Tuesday, May 29, 2012
The Police Station

I awake thinking that I must take advantage of being in Santiago again to really take in the historic buildings in addition to the Cathedral, and that it wouldn't hurt to go to Mass there again, after the pro forma celebration in Esteiro Sunday. Then I remember that I am supposed to go to the police station as early as possible to see about obtaining some substitute for my father's Carnet.

Remembering what the priest said the day before about the active life and the contemplative life, I decide to go to the Cathedral first. It is 8:30 a.m. and there is a Mass for German pilgrims going on in a chapel inside and behind the main altar. It is inaccessible except by previous arrangement with the diocese. The door is gilded bronze with panels in bas relief depicting events in the life of Christ. I would love to be able to go inside and get a closer look, as the Mass has ended, but the chapel is closed. I catch the eye of a woman, a German pilgrim collecting liturgy books and indicate that I would like to go inside, but she waves her finger at me in the negative. Ah, well

I walk towards the main altar's pews and sit in the forwardmost pew to study the altar: Santiago the Moorslayer emerges on horseback from the top of the altarpiece, below he appears again in his guise as pilgrim. At the front of the church he is seen in glory, and his figure appears again on the Cathedral facades. I attend Mass --which is said by another old school priest --bald and formal-- in the Communion Chapel to the side of the main altar. The chapel altarpiece is relatively plain, bathed in gold. When communion is given, it is at the altar rail, although the priest only administers it two by two. Once done, I leave the Cathedral and walk over to the police station.

Here, all my conceit and my impatience are revealed in their fullness. I take a number and set about to wait. My number is A312. The "A" distinguishes me from those with a "G" next to the number, which indicates that they have made an appointment on line or by telephone before coming by. After 30 minutes I am called to the desk of a tall young man with an angular face and glasses.

I explain that my father left Spain in 1945 and that he has no Carnet, that he never returned to Spain. Then he would not have one, because the Carnet only came into existence in 1951, says the young man. Perhaps there was another document that was used instead, a different form --but you have to order that from the Registro Civil in Madrid. To do that you have to speak to our supervisor --and he points to an empty office to the side of the open plan desks where he and his colleagues are working.

"He will be here in a momentino", he says, using the Galician diminutive for a little while.


That little while is more like an hour, during which I roil with agitation. I think that the man --Jose Manuel, they tell me his name is-- has returned several times: first come two men --one of whom looks more Irish than Spanish-- who look more like detectives than bureaucrats, but enter his office and start touching everything. Then in comes a serious-looking man carrying a computer keyboard. I start talking to him about my problem, but he tells me that I am not who he is looking for, and he goes behind the office with the other men. After another ten minutes Jose Antonio-- for that is actually his name, comes into his office, a fair-skinned, light-haired, blue-eyed, well-dressed, poised, intelligent servant of the Spanish state. He immediately puts me at ease, asking me to sit down to explain my situation.

The problem is that there is no Carnet, although he can request one, which will result in a declaration from Madrid that it does not exist. However, that will not prove that the Antonio Bouzas Bouzas in whose name the Muros and Esteiro parcels appear, is my father. In any event, to make that request, Jose Antonio will need:

My father's death certificate;
My father's birth certificate;
My birth certificate;
My marriage certificate--

All so that I can establish my right to ask that the public record in Madrid be checked. If I do that, Jose Antonio will mail me what he receives in response to his request, the declaration of nullity of the existence of the Carnet.

That, however, will not prove the ownership of the parcels by Antonio Bouzas Bouzas, my father.

Well, Jose Antonio says, once we have the document from Madrid, I can speak with the Catastro, and verify for them that there is no other Antonio Bouzas Bouzas listed in the records who came from the Muros and Outes townships, which should satisfy the Catastro.

He gives me his e-mail address, phone number and full name: Jose Antonio de la Casa Vadilla, a name to conjure with. I tell him I will send him an e-mail from my hotel this afternoon, and that I look forward to working with him.

--I just hope that there is no Antonio Bouzas Bouzas other than my father between Muros and Outes.