Back in your room you check the champagne bottle to see if there’s anything left. A quarter of the bottle. You fill your glass and finish it quickly.
Your thoughts become slower, more orderly. You lied to the embassy woman. You told her you were Megan Willis. You told her you had a document from the police, but now you don’t. It seems impossible to go back to the embassy without your own identification, with only the possessions of Sabine Alyse. And having given Susan Sontag a fabricated name. But without the embassy what can you do? You cannot return to the police station: when the police chief pressed his warted thumb into your thumb you knew he was saying that you were to never see each other again. You doubt he will defend you if you return to the station. You will have to continue to be Sabine Alyse, here at the Regency. You will have to eat here, charge everything to the room. But how long will that last? How long before Sabine Alyse’s credit-card charges are traced to you?
You stand in front of the window, looking out at Casablanca as it presents itself below. A modern tram snakes through the city. You pour yourself the last of the champagne and stare out at the clock in the distance: it’s 10 P.M. You stop noticing anything new. You simply focus on the patterns pedestrians make as they crisscross through the square below. Unlike your sister, whose brain is a beehive, and who has excelled at continuously plotting her next step, you have always been good at staring out of windows for long periods of time. You try not to calculate how much of your life you have wasted doing exactly what you are doing now.
In the morning you shower and wash your hair, using the small hotel bottles. Yesterday they made you smell like someone else but today they smell like you. At home you wear something floral. This new scent you’ve adopted smells of tangerines and honey. The robe is back on a hanger, its sash tied at the waist once more. As you untie the belt you feel as though you’re undressing someone else.
You are too hungry to wait for room service. In the lobby you approach a waiter and ask where you sit if you want food. He says anywhere. He tells you one side of the lobby is nonsmoking, the other smoking. There’s no wall between the two.
You order coffee and an omelet, and look around you, catching shards of conversation. Businessmen chatter over cappuccinos in French, Portuguese, and Arabic. Five women dressed in high heels and showing bare calves have arranged themselves around another table. If you didn’t know better you would think they’d come to Casablanca to celebrate one of their fortieth birthdays. But you know better. No one comes to Casablanca to celebrate anything. Your guidebook to Morocco (also in your backpack) was right: the first thing you should do upon arrival in Casablanca is get out of Casablanca.
Which is what you’re trying to do. But you’re not sure where you’ll go. Your plan was to go to Fez, to Marrakech, to the desert, but these places no longer have appeal. You try to imagine when they did have appeal. You try to remember the person you were when planning this very trip.
Across the lobby, in the nonsmoking section, you see the woman who slightly resembles you. The stand-in for the famous American actress. She’s not wearing the wig. She’s sitting with two other people you haven’t seen before. The woman is older; she is pale, professional, precise. She wears practical but expensive shoes that have low square heels, and her hair is cut short in the style favored by women who don’t want to make a fuss, who don’t want to present themselves as overly feminine. She is perhaps fifty. The man sitting with her is an unlikely match: he’s wearing black jeans and a white shirt and has tattoos on his arms. The stand-in appears to be crying.
The tattooed man and the pale practical woman seem agitated with the stand-in. They are reprimanding her, and you assume that their words are the cause of her tears. What has she done? Who are these people causing her to sob? Still, as she buries her head in her hands it’s clear why she’s a stand-in and not an actress; her gestures are dramatic, obvious choices.
You are two tables away and wish you were closer. You wonder what is happening. Witnessing someone else’s troubles right now is a very welcome distraction.
The waiter approaches with your omelet and coffee. You stare at the basket of bread and scoot yourself forward on the chair. The waiter steps away for a moment and returns with an oversize suede pillow from a nearby couch and places it behind you so that you can comfortably reach the table, so you don’t have to sit on the edge of the seat.
“Merci,” you say.
With the first sip of coffee your mind begins to work through your options. Is going to the embassy out of the question? Yes, you have no police document. You could be under suspicion the moment you walk in. Susan Sontag made note of you. She could have obtained your photo from the security cameras.
By now, Sabine Alyse’s credit cards have probably either been reported, or if she’s suffered a fate as terrible as you fear she might have, you are certain that there will be inquiries about what happened to her. You should not be staying at a hotel under her name. You cannot stay another night at this hotel.
As you finish your coffee, the waiter comes and refills your cup. You start thinking that it’s madness to be in this lobby at all. Every minute that you’re sitting here increases the likelihood that if anyone’s looking for clues as to what happened to Sabine Alyse, and to her backpack, they will find you here. At the very least, you will be charged with stealing her possessions. At worst, you will be charged with playing a part in whatever happened to her.
The tattooed man seems to be repeatedly glancing over at you. Why is he staring at you? He looks as though he could be a security guard. The stand-in gets up and leaves. The tattooed man talks intensely to the pale professional woman, and now she’s looking at you too. She looks like she could be in the CIA. No one else in the lobby wears shoes like hers, no one else wears their hair in the style she does.
Something’s wrong. They know something about you and Sabine Alyse.
You tell yourself you’re being overly suspicious of them. You tell yourself to look down at your food for ten seconds. You tell yourself that if they’re still staring at you when you look up then they are onto you. If they’ve looked away, you can relax.
You stare at your plate. You count the seconds. When you look up they are staring at you more intently than before, while having a very serious discussion.
You have to leave the restaurant. You have to leave without paying. You can’t sign Sabine’s name again. You need to go to your room and pack your things and get out of this hotel.
You try not to run as you make your way across the lobby and up the elevator to your room. You place the backpack — the evidence — inside your suitcase, and throw your clothes and toiletries on top. You zip up the suitcase and make your way to the elevator.
But you can’t go downstairs. The pale professional woman and the tattooed man are there. The manager is there. By now they might have all figured out who you are — or aren’t.
Inside the elevator you see the button for the rooftop pool. You’ll go there, wait an hour or two until the people who were so interested in you have left the lobby.
The elevator opens directly to the pool. You walk out with your suitcase. The pool is a blue square without a diving board. You sit on a chaise longue. The sun is not yet warm enough for sunbathers and there’s only one swimmer in the pool, a woman. She stops swimming and looks at you. You can see she’s wondering what you’re doing there, fully dressed with a suitcase.
You think quickly and find the door to the women’s locker room. You wait in there. Then you realize how strange this is. The woman in the pool could report that there’s a woman who entered the changing room and never left.