Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
along; a truly fearful pair who knew the power they possessed because the Civil Service are
the clerks and pencil-pushers that won the French Revolution, nobody now dares to cross
them for fear that if you brought one down three would replace them, like a bureaucratic Hy-
dra.
Another unfortunate left the office, but clearly nearing the end of the process he'd emerged
just to write a cheque, he hadn't reckoned on a time limit.
'Monsieur, I'm waiting!' one of the gargoyles shouted.
'Yes, I'm just writing the...' he stammered in response.
'Monsieur, now!' And he rushed back in or at least would have rushed back in had they ac-
tually pressed the door release button for him, which they didn't, preferring to let him stand
for a few seconds in penance.
A younger man in the waiting room giggled at this, but was immediately tutted at by an old
woman as if to say, 'Don't antagonise them young man or you'll pay', and getting the message
he shut up quickly. You never know, I thought, she might have spent most of her life in there.
Despite having no-one to complain to, we had come up with the idea that I should try and
record this meeting, but as my number was called and I pressed record on my phone I felt
like an ill-prepared Donnie Brasco. What would happen if they cottoned on to what I was
doing? I'd never get the car registered then, I'd probably be 'disappeared' - in fact, I'd become
convinced that the large boards on the walls of all government buildings apparently listing
the names of the millions who had died in the two World Wars were actually just a cover and
were really a list of people who'd never made it back from the local government labyrinth.
I began slowly and tried not to look like I was speaking into a discrete microphone. '
Bon-
jour,
I was here last week with my wife...' I didn't finish the sentence as his slate grey eyes
held mine while at the same time he picked up my documents and turned his back on me.
'Quatre-vingt-quatre!'
shouted his vicious female colleague, and then in an instant,
'Non?
Quatre-vingt-cinq!'
A timid woman crept in; almost hidden by the enormous file she was carrying. 'Ha! Is your
car in that file?' the
fonctionnaire
said mirthlessly, humour not being her thing. Seriously,
what event in her life had led her to this level of toxicity? What kind of upbringing had this
woman had? If she'd played with Barbies as a child, she'd definitely had the Klaus variety.
I tried not to attract her attention and returned to staring at the back of her colleague as he
slowly typed my details into his computer; one finger typing, angrily punching the keyboard
and then, as he was copying from another document, he would move his ruler one line further
down the paper. It was painful to watch.
The man turned his attention back to me and asked me to check that he'd copied my details
correctly. He had. And at that, it was over. The car was now, at last, licensed. I slumped back
into the chair and breathed out heavily - his demeanour didn't change one bit.
'Two hundred euros,' he said, flatly.
