The Devil in the Details
By Carlos
Cortes
NEXT in
line was a typical family: man and woman and a kid about two years old, and a
baggage cart laden with their boxes and suitcases. The man handed over their
tickets and passports. The flight was for Singapore, with many of the
passengers having outbound connections: some to Jakarta, others to Cairns,
still others to Auckland, Heathrow, or JFK. This family, two Germans and a
Filipina, was bound for Frankfurt.
When I say
they were Germans and a Filipina I am going by their passports, of course; in
my line of work one speaks of these things in a technical manner, disregarding
racial and ethnic considerations. The man happened to have the Aryan features
associated with the typical German, such as blond hair and blue eyes. For me,
however, all that mattered was that he had a German passport.
The boy was
German, too, but if I hadn’t seen his passport I would have guessed him to be
Filipino. His mother was cooing to him, in babytalk of course, but Cebuano
babytalk, in which I detected a faint Boholano accent. The kid was repeating
some of her words; he was taking to her language in much the same way he took
after her. He had only the slightest hint of the mestizo alemán about
him. To be sure, his complexion was rather light and his hair was brownish. But
he did not look Nordic at all. He could have been a son of mine: he looked
Visayan enough. The only thing German about him was a piece of paper. However,
I was trained to give due credit to such pieces of paper.
The kid’s
passport was literally a piece of paper. It wasn’t the kind of German passport
his father had, the booklet with a hard maroon cover that had the
words Europäische Gemeinschaft, then below thatBundesrepublik Deutschland,
then below the heraldic eagle the wordReisepass. That kind of passport was sometimes
issued to children too, but not often; the German government offered a
children’s version of its passport, and since the processing fee for the
Kinderausweis, as it was called, was much lower, it was what German children
almost always had. A single sheet of green paper folded and refolded upon
itself so that one could unfold it into four pages, the Kinderausweis looked
like afun passport; one could imagine it had been made in a gingerbread
house, whereas the Reisepass could only have come from an office.
WE used the
Departure Control System, DCS for short, a simple and good computer program.
Accepting passengers for a flight was a breeze in DCS. For international
flights, however, we had to input so many things the entries often became
cumbersome. Care was essential. A single typo was all it took for the whole
entry to be invalid, and then one would have to start all over again.
I would
assign them good seats, one seat by the window for the kid, for both flights. I
would tag their baggage for Frankfurt and waive the charge for excess weight
of—I checked the readout on the weighing scale—seven kilos. But first things
first. Were their documents in order?
The German
was at the top of the name list. On my screen he was EFKEMANN/HEINZJUERGENMR
and now I entered the supplementary information for him:
PASDE6792035487.DOB09OCT67. The code PAS DE meant Passport Deutsch. The
numerals were his passport number. DOB was date of birth, 10-09-67 on his
Reisepass. The name on the passport, Efkemann, Heinz Jürgen, matched the name
on the ticket, except for the spelling of Jürgen. No big deal. I knew
the u with an umlaut was usually written as ue on tickets.
I idly wondered if they could print out the umlaut on tickets issued in
Germany. I could ask this guy, but in this line of work one did not ask too
many irrelevant questions.
The kid was
EFKEMANN/PETERMSTR and I put in the details from his Kinderausweis:
PASDE2057644.DOB07AUG00. His color picture on the inside page showed him to be
a beautiful baby, brownish hair topping a face more Visayan than Eurasian. It
didn’t seem jarring to me, because brown hair appeared in my family too, about
once a generation...we got it from a friar or two somewhere in the family tree;
a recessive gene, but one that popped up now and then: my sister’s hair, jet
black indoors, blazed with chestnut highlights in afternoon sunshine; my aunt
had hair that was nearly auburn; my great-grandmother was supposed to have been
a real blonde...my mind was wandering again. I wrenched it back to the present,
to this little boy I was accepting for the flight, Master Peter Efkemann. I was
glad to see they hadn’t given him one of those uniquely German names like
Dietmar, Detlev, Heinrich, or Wolfgang. Peter was a very German name, but it
was also very Anglo, very American, very Filipino: a good international name.
