He slides a form across the desk and hands you a pen. On the form you sign the name you saw in the passport.
You sign “Sabine Alyse.”
The chief of police doesn’t look at the passport to compare the signatures.
“I do need one thing, though,” he says.
You panic. This is when he’ll arrest you for pretending to be someone else, for claiming someone else’s belongings.
“I need to get this paper stamped.”
Before standing, he shifts strangely in his seat. He’s slipping his shoes back on beneath the desk. Then he gets up and leaves the room.
You stare at the closed passport. You don’t open it. You glance around the room once again, and study the King of Morocco’s eyes. It’s taking the police chief a long time. What is he doing? You tell yourself that when he returns you’ll say it was a misunderstanding. You don’t know why you acted as if someone else’s backpack and passport and wallet belong to you. You’ll explain that you haven’t slept in days.
The door opens and he comes in with the paper you’ve signed with Sabine’s name. It now bears a large bloodred stamp. A circle with Arabic words in its center.
“Here’s your paper,” he says. “Your proof.”
Finally something is yours. You put the paper in the black backpack and zip it closed. The police chief extends his hand, and you take it. He shakes it firmly and with meaning: you understand he is communicating that a deal has been made and you are to uphold your end of it. You feel a wart on the side of his thumb press into the side of your own thumb. After what seems like a full minute, he releases your hand. You walk down the stairs of the police station nervously, your shoes loud on the stone steps.
Outside, the driver is checking the dashboard of the car to see if he got a ticket. You run toward him as though he’s a lost friend.
“Let’s go,” you say.
“You got your backpack!” he says. He looks surprised. “So we go back to the hotel?”
“Yes,” you say, and your mood dampens.
You place the backpack beside you on the backseat and unzip it carefully as though worried about disturbing its contents.
You open the U.S. passport and take a better look at Sabine Alyse. To be more convincing you could cut your hair. You notice her smooth complexion. You had acne as a teenager and it left raked lines across your cheeks and chin.
You flip through the passport, taking note of the countries Sabine has been to: Switzerland, Germany, Norway, Japan, and now Morocco. Until recently she has traveled only to countries that operate with the precision of expensive electronics.
You look through her wallet: Blue Cross insurance card suggesting she has a job, AAA insurance card meaning she owns a car, store credit at J.Crew that gives you an idea of the way she must dress. Crisply. Cleanly. Never too daring or dark.
Next you pull out her notebook, a red Moleskine. On the first page is a line where the owner is asked to write their name, and another line where the owner is asked to state the reward for finding the notebook in the event that it’s lost. The reward Sabine has indicated is “Happiness.”
You flip to a random entry, dated a month before. You see the words “I tried to tell them it wasn’t dangerous.”
You close the journal. You have already done this girl enough harm by claiming her things. Reading her diary makes it worse.
“Everything is okay? Everything is returned to you?” the driver asks. His voice startles you. You had almost forgotten he was there, that you were in his car.
“Not everything,” you say.
This quiets him.
“I need to stop at a shop soon,” you say. You know that before you check into the Regency you will have to confirm that Sabine Alyse’s credit cards work, you will need to find out whether they’ve been canceled.
“What kind of shop?” the driver asks.
You are at a stop sign and out your window you see a narrow store with a pyramid of body lotion on display in the window.
“This one is good,” you say. He pulls over on the next block.
“If okay with you,” he says, “I wait in car so we don’t get ticket.”
The short, older gentleman who runs the shop ignores you when you enter. He continues talking to his friends, also older men, also short. You are still without toiletries. You pick out a toothbrush, toothpaste, a hairbrush, face wash, and a pair of scissors. Would you really cut your hair to look like Sabine Alyse?
You bring everything to the glass counter. Through the top of the counter you see makeup below. The lipsticks and blushes are displayed on a deep blue velvet material, the way a fine jeweler might showcase rubies or emeralds.
The shopkeeper’s friends leave, and he finally turns his attention to you. His smile is kind, sudden, as though he’s an old acquaintance.
“Welcome! I have perfect makeup,” he says, looking into your eyes.
Since you were a teenager and developed your first bout of acne, makeup consultants at Nordstrom’s and MAC have bestowed advice on you. “Bring attention to your eyes and away from your skin,” they’ve instructed as they rainbow eye shadow across your lids. “Bring attention to your mouth with a bright color,” they’ve told you, swiping alarming red over your lips.
Distract, distract, distract is everyone’s advice.
But this shopkeeper, wearing a green sweater vest, tells you he has the perfect makeup for you, and because he’s not looking worriedly and disapprovingly and judgmentally at your skin, you trust him.
“Let me show you,” he says. “May I?”
Yes, you nod.
He applies a thin layer of foundation. “You want it thin,” he says. “No powder.”
“You’re right,” you say. “Everyone always wants to do powder and that accentuates it.”
“Too fast,” he says. “I don’t understand. Can you say again, please?”
“Good,” you say. “You are right.”
He applies a makeup brush over your face and you close your eyes.
“Look,” he says, and you open your eyes. He’s holding a handheld mirror up to your face, and you have no choice but to look. There’s still the palimpsest of acne, but for the first time in fifteen years, your skin looks almost smooth.
“Can I take this to the window?” you say, carrying the mirror toward natural light.
You have consulted a number of unhelpful dermatologists over the years and have discovered a secret from a portly shopkeeper in Casablanca who looks into your eyes instead of frowning at your skin. You tell him you’d like to buy a bottle of the foundation, and then tell him you’ll buy four. And two brushes. You want the magic to continue. You hope the credit card works.
The man tallies up your purchases by hand on graph paper and gives you a discount for each item. You hand him one of Sabine’s credit cards and you wait. You are suddenly convinced it will not go through. It’s taking a long time. But then the man at the beauty store tears off the receipt and hands you a pen. “Please sign.”
You smile so broadly your face almost hurts. He sees your pleasure and hands you his business card and requests that you tell your friends about his store. Yes, of course, you say, you’ll tell your friends when you get back to the U.S. the address of a narrow and nondescript beauty shop in Casablanca that sold you toiletries at a discount and charged a credit card that was not yours.
You return to the car and maybe it’s your imagination, but once you’re on the road again, the driver continues to sneak looks at you in his rearview mirror. He notices something is different.
The driver takes you back to the Golden Tulip and you thank him. You tell him you wish you could tip him, and he too looks dismayed that this is not an option. You flee the car quickly, wanting to escape his disappointment. You go to your room, which has still not been made up — the bedspread is contorted into an unwieldy bundle at the foot of the mattress — and pack up your things.