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Danielle Pinedo

Mr. P. taps impatiently on his formica tabletop. "You haven't brought the document?" "What document?", we ask in unison.

"The declaration of impediment. You need it for the notification of marriage. I can't give you a notice of marriage without it and you can't get married without the notice." My fiancé and I come crashing down from cloud nine. Is this little bureaucrat serious? Can he really prevent our marriage? I cough emphatically and look Mr. P. straight in the eyes.

"You're not serious, are you?"

"I certainly am."

"But how can we get this document within 24 hours? A private jet?"

Earlier that morning, everything seemed to be going smoothly. My fiancé was jealously guarding the pile of documents that the council had requested. Initially, Mr. P. had seemed a helpful forty-something, but he became serious at the first sign of irregularity from his computer. Had one of us lived abroad? Yes, I replied, as a student in Ohio. Had I been married there, he wanted to know. I jokingly replied that I hadn't had the time, considering the busy work schedule. As it turned out, however, Mr. P. was not in the mood for jokes.

He thrusts the telephone number for the Dutch consulate in Cleveland into my hands. "There will be a document on my desk by 4.30 p.m. tomorrow proving that you did not get married in Ohio."

"Or else?"

"There will be no wedding."

"But what about the time difference?", counters my fiancé. "They will be having breakfast at 4.30 p.m. our time." But Mr. P. is already beckoning the next couple - number 905 - to his desk. Our race against the clock has begun. As it turns out, the number for the consulate is wrong. According to the lady at directory enquiries, there is no Dutch consulate in Cleveland. Aggrieved, I call Mr. P., only to be informed that he is in a meeting "indefinitely". So I decide to ring the town hall in Mt. Vernon, Ohio, the same one that had once given me my social security number.

When I get through to Gale in Mt. Vernon, she is willing to help but unable to hide her surprise. "You need a what?" When I explain the situation, she roars with laughter. "What kind of a requirement is that? It's like having to prove that you're alive." I giggle along, my panic growing.

The spokesman at the American Embassy in The Hague is equally unable to help. He "is aware of the problem" and has been asked the question "before". He considers the requirement "ridiculous, one that only the Netherlands has". There is, however, nothing he can do for me, "certainly not at such short notice".

The next morning, Mr. P. receives an unannounced visit from my fiancé. Is he equally nasty to his friends? Why hadn't the council mentioned the required document in its correspondence? My financé demands a solution. Mr. P. flushes and grabs his chair for support. An uncompromising silence ensues. Salvation comes from a gnarled man in his fifties.

"P., why don't you go and have lunch? I'll handle this", he says in a tone that is both conciliatory and admonishing. Mr. P. slinks off, his pappy cheeks blushing ever more furiously. The newcomer introduces himself as Mr. Van V. and tells my fiancé that there is one alternative. "Your girlfriend must declare under oath that she is not married."

And so I do. I solemly swear that I'm not a bigamist. After the ceremony, Van V. bends over the table with a conspiratorial look. "We've discussed the matter in the committee. From today, aspiring couples will be informed of the requirement by letter." My fiancé jumps up and sneers mildly: "Long live Dutch bureaucracy."

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