ONE had to
anticipate how things would be at the destination, in this case Frankfurt. From
the German point of view the two males, holders of German passports, would be
natives coming home; no problems there. It was different for the woman. As a
Philippine passport holder, she would be a visiting alien. Here I had to be
careful. If Frankfurt found this one inadmissible, she would be deported and
the airline would be fined five thousand Deutschmarks. They wouldn’t deduct
that amount from my salary but an investigation would be launched, explanations
would have to be submitted, and I would probably wind up getting a week’s
suspension. A week’s pay for me wasn’t quite DM5000, but it was hefty enough.
For
EFKEMANN/CHERILYNMS I typed in PASPHZZ395624. The passport had been issued in
Cebu on February 20, 1998. Philippine passports were valid for five years, and
hers would expire in 2003: good enough. As a general rule, anyone going to a
foreign country had to have at least six months’ validity left in his passport.
After doing
DOB24AUG75 I glanced at her to check if she was indeed 26 going on 27. She
actually looked somewhat younger, but it had to be because she was a very
lovely girl. I noticed the passport had been issued to Dayonot, Cherilyn Hawak,
place of birth Talibon, Bohol. I turned to page 4 and sure enough the amendment
was there: a change of name from Dayonot to Efkemann due to marriage to
Efkemann, Heinz Jurgen, on 28 January 2000. The DFA official who signed the
amendment hadn’t put the umlaut over the u in Jürgen, but I supposed
he had merely copied the name from the marriage contract. If the wedding had
been in Bohol there was little chance an umlaut would have appeared on that marriage
certificate.
There would
be a German visa inside that passport, I knew. I didn’t think it would be the
one called the Aufenhaltsberechtigung, as I knew that kind of visa got issued
only to foreigners who had been in Germany for some time. It was roughly the
German equivalent of the American green card: it had no expiry date, and it
doubled as a work permit. I had no idea how the word Aufenhaltsberechtigung
translated, only that people who had that visa could speak German very well and
knew their way around the country.
Perhaps her
visa would be the Aufenhaltserlaubnis. This one had an expiration date, found
in the space after gültig bis (“valid until”). In many cases, instead
of a date there would be the word unbefristet. This meant something like
“indefinite” and was what I most often saw on the visas of Filipinas married to
Germans. This unbefristet was usually written on the visa in
longhand, by someone with a Teutonic scrawl.
There were
entry and exit stamps showing she had been to Hong Kong and Taipei but I barely
glanced at those; they were irrelevant. She had an expired visa for Dubai with
corresponding entry/exit stamps: she must have been an OFW not too long ago,
but this too was none of my concern. When I found it, her German visa was the
Schengen Staten type, which is valid for only a few months. All right, this
probably meant she was going to Germany for the first time. Married three years
and never yet been to her husband’s homeland? A question for the curious, but
one I did not ask; it wasn’t politic to ask too many impertinent questions in
this business.
Unlike the
Aufenhalstserlaubnis, which was valid as soon as it was issued, the Schengen
Staten visa did not become valid until a certain date, which might be a month
or more from its date of issuance. The words to look for were gültig
vom and gültig bis, “valid from” and “valid until.” On Cherilyn’s
visa I saw a gültig für Schengener Staten, then below that a vom
04-05-02, which was tomorrow’s date, and abis 07-07-02, which was months away
in the future, as the expiration date should be.
So now the
entry for EFKEMANN/CHERILYNMS was PASPHBB335622.DOB08 JAN 75.VISD13581677. The
visa number belonged more or less to the same series I had seen on other
Schengen Staten visas. Everything about this visa looked and felt authentic,
down to the imprinted curlicues and the holograph.
