Page 82 of Is This for Real?
I nod. “Very handsome.”
“So, we’re done?”
“No. You should still try on the others just for the fun of it. I wish we could take pictures.” The curtain wall billows as the person in the room next door bumps into it.
The French military uniform also looks dashing. I salute him. Then I hand him the loose robe, or djellaba. He takes off his shirt and puts on the robe and fez hat.
“Is it comfortable?” I ask.
“Yes. What do you think? Should I do this one instead?” He shakes his head. “I feel too naked and exposed.”
“I like the Humphrey Bogart look better.”
He switches out of the djellaba and into the white suit, storing his clothes in a provided locker. Then we go back out into theCasablancaworld. Loudspeakers are blaring announcements.
We find the communications desk to ask for special missions. My assignment is to hand a note to a corrupt police chief at Rick’s Café American. Rory takes one where he has to pass a note to a waitress wearing gold lipstick, but then he has to follow her and see who she gives it to and report back. They think she’s an informer and may be a loose link in the resistance group.
We walk from the communications desk toward Rick’s Café American.
“What’s your plan? Buy a drink and give it to her when you pay?” I ask.
“But I have to follow her. Is that your strategy?” He quickens his pace as we approach Rick’s Café American.
“No. I brought a handkerchief. I’ll drop that with the note.”
“What if the wrong guy picks it up?”
“Yes, I’ll have to suss out the situation. Maybe I can just hand it to him. Or put it in his pocket.”
Rory looks at me. “We should do this together. Tag team.”
I’m definitely up for that.
We walk through the white door of Rick’s Café American. Wow. It feels like we’ve stepped onto the movie set. There are arched, white ceilings, wicker tables, and fans whirring. “Ahmed” at the door allows us entry. A live jazz band is playing “It Had to Be You.” A guy who looks similar to Sam is playing the piano. Everybody is in costume.
We share a look of “Yes, this is going to be fun.”
The policeman in a white suit is surrounded by people at the bar, probably being deluged by people covertly handing him notes. He’s not the only police officer, though. My mark is the one with the mustache.
“All right, here’s the plan.” I lean in to whisper to Rory. “I’m going to faint, and you’re going to call for a police officer to help. If the mustached one comes, I’ll give it to him. If the other one responds, you need to get on your knees next to me and get the note. Then give it to the other policeman in the diversion.”
“Won’t you hurt yourself when you faint?”
“I took this improv acting class—it was supposed to help me write comedy. And we learned this technique.”
We saunter near the two policemen. I shriek and then crumple to the ground. Ouch. It hurts. I keep my eyes closed.
Rory calls out, “Help, police.”
Unfortunately, several others respond as well. A crowd surrounds me.
Rory bends down next to me. “Are you okay? That looked painful.”
I press the note into his hand. He disappears. I sit up.
“I’m with the show. Do you need to go to the nurse?” a very official-looking person asks, parting the crowd around me.
“No, no, I’m fine,” I say. “I just . . .”
