by Vendela Vida
A driver in a town car waits for the two of you in the parking lot. The driver opens the door for you on one side, and then goes around to the other side to open it for Leopoldi. You thank Leopoldi for dinner and he seems touched that you thanked him.
In the distance you can hear the music from Jazzablanca. “I called ahead and asked for a special table,” he says. “I said we needed discretion because of who she was.”
This of course means that when you arrive at Rick’s Café Americain—which has the exact neon sign outside that you remember from the film—there’s no discretion at all. The hostess is overly polite to you as she walks you, slowly, through the main dining area, which is spanned by arches. The tablecloths and cushions are white, the walls and arches are white. The restaurant is crowded with diners speaking English, Spanish, and French, and there is indeed a piano player rushing through “As Time Goes By.” A few tourists smoke cigars at the bar; you can tell by the way they’re holding them that they don’t usually smoke cigars, but they want to act like they’re in another time period. You see a few heads turn as you pass by. You’re wearing the wig so your hair is like hers; you’re wearing her dress. You know what they are all thinking: In real life she’s not as beautiful.
You are seated upstairs in a private area shrouded by large palm leaves. Your back is to the other diners and drinkers. Leopoldi orders you a drink called “the Ingrid” and orders himself a vodka.
“I was just drinking gin and tonics before because that’s what she likes to drink,” he says. Because your head is clouded with alcohol, it takes you a minute to remember that by she he means the famous American actress, and not your sister. “Real Russians, we drink our vodka. Vodka is our water.” The more he drinks, the more he sounds like the Russian farm boy he was.
You drink the Ingrid through a straw. You do not want him to ask you about yourself. You know that to be a good liar you have to remember your lies, and you’re in a state of drunkenness in which you’re having trouble remembering much at all.
When you finish your drink you feel a little lopsided in your chair, like you’re slumping, so you adjust yourself and . . . boom. You are on the floor. Leopoldi is squeezing around the table to help you up but you also sense something bright out of the corner of your eye. It’s the white lightning of flash. A tourist is taking a photo of you, a photo showing how drunk you are that you fell to the ground. “Stop,” you say, and hold up your hand in the direction of the flash attack. It won’t stop. This tourist will not stop taking photos.
Leopoldi helps you up, and escorts you to the car. You roll down the window—see, I’m not drunk, I’m in control—and the car speeds and stops and speeds as you zoom your way to the Grand Hotel. You inhale deeply, taking in the dirty night air. You decide you must watch Casablanca again, you must buy souvenirs for your mother who has never been to Morocco and who always loves to collect clothing and shoes from faraway lands, you must be in constant touch with your niece throughout her entire life.
Leopoldi helps you up to your room, and asks for your key. You don’t have it, you say. He suggests you both go down to the lobby. He says he would do it but they wouldn’t believe him without you or your ID so you should both go to the lobby and request another copy of your room key. You know very little right now, but know this will be a disaster. You have no ID and you are registered under the previous stand-in’s name. Miraculously, under pressure, you remember your key is secured under the front clasp of your bra. You hand the now-warm key card to Leopoldi and he lets you into the room.
He stands on the threshold.
“It was a nice evening,” he says. “I’m sorry I overserved you.”
You intend to thank him for being a gentleman, for standing on the other side of the threshold. You move your mouth—why is it so difficult to move your mouth?—and the door closes on him, loudly. The bed seems miles away. You drop onto your knees and use the foot of the mattress as a pillow for your tired and heavy head.
In the early morning the phone rings. Your brain feels like it’s just been broken into seven continents. You pick up the phone because you’re still half asleep; if you were awake you’d ignore its obscenely loud shrieks.
The practical secretary is on the phone. She does not say good morning; she instructs you to be in the Regency’s tenth-floor lounge in half an hour. You shower the scent of alcohol off your skin. You plan to get to the lounge quickly so you can order a strong coffee to ease your headache.
You rush through the Regency lobby so you won’t be spotted by the manager. You arrive at the lounge early, but the practical secretary and the famous American actress are already there, waiting. There’s no sign of the waiter you usually see. You have the distinct impression that he’s been dismissed so this meeting could be private.
“Good morning,” you say, but it comes out sounding like a question.
The famous American actress looks livid. She speaks first. “I told you to go out with him. I didn’t say you should make him fall for you.”
You’ve never seen her like this. There’s a fury inside her that is terrifying. You understand how she’s made it this far in her career. She’s a missile that’s been launched and can’t be halted.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “I don’t think that’s true.”
The actress’s eyes narrow on you. “My psycho radar is usually much better. Are you looking for a wealthy husband?”
You have no idea what’s happening. There’s a narrative here that you’re not privy to.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say. “You asked me to go. I went. I tried to be nice. We got along fine. He was wearing the tie you bought him. We talked about you most of the night.”
“Really?” she says. “Because the text I got from him said that he was happy I didn’t show up. That he had more fun with you.”
“Listen,” you say. “I have no interest in him. I don’t have his phone number. He doesn’t have mine. I did what you asked.”
There is no coffee. There is no waiter to bring coffee.