Efkemann had
waited in silence as I pounded the computer keys but now, from the amount of
time I had spent scrutinizing the visa, he must have thought I looked unsure of
the German words in it.
“Issued
yesterday,” he said, “by ze Cherman Embassy in Manila.”
“Sus, kapoya
gyud uy,” said Cherilyn. “We flew back from Manila last night, and now we
are flying off again. Give us seats near the front, won’t you? I get seasick
when I sit at the back, and Singapore to Frankfurt is such a long flight.”
“Ja,
ja,” said Efkemann, “give us seats by ze emerchency exit. I haf fery long
legs.”
Today was
April 4; by the time their connecting flight landed in Frankfurt it would be
early in the morning of April 5, the first day Cherilyn’s visa was valid. That
was all right, then. I couldn’t assign them to seats in any of the exit rows,
as they had a child with them. Safety regulations required that only
able-bodied adults be put in those rows. Nor could I put them in front, as all
the seats there were taken. I would have to explain these things tactfully and
put them where I could.
An itch in my
groin bothered me. I pushed the irritation away from the forefront of my
consciousness and concentrated on the task at hand. Had I missed anything? Was
there something not quite right? I was glad Cherilyn was a very poised young
lady. I had been nonchalant, and so had she. I had never seen her before. She
had never seen me before. I was just the guy at the counter and she was just
another passenger...
They were all
passengers: veteran travellers, first timers, it was always passengers and more
passengers. Every day I sat there and took on long lines of passengers: rich
tourists, backpackers, businessmen, contract workers, domestic helpers,
emigrants, nuns, monks, refugees, laissez-passiers, diplomats, envoys,
mercenaries; Sikhs, Arabs, Orthodox Jews, Amish, Hottentots, Lapps, Australian
aborigines; Koreans, Czechs, Rwandans, Turks, Brazilians, Swedes, Zambians,
Greeks...I had seen them all, I would see many more of them tomorrow, it was
all one long line, stretching on across the years I had spent in this job, an
endless line that snaked around the globe, passengers joining the line in
Timbuktu and Xanadu and Cuzco and Urumqi and inching forward until one day they
reached me at the counter...
THE
difference between the American and the European styles of writing dates all in
numbers was what had been bothering me. Only now did I remember that a date
written as 01-02-03 would mean January 2, 2003 to an American, but would be read
as 01 February 2003 by a European. I for that matter would tend to read it as
January 2, as I had learned this shortcut for writing dates in elementary
school, and it was the American system that had been taught to us.
I looked at
the visa again. Of course, why hadn’t I seen it before? The gültig für
Schengener Staten vom 04-05-02 did not mean April 5; it meant 04 May. I
had been blind. I had wanted to see a visa that would become valid only a few
hours before its holder entered German airspace. I had trusted Efkemann: like
any methodical German, he would have made sure everything was in order. If
their flight would bring them to Frankfurt on April 5, his wife’s visa would be
valid on April 5. Unthinkable for it not to be.
Yet there it
was, staring me right in the face, gültig vom 04-05-02, and it seemed the
height of silliness to point it out, but this visa was definitely not in order.
No doubt about it. The German immigration officer who would be looking at this
visa in Frankfurt would interpret 04-05-02 as 04 Mai and inform Herr Efkemann
that Frau Efkemann’s visa was not valid, would not be valid for another month,
and very sorry about this, mein Herr, but we are only doing our duty. We must
deport her.
My finger was
about to hit ENTER but now I desisted. I would have to break the information to
them as succinctly as I could. You just did not pussyfoot around a German. You
had to come right to the point.
“Very sorry,
Herr Efkemann,” I said, “but this visa is not yet valid. It will be valid on
May fourth, a month from now.”
I showed it
to him.
He did not
say anything. He took the passport and peered at the visa. Then, handing the
passport to Cherilyn, he stepped off to the side and whipped out a cell phone.
Soon he was talking in rapid German.
