The Diver's Clothes Lie Empty (12 page)

“What I heard is she flirted with a man who worked at the hotel in Marrakech,” the thin Indian producer says. “Now he thinks they are in love and he followed her here to Casablanca. She has to be sent home because she can't focus at work and because her husband is going to divorce her.”

“If the husband at home is going to break up with her, she might as well stay here, right?” says the young American producer.

He doesn't wait for a response, but leans forward to direct a pressing question to the driver. “Are we going to be late?”

“Lots of traffic in Casablanca,” the driver admits.

“But you know where we're going, right?” says the young American producer.

“Yes, I know the area. The streets in California are not all with signs.”

“Fuck me,” says the young American producer.

The drive from the hotel to California, according to your schedule, is supposed to take fifteen minutes. In twenty minutes you have moved ten blocks, maybe twelve.

“Why didn't anyone take Casablanca traffic into the equation?” asks the young American producer, of no one in particular. “I grew up in L.A. Everyone always takes traffic into the equation.”

He spends the remainder of the drive on his cell phone, making calls to find out how late everyone is, how behind schedule they are with filming. “It's important for me to know this information,” he says into the phone more than once.

The thin Indian producer texts silently. You assume his texts are concerned with gossip about the previous stand-in.

The driver of the van is lost. He's stopping every other block to ask locals how to get to where he's going. Looking out the window you see that he's right, no streets seem to have signs.

Finally, the driver finds the street. You know you're in the vicinity because you begin to see large trucks for props and catering and small trailers, as well as many vans identical to the one you're now in. All the houses in the neighborhood are large, and some have guards. It must be one of the times of day when Muslims pray, because the guards are all on the ground, bowing. You wonder if thieves ever take advantage of the times when they're praying.

With its regal, curved stairway at the entrance and large pots filled with bright-colored flowers, the house where the filming is taking place does in fact look like a mansion in Beverly Hills. You haven't seen many other flowers in Casablanca. You enter the house and your presence is barely acknowledged by the crew members, who don't know who you are and yet don't stop you from walking in off the street. They assume anyone who enters has a right to be there.

The rugs have been rolled into logs and pushed to the side of the room and a camera and a dolly have been set up, along with a monitor. You know these are the terms for the devices because a printed-out label has been attached to each piece of equipment, announcing their names in Arabic and English.

A slender woman with a side ponytail and wearing a black jumpsuit is busily removing all the photographs hanging in the living room and replacing them with framed photos of the actors who are supposed to inhabit the house in the film. Through the large back window, you glimpse the yard: a tiled pool, now drained, and a flat, bright green lawn.

It's clear who the owner of the house is. She's in her early fifties, wearing black leather pants, high-heeled boots, and a bejeweled sweater. She walks around the set snapping photos on her phone, but never gets too close to people, and never takes straight-on photos of the director or the crew. Instead she takes photos of pieces of furniture she could take photos of at any time: the sofa, the dining room table. She appears nervous. She was probably initially flattered her home was selected for the film, but now she seems like the hostess of a party that's been crashed by a hundred more people than expected. She retreats into the kitchen, leaving the door open so she can still observe what's going on. She picks up the phone, presses a number that's been preprogrammed and talks skittishly. You hear her say the famous American actress's name. This seems to calm her down.

You look for a familiar face, for anyone you know who can tell you where to go. The tattooed man spots you and lifts up his chin in recognition. He approaches you and without saying hello he steers you toward the front door. “We should go to the wardrobe trailer,” he says.

You walk back outside and pass the young American producer, who's still on the phone. He hasn't entered the house yet, though he spent the entire van ride in an agitated state because he wasn't there.

The tattooed man knocks on a trailer door and a Moroccan woman wearing a black tank top and what looks like a ball gown as a skirt opens the door. She holds a cigarette in her left hand. You recognize her from the night of filming you witnessed.

“This is the new Ivy,” he says.

