The Course Of Understanding part 7

7. THE MOMENT(S) OF TRUTH
In these final seconds before the plunge, it might be beneficial to determine what was my primary fear. Well, I was certainly worried about my visa application paper. Four pages of small boxes and questions, most of which I hoped didn’t apply to me, because even the English translation wasn’t much help in figuring out what they wanted. In previous government offices, simply failing to fill in a box correctly could warrant instant dismissal, and I had 5-8 questions about the application. However, this was not my primary concern. Of course I was worried about my ability to communicate in Czech. I was very conscious that my brain was not exactly at full capacity (if you’ve ever heard the phrase "a few french-fries short of a happy meal," we could now say that I was "a Cheeseburger and a small Coke short of a happy meal."). However, the ability to explain my papers and excuse any problems could be the difference between visa and no visa. But really this was only a "tie-breaker" sort of issue. I was quite concerned about the translations of my documents. As we saw in the first chapter of this drama, even though my school director is a licensed translator, several events made it clear that her translations are not recognized by the government as "official." It’s ironic that the official translations cost half your soul with 10% interest! Anyway, by hook or crook (I’m still not sure which), I’d gotten this far on my director’s free translations, but what now? Those past loopholes involved an unknown level of luck and miracle, so will they accept that here? It was a concern, but I was prepared to fight tooth and nail over it. Also, I was very frightened about what they would think of my American Criminal Record. This had been gained at the very last minute by my parents from the Chico Police Department, and was simply a short note on official stationary stating that: "Out records do not disclose any information of a criminal or derogatory nature regarding this individual for the date ranges listed. Consequently, it is our opinion that he/she may not be considered harmful to general order." A number of you might have a number of bones to pick with this statement, but it was rather relieving for me to know that they don’t officially have anything on me back home. You know how it is: you can always assume that no one connected you to "certain events," but you never know for sure until you ask. However, the problem was not in the debatable wording of this document, but in a simple comparison with my Czech criminal record, which was decorated with an abundance of colorful official stamps, several different illegible styles of handwriting, and enough bureaucratic fluff to make it look like a certification of knighthood. This opposed to a simple text message with a signature from America. Given the apparent Czech love of bureaucracy, I anticipated problems.
Really, I could go and on like this and cover dozens of points, and in these last few moments before the embassy door I was going over them. Every little detail had some aspect which could be made into a problem, and in my experience with this process, very few potential problems didn’t materialize. However, my greatest fear is still unnamed. As I stood trembling before the slowly opening door, which seemed more like proverbial floodgates, the most present thought was this: how evil will the lady be?
Through the course of this story we’ve discussed a little about the typical Czech public worker. They are women, a little above middle aged and beyond, they don’t speak a word of English (despite listening to people try for the last 15 years), they hate their jobs, after so many years in the same work they have learned to feel nothing for your difficulties, and in most cases they seem to take pleasure in making life difficult for you. That’s the key: they don’t like YOU! YOU make their job difficult. Without YOU they could just relax and read the paper all day. It’s YOUR fault! They don’t seem to understand that without you their job wouldn’t exist.
With every level of this visa process, I started to understand that it really didn’t matter if I had everything in order (no one does), or if everything was exactly right (it never is), what matters is what mood the office lady is in at that moment. If she doesn’t like your eyebrow color, nothing on God’s green earth will save you. If she’s feeling indifferent to you, then you might have a 50/50 chance of success. You just never know. As you can see, this issue is the foundation of all the sub-concerns listed above. Depending on the person, all the possible problems can be brushed away like flies, or manifest as flies feasting on your mangled body. So I knew what to expect, and I knew only too well what I would be facing. My first priority was to get a look at her eyes, just to know how bad it was going to be.
I’ll take the liberty here to remind you that I had one shot at this. As I explained early on in this story, I had recently discovered that none of my official documents could be older than 6 months, and by work permit would be 6 months old next week! Returning to Prague to sort out some details and coming back later was not an option, besides the fact that I couldn’t afford it! Despite the very real possibility of getting sent away over the smallest inconsistency, this had to work the first time.