“It’s a
mistake!” Cherilyn said. “We told the people at the Embassy we had a booking
for April 4, we would arrive in Germany on April 5!Susmariosep, I’m sure
somebody inverted those numbers!”
Germans, I
reflected, obeyed traffic lights and all kinds of signs. That one there had
seen a sign that said gültig vom 04-05-02, and it never occurred to him
that it should not be obeyed. Filipinos on the other hand always looked for
exemptions, for a way out. This one in front of me was trying to put it all
down to some clerical error.
I went to
apprise my supervisor of the situation. When he came out with me, Efkmann was
still talking on his phone. We waited for him to finish.
“Gott in
Himmel,” he muttered as he put the phone back into his pocket.
“Mr.
Efkemann?” my supervisor began, “Very sorry, but we cannot check in Mrs.
Efkemann all the way to Frankfurt. We could check her in, but up to Singapore
only. Do you still want to take the flight? Maybe it would be better if you
rebook for May 3 or 4.”
He was
outlining the options. None of those scenarios had been in this family’s mind a
few minutes ago. But the German, I could see, was adjusting his thinking to the
changed situation as quickly as anyone could.
“It’s those
Filipina office workers at the German Embassy,” Cherilyn said. “They must have
mixed up the date. We told them we were leaving April 4, nicht wahr, mein
schatz?”
I didn’t know
about that. I had a couple of friends who had been to Germany; if I understood
it right, there was a space in the visa application form where one filled in
one’s desired date of entry in DD/MM/YR form. In most cases the Embassy, if it
could, simply gave you what you wanted. Was that the most likely explanation,
then? That Cherilyn herself had mixed up the date? She had gone to school in
Bohol: she must have learned to write dates in number format the American way.
The confounded date was a dumb mistake, but quite natural in this context. I
might have made the same mistake myself, and the chances were I wouldn’t have
noticed it until it was too late to do anything about it.
What Cherilyn
did not fully appreciate was that Germans would follow the letter of the law in
things like this. It would be of no moment that some silly mistake had been
made; what had been written was written and that was that. She seemed to be
holding on to the hope that a spoken word from some German Embassy official
would make everything all right and they could then get on the flight and reach
Frankfurt to find the mistake smoothed over. She looked at her husband
expectantly.
“Ach, to make
in ze visa a refision ve must haf to go to ze Cherman Embassy in
Manila, ja? No, I zink ve must rebook.”
“Very well,
Mr. Efkemann,” said my supervisor, “would you come inside the office please? We
will rebook your tickets now.”
CHERILYN
remained in front of me at the counter, her little boy in her arms; most of the
booked passengers had checked in by now and gone on to the Immigration
counters.
“That’s
probably what happened,” I said. “Some Filipino wrote April 4 the Filipino
way.”
“God, how
dumb. And it turns out to be May 4 to the Germans.”
“Yeah, all of
them in Europe write it that way.”
“Oh, I guess
we were dummies, too. We looked at the visa when we got it yesterday, but we
never saw that. Jürgen should have seen it. I don’t know why he didn’t. But we
were in a hurry. We had to catch the flight back to Cebu.”
“Things like
that, everything looks okay...until you read the fine print.”
“Bitaw, ma-o
gyud! It’s the fine print that gets you every time. The devil is in the
details.”
“Handsome boy
you’ve got there. Takes after the father, doesn’t he?”
“Hoy, abi
nimo, when he came out I was relieved to see he had light hair. Up until
that moment I was afraid he might take after you.”
“Well, he
didn’t, did he?”
“He’s got
your eyes.”
“Yeah, I can
see that.”
“But it’s his
hair that clinches it. Your hair’s black. His is brown.”
“Right. I
guess that’s the clincher all right.”
“No doubt
about it.”
There was no
point in mentioning that brown hair popped up in my family every now and then.
That would be the height of silliness. In this business, one did not say too
many unnecessary things.