Vendela Vida - The Diver's Clothes Lie Empty

You rewind the video slightly further until you don’t see yourself at the desk and then you press play. You and the six men in the room observe the video in silence.

You watch as you arrive through the security portal wearing the backpack and dragging the suitcase to the front desk. The bearded man points to the camera and says something to the other men in the room. You assume that he’s saying, “Look, she had the backpack when she entered the hotel.” You yourself are relieved to see this: you didn’t leave it in the van; it wasn’t taken while going through security.

You watch yourself arguing with the unhelpful man at the front desk about your room and how it was supposed to be ready. You watch him slide the passport information form across the desk. You watch as you remove your backpack from where it hangs on both shoulders and place it on top of your suitcase, which is standing upright on its wheels in front of you. You fill out your name, place of birth, passport number, and nationality and then you return your passport to its secure place in your backpack. You push it down inside, so it can’t fall out, or be taken, from the top. You call for someone from behind the desk to help you. You see your mouth move: “I’ve filled out the form.”

At exactly this time, on the surveillance video, you notice a figure that’s been sitting on the black bench in the lobby. He’s a chunky man in a suit with a lanyard and a badge; he was not there when you first arrived at the hotel. He stands and takes a diagonal and deliberate path toward you. You see him stop beside you, to your right, while your head is turned toward the left as you try to get the attention of the man behind the front desk. Then you see the chunky man’s fingers inch toward your stomach. His hand passes in front of you as he gently and slowly lifts the backpack straight out from where it’s resting on the suitcase.

Watching the video, the men in the small cinder-block room start shouting and pointing, and one man grabs his head with both hands as though his favorite soccer player has missed a tie-breaking goal.

On the video, you watch the chunky man in the black suit stand beside you for ten seconds, as though in disbelief of what he’s gotten away with. Or perhaps it’s another tactic: he doesn’t want to make any sudden movements. For a brief second, it looks like he’s regretting what he did, and is going to return the backpack to its original position on top of your suitcase. But then, rapidly and with determination, he pulls a strap of the black backpack up over his shoulder, walks efficiently but not too quickly toward the exit of the hotel with his head up, passes by the security men and through the security portal, turns right, and is safely on the street.

You hear a sound coming from deep inside you — a strange, guttural yelp — and you stand up. The hotel security crew are all pointing at the screen and rewinding the surveillance video and exclaiming things in Arabic. Your mind is rioting now that you know for sure your backpack is gone. You see no way out of this. You want to go home. You have just arrived in Morocco and your backpack, your identity, has been stolen. Everyone has forgotten about you; they are all turned to the screen. They are getting more excited, pointing, replaying the crime — they’ve finally figured out how to play the video on their own. You turn so you’re facing the filing cabinets in this tiny room that is a mockery of an office. You think you might cry. Don’t cry, you tell yourself. Don’t cry. And you know you won’t. A strange adrenaline, a forceful calmness overtakes you. You have been in situations like these before and you feel this tranquillity, the green-blue of an ocean, wash over you.

You turn back around. “I need to cancel my credit cards,” you tell the bearded man who knew the long and complicated password. He says they are calling the police, and you nod. “They will come here?” you say.

“Yes,” he tells you.

“While I’m waiting, can I make some phone calls?”

The hunched man is assigned to escort you to an office on the second floor. To get there you have to go up one elevator, and walk across the lobby to another. You pass the long black leatherette bench against the wall. It’s a narrow, backless bench where no one is intended to sit for long.

On the way to the other elevator that will take you to the second floor, you see the driver of the van that transported you from the airport to the hotel. He is animated and happy. “I told you backpack not in my van,” he says. “I said you have backpack when you come into hotel.” You see how relieved he is that he’s not responsible. So happy that your backpack was stolen by someone else!

You nod and continue being escorted to the second-floor office. A plump man in a gray suit stops you. He introduces himself as the head of security at the hotel. Where was he before? Not just when the backpack was stolen, but when the six men who couldn’t figure out how to access the security videos were shouting passwords at each other and you were having to show them how to click the arrow on the computer. Where was he then?

The head of security is barrel-chested and his mustache is thick. He reminds you of the man on the Monopoly board game. The banker. He seems proud to be in charge. Even more than that: he seems proud that a theft has taken place in the hotel and that he will have to talk to the police chief. “We have called the police chief and he is on his way,” he tells you. He’s smiling when he says this. What is wrong with him? He’s beaming with excitement and pride and doesn’t apologize or say he’s sorry about the loss of your backpack and its contents. He just stands there smiling, and then he tells you to relax. “Go to your room and relax. We are here,” he says.

“I can’t relax,” you tell him. “I have to cancel my credit cards.”

“Just relax,” he repeats. “The police chief is coming.”

You ignore him and take the elevator up to the second-floor office. “He seemed really happy about the whole thing,” you say to the hunched man escorting you, forgetting that his English is not good.

“You are happy?” the hunched man asks, confused.

The elevator doors open and you exit without correcting him.

You are led to a desk in an office that has a computer and a phone. Two other people are in this office, answering phones and, you realize, taking reservations. One of these men is likely the same person who told you early check-in would be no problem. You sit down in the empty swivel chair, and as the hunched man turns and leaves the office you begin searching the Internet for phone numbers to your banks. You call your credit-card company and Christy in Denver says she will help you. You don’t know your credit-card number by heart, so Christy in Denver has to access it by your name and ask you a number of security questions. When she agrees that you are who you say you are, you ask about recent charges. The last thing Christy in Denver sees being charged to your credit card was a meal at the airport in Miami.

“Great,” you say, and then ask: “Are you sure I should cancel it, then? If it’s not being used?”

“Do you know for a fact the card was stolen and not misplaced?” Christy asks you.

“Yes,” you say. “I saw them play back the surveillance camera. It was definitely stolen.”

“Then you should cancel it,” she says.

So you do.

You know as you hang up that you will have to call back the credit-card company and ask what their insurance policy is for stolen items, but now is not the time to do this. You are briefly overwhelmed by the amount of phone calls you already know you’ll have to make in the coming weeks and months. You are certain paperwork will be involved.