long skirts and scarves and sandals, the clothes you imagined yourself wearing here.
To your left is the reception desk. The area in front of the desk is large and vacant and there is nowhere to sit. A theft would not happen here because thereâs no place for a thief to linger, to watch. Two women stand behind the desk, available for anyone who might want to check in. No women worked behind the desk at the Golden Tulip.
You approach the kinder-looking of the two women, the one with long hair who smiles with her eyes, and tell her you donât have a reservation but you called this morning and understand thereâs room at the hotel. She studies the computer and confirms this. You give her Sabine Alyseâs passport and her credit card.
âI may want to use a different credit card eventually,â you say. âSo I can get frequent flier miles . . .â You congratulate yourself on giving a valid explanation. âIs it okay if I switch credit cards when I check out?â
She says thatâs fine. She barely glances at the passport, but slides a form across the desk. You open Sabine Alyseâs passport and scribble down the relevant information.
You are asked if you would like help with your luggage and you decline politely.
As you wait for the elevator to descend from the tenth floor, you watch the numbers decrease 3-2-1, like a countdown to your fate. The elevator doors slide open smoothly like stage curtains and a young woman emerges. You do a double take because thereâs something familiar about her. She looks at you too. Is it Sabine? Is that why sheâs staring at you? Should you run away or approach her and say youâve been looking for her to return something sheâs lost? But itâs not Sabine.
You enter the elevator and study the womanâs profile as she walks across the lobby. You both have olive skin (but of course her complexion is better; everyoneâs complexion is better) and dark brown hair. Her hair is longer than yoursâitâs the length of hair you had before you cut it this past hour. Youâre both around the same height and build, though sheâs younger and her stomach is flatter. In America, you probably wouldnât notice the resemblance, but here you do.
Your room is mostly white, with fluffed pillows and a light down comforter and white bathrobes and towels all awaiting you. You sit on the bed, you sit in the desk chair and swivel around. The view out the window is of the main square below. People are traversing the square and a band shell has been set up. Itâs vacant now and you donât know if the concert has already happened or if preparations are being made.
There are two bathrooms in your hotel roomâone with just a toilet, far from the bedroom, and one with a bathtub and shower and sink. The light in the bathroom must be flattering because you donât look like you havenât slept for days and youhave been robbed of almost every possession you care about and have spent the morning at the Casablanca police station.
Your face is thinner than when you left Florida, as though youâve lost a pound or two since taking flight. As soon as you see this, you are ravenous. Hunger takes over you suddenly and completely, like fear. You scan the menu and decide on an omelet. You call room service and they greet you with âGood afternoon, Ms. Alyse.â You consider ordering in French but decide you have been through enough challenges for one day. You order your food. You wait. You lie on the bed for a moment. You are so tired but you are so hungry and you cannot sleep until you have food.
You awake to knocking. You look at the pillow. You have been drooling. You look at the clock. You have been passed out for precisely six minutes.
You open the door and youâre touched to see a flower on the room-service tray. You know all room-service trays at this hotel must come with a small vase with a single white rose,
To your left is the reception desk. The area in front of the desk is large and vacant and there is nowhere to sit. A theft would not happen here because thereâs no place for a thief to linger, to watch. Two women stand behind the desk, available for anyone who might want to check in. No women worked behind the desk at the Golden Tulip.
You approach the kinder-looking of the two women, the one with long hair who smiles with her eyes, and tell her you donât have a reservation but you called this morning and understand thereâs room at the hotel. She studies the computer and confirms this. You give her Sabine Alyseâs passport and her credit card.
âI may want to use a different credit card eventually,â you say. âSo I can get frequent flier miles . . .â You congratulate yourself on giving a valid explanation. âIs it okay if I switch credit cards when I check out?â
She says thatâs fine. She barely glances at the passport, but slides a form across the desk. You open Sabine Alyseâs passport and scribble down the relevant information.
You are asked if you would like help with your luggage and you decline politely.
As you wait for the elevator to descend from the tenth floor, you watch the numbers decrease 3-2-1, like a countdown to your fate. The elevator doors slide open smoothly like stage curtains and a young woman emerges. You do a double take because thereâs something familiar about her. She looks at you too. Is it Sabine? Is that why sheâs staring at you? Should you run away or approach her and say youâve been looking for her to return something sheâs lost? But itâs not Sabine.
You enter the elevator and study the womanâs profile as she walks across the lobby. You both have olive skin (but of course her complexion is better; everyoneâs complexion is better) and dark brown hair. Her hair is longer than yoursâitâs the length of hair you had before you cut it this past hour. Youâre both around the same height and build, though sheâs younger and her stomach is flatter. In America, you probably wouldnât notice the resemblance, but here you do.
Your room is mostly white, with fluffed pillows and a light down comforter and white bathrobes and towels all awaiting you. You sit on the bed, you sit in the desk chair and swivel around. The view out the window is of the main square below. People are traversing the square and a band shell has been set up. Itâs vacant now and you donât know if the concert has already happened or if preparations are being made.
There are two bathrooms in your hotel roomâone with just a toilet, far from the bedroom, and one with a bathtub and shower and sink. The light in the bathroom must be flattering because you donât look like you havenât slept for days and youhave been robbed of almost every possession you care about and have spent the morning at the Casablanca police station.
Your face is thinner than when you left Florida, as though youâve lost a pound or two since taking flight. As soon as you see this, you are ravenous. Hunger takes over you suddenly and completely, like fear. You scan the menu and decide on an omelet. You call room service and they greet you with âGood afternoon, Ms. Alyse.â You consider ordering in French but decide you have been through enough challenges for one day. You order your food. You wait. You lie on the bed for a moment. You are so tired but you are so hungry and you cannot sleep until you have food.
You awake to knocking. You look at the pillow. You have been drooling. You look at the clock. You have been passed out for precisely six minutes.
You open the door and youâre touched to see a flower on the room-service tray. You know all room-service trays at this hotel must come with a small vase with a single white rose,
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