Vendela Vida - The Diver's Clothes Lie Empty

When she’s done with your eyelids, you open them and see her looking quizzically at your skin. She shakes a bottle of foundation, and squirts a drop the size of a quarter onto the back of her left hand. Then she applies the foundation with quick, sloppy strokes over your chin, your cheek, your nose, your forehead. Gone are the small, precise strokes she used on your eyelids.

When she’s finished she turns you to the mirror. You try not to react. Your skin looks as uneven as tree bark, the makeup emphasizing every ridge, bump, and dip. You thank her profusely, knowing that you will soon be searching for the first available bathroom to wash the makeup off.

While your foundation was being applied the wardrobe woman was brushing a wig. This is the wig you’ll be wearing to resemble the famous American actress. The wardrobe woman resecures the rubber band at your nape and bobby-pins the stray hairs away from your face. She places the wig over your head.

The color of the wig is shades darker than your own — it’s the dark color your hair appeared to be on the video taken by the surveillance camera at the Golden Tulip. And the length of the hair on the wig is the same length as the actress’s. It’s the same length your hair was before you cut it to look like Sabine Alyse’s passport photo. You are putting on a wig so you more closely resemble the way you looked before you weren’t you.

The wig is itchy on your scalp and you raise your hand to scratch your head, and both women almost scream. It’s as though you’ve reached for a knife.

“Do not touch,” the wardrobe woman says.

“Okay,” you say.

She adjusts the wig’s fringe of bangs. The actress has bangs for this movie, so of course the wig has bangs too.

There’s a knock at the door. It’s the tattooed man. He exchanges a few words with the women and then looks at you. He nods, seemingly satisfied with your transformation, your wig.

You thank the women and exit the trailer and the tattooed man walks you to the house.

“Is there a bathroom I can use?” you ask him.

He walks you to a trailer that has a bathroom. You enter the small bathroom, and immediately wash your face. It looks better without the makeup that’s just been applied. There’s no towel, so you use toilet paper to dry your skin. Small pieces of the toilet paper stick to your chin, your upper right cheek. You pick the pieces off, toss them in the wastebasket, and rejoin the tattooed man, who’s waiting for you outside the trailer.

He walks you into the house and introduces you to the director. The director is Moroccan, wearing a light brown scarf wrapped around his neck so many times it resembles the bottom half of a beehive. He has an actual director’s chair with his name on it. He’s squat and commanding and you can see how some women might find him attractive, but you don’t.

He seems to be able to discern this as well — the fact that you will not fall for him the way most women do — and so after shaking your hand in a hard and meaningful way, and apologizing for not getting the chance to interview you the way he usually does before filming — he releases your fingers and you begin to fade from his attention.

As an afterthought, he introduces you to two young Moroccan girls, sisters, who will be in the scene with you. They are ten and twelve years old, wide-eyed with long dark hair that falls in curls. The director turns his back on you, the equivalent of walking away to get a drink at a party. He’s passing you off.

You like the sisters right away. They tell you they’re taking the day off from school, but didn’t want to brag to their teachers that they were in a film, so instead they called in sick.

“Your parents must be so excited,” you say. “Are they here?”

The girls look at each other and for a moment you envy the communion between happy sisters, the comfort of having someone who is always with you and who knows what you’re thinking. When you were young you thought your twinship could be like that; when you were older you thought marriage might be like that. But you were twice mistaken.

“They don’t really believe we’re in this movie,” the younger sister says.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“We told a lie once,” says the older sister with the narrower face.

They wait for you to ask what kind of lie. If you ask, you’re positive they won’t tell you. You say nothing.

“We said we were in a film with George Clooney and we weren’t,” one of them says.

“But your parents brought you here, right?” you say.

They shake their heads no, but in different ways. The shorter one is much more exaggerated in her movements.

You tell the girls they’re “badasses.” You have no idea why you say this or where it comes from. Maybe from spending time with the American actress? You don’t think you’ve ever said “badass” before. The sisters smile. They have no idea what it means.

The girls ask if they can take a picture with you.

“Sure,” you say, and the three of you take a photo together with you in the middle. You offer to take a picture of them with the famous American actress when she arrives on set, and their excitement shows in their eyes.

The director whistles. He actually whistles and everyone turns silent. He details what’s going to happen in the upcoming scene, and where he wants everyone.

He describes it in Arabic for five minutes and then takes thirty seconds to explain what he’s said in English. It’s a good thing you’ve studied your sides so carefully. He shows everyone where they’re supposed to stand in the scene. He knows you don’t understand, so he puts his hands on your arms and moves you the way a physical therapist might shift your position. You are quickly learning that most of your job is to help with the blocking.

The scene goes like this: Maria enters the room and meets Kareem’s nieces, the adorable sisters. Though she’s never met them before, she’s so overwhelmed by the sight of them and by the memory of Kareem, who’s now deceased, that she gets on her knees and hugs them. She tries not to cry. Then she moves over to the dining area. She tries to hug Kareem’s mother, but the mother is cold and inaccessible and instead shakes Maria’s hand. Maria is taken aback by her demeanor. Kareem’s mother then introduces Maria to Kareem’s best friend. You, Maria, must shake his hand. But there is clearly an attraction between Maria and the friend. This attraction doesn’t escape the notice of Kareem’s mother, who throughout the course of the meal behaves in an abrupt and rude manner.

The cameras start rolling, and they move forward and backward on their tracks. The director watches the monitor, his expression indecipherable.

You walk through the part, uttering your lines without forgetting one of them. The young sisters give warm hugs. Kareem’s mother is dressed head to toe in black; she’s grieving and rude. For a moment you forget it’s make-believe and interpret her coldness as a personal affront. When she introduces you to Kareem’s best friend, you find him sexy, though two minutes before, when the cameras were off during the run-through, you didn’t notice much about him. You wonder if it’s the lighting. No, you think, it’s the realization that the cameras are on.

You are distracted and forget your line and your stage direction. You were supposed to be seated at the dining room table by now. The director yells a word that you know must mean “Cut!”

“Do you want to talk or should we try again?” he asks.

“Let’s try again,” you say.

The second time goes well. You move from place to place with ease. As you feel some other rhythm take over your body, you’re reminded of diving. You loved diving because your mind could be quiet; your body knew what to do.