Vendela Vida - The Diver's Clothes Lie Empty

“What’s your name?” Hazel asks you.

“Jane,” you say.

Hazel has a yellow fanny pack, which she wears on her belly. “It’s her belly pack,” Samantha teases. Hazel unzips it and removes a medium-size notebook and a thin green pen.

“I’m going to write down each turn we take,” she says.

“Good idea,” Samantha says.

Hazel looks around for a landmark. There’s a sign above you that’s written in Arabic and the three of you agree it won’t help you unless Hazel copies down each letter exactly, and even then, it might not be of use.

“That looks like a hair salon,” Samantha says, pointing to a barbershop.

“That’s a good landmark,” Hazel says.

You consider saying something about how many hair salons there are, and how it won’t help. Hazel begins sketching the salon. You wonder how much territory the three of you will cover if she illustrates every landmark at every turn.

You watch the quick strokes she makes with the pen. She’s good. The rendering is convincing. The pen is a souvenir; on its side it says The Louvre .

“Okay, all set,” Hazel says after a few minutes. Together you walk another dozen feet until you come to a fork.

“Right or left?” you say.

“Up to you,” Samantha says.

You turn right and Hazel pauses to illustrate a complicated handle on a squat door. The handle is silver and has an animal engraved on it.

After a minute you continue walking. You pass by a chamber with a fountain inside.

“What’s this?” Samantha says, peering in.

“I don’t know, but let’s go in for a second. I’m hot out there. Are you hot, Jane?”

It takes you a moment to realize she’s talking to you. Your name is not Jane.

“It is getting hot out,” you say. “I think my ears might even be sweating.”

“Your ears!” Samantha says, pausing to feel her own. “That’s funny.”

You all step inside the room with the fountain. The tile on the floor is turquoise and baby blue, cracked. Along the walls dozens of notices — all in Arabic — have been thumbtacked. Is it a center of worship? You see no sign or symbolism that it’s a place of prayer. You have no idea why the room is open to the public.

The tiled floor must have recently been mopped because there’s a strong scent of bleach. Hazel sits on the bench and starts sketching again.

“Much better in here with the tiles and the water,” Samantha says, and extends a hand to feel the fountain water. “Are your ears still sweating, Jane?”

You make a show of touching them, checking them. “Nope, all good.” You touch the water, too. It’s not as cold as you expected. Its flow curls around your fingers, your palm. You dry your hand on your jeans.

You sit down on the bench next to Hazel. Samantha sits on the other side of her. Hazel starts sketching while looking at you. You turn away.

“Look this way,” Hazel says. “Don’t be shy.”

You turn back to her. “You realize I’m not a landmark, right?”

“So where are you from?” Hazel asks, still sketching.

“Florida,” you say.

“Oh, Samantha here is from Florida,” Hazel says.

“Really,” you say. “Miami?”

“No, the Gulf Coast,” Samantha says. “Near Sarasota. A town called Dellis Beach.”

You are from Dellis Beach.

“Where are you from?” they ask, almost in unison.

You try to not to pause. You need to say a place in Florida that’s not Dellis Beach.

“Miami,” you say.

“Oh, because I was going to say you look familiar,” Samantha says. She looks at you, tilts her head back, taking you in.

Your mind moves quickly, miraculously. “I think you might have been on my flight to Casablanca. On the nineteenth?” you say. “You probably saw me there.”

“I was on that flight,” Samantha says. “Isn’t that a coincidence? That must be where I recognize you from.” She pauses as though remembering something. You’re afraid of what she’s going to say. “Did you see that woman who kept having to get her suitcase down from the overhead compartment?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you say, and laugh.

Samantha turns to Hazel. “There was this woman sitting on my side of the plane in this crazy patterned dress who kept taking her suitcase down, opening it, and then putting it up and taking it down, opening it, and putting it up. She must have done it a hundred times.”

“At least,” you say.

Samantha studies Hazel’s sketch. “That’s so good, Hazy,” she says. She stares at it a moment more, then turns to you. “You just look so familiar,” she says to you. “Further back than the plane. If only my mind still worked the way it did when we were in college.”

“The hazards of age,” Hazel says. “But there are some things I’m glad not to remember.”

“Like what?” Samantha says. “You’re the least regretful person I know.”

Hazel seems about to offer an example of something she’s glad to have forgotten. “You know what?” she says. “I can’t think of anything.”

“See, told you,” Samantha says. They both laugh.

“You went to college together?” you say.

“Yes, Florida State University,” Samantha says.

“So you were with the big group of women on the plane? What happened to them?”

“Oh, we all went to Marrakech together, but then when we went to Casablanca, the rest of the ladies wanted to spend a few days there. Our guidebook said that when you get to Casablanca, the first thing you should do is get out of Casablanca. So we did.”

Samantha stares at the sketch Hazel is making of you. She takes out a pair of glasses from her pack, and puts them on, and that’s when you know for certain that it’s her. She looks exactly as she did that day.

“You know who you look like?” Samantha says to you, then turns to Hazel. “Your drawing makes her look like that woman I was telling you about, that one in the delivery room. Remember how I was telling you I didn’t know which twin to give the baby to?”

“Oh, you have to tell her that story,” Hazel says to Samantha.

You know the story. The story is about you. You are not ready. You don’t ever want to hear this story.

“I don’t know if you know anything about Dellis Beach but it’s pretty small — around twenty thousand people — and near Sarasota,” Samantha says. “There’s a young community and an old community.”

You need to get away from these women, from this story.

“Which community are you part of, Sam?” Hazel asks.

“Ha!” Samantha says. “I will remind you that even though I graduated a year ahead of you at FSU, we are technically only seven months apart.”

“So were you roommates?” you say. You hope this question will change the conversation, that it will unleash a tidal wave of memories of their college days.

“No,” they both say at the same time.

You try not to let your disappointment show. You need the subject to change.

“Anyway,” Samantha says, “back to my story. There were these two young couples in town. The girls were twin sisters. They were really close, but one was prettier than the other.”

“Is that relevant?” Hazel says. “You’re so lookist sometimes.”

“I’m lookist? Don’t be calling me any kind of ‘ist.’ I am as fair as they come.”

“Right,” says Hazel. She winks at you.

“Saw that,” Samantha says. “So there were two equally beautiful twin sisters in our town,” she continues, smiling.

“Were they identical or fraternal. . or do you call them sororal?” Hazel asks.

“I think they were fraternal,” Samantha says.

You shift closer to the edge of the bench, wondering if you could make it out the doorway fast enough to avoid being followed. Samantha will recognize you soon.