The Diver's Clothes Lie Empty (19 page)

But then a bottle of wine arrives and his mood brightens. The waiter pours you each a glass of Chardonnay.

“You were asking about my favorite business,” he says. “It's a cosmetic laser. A better one than what's out there right now. For scars, acne,” he explains. He's looking at your face. He leans over and softly takes your chin in his large hand, and tilts your head to the side. With the fingers of his left hand he brushes the bangs of the wig out of your face so that he can see you more clearly.

It's an intimate gesture—one that takes you surprise. He studies your face so intently that for a moment you think you might cry. You don't think your husband ever examined your features so closely, that he ever moved your hair out of your face. This was in large part why you married him. You liked the fact that he never stole glances at you, that he turned off the lights before you kissed. You thought that with him you could be invisible, until you realized that wasn't at all what you wanted.

“May I ask what happened to your skin?” Leopoldi says. Tiny tears are forming in the corner of your eyes, but he doesn't wish to embarrass you by asking about them. Instead he says: “Despite your makeup I can see . . .”

“Teenage acne,” you explain.

He nods, and lets go of your chin gently. You would not have expected him to be so careful with his touch.

“And you,” you say, emboldened by his question, by his caress. “May I ask about your scar?”

He puts down his fork and knife. This is going to be a story. “I wasn't always so wealthy,” he tells you. “I grew up poor in a little town between Moscow and St. Petersburg. On a farm. I was helping my father with the fence one day, a new barbed-wire fence to keep the sheep from getting away. My brother was driving a tractor and I was attaching the wire to the fence, when it sprung out of my hand and slashed across my face.”

You have this in common—the marks of the past on your skin. You both look out the window, as though wanting to focus on the beauty of the outside world. But the sun has set now and you see only your own reflections.

“I have a plan!” he says, both boisterously and boastfully, turning back from the window to you. “I made a reservation at Rick's Café for a nightcap,” he says. “Of course that's when I thought she was coming, and not you, but it's a great place. Have you been?”

You ask if he means the same Rick's Café from
Casablanca
.

“Not the same one, that was just a stage set in, I believe, Culver City,” he says.

You are surprised he knows about Culver City.

“But,” he continues, “the woman who owns this one is American and she fixed it up so it looks like the one in the movie. There's even a piano player.”

It does sound appealing. And you don't have much choice but to go. You promised the famous American actress you'd make sure he had a good evening. And you have no other ride back to the hotel.

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 photos 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.