The
Grand Inquisitor
or
Gulag
Two
By Tatiana
Pahlen
"May I?" I push the door that has a warning upon it, "Immigration & Naturalization Services."
"Come in!"
A bald man in his late fifties, short and pudgy, points to the seat. A large mole sits like a toadstool on his right cheek next to his bulbous nose. He looks painfully familiar, but I cannot recall if we've been introduced to each other in an appropriate manner. I smile, eager to discern if this officer remembers me.
"Ms. Pavlova, eh?"
He measures my height evading shaking my hand, the custom accepted in all fifty states. I detect a thick Russian accent in his robust voice and find no signs of courtesy.
"Are you sur-r-r-e you want to be a U.S. citizen?"
The little man glares at me with contagious disdain; suddenly I feel ashamed of being tall.
"Think, Ms. Pavlova, think before you articulate."
"Yes sir!" I reply earnestly.
He continues building a wall between his desk and my chair where I'm stooping and shrinking in size.
"What makes us believe you wouldn't betray our-r-r country as you had once betrayed yours?"
His piercing colorless eyes carefully X-ray me.
"I am sure, sir!" I say losing self-assurance.
He begins probing my papers. This gives me a chance to study his glossy head; now I explore two strands of hair on his auburn mole.
Where did I see this hog-face? Those beady eyes. Those jutting ears. At Churchill's? A loud place next door? The beloved Irish waterhole was well known among Federal Agents.
Perhaps he doesn't want to remember, I ponder — embarrassed? I'm picturing him losing balance drunk at the bar with a bottle of Heineken slipping out of his chunky fingers.
My eyes rest on his brown shoes, large and dull, before they land on a gray jacket where I distinguish an attached scarlet thread in tune with my lipstick hanging loose from his top button.
Would I pass the test? Ninety-nine questions!
Losing oxygen in the small room with no windows, I'm praying not let this little Napoleon of a man intimidate me. Stressed by silence, I anticipate a panic attack. Minutes are passing like hours. Fright takes control of my body; I meditate...
"Ms. Pavlova?" He yanks me back to reality. "Are you taking a nap?" He delves his penetrating eyes into mine. "Can you tell me who has the power to declare war?"
Alarmed, I retrieve the answer from my inflamed brain. Question 77.
"Congress," I say extending the letters "s-s" with a slight whistle. Awkwardly I rub my lips, smearing off this scarlet lipstick. Now the tips of my fingers are shamelessly red. He pulls a tissue out of the Kleenex box next to the picture of a French bulldog. The dog's nostrils ferociously stare at me from the golden frame as if they were sniffing a traitor. I'm wiping the color off myhands, when the officer presses me against the wall.
"What if a war starts between Russia and The United States?" He pauses and digs deeper into my eyes. "Which side would you take?"
"America, sir!"
I'm emptying my lungs and look around thinking that the KGB had set me up.
"Will you fight for our-r-r country, Ms. Pavlova?"
I stare at his hairless eyebrows.
"Yes sir! I would give my life for America," I shout in one breath.
"Verrry good, Victorrria, verrry good."
The color is back on my cheeks; I feel an approaching thaw.
The wall crumbles the room seems bigger and I begin breathing again. His remarkable ears move up and down.
"Can you read and write in English?"
"Yep," I retort getting more comfortable and stretching my limbs.
"Write this sentence," he frowns. "Which president is called the father of our-r-r country?"
Question 71, suggests my brain.
Is it a trap? What if I am cornered by a Soviet agent? Was the red thread hanging loose in his button a glaring hint?
I scribe his question, but linger with the answer — Joseph Stalin? Is this a right choice? During WWII Russians died on the fields shouting: "For our Stalin — the father of all Soviets." I think about other daddies: Mao, Castro, Sadat, Saddam, Pol Pot, Milosovic and their foster children.
I chuckle, covering my impish eyes in the convincing Socrates pose, but comply with the zest of a diligent pupil, "George Washington!"
He peers at my writing test saying nothing. I try to read my ex-compatriot's bulletproof face to no avail. The corners of my lips are sagging. Did I choose a wrong father? I look at the door expecting sneering Soviets to storm in and drag me off to the Gulag.
The Grand Inquisitor is still summarizing the last writing test when I see a monstrous cockroach passing through the pile of my papers. I get up and scream. The discomfort of an ongoing frustration along with the fear of insects makes me burst out of my flesh. I scream louder as the rushing parasite is crossing the border.
"Stop bouncing. Sit down, will you!"
The Government agent kicks off his shoe and begins hammering it down all over the desk. Breathing heavily and splashing sweat he squashes the invader. The creature stamps its large feelers on my picture, cramped and soiled. With the last bang the heel of the grand shoe eliminates the cockroach and the grotesque word "APPROVED" appears magically on my immigration certificate.
Ink spills blotch my white blouse shaping the Stars and Stripes. In a chair I tremble in terror. The inquisitor presents me with authorized forms.
He sees me stashing documents into my purse held by its corners. To my dismay, the door opens just before I reach the exit and my spine begins quivering harder. A familiar stench of soldiers' boots make me nauseous. I find a refuge under The New York Times broadsheets snatched from his desk. I peep through the pages catching sight of a striking African-American woman in her early thirties.
"Is everything all right?"
I detect a British accent in her calming voice. She takes my pulse and mops sweat off my forehead with a smooth sponge.
"I heard a squeal . . ."
"Cut!"
A cameraman turns off the lights. Suddenly air fills with strong cologne from a casting director who shakes my hand vigorously.
"Where did you learn screaming so hard? Was Nikita dreadful or was his shoe?"
I clear my throat with a shot of Stoli.
"Do we need more close ups?" I burped out.
"No, dear. That was a final scene. Gulag 2 is on the way for a big smash! Break everyone!"
Suddenly I woke up with a torturing thought. Did it really happen to me or was my memory repeating this tantalizing trick?
February 22, 1998
