You exit the shop and wait on the street outside. Above you are signs instructing you to VISIT HERE. Everyone wants shoppers to visit their store but they give no description of what their store sells. You don’t want to deviate from the group but you can tell they’re going to take a while. You buy a yellow square of candy with almonds inside, and eat it right away. You buy a bright blue and white caftan for your mother from a man wearing an argyle sweater vest over a white cotton polo shirt. He tells you that the caftans for women are called djellabas, and shows you that the one you bought has a blue hood. From this same man you buy a small basket to use as a purse for your purchases — the slippers and djellaba. He seems relieved that you don’t try to barter with him.
Clothes hang around you and float above you like ghosts. Men’s pants, women’s djellabas, soccer shirts for boys that say MESSI. Almost immediately after purchasing your djellaba you see a green one that your mother would like more, and regret purchasing the one in your basket.
It takes a good twenty-five minutes for your group to exit the shoe store. The guide holds up his umbrella and instructs everyone to follow him for lunch. He leads you back to the bus.
At first you don’t understand why you didn’t eat in the souks, but once you’ve all boarded the bus, the tour guide explains. “We’re going to drive five minutes to a very good restaurant. My friend owns this restaurant and he will give you a good deal.” Of course you are going to his friend’s restaurant. You are confident that the tour guide is getting a good deal as well.
The tour guide counts heads and then counts again. Then he counts a third time. He makes his way down the aisle of the bus, pointing his index finger at each passenger’s face as he counts everyone on one side of the bus. Then he repeats the process on the other side of the bus, pointing to each person and mumbling numbers to himself. When he walks up to the front again you notice he walks faster. He says something to the bus driver. Then he takes out the microphone and makes an announcement: “We are still waiting for someone to return to the bus, so we will stay here for a few more minutes before moving on.”
You sit and look out the window, waiting to see if the missing person is approaching. You don’t know if the person is male or female, so you just stare. You see a car with a young Italian-looking couple pull into the parking lot. They park and then get out of the car. They look around for signs to see if they’re allowed to park where they are.
A middle-aged Moroccan man in a thobe has been watching them. He approaches the couple and you assume he’s saying they must pay him for parking in the spot they have chosen. The Italian man reaches down into the lower thigh pockets of his cargo pants and extracts a few coins. You doubt that the man who charged them the fee has anything to do with the parking lot.
The tour guide speaks with the bus driver again. Then he exits the bus and stands by the door, as though the stray passenger is like a dog that will come running if his owner is in sight. You half expect the tour guide to whistle.
Fifteen minutes have passed. Your fellow passengers are getting restless the way people do in vehicles that aren’t moving. You’re all sitting facing forward, but not going anywhere. A few of the others stand up to stretch or to retrieve something from a purse or bag that’s stored above their seats. Some start passing around items they purchased in the souks, the way soon-to-be brides pass around presents at a shower.
Outside, the tour guide makes a call on his cell phone. You imagine it’s to his supervisor or someone at the tour bus headquarters. When he boards the bus again he looks like he’s trying to mimic the expression of someone who’s in control. His head is lifted, his jaw firm.
He makes an announcement. He is going to break everyone up into groups of two or three and ask everyone to return to the market to find the missing passenger and help lead them back. He emphasizes how important it is that you stick together in teams so that another one of you doesn’t go missing.
There is murmuring. The electricity of an urgent task.
He walks down the aisle and assigns you to a group: you are with the two American women in their sixties who boarded the bus after you.
You’re about to stand when it occurs to you that you don’t know what the missing person looks like. You say this to the women who are to be your partners.
“You’re absolutely right,” says the woman sitting closer to you. “We haven’t even been told who to look for.” She laughs. “It’s not a funny situation, someone being lost in that labyrinth, but it’s very funny that this entire bus is about to go looking for someone without even knowing a description!
“Excuse me,” she calls out to the tour guide. “Who are we looking for exactly? I mean, besides a missing person?”
The tour guide’s face tightens with momentary panic. “Who do you think is missing?” he says. “You were all sitting here.”
It’s suddenly clear to everyone: The tour guide doesn’t know who you’re looking for. He has no name or physical description.
Everyone starts talking at once. The majority of people think it is a woman who’s missing. They remember seeing a woman. “I think she was of Oriental descent,” calls out one woman.
“You mean she was Asian?” says a Japanese American man toward the front.
“Yes,” says the woman. “That’s what I meant.”
“I would have noticed if there was another Asian tourist on this bus,” the Japanese man says.
“I think she was in her forties,” says a stout grandmother. “Sort of nondescript.”
“That’s your description of our missing passenger?” says one of the shrinking husbands. “That she’s nondescript! God help us.”
“I mean that I think her hair was of average length and of average color,” says the stout grandmother, clearly embarrassed.
“I can almost picture her,” a woman in front of you says.
“How do you picture her?” says a male passenger behind you.
“I said I could almost picture her,” says the woman in front of you.
“Well,” says the man behind you. “When you can more completely picture her, please let us know.”
The tour guide is nervous.
“Let’s start looking for someone who looks lost,” he says unhelpfully. “I think there’s a good chance she will recognize one of you. She will come to you looking for help. I will carry my umbrella so she can come to me. I’m sure she will recognize the umbrella. People who want to stay on the bus can stay. Hassan, our driver, will be here. He will keep the doors closed and the air-conditioning on. He will call me if our missing passenger returns.”
“But how will we know to come back to the bus if you’ve found her?” says a husband who looks less shrunken than the others. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but my cell phone doesn’t work here.”
The tour guide ponders the question.
“We will all meet back here at the bus in one and a half hours,” he says. “It is almost one thirty now. We will meet back here at three o’clock. Please stay with your partners. Please make note of each turn you take. We can’t have any more missing people.”
The searchers leave the bus, and the tour guide instructs everyone that to cover more territory, each group should travel in a different direction. He opens up his umbrella. “I’m going this way,” he says, pointing left. An older couple accompanies him.
You follow your partners — Samantha and Hazel — to the right. Samantha is tall and round, with short brown hair streaked with blond highlights. She’s the one you thought you might recognize, but she’s wearing the Converses with zippers. Hazel is short and petite, with long stick-straight hair; she’s wearing gold sandals.