All this flashed through my head in a second. There was even time for it to flash through a second time, because it seemed that the door opener had an overdeveloped sense of the dramatic. On well-oiled hinges it slowly slipped open, as if from a gentle breeze. I could almost hear the soft piano music as the people around me looked frantically about in slow motion. It was the one second of the battle before the first shot is fired, the second of the race before the sprinters launch off their blocks. I took in a deep breath.
At this moment the Romanians behind me decided to test my resolve again, and they tried to push forcibly past me and into the almost open doorway. I fell against the wall to block them, as the Ukrainians surged forward in front of me. I tried to stick to their backs, but suddenly found that I was pinned to the wall! All semblance of a line disintegrated as a mass of people pressed towards the door. I started to struggle frantically.
Suddenly we all fell back, as if faced with the newly risen sun. The door was open, but the doorway was blocked. From my dismal vantage point pressed against the wall, I got an impression of a large man, probably 6’4" and maybe 250 pounds, with a full salt and pepper beard, large dark eyes, and a presence of comfortable authority. As the flood of people stepped back to give him room, he addressed the crowd from the steps, holding his sizable hands out for silence. "Okay everyone, please be calm. There aren’t so many people here today so we’ll have no problems helping everyone. Just come through the door one at a time and take a number, and we’ll assist you in that order." It wasn’t until he went on to say the same thing in Czech that I realized the impossible: he had said it in English. From that point on, everything he said to the crowd he said first in English, then in Czech, then in German. Why that order? I don’t know, but I instantly started to love this man. Despite my shock at hearing my native tongue, I was able to slip back into my rightful place while the others were listening to the Czech announcement. As I stepped in behind the two Ukrainians, I took a small paper with the precious number "3" on it from the man (my new hero!), and stepped up the stairs into the small waiting room. The walls contained two teller windows for talking with an official. The waiting room was quickly overcrowded, with people sitting on the steps and against the walls, but I was too busy preparing myself for the next step to take any notice. I noticed that thankfully the man in charge had finished handing out the numbers and then taken a place behind one of the windows. The other window was occupied by his assistant, a young woman in her late 20s. My friends each went to a window with a handful of papers, and I realized that I was next. I quickly tried to gather my papers together, and then glanced up to see the younger Ukrainian, who had been talking with the man through the window, leaving with several blank forms. Apparently he needed to fill out several other things. "Number Three," the man called out, and suddenly it was my turn.
I approached the window and nearly threw my stack of papers through the space under the window. On top was my Passport, so he would see I’m American and continue speaking my language, and under that was the convoluted visa application. Despite the astonishing disappearance of my arch-nemesis, the female Czech bureaucrat, I was still almost hysterical with worry, and ready to jump on any negative thing he said. To say that I was feeling defensive would be a gross understatement.
"Okay," he said in a relaxed bar-tone, "let’s see what we have here.... Hmmm, so, in this box..." Seeing that the indicated box was empty, I started to hurriedly explain that I hadn’t known what should be there. However, I didn’t have time or need to finish the sentence. "Please put an ‘M’ here..." he continued. And when I had done so, "And you’ll want to check this box here, and please write ‘2012’ here, and this should be today’s date, not yesterday’s. I’ll just change that for you..." Slowly and calmly, completely unaffected by the swarming crowd behind me, he walked me through each section and waited for me to enter the correct data. I honestly pinched myself at least once to make sure I hadn’t fallen asleep outside in line.
"Okay, that’s all finished. Let’s just take a look at your papers here. Here’s your work permit..."
He took his time looking over my permit, while I watched with bug eyes. At the end he looked at the date of issue, looked over a calendar to verify his suspicions that I had procrastinated, and put it aside.
"Okay, that’s fine. What else do we have here?"
I gasp silently in relief.
"What’s this paper?" he asked next.
"Oh, that’s a letter of financial security from my parents. And here’s the translation behind it."
