by Vendela Vida
Now the director is talking seriously with the famous American actress. They are both staring at you. You are certain you will be fired.
You do not know what you will do for work, how you will get home. You love this job, you realize. You turn your head away. Tears don’t return to your eyes, but you feel they’re close. You pray in earnest—please do not let me lose this job—and again there is quiet all around you.
The director is staring at you.
He walks over to you. “Can I have a word?” he says.
You start to stand. You wobble with trepidation. The mosque is silent, reverential toward the punishment he is about to bestow upon you.
“No, please, don’t get up,” he says. You sit on the prayer rug and he sits down with you.
“That was fantastic,” he says. “Stunning.”
You murmur thank you, afraid he’s being facetious.
He tells you he’s told the famous American actress she can take a few lessons from you on how to cry.
You ask him if he really told her that.
“Of course.”
Oh no, you think.
He asks you to go through the scene again, the stage directions as they’ve given them to you, but the emotions as you’ve chosen to portray them.
You do seven more takes as they adjust the lights, and then the cameras. With each new take you recall more details. You think of your sister’s plea to you, her comment about the hatchet job of the abortion, the doctor’s balled-up examination gloves, the insemination under bright lights, the classical music that played too loudly in your sister’s husband’s car as they drove you the hospital, the bright headlights of the oncoming cars, the sight of the mattress on the floor, the sensation of the baby trying to crawl through your spine, the white nightgown you planned to wear for delivery that eventually ended up in the sink of the bathroom when you were moved to the shower, your sister’s incompetent massaging of your back, your waters breaking, the burning the burning the burning, your sudden and bizarre wish to be pregnant with twins, the cutting of the umbilical cord, the lemonade the doula brought you after the delivery.
When they’ve figured out the lights—very complicated in the mosque—and the cameras, it’s the famous American actress’s turn to inhabit the role of Maria. You wipe your eyes as you walk off set, and the wardrobe woman embraces you. You accept her long hug. You inhale the scent of her hair—ripe pears and cigarette smoke.
The famous American actress walks right by you and onto the set. You do not talk the rest of the day. You try not to watch as the director becomes increasingly frustrated with her performance during the scene. It occurs to you that until now, everything you have done, the actress has done after you, and has done it better. But now the director is asking her to emulate you. It’s so painful you can’t bear to watch, and instead look at your knees during each successive take, which becomes increasingly more difficult to endure for everyone around.
Finally, at 6 P.M. the practical secretary approaches you. “I think you need to go back to your hotel and get ready now,” she says. “If you want to be on time, which I expect you do.” You had forgotten about the date.
She slips you an envelope. “It’s an advance on this week’s payment,” she says. “We want to make sure you have money in case you need it for any reason tonight. Leopoldi is a gentleman, but we don’t want . . . a situation.”
You don’t ask her what kind of situation she might be talking about. You don’t want to know. You carefully take the envelope from her hands. It’s heavier than you expected and you try not to let surprise, or even delight, overtake your face.
The driver takes you back to the hotel. You’re tempted to open the envelope while in the van, but you know he can see you in the rearview mirror. You have to be cautious, cool. You run your hands through your hair; you’re still wearing the wig. You’ll have to remember to bring it back the day after tomorrow, when you film again. He lets you off and tells you another driver will be picking you up at 7:30.
You were not aware of the extent of the puppetry of tonight’s dinner: the practical secretary has instructed you to go home and change, the driver of the van is keeping you on a schedule.
You go upstairs and immediately tear open the envelope. Inside are rubber-banded stacks of Moroccan dirhams. You lie on the bed and organize the bills into various piles so you can more easily count the total. One pile for the bluish 200-dirham bills with the cargo ship and the lighthouse, another for the brownish hundreds with three camels and riders in the desert, a third pile for the green fifties with fruit and a bird, and a final one for the twenties with a train and an image of the King Hassan Mosque you were in earlier today. All the denominations feature the profile of a clean-shaven man you think it’s safe to assume was once the king. You count 18,700 dirhams. You don’t know how much this is in dollars but the number alone is intoxicating. You sniff the bills and they smell like desert heat. You stuff some of the bills in your bra, a few in each cup, and store the remainder in the hotel safe. You enter your niece’s birthday as the combination to the safe.
You wash your face and reapply the makeup you bought from the plump Moroccan man in the narrow beauty shop. You slip into the green silk dress. You don’t recognize the designer’s name but you know it must be expensive. The silk is wrinkled, the belt on the side.
You wear your flat sandals. You have no purse, so you slip your hotel key card beneath the front clasp of your bra. You look in the mirror and worry he’ll be disappointed. You put on the wig.
In the lobby the concierge points to a driver, a different one, without stepping out from behind his desk. The driver nods hello to you rather than shaking your hand, and escorts you outside. Town cars are common at the Regency, but not at the Grand Hotel, and you notice more than one guest staring as the driver opens the door to the backseat for you.
