It never stopped snowing all the way to the consulate. I had been sacrificing my sleep all night twisting a lock of hair between my fingers. People in uniform with machine guns stood outside, the security guard stood under the eaves next to a space heater.
There weren't many people waiting in line. A man stood at the cashier window trying to figure out what kind of documents he would need, apparently the lady behind the bullet-proof window did not speak German and he did not speak her language. Out of frustration he explained his situation in English with all available body parts -- it didn't get him too far. He would probably need to bring an interpreter next time. The window for the passport was empty, so we stood in line for general issues.
"How do you do. I am for the passport extension please."
"Let me get my colleague." We were sent to the empty window to wait for the right person arrive, and a young woman with glasses came and sat behind the glass.
"How do you do. I would like to extend my passport please and for a new "remark-page" because of my new last name."
"You speak the language badly." She told me with a smile while taking all the documents we brought, "why don't you speak the language anymore?"
Is this a trick question?
"I grew up there, but it has just been a long time since I left ..."
"But how did you menage to speak with such heavy accent?! Can you even understand the formula? (Yes, I made some mistakes filling out the formula, no one ever taught me what all these words mean.)"
She gave me back the paper -- I had to scratch out half of it and fill in the new blocks, drawing arrows like on a treasure map.
"It is still wrong!" but she kept smiling, and she turned to my company, pointing at me and said in German:" Did you know that she doesn't speak the language anymore? This is terrible."
The same question mark appeared over my company P's head:"Is it a a real question or a rhetoric one?"
She asked for another two copies of documents that we had forgotten to do; P went to the Xerox and left me alone on the other side of the glass. "Do you have other photos than these?"
"No..."
"Did you take them yourself?"
"No... I took them from the photomathon outside."
"They are ugly. You look ugly in them."
Should I say "I am sorry that I am not able to provide any more aesthetic documents, maybe someone should fix the Photomathon."? Nah, I should remain silent, be glad that you have the right to remain silent. I began to interpret her smile, but maybe I should not -- you are right, you are the prettiest woman in this building.
She took the two extra copies from P. and told us that I would need to buy a new passport (although I had the right just to extend it, but I did not want to argue about it) and that we would be able to pick it up in two weeks. A union skin thin pink slip was passed through the slit under the bullet-proof glass. We thought that we were to pay.
"N-o." she said. "p-a-y i-t w-h-e-n y-o-u c-o-m-e a-n-d p-i-c-k i-t u-p! D-o y-o-u u-n-d-e-r-s-t-a-n-d?" She said it almost patiently, like to a kid, no, to someone mentally challenged. Maybe I am retarded today, at least the person holding my identity believed so.
Anyway, the whole thing went more smoothly than I had expected. When I come back in two weeks, they might give me a brochure for language course along with the new passport. Oh don't forget the next stop -- the immigration's office.
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