“Hi, new Ivy,” she says, and blows smoke up toward the top of the doorframe.

“Come,” she says. You step up and she closes the door.

The smell of the smoke in the trailer is immediately dizzying.

She is young, midtwenties, with short curly hair and many earrings.

She scans your body and takes a look at her set of sides. Then she turns to one of her three racks of clothing and rummages through them until she finds what she's looking for: a dark blue dress. It's calf-long and fitted on top without being too tight.

“It's the same thing Maria wears today,” she says. “Can you put on?”

“Sure,” you say. “Where should I change?”

“Here is good,” she says, gesturing to the floor between you. “I turn around,” she says, and she does. She is still so close to you, still smoking.

When you've changed you fold your clothes neatly and place them on a chair. Sensing that you're dressed, she turns back around.

“That fits,” she says. She seems surprised, and not unhappy. She observes you for a moment. You don't know where
to look as she runs her eyes over your body. She puts her cigarette out, and from the top of a dresser removes a pincushion shaped like a tomato. She sticks two pins in her mouth, and continues to speak. “So doesn't go open in front here,” she says, and pins the dress together so no cleavage shows. It's an intimate moment but she doesn't seem embarrassed or apologetic. “There,” she says.

She stares at you.

“Do you want spank?” she asks.

“Excuse me?” you say.

“Spank. For your stomach.”

“Oh, Spanx,” you say. You've never worn them. You look at your profile in the mirror. She gives you a pair of Spanx and you inelegantly pull them on because there's no way to easily stretch them over your thighs, your belly.

She hands you a pair of flats. They fit you though she hasn't asked your size.

The door opens and the young Moroccan woman with long black hair and a short apron, with brushes sticking out of its pockets, enters the smoky trailer. The makeup artist.

The smoker and the makeup artist exchange a few words in Arabic. The smoker translates: “She likes put some makeup on you.”

“Okay,” you say. “I'll do whatever's expected of me.”

“It's not necessary for stand-in, but for her it is as a . . . challenge,” she tells you.

“A challenge?” you say, implying that her translation is incorrect. But you know it isn't. She's used the exact right word. You applied your new foundation so lightly this morning that
it's already worn off. The makeup artist looks at your skin the way hikers look at a mountain, like something she could conquer if she had the chance.

You are seated in front of a mirror in the trailer and then turned away from it. Your hair is brushed back from your face and fastened with a rubber band at the nape of your neck. The makeup artist spends what seems like twenty minutes on your eyelids. She is meticulous in her strokes. You know she, like others before her, is opting for the
distract, distract, distract
approach.

When she's done with your eyelids, you open them and see her looking quizzically at your skin. She shakes a bottle of foundation, and squirts a drop the size of a quarter onto the back of her left hand. Then she applies the foundation with quick, sloppy strokes over your chin, your cheek, your nose, your forehead. Gone are the small, precise strokes she used on your eyelids.

When she's finished she turns you to the mirror. You try not to react. Your skin looks as uneven as tree bark, the makeup emphasizing every ridge, bump, and dip. You thank her profusely, knowing that you will soon be searching for the first available bathroom to wash the makeup off.

While your foundation was being applied the wardrobe woman was brushing a wig. This is the wig you'll be wearing to resemble the famous American actress. The wardrobe woman resecures the rubber band at your nape and bobby-pins the stray hairs away from your face. She places the wig over your head.

The color of the wig is shades darker than your own—it's
the dark color your hair appeared to be on the video taken by the surveillance camera at the Golden Tulip. And the length of the hair on the wig is the same length as the actress's. It's the same length your hair was before you cut it to look like Sabine Alyse's passport photo. You are putting on a wig so you more closely resemble the way you looked before you weren't you.

The wig is itchy on your scalp and you raise your hand to scratch your head, and both women almost scream. It's as though you've reached for a knife.

“Do not touch,” the wardrobe woman says.

