Vendela Vida - The Diver's Clothes Lie Empty

You are seated upstairs in a private area shrouded by large palm leaves. Your back is to the other diners and drinkers. Leopoldi orders you a drink called “the Ingrid” and orders himself a vodka.

“I was just drinking gin and tonics before because that’s what she likes to drink,” he says. Because your head is clouded with alcohol, it takes you a minute to remember that by she he means the famous American actress, and not your sister. “Real Russians, we drink our vodka. Vodka is our water.” The more he drinks, the more he sounds like the Russian farm boy he was.

You drink the Ingrid through a straw. You do not want him to ask you about yourself. You know that to be a good liar you have to remember your lies, and you’re in a state of drunkenness in which you’re having trouble remembering much at all.

When you finish your drink you feel a little lopsided in your chair, like you’re slumping, so you adjust yourself and. . boom. You are on the floor. Leopoldi is squeezing around the table to help you up but you also sense something bright out of the corner of your eye. It’s the white lightning of flash. A tourist is taking a photo of you, a photo showing how drunk you are that you fell to the ground. “Stop,” you say, and hold up your hand in the direction of the flash attack. It won’t stop. This tourist will not stop taking photos.

Leopoldi helps you up, and escorts you to the car. You roll down the window— see, I’m not drunk, I’m in control —and the car speeds and stops and speeds as you zoom your way to the Grand Hotel. You inhale deeply, taking in the dirty night air. You decide you must watch Casablanca again, you must buy souvenirs for your mother who has never been to Morocco and who always loves to collect clothing and shoes from faraway lands, you must be in constant touch with your niece throughout her entire life.

Leopoldi helps you up to your room, and asks for your key. You don’t have it, you say. He suggests you both go down to the lobby. He says he would do it but they wouldn’t believe him without you or your ID so you should both go to the lobby and request another copy of your room key. You know very little right now, but know this will be a disaster. You have no ID and you are registered under the previous stand-in’s name. Miraculously, under pressure, you remember your key is secured under the front clasp of your bra. You hand the now-warm key card to Leopoldi and he lets you into the room.

He stands on the threshold.

“It was a nice evening,” he says. “I’m sorry I overserved you.”

You intend to thank him for being a gentleman, for standing on the other side of the threshold. You move your mouth — why is it so difficult to move your mouth? — and the door closes on him, loudly. The bed seems miles away. You drop onto your knees and use the foot of the mattress as a pillow for your tired and heavy head.

In the early morning the phone rings. Your brain feels like it’s just been broken into seven continents. You pick up the phone because you’re still half asleep; if you were awake you’d ignore its obscenely loud shrieks.

The practical secretary is on the phone. She does not say good morning; she instructs you to be in the Regency’s tenth-floor lounge in half an hour. You shower the scent of alcohol off your skin. You plan to get to the lounge quickly so you can order a strong coffee to ease your headache.

You rush through the Regency lobby so you won’t be spotted by the manager. You arrive at the lounge early, but the practical secretary and the famous American actress are already there, waiting. There’s no sign of the waiter you usually see. You have the distinct impression that he’s been dismissed so this meeting could be private.

“Good morning,” you say, but it comes out sounding like a question.

The famous American actress looks livid. She speaks first. “I told you to go out with him. I didn’t say you should make him fall for you.”

You’ve never seen her like this. There’s a fury inside her that is terrifying. You understand how she’s made it this far in her career. She’s a missile that’s been launched and can’t be halted.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I don’t think that’s true.”

The actress’s eyes narrow on you. “My psycho radar is usually much better. Are you looking for a wealthy husband?”

You have no idea what’s happening. There’s a narrative here that you’re not privy to.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say. “You asked me to go. I went. I tried to be nice. We got along fine. He was wearing the tie you bought him. We talked about you most of the night.”

“Really?” she says. “Because the text I got from him said that he was happy I didn’t show up. That he had more fun with you .”

“Listen,” you say. “I have no interest in him. I don’t have his phone number. He doesn’t have mine. I did what you asked.”

There is no coffee. There is no waiter to bring coffee.

“Did you?” she says. Her skin seems to barely contain a raging bonfire inside.

You try to make eye contact with the bodyguards who are seated at the other side of the room; you may need their help if she physically attacks you. The one with the reddish hair, the one you talked with about radical speciation and what to feed a turtle, sees you trying to make eye contact with him. He turns his head the other way.

The practical secretary jumps in. “We have much more serious matters to discuss,” she says. “Do you realize you were photographed?”

“You got wasted!” the famous American actress says. “And why the fuck were you wearing the wig?”

“Some tourist took a slew of photos of you falling down on the floor drunk,” the practical secretary says. “You were a mess. The photos are terrible.”

You don’t know what to say. “Okay. I don’t know why that’s a problem. Why would anyone care that a stand-in drank too much?”

The famous American actress almost jumps out of her seat. “It’s a fucking problem because they think it’s me, you stupid bitch! Because you were wearing the wig! Who told you to wear the fucking wig? Everyone thought you were me.”

“There’s no way,” you say. “We don’t look—”

“You were wearing the wig! You were wearing my dress! I’ve been photographed in that dress. It’s my designer! You were with a man people know I dated. It was supposed to be discreet . I assumed you would stay sober. Instead you got drunk, fell off a chair, and rolled around like a pig. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Please,” the practical secretary says, looking imploringly at the famous American actress. “We have to clean this up now. We have real, pressing questions here.” The practical secretary turns back to you. “This is what’s going on. The tourist has retained one of these bottom-feeding lawyer intermediaries. He’s contacted us saying if we don’t pay a certain sum they’ll sell the photos to the tabloids. We’re trying to formulate a plan here but I don’t know if we have any good options.”

“You know how much your little stunt is going to cost?” the famous American actress asks. “One hundred thousand dollars — minimum. That’s if they don’t raise the price sometime today.”

There’s a small part of you that’s amused that any photo of you could ever be worth that much.

“Are you smirking?” the practical secretary asks. Your brief amusement must have showed itself on your face. “Do you think this is funny?”

You hear the exasperation in her voice. She’s furious with you as well. You should be seeking the bodyguards’ attention so they can protect you from the practical secretary, not the famous American actress. You have made a grave error, and you will be punished.