"Hmm, is this a fax?"
I panic.
"Well yes, but well you see I um had to get it sent very quickly and I um-"
"But it’s okay. You don’t need it, since you have a work permit."
I close my jabbering mouth and focus on breathing.
"And this paper here?"
"That’s my American criminal record. And there’s the translation under it."
"Hmmm," and he held up the official looking Czech criminal record to indicate an unsatisfactory comparison.
I break into cold sweats.
"Well yes but I did of course ask them for a criminal record and this is what they sent and I guess that-"
"But it’s okay. You have an American passport, so that’s good enough."
I regain consciousness and support myself against the wall.
"So here we have your passport and birth certificate. Hmmm, where did you have these translated?"
I lose all motor skills. I had not been able to prepare an excuse for this one.
"I buba blub uga blabaha blabaha ugaba! A bubublahaba-"
"Okay don’t worry. I can read the originals just fine, so that won’t be a problem."
I feel my heart unclench and start pumping blood again.
By this time I was almost finished. No, not finished with the papers, I mean FINISHED. Notwithstanding the kindness and highest level of gentlemanly behavior of this king of bureaucrats, every step of this evaluation was killing me. The best comparison I can imagine is being one of those inflatable boxing balloons: I was trying with every ounce of strength to stay on my toes, but every question knocked me on my back again. I wasn’t sure how much longer this could continue. At the same time I noticed that he had separated my papers into two piles: the needed papers and the unneeded. The second was noticeably thicker. I had mixed feelings over this. On one side, I was thinking about the many frustrating hours spent by me, my parents, and my school director to obtain these documents. On the other side, that was a lot of complications being thrown out the window. I decided to be grateful and move on. Things were going suspiciously well, but the journey wasn’t over yet, not nearly!
"Hmmm, why is this here?" He was holding the Boarder Crossing Report. I’d had no idea what to do with this.
I try to access my prepared excuses file, only to discover that my brain had crashed.
"I didn’t I didn’t I didn’t abla blabl ablablab labl ablalb!"
"You won’t need this until you have you visa and are entering Czech Republic with it."
I gasp, not so silently this time. The implementer of this torture, may God richly bless his life, looked at me with great sympathy. Feeling the sincerity of his concern, I almost found the strength to smile.
"Don’t worry," he said again. "We’re almost there." It is highly possible that I smiled.
"Here we are," he continued, "the last paper."
I feel my eye twitch.
"Ah yes, the ‘čestné prohlášení.’ Hmmm." He frowned in thought while examining the paper.
"Well, is this a copy?" It was in fact a copied paper, though my writing on it was original. This was the paper they had given me at one of the many offices back in Prague.
"No!" I spluttered. "It’s the original!"
"Hmmm, it should look like this," he said, holding up an original printed version of the same.
"Also, there’s the problem that we need the signature to be verified."
I die.
I had no idea what was involved in the process of signature verification. Frantically searching for connections, my brain remembered a process of document verification for one stage in my work visa. I remembered the building, in the west of Prague, and the whole process had been an ordeal of at least two weeks. Could life possibly be so melodramatic as to send me back to Prague on the very last paper in the stack?
"So, everything else is okay. You’ll just need to get this verified and come back."
Come back?!?!
"Okay," I answered weakly, practically begging him to be gentle, "how do I do that?"
"Here’s what you’ll do..." he said, holding up a small map.
My brain suddenly had a meltdown. My friends, it was map of Prague! I stood in shock for about two seconds, noticing that the man’s lips were still moving but I wasn’t hearing anything. I made a tremendous effort to tune him in.
"... and just walk to the right, and it’s the third door on the left..."
I took a closer look at the paper, to realize that it was in fact Bratislava. My brain re-solidified. My brain melted again. Oh Merciful God, it screamed, It’s a Map!
"... it’s only a five minute walk. Just ask them to verify your signature and come right back here. You can come to the front of the line."