“Did you?” she says. Her skin seems to barely contain a raging bonfire inside.
You try to make eye contact with the bodyguards who are seated at the other side of the room; you may need their help if she physically attacks you. The one with the reddish hair, the one you talked with about radical speciation and what to feed a turtle, sees you trying to make eye contact with him. He turns his head the other way.
The practical secretary jumps in. “We have much more serious matters to discuss,” she says. “Do you realize you were photographed?”
“You got wasted!” the famous American actress says. “And why the fuck were you wearing the wig?”
“Some tourist took a slew of photos of you falling down on the floor drunk,” the practical secretary says. “You were a mess. The photos are terrible.”
You don’t know what to say. “Okay. I don’t know why that’s a problem. Why would anyone care that a stand-in drank too much?”
The famous American actress almost jumps out of her seat. “It’s a fucking problem because they think it’s me, you stupid bitch! Because you were wearing the wig! Who told you to wear the fucking wig? Everyone thought you were me.”
“There’s no way,” you say. “We don’t look—”
“You were wearing the wig! You were wearing my dress! I’ve been photographed in that dress. It’s my designer! You were with a man people know I dated. It was supposed to be discreet. I assumed you would stay sober. Instead you got drunk, fell off a chair, and rolled around like a pig. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Please,” the practical secretary says, looking imploringly at the famous American actress. “We have to clean this up now. We have real, pressing questions here.” The practical secretary turns back to you. “This is what’s going on. The tourist has retained one of these bottom-feeding lawyer intermediaries. He’s contacted us saying if we don’t pay a certain sum they’ll sell the phot
os to the tabloids. We’re trying to formulate a plan here but I don’t know if we have any good options.”
“You know how much your little stunt is going to cost?” the famous American actress asks. “One hundred thousand dollars—minimum. That’s if they don’t raise the price sometime today.”
There’s a small part of you that’s amused that any photo of you could ever be worth that much.
“Are you smirking?” the practical secretary asks. Your brief amusement must have showed itself on your face. “Do you think this is funny?”
You hear the exasperation in her voice. She’s furious with you as well. You should be seeking the bodyguards’ attention so they can protect you from the practical secretary, not the famous American actress. You have made a grave error, and you will be punished.
“No, I don’t think it’s funny at all,” you say honestly to the practical secretary. Her face is so twisted now that you can’t look at her. You turn to the famous American actress. “Do you care that much about not looking drunk?” you say. A few nights ago she was throwing back gin and tonics while wearing pajamas patterned with pastel hippos. She didn’t seem to care then.
“I care that much about not looking like I’m cheating on my boyfriend,” the famous American actress says. “That’s the reason I sent you out with Leopoldi in the first place! So no one could say I was cheating on my boyfriend!”
“I’m sure we can explain everything,” you say.
“Why don’t you explain why you’re fucking trying to ruin my life?” she screams. She stares at you as though she actually wants an answer.
“I only did what you asked,” you say.
“Fuck you, Reeves,” she says. “Or whatever the fuck your name is. What is your name? Where’s your passport?”
She stares at you, but addresses the practical secretary: “Ask to see her passport.” She storms out of the lounge. The bodyguards follow her.
“I apologize for her behavior,” the practical secretary says unapologetically.
“I take it for granted that I’m fired,” you say.
“No,” the practical secretary says. “We can’t fire you. The insurers are already concerned about her temper. It’s been a problem in the past.”
“But you saw the way she is with me. And my passport—”
“No, stop,” the practical secretary says, and holds her hand up. “Whatever you’re going to tell me, I don’t want to know.” She places a palm over each ear like she’s one of the three monkeys. “I have enough on my plate right now, thanks to you,” she says. “Tomorrow’s a big day of shooting. You’ve already potentially cost us a hundred thousand. If you’re not there you cost the production much more.”
You don’t know what to say.
“So we’ll see you tomorrow,” she says.
She stands up and leaves.
You are alone in the tenth-floor lounge.
The bartender enters the room, confirming your earlier suspicion that he was dismissed during the meeting.
“Can I please have a coffee?” you ask him.
“Are you a guest at the hotel?” he asks. Even he knows you have been shunned.
“Forget it,” you say, and stand up and leave.
You return to your room at the Grand and look out the window. The band shell that used to be outside in the plaza is gone—Jazzablanca must be over. The plaza appears more somber now, the pedestrians more serious as they walk with long strides and purpose.
Today is your day off work, and it feels interminable. There are too many directions the day could take. The photo could be sold to the tabloids. That would be disastrous for the famous American actress, and for you. But what concerns you most at this moment is the fact that the actress knows you are not Reeves Conway. She knows that you have no ID of your own, that you’re in possession of a passport that doesn’t belong to you. You should not have told her that your passport was stolen, that the police gave you the belongings of someone named Sabine Alyse. You have little faith that she will keep this information to herself. Even if the practical secretary covers her ears when the famous American actress tries to tell her about it—and surely she will try—there is someone who will want to listen to the famous American actress tell them that you’ve been staying under a fake name, that you are in possession of a passport that doesn’t belong to you. Again, you picture Sabine Alyse’s face. You haven’t looked at her passport photo since the day it was handed to you by the police; when you picture her now, she’s pale, unconscious.
