Carta Visa Chapter 1

h.e.l.lo, I’ve decided to take this project upon myself. English isn’t my first language so please bear with me. Enjoy.

Bold: The characters are speaking in English.

"Hand me only the application first."

My throat is dry.

"Your pa.s.sport please."

My stomach hurts.

"Your photos please."

I'm stressing out.

In front of me, a grey eyed man in a sharp grey suit expressionlessly shifted his sight from the red pa.s.sport book to me. He then lowered his gaze to read my visa form once again. Glancing at the pair of eyes behind those rimless gla.s.ses, I could not help but hold my breath with a mix of suspense and uneasiness.

It's difficult to breathe, especially in an emba.s.sy that's as small as a mouse hole. There's only one staff for such a long winding queue in this rented building. Stressing out, I flex my hands here and there. Thinking about it now, I blame myself for moving apartments before the agreed date. I blame myself for making too much noise and waking up the foreigner next-door that came swearing at my front door. I blame the phone call yesterday from an old friend. I blame myself for picking up said call. I blame the four bottles of Corona beer that I drunk. I blame myself for being a fool, going out for a night drive despite being drunk. I blame the BMW 3 Series that happened to be parked in front of my driving path…

The man knocked loudly on the gla.s.s separating us and handed back my doc.u.ments. "You didn't completely fill in the form, take it back and check it carefully."

"W-w-what question I miss?" Can he even understand my English properly? As I hastily lurched forward to knock on the gla.s.s, the man pressed a switch, unlocking the emba.s.sy door as if trying to chase me out.

"Your occupation. We cannot accept an jobless traveler to our home," he explained coldly with mocking smile. I feel numb, dizzy, like I'm about to faint… "Or do you want me to fill it in for you? Drunkard? Troublemaker?"

"But. Wait, wait, wait. Mister, can I write it now?" Don't you dare kick me out of the emba.s.sy you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!

"GET OUT"

…

Owwwwwwwwww!

It hurts like getting crushed under a truck! The owner of the BMW got out of his car. Seeing as he was a foreigner, I took the chance to swear at him viciously, hoping that he would just look at me confusingly and let me off the hook. But who would have guessed it… my past wrongdoings have finally caught up to me last night when two policemen appearing out of nowhere tackled me suddenly from behind as if I was a protestor. As my adorable red Honda Jazz—now dead in action at Thonglor soi 15—was the one who tore a long mark down his luxurious BMW, not to mention the shattered driver seat window, my head was calculating the repair fees at top speed. It was then that I began to sober up and see the BMW owner's face clearly for the first time. This is… this is… this issssssss! Nooooo! It’s a small world after all! He’s that super handsome foreigner who came cladded in a bathrobe knocking on my apartment door earlier. Forget the story of me making a ruckus to the point where this guy was woken up on Sunday. He's the owner of that BMW but also the emba.s.sy authority! Yesterday he was still spewing out swears in Thai but why isn't he willing to speak it now?

"Next please" the handsome man in front of me fixed his gla.s.ses and coughed, chasing me out with satisfaction as he called for the next person in line. With nothing else I could do, I hauled my doc.u.ments away pale faced. A middle aged j.a.panese man beside a boyish Thai girl both looked at me with curiosity while chattering to each other relentlessly. They seem equally uneasy. "Excuse me, but was there a problem with your application?".

Your manners aren't half-bad for someone with your appearance little lady… I turned to smile dryly at her, "Just a minor problem, apparently I didn't properly fill in the form."

The boyish girl turned to her j.a.panese partner and shook her head, "Looks like they're very strict."

"Is that so?"

"Ah, yes. We've had to hand in our doc.u.ments 3 times already."

Whaaat! 3 times? I lurched back to look at the gla.s.s window. The handsome guy was moving to the back while another really Russian-looking man took over the visa desk.

Allow me to explain briefly. This emba.s.sy which belongs to a certain 'iron curtain' nation is extremely small. Even the size of the room is only a bit larger than A twitching dead cat. The operating hours are Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, from ten to midday. But in actuality, the authorities arrive at ten-thirty. On a general basis there are around 20 people seeking visa entry into the country. However, if it takes each person 10 minutes, then obviously a person driven out to re-fill their form would not get a chance to hand it in again on the same day. Which means, asking for another leave from work and wasting more time coming back here again the day after tomorrow. Not to mention, emba.s.sy holidays apply to both Thai holidays and the holidays of that certain country, the day-offs are frequent to say the least. To say this has nothing to do with me would be incorrect as this ticket in my hand was the cheapest I could get for Air Astana, the only airline that flies directly from Bangkok to my desired destination which I groveled and begged my editor to approve a vacation for the first time in four years of us working together. To add, I promised that if I obtained entry into this brutal country, I would write four whole travel segments for our magazine, complete with pretty photos, but also premium quality vodka as a souvenir. As such, I need to get this visa no matter what!