I nervously licked my lips and swallowed hard. He must have noticed my hands shaking as I cautiously took the map from him. I saw him wrinkle his forehead at that, as I mustered up a small fatalistic smile. Then I turned, walked through the crowd, and out the door.
As the door closed behind me, I took a moment on the doorstep. In my life I’ve had a few experiences that allow me to feel I’ve approached the experience of combat. The most vivid is working Drive-Thru at Carl’s Jr. Hamburgers. The second is the room I’d just walked out of. I was breathing hard, and while I didn’t think I would actually throw-up, I thought I might feel better if I did. I still chose against it, though. In the last 48 hours I’d had 4 hours of sleep, and the last 24 were some of the most intense of my life. I was holding a map in my hand, and I wasn’t sure I could find the strength or courage to even look at it.
But as I looked around the square, I noticed what a beautiful day had dawned. The sun was bright, I’m sure there were birds singing, and somehow everything looked hopeful. I looked into the distance on my left at the bridge I had walked into darkness a lifetime before. It was now busy with traffic and alive with the life of the city. I looked across the square in front of me at the dark and icy bench where I’d spent the bitterest hours of last night. It was sitting comfortably in a ray of sunshine, ready for a young couple or a mother and her child to grace its sturdy wood. Then I looked down at my feet to the cement doorstep, where five hours of cold had passed a second at a time. Though those five hours had ended only 20 minutes before, they were over. It suddenly hit me that I’d done it. The final step was before me, and the strength to take it flowed into me. True, there might be some problems at this unknown office. True, I might have trouble finding it. True, this new Map might be evil. But all that washed away in the flooding realization that this was the end of the journey. Nothing was going to stand in my way now.
I felt ready to run to my destination. "Now wait Caleb. Stay calm, and let’s just find the place rationally and efficiently." My logic had been smothered under panic lately, but now it spoke calming word to keep me from flying off into the city. I took a deep breath, and resolutely set out.
Let’s just say that the new map wasn’t evil. It wasn’t the most well drawn or helpful map I’ve ever seen, but not evil. I didn’t exactly get to the office in 5 minutes, nor without a wrong turn or two, but about 15 minutes later I was ringing the buzzer outside the door. Someone in the office opened the door from upstairs; I walked in, went up the stairs, and met the lady waiting to meet me. I tried English first, got a favorable response, and explained what I needed. She understood instantly, and guided me into the office. I now realized that I was at a notary. All so simple!
The man who helped me (found out his name was Erik) spoke English with a perfect American accent. I considered asking him where he’d been in America, but didn’t feel like I had the time or energy for chitchat. He was very friendly and helpful, and even hummed over his paperwork, asking me to sign here or there at intervals. As he worked, one final concern entered my mind: what is this going to cost? I realized that I only had 100 Slovak Crowns in my wallet, less than $4. My optimism started to drop a little and I began creating alternate plans in case of complications. I started to breath a little heavy again.
As Erik pounded my paper with the final official stamp, he smiled at me and said cheerfully "That’ll be 70 crowns, please." I happily paid him, took my paper, and joyfully walked out. Exiting the building, I allowed myself a moment to simply hold the paper, feel it, and even smell it. It was the last step, and now it was finished. I half ran straight back to the Embassy, went to the door and rang the buzzer. A voice answered out of the speaker:
"Hello, Mr. House?" It was my friend, my angel. I stood in shock at being called by name. I wasn’t a number here! Strangers were taking care of me! How beautiful indeed was that moment. I answered.
"Yes!... I’m back!"
The door opened, and I stepped in, floated through the nervous crowd, and then stepped forward triumphantly. I returned the map, and held out my completed ‘čestné prohlášení’ with pride. I still have no idea what this specific paper is actually for, by the way. But it didn’t matter.
"Okay," he said, gathering up my pile of "needed" papers and returning the others to me. "Please wait here two minutes and I’ll be right back." With that he was gone.