He doesn’t talk to you during the short duration of the drive. The restaurant is on one of the piers you saw on the police chief’s large map of the city. It’s like most piers at night—there’s a strange mix of efficiency and menace, as though someone’s being deposited in the ocean, but will be first wrapped carefully in white sheets.
The driver opens the door for you and you step out into the evening air, which smells of salt but also inexplicably like roses. Casablanca is on the brink of summer and you briefly recall an Emily Dickinson poem you read in high school about the brevity of spring, before you realize you don’t remember it at all. Only that it was about the brevity of spring. The driver tells you that it’s his understanding that he will not be waiting because “Monsieur” will be driving you home.
He waits for a tip. You discreetly remove a couple bills from the cup of your bra. You have no idea what the exchange rate is. You give him ten dirhams and you can tell by his reaction it’s not enough so you add ten more.
As soon as you exit the town car you feel less optimistic despite the spring air. Once the driver leaves, you will be alone with the Russian businessman who has been on several dates with the famous American actress. He will be unhappy to see you. You have no ride home.
You make sure your dress is falling appropriately across your body—aside from not having the money, this is why you don’t buy designer dresses: they rarely drape correctly.
You climb the stairs of the restaurant, the walls covered with fishnets and ships’ wheels. At the top, near a topless mermaid that once helmed a ship that most likely sank, you tell the maître d’ that someone is expecting you.
You see your date standing in the corner of the room. He has a prime table with a view. He’s in his late forties, wearing a suit and tie. He’s tall and wide and not as unattractive as you expected, given that the famous American actress is passing him on to you. You know it’s him because he stands with his arms outstretched and with an expression that seems about to say, Darling! in Russian except that he doesn’t. He places his arms back at his sides and gives you a quizzical look.
You walk
up and greet him. You shake his hand and tell him your name is Reeves.
“So she’s not coming?” he says. His accent is less Russian and more global than you expected.
You tell him that filming is running late.
“Right,” he says. “And I’m supposed to believe you?”
You have no answer for this; you didn’t expect him to be so skeptical. You see the profound disappointment—even anger—on his face, and reassure him she’ll very likely be stopping by later. She said no such thing to you.
He extends his hand toward your chair. It’s turned toward the window and this is your first clue that he cares about the famous American actress. If he simply wanted to show her off, he would have seated her so she faced out at the room. But she—and now you—are expected to face the window, out of which you can see a darkening sky but little of the ocean, and nothing of the pier on which the restaurant is situated.
You offer him a brief smile. His nose looks like it was broken, and he has a scar on his right cheek. His hair is gray but still thick. He offers no smile in return; he simply stares at you like you’re a practical item in a store that he’s deliberating whether he wants to buy.
The waiter approaches. He’s an older Moroccan man with tired eyes, as though he’s been working at this restaurant for too many years and has seen too many tourists, too many poorly matched couples. He asks if you’d like drinks. You expect the businessman to tell the waiter that you won’t be staying, that there’s been a mistake.
“Gin and tonic?” he says to you.
You nod. It’s what the famous American actress drinks. You wonder if she started drinking them with him, or if he’s ordering them because he knows she likes them and he’s thinking of her.
“So who are you, exactly?” he says. “What do you do for her?”
You tell him you’re her stand-in on set. Just for this film, you explain.
“And now you’re standing in for her date with me,” he says matter-of-factly.
You explain again that she has to work late. It sounds less and less convincing. You scratch your head, and feel the wig. You’d almost forgotten you were wearing it. You regret putting it on. You exhale so that the bangs will fly up and out of your eyes.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
For a flicker of a moment you have difficulty placing your current identity; the wig threw you off. You tell him again your name is Reeves.
“Reeves, I’m Leopoldi. But you probably know that.”
He sips his gin and tonic, and with wet lips he says, “Let’s not pretend. We both know she’s not coming. She thinks I’m going to be upset because she’s been in the tabloids lately with that boy who I’m sure is gay. Am I jealous?”
You think it’s a rhetorical question but it’s not. He wants you to answer.
No, you tell him. You don’t think he’s jealous.
“Reeves! What world do you come from?” he says. “Of course I’m jealous. But I wasn’t going to yell at her about it. She’ll find out soon enough he’s gay and come back to me. Don’t you think he’s gay?”
You know this is not a good time to add your opinion that the boyfriend is not gay.
“Well, let’s make it a nice meal, Reeves. Are you in agreement?”
You clink glasses.
“To a nice meal,” he says.
The gin and tonic has an immediate effect on him. You can see him relaxing and he loosens his tie. His tie is expensive-looking and, like all expensive ties, has a stupid pattern—this one has little frogs. You wish he would take it off.
He sees you staring at the tie.
“Isn’t this the ugliest tie you’ve seen in your life?” he says.
You can’t help it: you let out a laugh.
“You were thinking that, weren’t you? You were wondering why a handsome man like me would wear a tie like this. It is a tie for idiots.”
