Donna Tartt - The Goldfinch

Name. Date of birth. Date and city of passport issue. Sweating in my overcoat. Humid breathing bodies all around.

“Do you have documentation establishing your citizenship?” she was saying.

“Sorry—?”

“An expired passport? Birth or naturalization certificate?”

“I have a Social Security card. And a New York State ID. I can have a copy of my birth certificate faxed from the States.”

“Oh, great. That should be sufficient.”

Really? I stood motionless. Was that all?

“Do you have access to a computer?”

“Um—” computer at the hotel?—“sure.”

“Well—” she gave me a web address. “You’ll need to download, print, and fill out an affidavit regarding lost and stolen passport and bring it here. To our offices. We’re near the Rijksmuseum. Do you know where?”

I was so relieved that I could only stand there and let the crowd noises babble and stream over me in a psychedelic blur.

“So—this is what I need from you,” California Girl was saying, her crisp voice recalling me from my varicolored fever reverie. “The affidavit. The faxed documents. Two copies of a 5x5 centimeter photograph with a white background. Also, don’t forget, copy of the police report.”

“Sorry?” I said, jarred.

“Like I was saying. With lost or stolen passports we require you to file a police report?”

“I—” Staring at an eerie convergence of veiled Arabic women, gliding past silently in head-to-toe black. “I won’t have time for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not like I’m flying to America today. It’s just that—” it took me a moment to recover; my coughing fit had brought tears to my eyes—“my train to Paris leaves in two hours. So, I mean—I don’t know what to do. I’m not sure I can get all this paperwork done and make it to the police station too.”

“Well”—regretfully—“hey, actually you know, our offices are only open for another forty-five minutes.”

“What?”

“We close early today. Christmas Eve, you know? And we’re gone tomorrow, and the weekend. But we’ll be open again at eight-thirty a.m. on the Monday after Christmas.”

“Monday?”

“Hey, I’m sorry,” she said. She sounded resigned. “It’s a process.”

“But it’s an emergency!” Voice rasping with illness.

“Emergency? Family or medical?”

“I—”

“Because, in certain very rare situations we do supply emergency after-hours support.” She wasn’t so friendly any more; she was rushed, reciting from her script, I could hear another call ringing in the background like a radio phone-in show. “Unfortunately this is confined to urgent situations of life or death and our staff has to determine that domestic emergency is warranted before we issue a passport waiver. So unless circumstances of death or critical illness require you to travel to Paris this afternoon, and unless you can supply information establishing the critical emergency such as an affidavit with attending physician, clergy, or funeral director—”

“I—” Monday? Fuck! I didn’t even want to think about the police report—“hey, sorry, listen—” she was trying to ring off—

“That’s right. You get it all together by Monday the twenty-eighth. And then, yes, once the application is in we’ll process it for you as quickly as we can—sorry, will you excuse me a second?” Click. Her voice, fainter. “Good morning, United States Consulate of the Netherlands, will you please hold?” Immediately the phone began to ring again. Click. “Good morning, United States Consulate of the Netherlands, will you please hold?”

“How fast can you have it for me?” I said, when she came back on.

“Oh, once you get the application in we should actually have it for you within ten working days, tops. That’s working days. Like—normally I’d do my best to rush it through for you in seven? but with the holidays, I’m sure you understand, the office is a little backed up right now, and our hours are really irregular until New Year’s. So—hey, sorry,” she added, in the stunned silence that had fallen, “it may be a while. Rotten news, I know.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Do you need traveller’s assistance?”

“I’m not sure what that means.” Sweat pouring off me. Rank heated air, heavy with crowd odors, barely breathable.

“Money wired? Temporary accommodations?”

“How am I supposed to get home?”

“You’re a resident of Paris?”

“No, United States.”

“Well with a temporary passport—a temporary passport doesn’t even have the chip you need to enter the United States so I’m not sure that there are really any short cuts that will get you there a whole lot faster than I can get you there by—” Ring ring, ring ring. “Just a moment, sir, will you please hold?

“Now, my name is Holly. Would you like me to give you my extension number, just in case you run into any problems or need any assistance during your stay?”

iii.

MY FEVER, FOR WHATEVER reason, tended to spike at nightfall. But after so long on my feet in the cold, it had begun to shoot up in ragged jumps that had the jerky quality of a heavy object being hauled by fits and starts up the side of a tall building, so that on the walk home I hardly understood why I was moving or why I didn’t fall down or indeed how I was proceeding forward at all, a sort of groundless gliding unconsciousness that carried me high above myself on rainy canal side-streets and up into disembodied lofts and drafts where I seemed to be looking down on myself from above; it had been a mistake not to get a cab back at the station, I kept seeing the plastic bag in the garbage bin and the shiny pink face of the ticket clerk and Boris with tears in his eyes and blood on his hand, clutching at the burnt place on his sleeve; and the wind roared and my head burned and at irregular intervals I flinched at dark epileptic flutters at elbow’s edge: black splashes, false starts, no one there, in fact no one on the street at all except—every now and then—a cyclist dim and hunched in the drizzle.

Heavy head, bad throat. When, finally, I managed to flag down a cab on the street, I was only a few minutes from the hotel. The one good thing, when I got upstairs—bonechilled and shaking—was that they’d cleaned the room and restocked the bar, which I’d drunk clear down to the Cointreau.

I retrieved both mini-bottles of gin and mixed them with hot water from the tap and sat in the brocade chair by the window, glass dangling from my fingertips, watching the hours slide: barely awake, a half-dreaming state, solemn winter light tilting from wall to wall in parallelograms that slipped to the carpet and narrowed until they faded out to nothing and it was dinnertime, and my stomach ached and my throat was raw with bile and there I still sat, in the dark. It was nothing I hadn’t thought of, plenty, and in far less taxing circumstances; the urge shook me grandly and unpredictably, a poisonous whisper that never wholly left me, that on some days lingered just on the threshold of my hearing but on others roared up uncontrollably into a sort of lurid visionary frenzy, why I wasn’t sure, sometimes even a bad movie or a gruesome dinner party could trigger it, short term boredom and long term pain, temporary panic and permanent desperation striking all at once and flaring up in such an ashen desolate light that I saw, really saw, looking back down the years and with all clear-headed and articulate despair, that the world and everything in it was intolerably and permanently fucked and nothing had ever been good or okay, unbearable claustrophobia of the soul, the windowless room, no way out, waves of shame and horror, leave me alone, my mother dead on a marble floor, stop it stop it, muttering aloud to myself in elevators, in cabs, leave me alone, I want to die, a cold, intelligent, self-immolating fury that had—more than once—driven me upstairs in a resolute fog to swallow indiscriminate combos of whatever booze and pills I happened to have on hand: only tolerance and ineptitude that I’d botched it, unpleasantly surprised when I woke up though relieved for Hobie that he hadn’t had to find me.