by Vendela Vida
You are beckoned to the luggage room. Someone has the idea that perhaps your backpack was moved to the luggage room, where people store bags when their room isn’t ready, or when they’ve had to check out hours before their flight. Two hotel employees stand at the entrance to the luggage room as though they’re flight attendants welcoming you on board a plane. You enter and see it’s a small room with shelves, stacked with a dozen dark and travel-worn suitcases. A child’s car seat. No black backpack.
You exit the claustrophobic room and walk up and down the gleaming white floors of the lobby, wondering what the hell you’re going to do. A man behind the check-in counter tells you not to worry—is it the same one who was purporting to help you, or his friend? You can’t tell. You can’t remember anything anymore. He says there are security cameras. He points above the check-in desk. “You will watch and we will see if you had the backpack when you came in. We will look and see if the bellboy took it to someone else’s room. You will look and we will see,” he tells you.
“Okay,” you say, wondering why these cameras weren’t mentioned before. Hope expands within you, as hope does. “How do I see?” you ask.
“Wait here,” he says.
“Where?” you ask.
He points to exactly where you’re standing.
While you wait, you watch others checking in. You want to warn them. But warn them about what? The fact that they might have left their luggage somewhere?
A young hotel employee with hunched shoulders enters the lobby and the man behind the desk says something to him. To you he says: “He will take you.”
You follow this hunched man past the ATM machine and into the elevator and you descend to the basement. He leads you into a small room where a large screen covers a cinder-block wall. The screen is divided into four quadrants and you can see that, in fuzzy black and white and mostly gray, it’s currently showing what’s happening in four different areas of the hotel—the front desk, the black bench in the lobby, a stairwell, and a roof. In the quadrant showing what’s happening at the front desk, you can see the couple that’s currently checking in. The couple you wanted to warn.
“You sat here on black bench,” the man says in rough English. He points to the screen that shows the black backless bench that runs along the side of the wall, perpendicular to the check-in desk.
“No,” you say. “I was standing at the check-in desk.” You point to the screen where the check-in desk is being shown.
“Okay,” he says. He tries to click on the box but nothing happens.
He tries to type something onto the keyboard but nothing happens.
“I need password,” he says.
The hunched man gets on the phone and calls someone and asks for the security password for the computer. He types the password on the keyboard and nothing happens.
He asks whoever is on the other end of the phone to repeat the password and he tries again. You hear frustration in the form of yelling coming through the receiver.
Five minutes ago, when you were in the lobby and learned of the existence of the surveillance cameras, you had great faith they would reveal which bellboy or hotel guest mistakenly took your backpack. But now your confidence plummets.
Two other men enter the small room. One of them has a beard and you guess this is the same man who was on the phone because he shouts out the password number again. His rage is evident.
Finally the hunched man succeeds and is logged on to the computer.
The bearded man who knows the password turns to you. “You were sitting on the black bench?” he asks, pointing to the image on the screen of the bench in the lobby that runs along the wall. The bench is vacant.
“No,” you say, and explain that you were at the check-in desk. You stand and point again, just to make sure there’s no misunderstanding.
The bearded man instructs the hunched man to play back that camera. The hunched man sits at the computer but doesn’t know how to make it work. The bearded man barks something at him, but to no avail. Three more men enter. Now there are six men in the room. Not one of them knows how to play back the video.
“Excuse me,” you say from the back. “I might be able to . . . May I?” It’s a small room and the men part ways so you can sit at the wooden chair in front of the computer. You have no expertise in surveillance, but this does not seem as complicated as they’re making it. You use the mouse to drag the curser to the camera focused on the front desk. Then you press the rewind button and you scroll back.
The video player shows a time—10 A.M.—but it’s not yet that time. “What time is it?” you ask. Everyone has a different answer. It’s explained that there was a time change the day before. No one has updated the time on the recording equipment.
You can’t rely on the time. You continue to rewind, slowly. You stop when you see someone who looks like you but whose hair is darker, more dramatic-looking than your own and whose white shirt looks brighter. But it’s you. The monochrome surveillance camera dramatizes every shade. You appear a relic of another era. A daguerreotype; a cameo in an old locket.
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 hav
e 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.
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 ho
tel 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.”
