Read Online The Diver's Clothes Lie Empty by Vendela Vida - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Vendela Vida
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looks like a younger version of the king. Of course. Le prince . The prince.
Everyone around you is waiting for the prince himself.
Now you see a row of dignitaries lined up and you realize they too are there for the prince. You decide to remain where you are for a minute to see if you get a glimpse of him, before you keep moving.
You begin to feel stares as you stand there, the only Westerner in sight whoâs waiting for the prince. And the only woman. Where are the women? From your neck you remove your deep orange scarf, a scarf that you packed because it seemed Moroccan to you, or at least the shade of a Moroccan spice. You take it and wrap it around your head, covering much of your face. You dressed for the embassy, for the Regency but not for the street.
The scarf around your head cuts down on some of the stares, but still you are female. You wish you had an umbrella with youâit looks as though it might rain, and besides, an umbrella would allow you to hide. You decide to keep walking. Itâs almost 4 P.M. and you assume the embassy closes at 5. You donât have time to wait for the prince. You consult your map: the fastest route would be to walk across the square in front of you, but itâs now blocked off for the princeâs arrival, so you make your way around the large city block.
The neighborhood is in disrepairâbenches are missing their seats, or tipped to the ground, the sidewalks are uneven. Grass is spotty and rare and no flowers have been planted. The people lingering in the streets where you walk are homeless or appear drunk. They donât seem to be aware, or else it doesnât mean anything to them, that nearby hundreds of people are awaiting their prince.
When youâre almost all the way around the block, it starts to rainâfirst lightly, and then thrashingly. You duck under the canopy of a storefront for cover. Two men in leather jackets sprint out of the rain and under the canopy as well. They light cigarettes. The prince has still not arrived. More people are gathering and the guards are beginning to prohibit pedestrians from crossing the street.
Barricades have been erected, indicating down which streets the prince and his cavalcade will drive. Throngs of people stand in front of the silver railings. When the rain stops, which it does as suddenly as it started, you try to continue on your way to the embassy, but there are roadblocks everywhere.
You cross one street and take a right, only to find a barricade that forces you to retreat and take a different route. You endure the stares of people taking note of your skin, your body. Even an elderly grandmother holding the hand of a young boy gives you a stare that says, You should not be here.
You squeeze between two barricades and a policeman whistles. You raise your hand apologetically and move on. You need to keep moving.
Finally you make it to the embassy. Itâs 4:40. Youâre still wet from the rain. You should have brought an umbrella. A psychiatrist friend of yours once told you that a telltale sign of a mentally unstable person is sheâs never dressed appropriately for the weather. You decide to wait outside under the awning for another couple minutes to allow yourself to dry off even a little.
When you enter the embassy, youâve never felt so happy tosee the American flag. You pass through the metal detector, and youâre given a number. You sit in a folding chair waiting, surrounded by families and couples. You are the only one there by yourself. The room is small but regal, with flags and portraits. You stare at the photograph of Obama on the wall. He seems to care about you. Or is his look one of mild disappointment?
When your number is called, you approach window number three. An American woman in her forties, with a Sontag-gray streak in her dark hair, greets you. âHow can I help you?â she says.
You find her formidable, and probably attribute more intelligence to her
Everyone around you is waiting for the prince himself.
Now you see a row of dignitaries lined up and you realize they too are there for the prince. You decide to remain where you are for a minute to see if you get a glimpse of him, before you keep moving.
You begin to feel stares as you stand there, the only Westerner in sight whoâs waiting for the prince. And the only woman. Where are the women? From your neck you remove your deep orange scarf, a scarf that you packed because it seemed Moroccan to you, or at least the shade of a Moroccan spice. You take it and wrap it around your head, covering much of your face. You dressed for the embassy, for the Regency but not for the street.
The scarf around your head cuts down on some of the stares, but still you are female. You wish you had an umbrella with youâit looks as though it might rain, and besides, an umbrella would allow you to hide. You decide to keep walking. Itâs almost 4 P.M. and you assume the embassy closes at 5. You donât have time to wait for the prince. You consult your map: the fastest route would be to walk across the square in front of you, but itâs now blocked off for the princeâs arrival, so you make your way around the large city block.
The neighborhood is in disrepairâbenches are missing their seats, or tipped to the ground, the sidewalks are uneven. Grass is spotty and rare and no flowers have been planted. The people lingering in the streets where you walk are homeless or appear drunk. They donât seem to be aware, or else it doesnât mean anything to them, that nearby hundreds of people are awaiting their prince.
When youâre almost all the way around the block, it starts to rainâfirst lightly, and then thrashingly. You duck under the canopy of a storefront for cover. Two men in leather jackets sprint out of the rain and under the canopy as well. They light cigarettes. The prince has still not arrived. More people are gathering and the guards are beginning to prohibit pedestrians from crossing the street.
Barricades have been erected, indicating down which streets the prince and his cavalcade will drive. Throngs of people stand in front of the silver railings. When the rain stops, which it does as suddenly as it started, you try to continue on your way to the embassy, but there are roadblocks everywhere.
You cross one street and take a right, only to find a barricade that forces you to retreat and take a different route. You endure the stares of people taking note of your skin, your body. Even an elderly grandmother holding the hand of a young boy gives you a stare that says, You should not be here.
You squeeze between two barricades and a policeman whistles. You raise your hand apologetically and move on. You need to keep moving.
Finally you make it to the embassy. Itâs 4:40. Youâre still wet from the rain. You should have brought an umbrella. A psychiatrist friend of yours once told you that a telltale sign of a mentally unstable person is sheâs never dressed appropriately for the weather. You decide to wait outside under the awning for another couple minutes to allow yourself to dry off even a little.
When you enter the embassy, youâve never felt so happy tosee the American flag. You pass through the metal detector, and youâre given a number. You sit in a folding chair waiting, surrounded by families and couples. You are the only one there by yourself. The room is small but regal, with flags and portraits. You stare at the photograph of Obama on the wall. He seems to care about you. Or is his look one of mild disappointment?
When your number is called, you approach window number three. An American woman in her forties, with a Sontag-gray streak in her dark hair, greets you. âHow can I help you?â she says.
You find her formidable, and probably attribute more intelligence to her
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