He emptied his pockets, passed through the metal detector, removed his belt, and went through again. He proceeded into the waiting room at the consular section of the embassy, took a number, and waited for his visa application interview. They'd given him an interview date and time, and he instinctively sat in the seat that was furthest from other people as he waited for his number to be called. For the time being he would be number 456.
He sat around bored and listless like everyone else in there. Everybody seemed to share a kind of collective humiliation at the fact that they were there, and furthermore at the fact that they had no choice but to be there. You could tell that through their moping faces, their audible sighs, their irritation at small things and their disdain for the others around them there, all of which was unmistakable as an expression of the disdain they felt for themselves. Just like him, everyone had filled in the appropriate forms in which they had to state whether they were--or had ever been--members of a terrorist organization; everyone had to state exactly where they would be residing and traveling in the country they wanted to go to, and they would have to produce an itinerary as proof of this for the authorities; everyone would have to have already bought their flight there and back, and would have to produce a copy of the ticket; everyone had to show two forms of I.D. along with photocopies of them; everyone had to produce bank statements and account balances to prove they had a sizeable, steady income that would supposedly preclude them from wanting to emigrate to that country, or that they would have the means to get back from it if they missed their flight or something happened to them when there; everyone had to prove they had medical insurance with overseas coverage; everyone had to produce bills to prove they had a home; and many had to produce a letter of guarantee from a citizen of that country who could vouch for them in case that person turned out to be a terrorist, or a thief, or a criminal, or a killer, or anything else that could be expected from these foreigners intent on visiting this country. Finally, you had to pay a sizeable chunk of money for having put the consular staff through the trouble of having to check all your documents, pry into your private life, and interrogate you to see if you were worthy of visiting their precious country.
He'd been told his interview would be at 11:15, but it was already 11:55, and there were still three people before him. He stared at a tourism poster on the wall inviting him to the country he was trying to get a visa for. The smiling faces and gleaming white teeth, the grand monument behind, the blue sunny sky, the catchy little motto inviting you to visit and enjoy, all as if a big fat testament to the most grotesque kind of irony. Finally number 456 came up on the digital monitor next to a number five which indicated the booth he would be interviewed in. There he sat before a junior diplomat who was separated from him by bulletproof glass. The diplomat--who was about the same age as him, in his early thirties--didn't look up to greet him as he came and sat down. He took about another half a minute to finish writing what he was writing before he raised his head with a cold perfunctory smile that was really more of an eye squint accompanied by a simultaneous inward curl of the lips. They talked to each other through speakerphones.
"Good morning misterrrrrrrr Kulutgay? Kutulgay?"
"Kutluay"
"Ok, mister Katloonay... Emre Katlunay. May I call you Emre?" There was something smug about his question, because he asked it in a way that already assumed the answer would be yes.
"No. You may call me Mr. Kutluay." The diplomat didn't seem too taken aback by this.
"Oo-kay then, Mr. Katlooay. Have you ever been to our country before?"
"Yes. I lived in your country for five years, I went to school there. Have you read the form I filled? I was asked the same question in the form and I wrote my answer under the question. My answer there was 'yes' too."
"Oo-kay, that's fine, we have to ask these, so... Have you ever been denied a visa to our country?"
"No."
"Mm hmm... What's the purpose of your trip?"
"No purpose."
"So 'tourism' then."
"On the contrary, if I had to have a purpose it would be to not be a tourist."
"It's just a formality Mr. Katluday. Most of your documents are in order... but I'm afraid we still need a copy of your company's payroll."
"I'm not on a payroll."
"Well then maybe you could bring us a letter from one of your employers... also we need a bill with your name on it..."
"The bills are under my girlfriend's name."
"... and we need the most recent record of your savings account transactions, this seems to be from the previous month."
"I get it. Although I don't see how my private life is any of your business, nor do I understand why you should feel the need to pry into my personal affairs simply because of my nationality, I understand that I must do this to have the right to set foot on the piece of earth that the organization you work for seems to think it owns..."
"Look Mr. Katlugay, I work for the state..."
"That's what I meant..." He wanted to say "criminal organization" but just held himself.