You don’t know why you have held on to Sabine Alyse’s passport, credit cards, journal, and backpack. You should have disposed of them the day you were offered the job as the stand-in. You have been on a film set in the home of a wealthy Moroccan, in the tenth-floor lounge drinking gin and tonics with a famous American actress, at a Patti Smith concert, in a mosque, at dinner with a Russian businessman, and all the while you’ve been in possession of the belongings of a young woman who is most likely dead. If she’s not dead, she’s in trouble. You have to make an effort not to think about the single line you read in her journal: I tried to tell them it wasn’t dangerous.
A sudden urgency expands within you. You know you need to get rid of the backpack, the diary, the wallet, the passport. All the famous American actress has to do is make one phone call and your hotel room will be searched, and you will be arrested for theft. Or more. You will be questioned. You will be brought to the American embassy and Susan Sontag will connect the dots. You do not trust the famous American actress, you don’t trust anyone. You know the police will be of no help.
You could cut the passport, and credit cards and the pages of the diary into pieces, and throw everything into the wastepaper basket in the bathroom. Still, everything could be traced back to your room, to your wastepaper basket, to you. And there would remain the problem of what to do with the backpack and wallet.
You can’t return the items to the police. That’s out of the question. If she is alive she’s reported all her possessions stolen. You have to be rid of them—of everything related to Sabine Alyse.
You enter your niece’s date of birth as the code to unlock the safe, and remove the passport and diary and wallet. You dump out all the clothes from your suitcase. Her backpack is at the bottom. You place the diary inside the main pocket of the backpack. You put the passport and wallet in the external pocket and don’t zip it closed all the way. The royal-blue corner of the passport is visible. The wallet is just in front of it. Your plan is to go to the market in the old medina, walk around, and wait for the inevitable theft.
You remove fifty dirhams from the safe—you don’t want to carry too much—and place them in your bra.
You take a taxi to the market. You place the backpack over one shoulder and walk past the merchants selling dark brown leather backpacks. “Backpack, backpack,” they say to you. You want to tell them you already have one that you’re trying to get rid of. Instead you keep your eyes ahead of you and continue walking.
It’s crowded in the marketplace and it smells like cats, though none are visible. You pass spice stands in a row, displaying spices of golden yellow, burnt orange, and poppy red in shallow, circular woven baskets. The displays are exactly what you expected of a spice shop here, and the shops’ popularity with tourists leads you to suspect the shopkeepers have studied pictures in the guidebooks to Morocco. They’re giving the tourists precisely what they pictured Morocco would look like. You keep moving.
“Pardonnez-moi,” you say as you delve deeper into the crowds. You pass a young man selling birdcages without the birds. You stand before him, and place the backpack by your feet. You know it’s careless; you worry that your carelessness will not be appreciated and you’ll have to be more obvious, more irresponsible. You open the birdcages and close them, making sure the doors close properly. As though this matters.
Finally your curiosity has to be satisfied. You look down. The backpack is gone. You turn in a circle. No one suspicious is around yo
u. You look behind you: a complicated braid of pedestrians.
You are free of Sabine Alyse. You are free from any implications about her fate.
You take a right and another right until you exit the marketplace. You hail a taxi and return to your hotel room at the Grand. No messages have been slipped under your door, and the light on the hotel phone isn’t blinking. You start to imagine that the practical secretary exaggerated the gravity of the situation. Why has no one been in touch? You watch the phone for twenty minutes. You pick it up to make sure it’s working.
At 7 P.M. the sides for the following morning are slipped beneath your door. A note scrawled on the envelope says: Wardrobe says you didn’t return the wig. Please remember it tomorrow. You don’t know whose handwriting it is.
You open the envelope. Pickup in the morning will be at 8 A.M. and filming will take place at the American embassy. Impossible! You think of Susan Sontag. Will she be there? Your worries begin all over again. You’ll be wearing the wig, so there’s a chance she won’t recognize you, but what will you do if she does?
You try to watch a movie on TV but soon discover it’s about a woman who gets arrested. You turn it off. You fall asleep with great difficulty, wake repeatedly, and rise early.
There’s still no word from the practical secretary. You can only assume this is good news. You get dressed and put on the wig so you don’t forget it. You’re afraid of Susan Sontag and need to make sure you arrive at the embassy in some sort of disguise. You remove your money from the safe, divide it into two, and place a stack in each cup of your bra. You have half an hour before the producers will be meeting you in the van. You go to the hotel’s business center so you can get online and confirm that the photo hasn’t gotten out.
You type in the famous American actress’s name and search for any news. The computer shows that two minutes before, the photo of you at Rick’s Café was posted by a British tabloid. The headline is HERE’S LOOKING AT YOU, KID. You can only assume that the tabloid offered so much money that the bottom-feeding lawyer didn’t come back to the practical secretary. You assume she will be as surprised as anyone to find the photo posted. You know something went horribly wrong.
