When last we left our love struck hero in Le Dossier de Marriage – Part I The Marriage File he had returned to France now engaged to Chantal and after several matters of mere formality with l’Etat our hero soon realized that he had descended into Dante’s Hell, a confusing winding and twisting labyrinth otherwise known as a bureaucracy. A French wedding seemed about as elusive as world peace. Our hero, not one to shy away from attempting to try the impossible, continues to try and try and try…
I knew I would return to the U.S. with a laundry list of things to track down including papers, sworn testimony, certifications and more. Indeed I had my very own little dossier – a sub dossier of a much larger and more detailed one than what I held in my hands. My dear Chantal or the wife-to-be had laid it all out for me and highlighted all particularly important pieces of information that were on a critical path and that I needed to accomplish and by what date. You can imagine that when two consultants work on a plan of attack things are not always guaranteed to work smoothly. First on my list was to seek out a so-called traducteur assermenté for my legal document. Initially I thought assermenté meant something to do with a religious ceremony or the amount of time to cure a jambon d’Ardenne. I was dead wrong on both counts. In short it’s someone who is an expert translator but more importantly sworn before a French court. Divinely blessed in other words. These creatures don’t usually run wild except in mating season but sometimes you can see them lounging by the Reflecting Pool in mid July.
After many emails and phone calls, I finally found an organization in Washington who suggested the name of someone who ran a service for Americans just like me with big ideas. Madame at the translation service assured me that their work would pass French bureaucratic muster. Mais oui bien sure monsieur, for the life of me her accent sounded as if she might also want to sell me an authentic Cartier watch for a few dollars. On another parallel track, equally as critical as the first, was my request for a certified copy of my birth certificate which the Mairie held in a vault until such time as I told them I passed away. In flowery language, and you can never give enough, I made my request and within days I received an email requesting additional information. To my surprise I had failed to list my parents DOB’s, place of birth, maiden name, occupation, place of residence in Paris, any identifying scars and their French drivers license information (because French licenses never expire, that’s why).
My response arrived by mail within weeks and there it was the proof that was needed certifying I was good to go then and good to go now. A few additional signatures and one or two stamps. It was official. The translation job came in looking good but I was looking for more impressive stamps and seals; would she guarantee this would pass? I thought about poring wax somewhere on the document and using my Mickey Mouse signet ring. But I didn’t. Everything looked in order. The rest of my dossier was in good shape. I was good to go!
I must say I was optimistic when the time came to seal the deal with my new little Mairie. My return was greeted with much applause and cheering, led of course by Chantal who had second thoughts about my ability to meet the love schedule. I felt like a returning hero the only thing missing was my supply of silk stockings, American cigarettes and candy bars. You may think I am stretching things a bit, but in the hinterlands, les provinces, my arrival in a Sherman tank would have been about the same. Il arrive, il arrive, c’est l’Americain!! That’s right folks I had become something of a hero. Jumping out of my tank that looked a bit like a Peugeot, the little girl who lived downstairs ran over to me and presented me with a bouquet of flowers and I was greeted expertly by Chantal. I looked around for the mayor to present me with the key to the town but to no avail. That evening, there was a little cocktail-dancing to celebrate my return, with yours truly the Ambassador of Goodwill oozing charm from every pore. Oh la la l’Americain, et il parle Francais aussi...I was in my international groove. The champagne was delicious and never ending.
It was a bright sunny day as we happily approached the Mairie, sauntering in like the veterans we were, taking our ticket number almost absentmindedly and sitting down. It was a full house, everybody had issues on Wednesday or so it seemed. I looked around for mademoiselle who had been so helpful last time; I wanted just to smile and wave, you know American friendliness the sort of thing we’re so good at doing with the one hand. Once again we looked over our Dossier de Marriage which by now was a bulging Dossier of papers, certificats, telephone bills, credit card receipts, translation documents, originals and copies of originals, witness lists vetted through Interpol, sworn testimony of celibacy and a few more odds and ends. We were ready, it was a bit like waiting to give that PowerPoint presentation you have been slaving over for weeks. We watched the wall counter slowly inch towards our number then finally number 28, yes! We approached the bench confidentially carrying various bags and our dossier; we looked like a high powered legal team moving in to make the kill.
“Madame, Monsieur bonjour” – a chirpy but different face greeted us this time.
Chantal went into her consulting mode and summed up why we were here, all the steps we have taken to be in full compliance with the state and of course, Monsieur has come all the way from the United States (to which I nodded looking like a trained monkey) specifically to make sure that the dossier was complete and that we could move forward on our quest for marriage. It seemed that Chantal’s comment’s elicited a microscopic lift of a well trained eyebrow; clearly the petit fonctionnaire was less than impressed, amused perhaps at the audacity of this American.
“Madame, I will need to see the dossier to ensure everything is in order, so we can begin.”
With both hands we lifted up the dossier and handed it over the glass partition.
“Merci Madame. Bon, alors voyons” as she smiled then adjusted her rose colored designer classes.
