Read Online The Diver's Clothes Lie Empty by Vendela Vida - Free Book Online

Golden Tulip?
    He continues. “They are shooting a film here in front of the hotel. It’s a Moroccan film company, very respected, but we did not anticipate . . .”
    He searches for the words. You have no idea what he’s about to say. You stare at his mouth.
    â€œWe did not know that the film crew would be dressed so shay-billy.”
    â€œShay-billy?” you say.
    â€œYes, with their pants hanging down on their hips and their hair not combed . . .”
    â€œOh, shabbily,” you say. “They’re dressed shabbily.”
    You are merely repeating what he said, and correcting the pronunciation in the process, but he takes your utterance to mean that you are in agreement: the film crew is a disgrace.
    You don’t think you have ever worn a pleated skirt and a tailored long-sleeved blouse and scarf before, but you decide at this moment that you will do so more often. Usually the way you dress is not so different from the way the film crew is dressed, but now you see that the world—as represented by this manager at the Regency Hotel in Casablanca—sees you and treats you differently when you dress like this and apply makeup to cover the ridges of your skin. You are apologized to for things that don’t merit an apology.
    â€œWe are trying to ask them to dress more appropriately for a hotel such as ours,” the manager says, “but in the meantime I apologize for the inconvenience. Please let me know if I can be of help to you.”
    You stare at his face, memorizing his features: caramel eyes, a straight nose. You know that you might need him.
    â€œYes, thank you very much,” you say. As you shake his hand to thank him for his offer, one of the crew members who is indeed sloppily dressed approaches the manager.
    The man speaks in French to the manager and says there’s a problem. You can’t make out much else except for the word drapeau. Your brain picks out a definition you didn’t know you had: flag .
    There seems to be an issue with the flag flying outside the Regency Hotel. You notice you’re lingering, so you walk away and approach the concierge desk, where an older gentleman in a crisp suit stares out at the lobby as though he’s standing at the helm of a boat, observing an unextraordinary view.
    You ask the concierge for directions to the embassy and he unfolds a small map. He circles the hotel, and circles theembassy, and hands you the map. You’re relieved that the embassy appears close because you have no cash for a taxi. You will have to walk.
    You step out of the hotel. No filming is currently happening. Men and women, dressed shabbily, are moving monitors around and adjusting wires while smoking dense, heavily packed cigarettes.
    You walk in the direction of the embassy. The area surrounding the Regency is not much of a neighborhood; it’s a grid of wide streets where people sell goods, many of which appear to have been stolen. You search absentmindedly for signs of your computer, your camera, still in its box. But this street is for the selling of stolen items that no one wants. An elderly toothless woman sits on an upside-down crate and displays a used and cracked asthma inhaler. A young man sells mix cassette tapes, their labels handwritten, some with hearts.
    You walk to an enormous square and find hundreds of people gathered around. You ask one of the many guards what’s going on. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” you say. But he doesn’t understand the question. You question your French. You know you said it correctly. So you ask again. Still, he looks at you as though you should know.
    Red Moroccan flags are everywhere—flying from every flagpole in the square, jutting out from buildings, hanging from balconies. You stand behind the rows of men in black leather jackets—they are almost all men—and a few children, who wait with eight-by-ten photos. You catch sight of one of the photos: it