"By the way, do you also interrogate people from..." he was about to say "white countries" here but again just held himself. "...other countries, like Europe, or Australia?"
"They don't need visas to visit..."
"Why?"
"Well..."
"Why am I presumed guilty because of my nationality until I can muster up the documentation to supposedly prove that I'm innocent, while others are presumed innocent because of their nationality and allowed to waltz on through?"
"Look Mr. Katlunay, I'm simply doing my job here, ok?"
"Yes that's what everybody's doing, 'a job'. You didn't write the laws did you?"
"Well no, exactly."
"But you feel comfortable enacting them. That's no problem for you, right?"
"Listen, you're starting to raise your voice and there are other people waiting for their interviews, now if you would like to cooperate, then fine, if not I will have to call security."
"Ok, that's fine."
The junior diplomat's face softened, and then he continued to go over the visa application form.
"Says here you're a musician?"
"Yes."
"Really? What kind of music do you play?" The diplomat seemed sincerely interested.
"Sort of... I don't know... folk-electronic-funk I guess you'd call it... kind of experimental..."
The diplomat's face lost it's previously dour, bureaucratic demeanor and was all aglow.
"So you know the music scene here then?"
"Yes, well. I'm in it."
"I'm an amateur musician myself," the diplomat said excitedly, taking Emre by surprise with his candidness. The topic of music obviously made the diplomat beam. Emre also relaxed.
"Well, what do you play?" He could tell the diplomat was dying to be asked that question even as he pretended to be examining the visa application form.
"Guitar, electric guitar, we jam every now and then with a few other friends, this other guy I know from here, Mehmet, Mehmet Ortu... Ortunkutu... something, do you know..." Emre shook his head as the diplomat went on.
"...anyway, there's also a guy at the Hungarian embassy, he's a pretty good drummer, used to play in this industrial post-punk band in Budapest, we just get together and play sort of rock and punk covers... We're all pretty into psychedelic rock, funk, post-punk, that sort of stuff..."
"Any local bands you're into?"
"Yeah, I like Argo Margo, Kirinti, Duplikas, and then there's also..."
"I'm in Duplikas."
"You're kidding!"
"Seriously. Look..." Emre showed him a photo of the group from his appleberry.
"Wow. I love Duplikas, I didn't recognize you! I saw your show last year at Babble On..."
"Well, listen..."
"Steve, my name's Steve, call me Steve." It was obvious Steve now felt embarrassed about the bulletproof partition because he sincerely wanted to shake hands.
"Listen Steve, we have a concert at the festival on Friday at Kart Rock Arena. We're up after Dum Dum. I can get you in on the list. Get there two hours before and join us for drinks. Come around the back entrance, next to the parking lot..."
"Are you serious?"
"Very. Then you can come backstage later too."
"Wow, thanks... I'm so excited, thanks so much. Can I bring my girlfriend?"
"I insist."
"Wow, awesome." Steve looked like he'd forgotten he was at work, grilling someone over a visa application. He was even chatty. Then he got referred back to the paperwork with some sense of embarrassment.
"Hey, I know all this stuff is a pain in the ass, I hear you. If it was up to me I'd have none of it but that's the way it is..."
"Yes, that's the way it is."
"Listen... Emre, you don't mind my calling you..."
"Sure, that's fine."
"Emre, thank you, there won't be a problem here, these are mostly formalities..."
"Do you still need the..."
"Yes, I'm afraid so. Sorry, that's just beyond me, if you could just get that latest monthly bank statement and that letter from one of your last employers or someone you sent an invoice to or something... maybe just from the owner or manager of Babble On or something?"
"Ok."
"Again, thanks, I'm really psyched about the concert!"
"Good."
"Ok, well, pleasure meeting you, and just send those remaining documents any time. Monday would be great. I have all your personal info here so I'll call you on your cell if that's cool?"
"Sure."
Emre smiled and waved to Steve, who was on the other side of the bulletproof glass, then took a quick photo of him with his appleberry, and left.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two days later Steve received a phone call. The rendezvous was settled. Steve and his girlfriend would show up before the show as they'd agreed, and they would all hang out.