For some reason I felt a chill run down my spine. Perhaps there was a window open. I imagined I must be at the border somewhere back in time. Every official had on a leather jacket and gloves. My papers were being very closely examined as were my ankles by some snarling dog. Were my stamps in order? Maybe someone recognized me from the leaflets. Could I run for the door now, make it across the courtyard without getting shot, could I?
Chantal’s elbow nudged me gently. OK, I was back in the game.
After a few moments of silence and turning of documents, mademoiselle rose from her chair along with our dossier and walked over for a private discussion with the same man as in our previous visit, clearly he was the resident exert on French law regarding Americans in France; a remarkably thick document, no doubt. Heads nodded up and down then side to side in unison, a document was being looked at then a finger pointed in my direction, shoulders rose and fell. The Franco-American specialist then sat down and took out the football scores while Mademoiselle returned to her seat.
“Monsieur, the translation that you have submitted is insufficient and we cannot accept it. I am sorry.”
I uttered a few choice words under my breadth then replied “Mademoiselle, the translation was done by a certified, duly authorized translator and one who was recommended by an international organization in Washington, DC.” I could have told her the State Department was in on the translation or the Supreme Court woke up and reviewed or one of the three stooges, it would have had the same effect. I knew it needed more stamps perhaps I should have used my dogs muddy paw print his always did look regal in a certain canine way.
“I will repeat Monsieur, more slowly perhaps..it has to be a traducteur assermenté or it can be a traductrice assermentée.”
She looked at me almost hoping I was going to try and challenge her decision. There was a pregnant pause, both sides eyeing the other, dueling swords at the ready. It was very much a spaghetti western showdown with Clint Eastwood and the bad guys and the same numbing music playing in the background. Chantal looked over at me as if I had grown another head. I was sure she thought that only a fool, well perhaps only a rude American would be so bold (stupid) as to challenge the French State and on its own turf. I put away the sword.
“Now, Monsieur if we can move on, regarding your extrait d’acte de naissance, there is also a problem.”
I responded civilly and with a big smile, “well Mademoiselle, that is mine and I was born in France and la Mairie agrees with me and it’s stamped too, several times I might add.” Three point shot… he scores!!
Mademoiselle smiled as one would with a student showing some difficulties with a simple math problem. “The problem monsieur is that while you are divorced, as your papers indicate, there is no notation of that fact on your acte de naissance.”
The gates of Hell had just re-opened.
Let me get this straight Mademoiselle, are you telling me I should have immediately notified the Marie within moments of my being granted a divorce in our little town which is so far removed from France that for us Paris could be in Texas or Tennessee, just so that some bureaucrat could run down in the archives and note it in pen and ink on my acte de naissance. How can those two events be in anyway related to each other? Oh by the way lady, I don’t mean to be a wise ass but I had a cupcake last week should I put down as well, what about the car purchased, oh yes and the week before… but I figured it was best not to say all of that and instead opted for the civilized, humble citoyen
“Mademoiselle, I am quite unclear as to why my civil action in the United States between two U.S. citizens should even be noted on a birth certificate in the first place and secondly in France of all places.”
Silly American male questions French bureaucratic process. News at eleven.
Ignoring me, she continued on this time in Chantal’s direction who by this time had physically distanced herself for fear of being caught up in a civil liberties battle and the impending doom that would surely befall me. She did not wish to be present in any impending police roundup.
“Madame, without the notation of a divorce on the acte de naissance we cannot move forward however we can assign a date and if all goes well and Monsieur can have the notation then we can proceed with wedding announcement in the newspapers. Time is of the essence of course.” With that she started the doomsday clock; I off and running.
It was a short stay in France and I returned home my tail between my legs. I had no comment for the reporters at the airport gate. The marriage clock was ticking away and I needed to find a translator certified by God and I needed a quick little note about my celibacy status penned on my birth certificate. I did find the translator but she was in France could I deliver the originals? After several inconclusive emails I called the Mairie and eventually was steered to an extremely pleasant, polite and efficient lady. We hit it off immediately. My faith was slowly being restored. I could do this. She listened to my story and when I finally paused she began:
“Well of course I understand completely Monsieur you need to have the acte de naissance noted with your divorce so that you can get married here in France. Yes that is quite clear.”
“Thank you so much, I need to move on this as fast as possible” I replied
“Well there is une petite complication, at the moment we cannot be of assistance because as you see your first marriage was never noted in your acte de naissance. Of course without having that notation, we can’t very well note that you were divorced, you understand.”
I hung up the phone. I had reached the end. The Devil beat me in overtime. That was it! Fini! I took the damn dossier over to the fireplace and emptied its contents into the fire. Then I did the smart thing and poured myself an glass of excellent Bordeaux while I watched my adventure go up in flames.
As I was typing the last few key strokes ”
My dear Chantal, I have given our relationship a great deal of thought these last few months but….” I received an email from Chantal expressing her “disappointment and désolé ..malheureusement etc.,” Right, I understand and decided it was pointless to finish my letter of deep regret. Bottom line: Finis. C’est moi qui vous remercie, Madame.
Well, we all live and learn don’t we?