are so hungry and you cannot sleep until you have food.

You awake to knocking. You look at the pillow. You have been drooling. You look at the clock. You have been passed out for precisely six minutes.

You open the door and you’re touched to see a flower on the room-service tray. You know all room-service trays at this hotel must come with a small vase with a single white rose, but you still wish to believe that someone has sent it just for you. When you sign the bill, charging it to the room, you write in an extravagant tip for the gentleman who brought you the food and the rose.

As soon as the door closes your fork hits the plate. The omelet is delicious. Cheese and mushrooms — you ordered only food that would be well cooked and you believed would not make you ill. You had visited a travel clinic before your trip to Morocco to get hepatitis and typhoid shots, and while there you also purchased loperamide in the event of stomach issues. But these items were in your black backpack, so now you can’t take any risks. You had never prepared for a trip as well as you had for this one — you even bought gum, a travel-size toothbrush and toothpaste kit, a small bottle of hand lotion, wet wipes, and an orange luggage tag for your new blue suitcase. You used a black permanent marker and neatly filled out the luggage tag with your name and address, and secured it onto the handle. As you were exiting the plane after everyone was clapping — was that only yesterday morning? — the new orange luggage tag fell from your suitcase. The man behind you handed it to you and you thanked him and stuffed it in the small pocket of your new black backpack. Now you own nothing with your name on it.