Steve was excited about the prospect. Like any other young man who'd entered civil service in his late-twenties, he had other dreams. You study what you're supposed to study and pass the exams and work for the public service, and what you get is security. That's the trade-off. But the dreams don't die. On the contrary, the dreams are what make the reality bearable. You continue to write poems and stories, and dream of writing that novel; you continue here and there in their spare time to play music, to devote yourself to something, anything, that could offset the dreary realization that you will probably spend a good chunk of the rest of their youth pushing paper on behalf of people and organizations that have essentially no interest in you on a personal level, that are all oblivious to you. You would be assured of respect, money, status, belonging, and security... and in the meantime the dreams would reassure you that you still mattered, that that wasn't all there was to it, and that somehow there was still hope of something true, beautiful, wonderful to look forward to.
For Steve, the dream was music. He rarely had the time or energy to play guitar as much as it would take to make something of it, but he kept true to the dream, and he kept the dream close by trying to be in the vicinity of music. To hang out with musicians successful musicians whom he admired, listened to and wanted to emulate--that was a godsend for him. It was like a foot in the door in a foreign country where, despite having already been there a year and a half, he still felt outside the society in which he lived, and especially the music scene that he loved and wanted to be a part of somehow. He even felt truly satisfied with his job at that moment, realizing that it would give him the opportunity to meet people, as it had on this occasion with Emre. He always had conflicting emotions about having to become a public servant, but now it had seemed a good choice, and he was proud of himself.
It was Friday and Steve left the embassy earlier than usual. He went home, changed into a pair of jeans along with a favorite psychedelic t-shirt that he'd bought a year ago from a vintage clothes store, cracked open a beer, and put on some music while he waited for his girlfriend to arrive. He listened to a few Duplikas songs, lit a cigarette, played a little on his guitar, even sang a few songs out loud. Then his girlfriend arrived¾Sevil, a girl he'd met at a cocktail about three months ago¾and they left for Kart Rock Arena.
They went around back to the VIP entrance. He told them his name and that he was here as a guest of Emre Kutluay of Duplikas. The bouncers at the door said nothing, but told Steve, oddly, that he had to wait for exactly 40 minutes. Steve protested, although not adamantly, because he was happy to be there nevertheless, and thought that maybe there was something that required him to wait. So he did. When the 40 minutes were finally up (timed exactly to the minute on the bouncer's stopwatch, which seemed odd), his hand was stamped with the number 456 (which also bemused him because his girlfriend wasn't stamped), and he was led into a large open hangar-like area where he saw musicians hanging out with their friends and managers and entourages before the show. Some were eating, some were drinking, some were strumming their guitars or warming up their throats or just generally fooling around. There was a bar and a giant ice-filled vat full of bottles and cans of beer, and there was also a long food buffet. It was a very chill kind of scene overall, and Steve felt instantly enchanted with it. He soaked all of it in, the sounds, the faces, the gestures, the clothes, the smell, the vibes... this was what he wanted to be a part of, he would give anything to be a part of this life. It was like he'd passed through one of those magic gateways in a children's book. There were lots of people around, since it was a two-day festival that featured ten different bands which Duplikas was headlining. As he and Sevil wended their way through, they came upon the table where four of the five members of Duplikas sat. He immediately recognized them and gave them an excited greeting. They all cut their conversation and turned to look at him without saying anything back. He noticed that Emre wasn't among them. Then one of them--whom Steve recognized as the drummer--smiled at Steve and pointed silently in another direction.
Steve looked off to where the drummer had pointed. There were people in front of him and his girlfriend so they had trouble seeing without standing on the tips of their toes. Then, as if having suddenly been given orders by someone, all those in front of Steve parted way and stood aside, revealing a path that led across the room to a man sitting behind a desk on a dais with a microphone before him. He couldn't immediately recognize the man because he wore a strange blue mask that resembled a bird's head with an erect blue crest and a beak over his nose. Then he noticed the massive fanning arch of peacock plumes with the eerie feathery eyes spread out on the wall behind him. Steve and his girlfriend were stunned, because this obviously involved only them. Everyone fell silent at once. The music stopped, the din of chatter ceased, everyone put down their food and drinks, and stared at Steve.
"Sit!" declared the peacock king as somebody placed a chair before his desk.