Honestly, I didn’t intend to not write down my occupation. I'm a freelance photographer and to tell you the truth I work at a major corporation. However, as to the reason why I refrained from filling in this information, I had heard that countries broken off from the Soviet Union aren't particularly welcoming to foreign media. Another thing, if I filled in my occupation, I would be subjected to questions like, where are you going? Why are you going there? What are you planning on doing? Are you entering any unauthorized zones? Who invited you? Who are you taking those photos for? What about the confirmation letter from your company? All in all, getting a visa is as difficult as a low salary worker asking for a 10 million baht loan. As to another problem… well, how embarra.s.sing… this word 'Freelance Photographer'… How are you supposed to spell it in English?

I turned left and right to ask but saw that the girl and her j.a.panese partner had already gone inside. They seemed very stressed. Actually, observing the atmosphere, is this an emba.s.sy or a battlefield? Who knows, I couldn't help but sigh. Alright, its do or die. I pulled out my pen and meticulously wrote down: FREE RENT PHOTOGRAFFER.

…This is correct right? …My English isn't so bad…

…

What is it with them?

I watched as a pretty Vietnamese girl walked out with a twisted face. With looks so pretty and a tall slim figure- "f.u.c.k! If you wanted my company confirmation letter why didn't you tell me first? This is a waste of time!" Oh, you're Thai…?

Before I could open my mouth to ask her, she moved to lean on the ma.s.sive bear-like foreigner nearby, "Ah darling~"

Karmic protection is real. If I had let loose my mouth for even half a second earlier I would definitely be eating watered-down congee right about now.

At the current moment I’m second from the front of the queue with 15 minutes remaining. The visa application desk is about to close, hopefully I'll make it in time… From my observations, around 60% of those who come applying for a visa have had to hand it in again. Those who pa.s.sed were people already on their second or third attempts. Thinking about it, if they don't have any desire to open up their country, why set up an emba.s.sy in the first place? It’s a waste of time and manpower after all. The man in front of me is a foreigner with an athlete's figure, tall, and a large backpack with a tennis racket handle poking out of it. With looks like this, it makes you wonder whether this guy has a job or not. Or was that handsome guy only picking on me?

"Next please."

The man who had gone in before me exited with a beaming face, eyes in delight as if he had just landed first place at Wimbledon. I quickly crossed over, seeing the face of the new emba.s.sy staff and heaving a sigh of relief. The man took my doc.u.ments, flipped through it and frowned, before disappearing through the back, "Alexey… Alexey."

The voice of two people can be heard speaking in fast Russian, and not long after a certain handsome guy appears out in front again, lifting the corners of his mouth in an annoying way at me. He holds up a cup to sip at the steaming coffee before breaking out in laughter, almost spilling the coffee on his luxurious suit. Using a flawlessly ironed out handkerchief he wipes the corners of his mouth and then knocks on the gla.s.s, beckoning me with his finger like how one would beckon a dog. The same paper was slid back to me as he pointed at the form that I just finished filling out, trying his hardest to hold his laughter in.

"Mister…?" He asked my name.

"Phachara. Pha-Cha-Ra. P.H.A-C.H.A-R.A."

"Hed?" (TN: Phachara phonetically p.r.o.nounces the letter H as 'Hed' instead of 'Aitch' or 'Haitch')

The letter 'Hed'! You know 'Hed'! Did this foreigner fail his English cla.s.ses? The letter 'Hed'… I screamed in my heart while picking up a pen to write it out for him. Phachara, like this!

"Ah… the letter H." Why is he laughing again? When I was in 4th Grade my teacher taught me that it was 'Hed', so it has to be 'Hed' okay!? "Okay Mr. Phachara, we guess your application needs to be corrected again."

"Why!!!"

"Check this with any dictionary and see you on Wednesday."

"Why Wen-day?" Looks like he doesn’t understand this 'wen-day’ of mine.

"We're closed now."

Why? Whyyyyyyyyy? Which part of 'Free Rent Photograffer' is it that’s wrong? Somebody please tell me!!!