Vendela Vida - The Diver's Clothes Lie Empty

You call to cancel your bank card. Vipul in India says he can assist you. First he needs you to answer security questions, which you do. Then he asks you how much money, approximately, you have in your account.

You look to your left, toward one man taking reservations, and you look to your right, toward the other man. Neither man is on the phone at the moment and so you know they are listening to your conversation. You know their English is good because you’ve heard them taking the reservations.

“I’m in a public place right now,” you say.

“I understand,” Vipul in India says, “but I need an approximate number.”

You are embarrassed to say the amount aloud because it’s considerably less than someone like you, someone who is thirty-three and in a foreign country, should have in their bank account.

Finally, you whisper the amount, and Vipul in India cancels your card and tells you a new one will be issued and mailed to the Florida address they have on file for you.

“It will arrive in three to five business days,” Vipul in India tells you.

“I’m in Casablanca,” you tell him.

“It will be in Florida when you return,” he says.

You are done with your calls, and only then does it hit you that you have no way to get money or to pay for anything. Fuck, you think, and imagine spending your entire time in Morocco in this shitty hotel. You sink deep in your chair. You try not to swivel.

The young, hunched man who can’t use a computer enters the office. “I have good news,” he says.

You blink rapidly, taking this in.

“The head of security just watched video. He knows man who took the bag. He talks with him this morning at breakfast. He stays at this hotel. He is doctor at conference we are having here.”

And he hasn’t checked out? Does he want to get caught? You imagine the man as a kleptomaniac who steals because he wants to be found out and diagnosed. Or else he’s a psychiatrist and the theft was part of a test case.

You are relieved. Your backpack will be returned. The head of security, who disturbed you because he was good-humored and telling you to relax, is now your friend. A hero.

You regret canceling your credit cards. You wonder if you can call Christy in Denver and Vipul in India again before you meet with the head of security. They must be able to reactivate the cards within five minutes of cancellation. There must be some law, some statute about that, you think. You hope.

“He waits for you downstairs,” the hunched young man says.

“Okay,” you say, and let him escort you down to the lobby.

The head of security is ecstatic. The two sides of his mustache, the left and the right, are forming their own smiles.

“You watched the video? You know the man?” you say. You can hear the excitement in your own voice, which sounds like it’s coming from a different person than the despondent one speaking on the phone a few minutes ago.

“Yes,” he says. “If I saw him I would know him. I saw him as closely as I am seeing you right now.”

“Where is he now?” you ask.

“I don’t know where he is this moment. He came to me this morning and asked where he could get breakfast. He asked in English, so he’s not Moroccan because why else would he ask in English?”

“So you don’t know who he is?” you say, more defeated than before your hopes were raised.

“He was wearing a badge. That means he’s part of a conference of doctors at this hotel right now.”

“Have you checked?”

“Well, no, because they are all meeting upstairs right now and I can’t just walk into the room and start accusing doctors. I have to wait until the meeting is over.”

“But what if he’s not part of the conference? What if he was pretending to be?”

“I saw the badge. He’s part of conference,” he says, this time with less certainty. You both stare at each other. You know it’s only now occurring to him that the badge might have been fake. “You should go relax and rest and we will get him,” he says.

“Please stop telling me to relax and rest,” you tell him. This comes out sounding louder than you intend it to. You sound exactly like the kind of person who needs to relax.

“The police chief is coming soon,” he says. “We will put your bags in your room.”

“I only have one bag now,” you say. You are reluctant to leave your suitcase anywhere, so you’ve been dragging it around with you.

“Oh,” says the chief of security, spotting something or someone over your shoulder.

“What?” You turn to follow his startled look. “Is it him? Is it the thief?”

“No, it’s the police chief,” he says.

You turn. The police chief has a dark mustache and his eyes are serious. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he tells you as he shakes your hand.

You like him right away because he’s apologizing and not acting like the theft of your backpack is cause for rejoicing.

The police chief assures you all forms will be ready for you when you show up at his office. You don’t know why you have to go to his office when he’s here now, but you’re sure there’s a good reason and he gives you one: “It will only take fifteen minutes when you come,” he says. “All the forms will be ready.”

You wonder how he knows that you don’t like filling out forms, but you appreciate that he understands this about you, that he’s intuitive.

“We already have policemen on the street and in the markets looking for the man.”

Of course they’re scouring the markets. That’s the first place the thief would go. To the markets to sell the computer, the phone, the camera.

“How many policemen?” you ask.

“Seventeen,” he says.

Seventeen policemen. You try not to show how impressed you are. But seventeen policemen! The police chief is a serious man. But why not eighteen policemen? Where’s the eighteenth policeman?

“They are of course also looking for the property that was stolen from you.”

“Thank you,” you say, wondering how the seventeen men know how to look for your property when no one has asked you what was inside your backpack. They only know from the surveillance video that your backpack was black and it was full.

“It’s really important to me that I get my backpack back,” you say. “It has my passport and my computer.”

He nods. You have the feeling he has heard this complaint before. Crime in Casablanca must be common. You have faith in this police chief, but you have little faith that in a city of three million your backpack will be returned.

Desperation comes over you — there must be a hundred tourists right now who have filed police reports in Casablanca about stolen goods. You are just another one of them. Not distinguishable in any way. You are not even staying at one of the upscale hotels, where you’re sure the victims of crimes are treated with more attention.

You hear the lie coming out of your mouth before you even have time to think it through: “I’m a writer for the New York Times, ” you say. “I’m doing a travel story on Casablanca. I really don’t want to have to include this.”

You stare at him. He stares at you.

“The what?” he says.

“The New York Times, ” you say.

He takes out a little notebook, the same kind of small pocket notebook detectives use in movies, and he starts to write something down.

“The what? How do you spell?” He hands you his pen.

You write down the words New York Times in his little notebook.

“And this is a company?” he asks. “What kind?”

“It’s a newspaper,” you say.

He thanks you and closes the notebook.

“How likely is it,” you ask, “that you will catch this man, that you will find my things?”