Steve still couldn't believe what was happening and didn't know whether to laugh and play along with what must be some kind of eccentric antic that would be expected from those involved in the creative arts, or whether he should just turn and flee, which is what his instincts told him to do. But his courage and curiosity got the better of him, and he wasn't going to pull out now. He had to go along with it, and besides, he reckoned, it would probably turn out to be fun, or at least an interesting anecdote.
He sat down before the peacock throne. His chair was low, so that he found himself having to look up at the man in the peacock suit, which must obviously be Emre, he thought. But Steve didn't say anything and decided to play along with what he suspected might all be in jest. He was now feeling a little more at ease, as if he was a part of the joke and not the possible butt of it.
"Name?"
"Steve Casey Gramson..."
"Passport!"
"Passport?"
"PASS-PORT! passport passport passport"
"I didn't bring it."
"Where do you think you're going without a passport?"
"A concert. I don't need a passport to go to a concert..."
"Do you need a passport to go to another country?"
"Yes..."
"Well this is our country and you need your passport."
Steve smiled and shrugged sarcastically, still playing along with the game.
"Well nobody told me I need a passport..."
"Of course not, it's assumed you would know as much as to bring a passport! Tourist brochures don't say 'Come to Happyland, Bring Your Passport!' do they?"
"Uh... ok, whatever..."
"What is your business here? Why do you want to enter our country?"
"Uh... this isn't a country..."
"THIS IS A COUNTRY! This is a land of sound and melody and song and laughter, this is a land of verse, this is a free land, a liberated country, and the vibes of this country are sacred and to be protected from the evil essence of undesirable foreigners lacking spiritual cadence, the rhythmically challenged who might pollute our country with their slave-like obeisance to authority, their denial of the true nature of the human soul, and their avaricious attempt to own a piece of mother nature's earth while extorting a ransom from those who seek their life-given right to walk upon it like the children of Mother Earth who have a right to every inch of their mother's bosom. This is indeed a country, and I am the president! See them worship me!"
The peacock king pointed at those around them and Steve looked back to find that all had indeed bowed their heads in submission. Although taken aback by the peacock king's booming and inspired--albeit ridiculous--speech, Steve still played along, though now slightly more impressed by the earnestness and elaborateness of the joke he found himself a part of.
"I ask you again, vile foreign vermin... PASSPORT!"
"I told you I don't have it" Steve blurted out, feeling a bit annoyed now. But he decided to improvise within the game as well. "Besides, how do you know I am not one of your country? How do you know I don't have the... uh... rhythmic cadent mother vibe thing?"
"Because in our country no citizen has a passport! You said you didn't bring your passport. That proves that you are a foreigner!"
The other people around him all shouted "Foreigner!" Steve felt now that he was becoming the butt of the joke and felt uneasy was once more.
"Also," the peacock king added as an aside in a more mellow and sarcastic tone, "nobody has a... what did you call it? Rhythmic cadent... mother... vibe... thing, was it?"
"Yeah"
"Well nobody has that, it's ludicrous."
"Ok, I got it, but..."
"But what foreigner!?"
"But... you invited me here, Emre!" Steve raised his voice in a pleading tone.
"Who is this 'Emre'? Where is he? Prove you were invited here!"
"You are, you're Emre, YOU INVITED ME!"
"I did not! Maybe you were duped by one of our tourism posters or brochures or something?"
Steve fell back in his chair and looked at his girlfriend. Sevil just stood behind him bemused and not sure whether to be amused or worried.
"But now that you have come this far," continued the peacock king with regal flourish, "now that you have gone out of your way to come here, we will give you a chance. May I see your bank account transactions over the last month please?"
Steve went red. He looked up at the peacock mask with a furious look on his face. He could now see where this was going.
"Fuck you."
Steve got up to leave, grabbed his girlfriend's hand, and made for the door. The peacock king shouted "Guards!" and the bouncers seized Steve and brought him back to the chair. Steve didn't put up a fight, feeling that it was all so ridiculous, such a joke, that fighting would somehow be completely inappropriate... not to mention futile.
"BANK TRANSACTIONS!"
"I really don't see how you could ask for something like that..."