You weren’t thinking that he was handsome, but you don’t correct him on this point.
“Yes,” you say. “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“She sent it to me from Japan. From that movie she was doing there. The one with the montage of her eating fifty different bowls of rice.”
You know which film he’s talking about. You chose not to see it.
“My guess is it wasn’t her who picked it out but the secretary,” you venture. “She has this very practical secretary who handles her life. She’s maybe twenty years older and smiling for her is a considerable challenge.”
“Are you trying to make me feel better?” Leopoldi says. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? That she had her secretary pick out a romantic present for me?” He seems incensed and his face pinkens as though the tie is choking him.
You apologize. You are thinking that you should leave before the drinks are finished; you have made a colossal error.
“Reeves! I’m just messing with you. Of course that makes me feel better. I was going around thinking that she had the worst taste in the world picking out this tie with these toads on it. I mean, who would pick out such a thing?”
His laugh is uproarious. He laughs like a larger man than he is. Maybe it’s the money, you think. Maybe when you have that much money in the bank you can laugh uproariously like a very large man at things that aren’t that funny.
Soon you’ve both had two gin and tonics. You need the food to come to absorb what you have had to drink. You turn slightly, your eyes searching for the waiter. The restaurant is starting to fill up with wealthy Moroccans and tourists. People sit at tables in strange configurations of four or seven or three, like they’re stars in constellations that will never be named. A man with pale skin and hair that used to be strawberry blond but has faded to a strange yellow gray, like a polluted sunset, is sitting by himself, drinking a beer and eating scallops. He’s in his forties. His table faces your table, and it’s a little disconcerting. You try not to look in his direction. The gin and tonics are getting into your head. You need the food to come.
When it arrives you dig into the black bass. The salad is sad-looking with leaky tomatoes and lettuce so pale it’s white. But the bass is fresh.
“I like a woman with an appetite,” Leopoldi says to you.
You smile with your mouth full.
You realize the conversation is bound to turn more personal. You don’t want him to ask you about yourself. You will need to ask him about him, about his business; you will need to act riveted by his responses.
“What do you do?” you ask. “It must be wonderful.”
“Which business are you talking about?” he says, again laughing and finding this overly entertaining. “I own many companies.”
You ask him what his favorite is.
“My favorite company,” he says. “That’s like asking a man who is favorite child is.”
You ask if he has children.
“Not a good topic right now,” he tells you. “There’s some paternity testing going on.”
He seems upset with you. He focuses on his food. You want to remind him that he’s the one who brought up children.
But then a bottle of wine arrives and his mood brightens. The waiter pours you each a glass of Chardonnay.
“You were asking about my favorite business,” he says. “It’s a cosmetic laser. A better one than what’s out there right now. For scars, acne,” he explains. He’s looking at your face. He leans over and softly takes your chin in his large hand, and tilts your head to the side. With the fingers of his left hand he brushes the bangs of the wig out of your face so that he can see you more clearly.
It’s an intimate gesture—one that takes you surprise. He studies your face so intently that for a moment you think you might cry. You don’t think your husband ever examined your features so closely, that he ever moved your hair out of your face. This was in large part why you married him. You liked the fact that he never stole glances at you, that he turned off the lights before you kissed. You thought that with hi
m you could be invisible, until you realized that wasn’t at all what you wanted.
“May I ask what happened to your skin?” Leopoldi says. Tiny tears are forming in the corner of your eyes, but he doesn’t wish to embarrass you by asking about them. Instead he says: “Despite your makeup I can see . . .”
“Teenage acne,” you explain.
He nods, and lets go of your chin gently. You would not have expected him to be so careful with his touch.
“And you,” you say, emboldened by his question, by his caress. “May I ask about your scar?”
He puts down his fork and knife. This is going to be a story. “I wasn’t always so wealthy,” he tells you. “I grew up poor in a little town between Moscow and St. Petersburg. On a farm. I was helping my father with the fence one day, a new barbed-wire fence to keep the sheep from getting away. My brother was driving a tractor and I was attaching the wire to the fence, when it sprung out of my hand and slashed across my face.”
You have this in common—the marks of the past on your skin. You both look out the window, as though wanting to focus on the beauty of the outside world. But the sun has set now and you see only your own reflections.
“I have a plan!” he says, both boisterously and boastfully, turning back from the window to you. “I made a reservation at Rick’s Café for a nightcap,” he says. “Of course that’s when I thought she was coming, and not you, but it’s a great place. Have you been?”
You ask if he means the same Rick’s Café from Casablanca.
“Not the same one, that was just a stage set in, I believe, Culver City,” he says.
You are surprised he knows about Culver City.
“But,” he continues, “the woman who owns this one is American and she fixed it up so it looks like the one in the movie. There’s even a piano player.”
It does sound appealing. And you don’t have much choice but to go. You promised the famous American actress you’d make sure he had a good evening. And you have no other ride back to the hotel.
