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

because of her Sontag streak, her streak of Susan Sontag.
    â€œI’m an American citizen,” you say. “I live in Florida. Usually. My passport and computer and everything were stolen by someone wearing a badge when I was checking into my hotel. The Golden Tulip.”
    â€œThey were wearing a badge?” she says.
    â€œYes, but that was just a front.”
    â€œHave you been to the police?”
    â€œYes,” you say. “They gave me another backpack that wasn’t mine to replace my backpack. I mean, they thought they were giving me the right backpack. Or maybe they didn’t think that. Anyway, I got the wrong backpack back. So now I have someone else’s backpack and passport.”
    â€œWhy would the police give you someone else’s backpack?”
    â€œI don’t know,” you say. “Maybe they were in on it.”
    â€œIn on it with whom?”
    â€œWith the hotel.”
    â€œYou’re saying the Casablanca police and the Golden Tulip were in cahoots to steal your backpack.”
    It sounds ludicrous coming from her mouth.
    â€œYes,” you say, suddenly less certain of anything, of everything.
    â€œCan I see your ID?” she says.
    â€œThat’s the thing: I don’t have any ID. I just have this other backpack and passport, which I left at the hotel for safekeeping.”
    â€œBut why would you have someone else’s backpack and passport?”
    â€œBecause the police gave it to me.”
    â€œCan I see the police report?” she says. “With your name on it.”
    â€œI don’t have a police report.”
    â€œYou don’t have a police report,” she says in disbelief.
    â€œI have a document from them,” you say. “With a red stamp from the police chief.”
    â€œCan I see it?” she asks.
    You reach into your skirt pocket and extract the paper and unfold it.
    It’s blank.
    You turn it over.
    The other side is blank.
    You feel your ears pop and widen, as though your sense of hearing will help you locate the document.
    â€œI think I left it. I left the document at the hotel,” you say, speaking slowly, trying to calm yourself down.
    â€œAnd it has your name on it?”
    â€œYes,” you lie, because you cannot believe you’re in a situation where you have nothing with your own name on it.
    â€œCan you get that document and bring it back here?” She is speaking to you like a child. Susan Sontag is speaking to you like a child.
    â€œYes,” you say. “I’ll get the police document and I’ll bring it here.”
    â€œBring it tomorrow,” she says. “In the meantime, do you want to tell me whose passport and backpack they gave you? They were American, I assume?”
    â€œYes, she’s American,” you say.
    â€œHer name?” she says.
    You panic. If you give up Sabine Alyse’s name you will have nothing.
    You decide to lie because you have no choice: “I don’t remember. I’ll have to go back to the hotel and get that too,” you say.
    She looks at you skeptically, taking in your features for the first time. You imagine her describing you to someone else, perhaps the police, the ambassador, the secretary of state, the president. He will be so disappointed.
    â€œYou said you’re staying at the Golden Tulip?” she says.
    â€œYes,” you lie. “The Golden Tulip. I’ll be there until this all gets resolved.”
    She scribbles something on a paper in front of her, a paper you cannot see. You imagine it’s a list of suspicious persons, people she and the president are disappointed in.
    â€œWhat time will you be back here tomorrow? What time can we expect to see you?”
    â€œFirst thing,” you say. You know you need to be agreeable. She suspects you of something and you need to be agreeable.
    â€œNine A.M. ,” she says.
    â€œPerfect,” you say.
    â€œI’ll take down your name