"But I do! You see, I can't trust that you will pay for what you consume in our country. I can't trust that you will have money to pay for the gas your need to drive yourself back to your country. I can't trust you can pay for medical expenses should something happen to you in our country. I must be assured that you have the wherewithal to look after yourself, that you are a respectable and decent person, and not a filthy cadentially and rhythmically challenged foreigner! You need to PROVE to me that you are not SCUM. Because when I look at you, foreigner, I can only conclude that you MUST be scum until you prove otherwise."
"Fuck you."
"Incorrect answer! That will be duly noted when making the final decision on whether you may enter our country or not. Do you have a job?"
"Of course I do, you saw me in the embassy when..."
"PROVE IT! Letter from employer please. After all, I have to know you have a steady source of income, otherwise you may never want to leave my country, because my country is beautiful, my country is golden, my country is better than your country, if flows with music and melody, unlike your measly country... and you really really want to live in my country, don't you?"
Steve was angry and ashamed. He was ashamed at how much he had wanted to come here tonight, how enthusiastic he'd been about it, and how much he'd shown his enthusiasm to Emre. The enchanted space was now a viper's nest and the eyes all around him seared right through his conscious. He was ashamed to be there, and his heart sank and he just wanted the joke to be over.
"Well?"
"Look, you win... you made your point. Just let me go now."
"I don't think so!" said the peacock king, followed by a chorus from those around: "We don't think so!"
For the first time, Steve felt not only embarrassed, but scared.
"So... as I was saying, I will need to see your bank account; also a list of everything you own, especially real estate if you have any; health insurance, with overseas coverage; a copy of a payroll with your name on it; a bill with your name on it; a letter of confidence from a national of our country; a list of everywhere you plan to go, be, stay, eat, piss, shit, fart, breathe in our country..."
"Stop this! I get it!"
"...I will need 52 photos, 63 copies of every document, with size 16 Verdana font, an Excel spreadsheet listing an inventory of all the documents being handed over..."
"Oh my God, please just stop..."
"Also, have you ever been a member of a terrorist organization? Do you have any prior convictions?"
"Of course not!"
"Well we'll need proof of that, make sure to bring us a document from the Justice Ministry stating that you have no prior convictions and are not a criminal nor ever have been. We'll also need a list of everything that's crossed your mind in the last 24 hours, because we need to know if your thoughts are as pure and harmless as you make them out to be. The list must of course be notarized so we know that you weren't lying. You will need a mind reader under oath..."
"This is absurd, stop it."
"Are you a man?"
"Just stop it..."
"ARE YOU A MAN!?"
"YES YES, I AM A MAN! I AM A FUCKING MAN!"
"Well then we'll also need a photo of you naked so we know that you are a man as you claim to be. Remember that both your face and your testicles have to be in the same frame so we know those testicles belong to that face. It also should be notarized so we know you didn't just Photoshop your face to your dick."
"Fuck you, asshole."
"Oooh, your violent words will be duly noted when making our final decision!"
"I don't want to be in your fucking country."
"So then why did you come here? Have you been wasting our time?"
Steve now had his head in his hands in desperation. He was losing it.
"Stop this torture, please, Emre, I beg of you... just let us go."
Somebody came and handed the peacock king a document. The peacock king looked at it, shook is head gravely, and then looked at Steve.
"Shit, what now?"
"Oh no, I'm sorry Mr. Grandson. It seems that you have lied to us. We have proof that you are--or have recently been--the member of a terrorist criminal organization."
He produced a blown up photo of Steve at his booth in the consular section of the embassy. It was the photo Emre had taken with his appleberry after their interview.
"There, in the background, you can unmistakably see the flag of the organization you work for, along with the standard uniform of that organization, which you are wearing with a big grin on your face, like you're actually happy and proud to be there! Our country lists your organization as a terrorist organization responsible for the past and ongoing invasion of foreign countries; of genocide to the displaced and slaughtered local inhabitants; of the enslavement and brainwashing of its own citizens--presumably, from what I see in this photo, you included; of having stolen, killed for, hijacked and wrongfully appropriated a piece of earth and denied others access to that land on random, racist grounds based on background, nationality and ethnicity; and of having made otherwise free and normal people spend their lives having to wear ridiculous costumes while doing soul-crushing work for the sake of hollow and meaningless ideals..."