“Okay,” you say.

She adjusts the wig's fringe of bangs. The actress has bangs for this movie, so of course the wig has bangs too.

There's a knock at the door. It's the tattooed man. He exchanges a few words with the women and then looks at you. He nods, seemingly satisfied with your transformation, your wig.

You thank the women and exit the trailer and the tattooed man walks you to the house.

“Is there a bathroom I can use?” you ask him.

He walks you to a trailer that has a bathroom. You enter the small bathroom, and immediately wash your face. It looks better without the makeup that's just been applied. There's no towel, so you use toilet paper to dry your skin. Small pieces of the toilet paper stick to your chin, your upper right cheek. You pick the pieces off, toss them in the wastebasket, and rejoin the tattooed man, who's waiting for you outside the trailer.

He walks you into the house and introduces you to the
director. The director is Moroccan, wearing a light brown scarf wrapped around his neck so many times it resembles the bottom half of a beehive. He has an actual director's chair with his name on it. He's squat and commanding and you can see how some women might find him attractive, but you don't.

He seems to be able to discern this as well—the fact that you will not fall for him the way most women do—and so after shaking your hand in a hard and meaningful way, and apologizing for not getting the chance to interview you the way he usually does before filming—he releases your fingers and you begin to fade from his attention.

As an afterthought, he introduces you to two young Moroccan girls, sisters, who will be in the scene with you. They are ten and twelve years old, wide-eyed with long dark hair that falls in curls. The director turns his back on you, the equivalent of walking away to get a drink at a party. He's passing you off.

You like the sisters right away. They tell you they're taking the day off from school, but didn't want to brag to their teachers that they were in a film, so instead they called in sick.

“Your parents must be so excited,” you say. “Are they here?”

The girls look at each other and for a moment you envy the communion between happy sisters, the comfort of having someone who is always with you and who knows what you're thinking. When you were young you thought your twinship could be like that; when you were older you thought marriage might be like that. But you were twice mistaken.

“They don't really believe we're in this movie,” the younger sister says.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“We told a lie once,” says the older sister with the narrower face.

They wait for you to ask what kind of lie. If you ask, you're positive they won't tell you. You say nothing.

“We said we were in a film with George Clooney and we weren't,” one of them says.

“But your parents brought you here, right?” you say.

They shake their heads no, but in different ways. The shorter one is much more exaggerated in her movements.

You tell the girls they're “badasses.” You have no idea why you say this or where it comes from. Maybe from spending time with the American actress? You don't think you've ever said “badass” before. The sisters smile. They have no idea what it means.

The girls ask if they can take a picture with you.

“Sure,” you say, and the three of you take a photo together with you in the middle. You offer to take a picture of them with the famous American actress when she arrives on set, and their excitement shows in their eyes.

The director whistles. He actually whistles and everyone turns silent. He details what's going to happen in the upcoming scene, and where he wants everyone.

He describes it in Arabic for five minutes and then takes thirty seconds to explain what he's said in English. It's a good thing you've studied your sides so carefully. He shows everyone where they're supposed to stand in the scene. He knows
you don't understand, so he puts his hands on your arms and moves you the way a physical therapist might shift your position. You are quickly learning that most of your job is to help with the blocking.

The scene goes like this: Maria enters the room and meets Kareem's nieces, the adorable sisters. Though she's never met them before, she's so overwhelmed by the sight of them and by the memory of Kareem, who's now deceased, that she gets on her knees and hugs them. She tries not to cry. Then she moves over to the dining area. She tries to hug Kareem's mother, but the mother is cold and inaccessible and instead shakes Maria's hand. Maria is taken aback by her demeanor. Kareem's mother then introduces Maria to Kareem's best friend. You, Maria, must shake his hand. But there is clearly an attraction between Maria and the friend. This attraction doesn't escape the notice of Kareem's mother, who throughout the course of the meal behaves in an abrupt and rude manner.