It was finished. I almost couldn’t believe it was true! Everything around me, the dark room, the anxious atmosphere, the uncomfortable people, everything faded away to leave me standing in a beam of pure light, listening to the angels singing. Success is a beautiful thing. At that moment you treasure all the pain and difficulty, almost wishing for more, just to make the moment sweeter. Not me, though. I couldn’t imagine a sweeter finish, or a happier moment. Every desperate thing I’d done had played its part, and now it all came together. It was finished.
"Um, Mr. House?"
I opened my eyes to see that he was back behind the window. I smiled and answered unsuspectingly:
"Yes?"
"Well, um..." In the back of my mind I realized that he was uncomfortable. With an effort I tried to pull my head out of the clouds and focus a little.
"There’s a problem which I didn’t notice before..." he continued.
"Okay," I answered, wondering if I’d have to make another errand to clear this one up.
"It’s with your work visa," and he held the paper up. "You see, it was issued on October 21st, and it expired June 15th... This means it’s too late."
"Oh, but you see it’s not six months old yet. It will be in a few weeks, I know, but it’s still valid. Here, let me show you on the calendar-"
"I don’t think you understand. It’s true that it’s not too old, but the significant problem is that it expires on June 15th. You see, we require that all applicants have a work permit valid for at least 3 months, and this one isn’t."
"But... but it’s only a difference of two weeks!" I looked down, and saw that he was handing my papers back to me.
"I’m very sorry." Looking into his eyes, I could see that he was. I will never forget that look of absolute sympathy. Even given the circumstances, if there hadn’t been glass between us I might have hugged him. Given the circumstances, it’s a good thing the glass was there.
About this time my mind started to grasp what was happening. Or rather, what had happened. I’d never known about this rule, and was completely unprepared for it. Too late I attempted my rebuttal. Think mind, THINK!!! I frantically looked for a way out.
"Maybe," said my brain, "we could say that the office got the dates wrong..."
"No Caleb," answered my logic. "It won’t work.
"Well, well we could explain that it’s using the American date system, and it’s not the 15th day of the 6th month, but the 6th day of the 15th month!"
"Caleb, there’s no 15th month in the year."
"Okay, then I’ll refuse to go away until he gives me a visa!"
"Look in his eyes, Caleb. He’s already done everything he can for you."
"I’ll take hostages! I’ll make them listen to reason! It Can’t End Like This! Not after everything It’s Not Possible! There Has To Be A Way Out!!!"
"Listen to me Caleb. Take a deep breath... and take back your papers."
"But there’s-"
"Just... take back the papers. Trust me, there’s nothing left to do."
In the two seconds this conversation required, I slowly started to realize the truth. I looked again into the eyes of this kind man, who seemed physically pained to turn me away. I realized that if his strong, helpful hands were tied up, then there was nothing that I could do beyond that. He knew the situation, he knew what was possible and what wasn’t, and he was telling me the way it had to be. It was finished. Through a haze, I spoke to him one last time.
"I... I didn’t know..."
"I’m sorry," was all he said, and he moved the papers closer to me. I slowly took them back, and opened my backpack to put them away. Before turning from the window, I sent a small smile, the best I could muster, through the glass. I still wanted to think him, somehow really express how grateful I was for his care, his humanity. But already someone else was pushing in front of me, and my chance was passed.
As I walked back through the room, I caught the eye of the older Ukrainian. He was sitting near the far wall, filling out some papers. He looked up at me.
"Máš to?"
"Ne, nemám." I let out a long sigh. "To bylo šílený, víte."
"Škoda."
"Tak, ja nevím. No... uvidíme. Uvidíme." I shook his hand. "Tak, těší mne, a na shle.”
With that, I walked out of the room.
I came out into the day (which was actually starting to get a little hot). Taking one step down, I began to smile. The smile turned to laughter. I laughed harder and harder until tears started shooting from my eyes. I laughed until the guards at the American Embassy next door started looking strangely at me. With that, my feet stepped in, and carried me, still roaring with laughter, off the steps, across the square, and into the city beyond. It was finished.