"Jesus Christ, you sound like a college freshman on a 3am rant after way too many bong hits..."
"So you're also familiar with drugs! That's not good! Now I'm afraid your request for entry into our nation has been denied for lack of the appropriate paperwork and documentation, and also now because of your suspicious familiarity with illegal mind-altering substances. You will have to fill out this form to leave."
Steve was relieved when he heard that he could leave. He eagerly took the form and read over it. It made no sense whatsoever to him.
"Remember Mr. Grimsonny, you have to answer all the questions!"
The form consisted of three nonsensical multiple-choice questions. Steve felt like he was in a fraternity hazing. One question read "You have become sick in our country. Do you a) apply for citizenship to our country to freeload off our superior healthcare system, b) demand our doctors treat you before treating one of our own citizens, or c) burden us with all your medical bills that our taxpayers have to pay for?" Another question read "If you commit a crime in our country, do you a) run away from the police, b) contact your embassy and seek their protection, or c) claim that our laws don't apply to you because you don't recognize our laws or our moral standards?" Yet another question read "As a dirty, deceitful, thieving foreigner, should we a) strip-search you every time you enter or exit a shop when in our country because we know that your kind of people could probably do that sort of thing because it's in your nature, b) allow you to become a citizen of our country because you'd like to take advantage of our generous social welfare system and make money doing nothing while there because you are a lazy no-good foreigner by nature, or c) try and act like we respect you because we should believe that prejudice is the real crime here and that we're the ones guilty of 'othering' you because your ethnicity, name, nationality, culture, language and clothes differ from ours?"
"Just answer the questions Mr. Grimbo, and you are free."
"Fine."
Steve quickly circled the first answers to the first two questions, and then circled "c" on the third question, thinking that might at least be to his favor, before disgustedly throwing the form back at the peacock king.
"Hm, as we suspected, had you not lied to us about having been a member of a terrorist organization you'd still have had trouble explaining this form. According to this you would apply for citizenship to our country to freeload off our superior healthcare system in case of illness and run away from the police if you commit a crime in our country. These are both unacceptable I'm afraid. As for the third question you answered that we should try and act like we respect you because we should believe that prejudice is the real crime and that we're the ones guilty of 'othering' you because your ethnicity, name, nationality, culture, language and clothes differ from ours. Unfortunately this would make you a hypocrite, because I have a here a form of the list of countries from which the terrorist organization you work for demands visas, and a list of the countries it doesn't. You will see that citizens of the countries culturally, historically, ethnically, politically and socio-economically similar to yours are all presumed to be good and innocent until proven guilty because no visa procedure, interrogation, background checks, and prying into their private lives is required in any way. These people can come and go as they please and you do not need to see their bank account balance, you do not need to ask them whether they have ever been members of a terrorist group, you do not need them to come up with a sponsor in your country, you do not need them to pay money for the permission to enter your country, and you do not ask them to produce a copy of their payroll or state how much money they earn, where they work, where they live and produce a list of the real estate they may or may not own. On the other hand those countries that are dissimilar to yours in the same way do have to go through those procedures, effectively being treated as guilty until they can prove themselves probably innocent."
Steve was on the verge of breaking down. He just wanted to crawl into a hole now and never come out again.
"As you can see Mr. I-can't-bother-to-learn-how-to-pronounce-your-foreign-name-properly-because-it's-so-strange-it-cannot-possibly-have-a-proper-pronunciation-anyway-so-any-way-I-pronouce-it-will-work-just-fine-for-me, if there is one thing we cannot stand, it's a hypocrite. Mr. Gramson, your visa has been denied! Now, FUCK OFF!"
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On Monday, Emre was back at the embassy and he took a seat opposite Steve. Neither said a word to each other and Steve never even looked at Emre's face. Emre handed him the missing documentation. Steve took it and said coldly while examining them that his visa would be ready within five working days. Emre got up and left.
When Steve looked up he saw the peacock mask lying on the counter before him, on the other side of the bulletproof glass.
