Prior to leaving I had bridled a bit at the cost and inconvenience
and pondered going visaless. It did not help my mood that Saturday night I ran
across a conspiratorial line in Miłosz’s Native Realm, “After all, documents were thought up by bureaucrats
to poison people’s lives, and one should not have to stick too closely to
regulations.” (66) Certainly in Czarist and Soviet Russia, and probably in
Communist Poland…. Okay, here, too, but a bureaucrat myself and rule follower
(coward), I maintain that bureaucracy has as well its legitimate uses and,
besides, has treated me pretty decently over the years, and while I can be
irreverent toward it, I countenance no outlawry and only occasional scofflawry.
Also, I must confess a certain relish for the idea of “papers,” you know, that
get-out-of-jail-free card, that fourth trump, that golden ticket, that letter
of introduction from God.
Papers are amazing. Black marks on official bond, nice
stamp, have the power of life and death, and other even more important transits.
I’ve always wanted papers. I’ve always wanted to have to produce them and then, produce them. I’ll shuffle around
a bit just to prolong the moment, patting my pockets, before saying, ”I think
this is what you’re looking for.” My documents. My challenger unwraps, unfolds
the leaves, that delicious (to the ear) uncrumpling of paper. He peruses, hands
them back, and sends me on my way. I’m legit. It’s great.
And Jacek and I had a lovely conversation. I learned that Borowicz is a very Polish name, possibly
even Lithuanian. In fact, the name appears in Jacek’s own family line. Does it
mean “son of the forest?”—I wanted to confirm. Of the deep forest, he replied. And when I mentioned that my father was
born in Poland in 1925, he brightened up further and let me know that if a
Polish birth certificate exists, I can claim Polish citizenship. I might
already be Polakiem, if I can only document the bloodline. Blood, ink—the indelible
fluids of identity. I’ll be documented soon; visa comes in a week.
In honor of Miłosz, I parked illegally—not out of
courage, only impatience.
