It took 45 minutes to walk to town hall. Naima had told me she would meet me there. She was so slow in coming that I almost gave up. But it was a pleasant morning. There was shade and a nice breeze.
Suddenly she appeared, three children in tow. Only Curly Top, the littlest, was her own; the older two belonged to a neighbor. The younger neighbor girl gave me a grin so big that it took up the bottom half of her face.
Naima had tried to call me to change the meeting place, but I hadnât answered, she said. We left it at that and walked together to a little building on the end of town.
âWhat do you need here?â I was the designated interpreter. But that could only happen if I understood what I was supposed to interpret. Naima tried to type the unknown Arabic word into my translator, but didnât know how to spell it.
We entered the building, just large enough for a few offices that didnât look strikingly official. A sign said to ask for a number, so I snagged a wandering employee. âA number please?â By the time he found a number and brought it to me, it was my turn.
But I still didnât know what Naima needed.
I sat across from a gruff man at a desk. âWhat do you need?â His voice matched his expression.
âI donât know.â I handed him my friendâs family book and he paged through it.
âWhat do you need?â he asked again.
âMy friend needs two of something for her daughter, but I donât know the word in Arabic, so I donât know what to say in Spanish. She is trying to call her husband now.â
The gruff features twisted. âA birth certificate?â
âIs that what you have here?â
âYes, and thatâs all we have for her daughter.â
So while he printed the documents, he asked if I was evangelical and then launched into a one-sided discussion about Mormons. Mormons?
BANG! went the rubber stamp. BANG! BANG! BANG! He signed the documents with such scribbled flourish that it may have looked more natural had he been using a crayon on a coloring page.
âWhere are you from?â
âThe United States.â
âTrump. A lot of people angry that he doesnât like immigrants.â
I sighed. Yes, but didnât every country have its problems and weren’t there any problems in Spain?
Another one-sided discussion ensued that gave me a vague sensation of having made my point. He walked me to the door, still talking, and watched our little gang leave the odd little office.
Naima invited me up to her flat where I tried to translate a medical questionnaire that dizzied my brain. Naima sat on the arm of the couch and swatted away the little girls when they reached for the papers in my lap.
“Is it normal for your child to have high fevers?”
âNo. She only has fevers when she’s teething. Have lunch with us.â Naima got up to start lunch preparations.
I couldnât, but thank you. Another time, Lord willing.
âIn my culture, when a guest comes to my house itâs shameful not to give them any food.â Naima packed up a container of olives she had brought back from her country.
I joined her in the kitchen area and watched her carefully wrap the container of olives in a plastic bag.
Curly Top was walking around the floor on her knees, sprinkling bread and cookie crumbs wherever she went, like a miniature Hansel and Gretel. Big Smile was claiming ownership of everything that wasnât hersâmy bag, Curly Topâs toys, a plate of cookies. I watched as she carefully stuck her foot into a pair of Curly Topâs pants, only about 3 years too small.
Naima took me to the elevator, leaving the flat door wide open and crumby children sprinkled along the hallway. I hit â0â and the elevator door closed.
When a day starts, I never know what to expect. But I kinda like that.