Vendela Vida - The Diver's Clothes Lie Empty

You were not aware of the extent of the puppetry of tonight’s dinner: the practical secretary has instructed you to go home and change, the driver of the van is keeping you on a schedule.

You go upstairs and immediately tear open the envelope. Inside are rubber-banded stacks of Moroccan dirhams. You lie on the bed and organize the bills into various piles so you can more easily count the total. One pile for the bluish 200-dirham bills with the cargo ship and the lighthouse, another for the brownish hundreds with three camels and riders in the desert, a third pile for the green fifties with fruit and a bird, and a final one for the twenties with a train and an image of the King Hassan Mosque you were in earlier today. All the denominations feature the profile of a clean-shaven man you think it’s safe to assume was once the king. You count 18,700 dirhams. You don’t know how much this is in dollars but the number alone is intoxicating. You sniff the bills and they smell like desert heat. You stuff some of the bills in your bra, a few in each cup, and store the remainder in the hotel safe. You enter your niece’s birthday as the combination to the safe.

You wash your face and reapply the makeup you bought from the plump Moroccan man in the narrow beauty shop. You slip into the green silk dress. You don’t recognize the designer’s name but you know it must be expensive. The silk is wrinkled, the belt on the side.

You wear your flat sandals. You have no purse, so you slip your hotel key card beneath the front clasp of your bra. You look in the mirror and worry he’ll be disappointed. You put on the wig.

In the lobby the concierge points to a driver, a different one, without stepping out from behind his desk. The driver nods hello to you rather than shaking your hand, and escorts you outside. Town cars are common at the Regency, but not at the Grand Hotel, and you notice more than one guest staring as the driver opens the door to the backseat for you.

He doesn’t talk to you during the short duration of the drive. The restaurant is on one of the piers you saw on the police chief’s large map of the city. It’s like most piers at night — there’s a strange mix of efficiency and menace, as though someone’s being deposited in the ocean, but will be first wrapped carefully in white sheets.

The driver opens the door for you and you step out into the evening air, which smells of salt but also inexplicably like roses. Casablanca is on the brink of summer and you briefly recall an Emily Dickinson poem you read in high school about the brevity of spring, before you realize you don’t remember it at all. Only that it was about the brevity of spring. The driver tells you that it’s his understanding that he will not be waiting because “Monsieur” will be driving you home.

He waits for a tip. You discreetly remove a couple bills from the cup of your bra. You have no idea what the exchange rate is. You give him ten dirhams and you can tell by his reaction it’s not enough so you add ten more.

As soon as you exit the town car you feel less optimistic despite the spring air. Once the driver leaves, you will be alone with the Russian businessman who has been on several dates with the famous American actress. He will be unhappy to see you. You have no ride home.

You make sure your dress is falling appropriately across your body — aside from not having the money, this is why you don’t buy designer dresses: they rarely drape correctly.

You climb the stairs of the restaurant, the walls covered with fishnets and ships’ wheels. At the top, near a topless mermaid that once helmed a ship that most likely sank, you tell the maître d’ that someone is expecting you.

You see your date standing in the corner of the room. He has a prime table with a view. He’s in his late forties, wearing a suit and tie. He’s tall and wide and not as unattractive as you expected, given that the famous American actress is passing him on to you. You know it’s him because he stands with his arms outstretched and with an expression that seems about to say, Darling! in Russian except that he doesn’t. He places his arms back at his sides and gives you a quizzical look.

You walk up and greet him. You shake his hand and tell him your name is Reeves.

“So she’s not coming?” he says. His accent is less Russian and more global than you expected.

You tell him that filming is running late.

“Right,” he says. “And I’m supposed to believe you?”

You have no answer for this; you didn’t expect him to be so skeptical. You see the profound disappointment — even anger — on his face, and reassure him she’ll very likely be stopping by later. She said no such thing to you.

He extends his hand toward your chair. It’s turned toward the window and this is your first clue that he cares about the famous American actress. If he simply wanted to show her off, he would have seated her so she faced out at the room. But she — and now you — are expected to face the window, out of which you can see a darkening sky but little of the ocean, and nothing of the pier on which the restaurant is situated.

You offer him a brief smile. His nose looks like it was broken, and he has a scar on his right cheek. His hair is gray but still thick. He offers no smile in return; he simply stares at you like you’re a practical item in a store that he’s deliberating whether he wants to buy.

The waiter approaches. He’s an older Moroccan man with tired eyes, as though he’s been working at this restaurant for too many years and has seen too many tourists, too many poorly matched couples. He asks if you’d like drinks. You expect the businessman to tell the waiter that you won’t be staying, that there’s been a mistake.

“Gin and tonic?” he says to you.

You nod. It’s what the famous American actress drinks. You wonder if she started drinking them with him, or if he’s ordering them because he knows she likes them and he’s thinking of her.

“So who are you, exactly?” he says. “What do you do for her?”

You tell him you’re her stand-in on set. Just for this film, you explain.

“And now you’re standing in for her date with me,” he says matter-of-factly.

You explain again that she has to work late. It sounds less and less convincing. You scratch your head, and feel the wig. You’d almost forgotten you were wearing it. You regret putting it on. You exhale so that the bangs will fly up and out of your eyes.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

For a flicker of a moment you have difficulty placing your current identity; the wig threw you off. You tell him again your name is Reeves.

“Reeves, I’m Leopoldi. But you probably know that.”

He sips his gin and tonic, and with wet lips he says, “Let’s not pretend. We both know she’s not coming. She thinks I’m going to be upset because she’s been in the tabloids lately with that boy who I’m sure is gay. Am I jealous?”

You think it’s a rhetorical question but it’s not. He wants you to answer.

No, you tell him. You don’t think he’s jealous.

“Reeves! What world do you come from?” he says. “Of course I’m jealous. But I wasn’t going to yell at her about it. She’ll find out soon enough he’s gay and come back to me. Don’t you think he’s gay?”

You know this is not a good time to add your opinion that the boyfriend is not gay.

“Well, let’s make it a nice meal, Reeves. Are you in agreement?”

You clink glasses.

“To a nice meal,” he says.

The gin and tonic has an immediate effect on him. You can see him relaxing and he loosens his tie. His tie is expensive-looking and, like all expensive ties, has a stupid pattern — this one has little frogs. You wish he would take it off.