A trying day. It’s the last evening I have, being home alone with the cats before O comes back from his business conference. So naturally, the day has been spent running around tying up loose ends before the weekend begins and civil servant life in QC as we know it grinds to a stop. I was expecting this to happen at around noon, but lo and behold, our tax dollars keep the office hours going till a slave-driving 4:30pm! How do they survive? Mush, mush, row row, mais non?
This afternoon I had to trot down to the borough office to attempt to obtain a document for the Ukrainian government, after spending yesterday mostly on my hands and knees. I’d make a joke here, but it would be in poor taste and I would probably need to get another notarized paper from Social Services explaining to the provincial powers-that-be that I was only joking. Sigh. Fearing the worst, I collected up all evidence that I actually *do* own the home I spent all afternoon measuring the previous day with a tape that only went up to 16 feet at a time to calculate the "actual living space" (minus closets, entry vestibules, decks, and places where things like washers, driers and hot water tanks live) and then again to calculate everything INCLUDING outdoor walls... but minus interior ones. This is to satisfy a country where 20 children live in a one room orphanage that may or may not have running water. They need to be assured that I live in better conditions than they do, I guess.
Anyhow, I just knew this was going to be trouble from the get-go. Call it anglo-intuition or whatever you like, but even to me obtaining a document like this didn’t seem to make much sense. Never mind trying to explain it en francais to an embittered civil servant who is already pissed because he can no longer smoke at his desk. So I get to the city office, explain in as few words as possible to the receptionist as to why I am there, while she chomps gum and stares through me like a scene out of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. She hands me a ticket from one of those red meat counter things like at Safeway and gestures to go sit down with the other poor bastards who need something in the waiting area.
While I’m sitting there, I am trying to formulate what I need to ask in French, so I can at least get off to a good start. I note that anyone going up to the counter is speaking English and it’s kind of a surprise. Whenever I need to do something in city hall, it seems I get the day where everyone around me speaks en anglais. Curious. Do we all have some sort of mind meld for civil services? It is my turn, and I am slightly disappointed to see that I get the young university student at the counter. For sure she is not going to have a clue about the form I need. It’s just not humanly possible. I brace myself, and walk enthusiastically to the counter.
“Je faite un adoption international, et je besoin une document comme ca,” I say, handing over the sample page given to us by our adoption agent. It is a photocopy of another borough’s letterhead basically stating that so-and-so owns the property at lot # whatever, has lived there for so many years, the square footage is blah-blah, the house is valued at something-or-other. The confusion is instantaneous.
“Why do you ‘ave this pay-per?” she asks.
“I don’t,” I reply, which is obviously not the case. Something sinister must indeed be going on… “I mean to say that it is only an example of what I need typed up on this borough’s letterhead.”
“But this pay-per is from La Salle,” she says.
“Yes, I know, but it’s not real.”
“But you ‘ave it,” she replies.
“Yes, but it’s not real.”
“But you ‘ave it.”
“Yes, I know.”
“’Ow do you ‘ave it?”
“It’s not real- it’s a sample- an example from our adoption agency. I need one typed on letterhead from this borough stating the information listed below, which is about my particular property. See? I’ve put everything you need to know right here- the castrade number, our names, when we took ownership, the value of the house- it’s all there. I just need somebody to draft this for the Ukrainian authorities so we can complete our adoption file.”
Now I fully understand that there aren’t scores of people coming down to city hall wanting to adopt Ukrainian orphans everyday, and probably even less so in the Village, considering Elton John with all his millions was told to essentially piss off when he tried to adopt and remove a baby boy from life-crushing poverty out of the Ukraine. So I am going to smilesmilesmile and roll with the punches until somebody understands.
“I must go check,” she says, and disappears down a hallway.
She returns a few minutes later with a man who resembles a boss that I once worked for in Ireland. The one who had two quadruple bypasses within 5 years because he was such a high-strung, stressed out, impossible asshole. “What is this?” he demands, stabbing a long white finger into the papers on the counter. I re-explain, while the girl stands behind him watching with wide, silent eyes. She looks like one of those paintings of kids with the giant heads from the 70’s.
“We do not do this,” he smirks.
“Uh, yes, you actually do,” I say as genial as possible.
“Non. We do not.”
“Yes, yes, you do,” I say.
“Non! We do not!”
“I have spoken with City Hall,” I lie, in attempt to sound more authoritative. I know full well it is the responsibility of each borough to provide these letters- believe me after hours and days of paperwork for everything from fingerprints to blood type to how thick the outside walls are in the house… I’ve dotted my i’s and crossed my t’s. It’s something all pre-adoptive parents get exceptionally good at early on because it’s a case of sink in bureaucratic red tape or swim home with your new kid. “City Hall says it is each borough’s responsibility.”
“They are wrong. You do not come ‘ere,” he glares over his glasses.
“Well,” I inhale, “Where shall I go then to get this document?”
“I do not know!” he snorts.
“Exactement,” I reply. “Because there is nobody else who does it. Only you.”
We lock eyes silently over the counter. I will go back and forth all afternoon if he likes. But I know I am right, and frankly, I don’t have the patience to come back here another day and battle it out all over again from scratch with somebody else. It’s now or never.
He snatches the papers and flounces out down the hall. I see him criss-cross back and forth between offices as I sit in the black plastic chair, sucking down a chocolate protein drink. 160 calories of pure chalky pleasure. I would love to make a loud, long, hollow sucking noise just because I can, but I refrain. I watch the red digital numbers above the meat counter sign transform instead, as people continue to be served by the counter personnel.
Finally he returns, all apologetically smiling. “Oh Madame,” he oozes, “You are correct, we do do this document.”
I grit my teeth and smile with eyes that I hope do not appear to look too dead. “Yes, yes, it was all a misunderstanding,” I offer as I hide my clenched fist in my coat pocket.
“I check with another borough, we do do this pay-per. I will make for you, ready probably next week. Ca marche?”
“Oui oui, that’s fine,” I say as I write my requested phone number on the post-it note he attaches to the letter. “Next week will be fine.”
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