IT WAS A BALMY SUMMER EVENING. Anne and I were enjoying our 6 P.M. glasses of wine at the patio table overlooking the bay, and all seemed at peace with the world until…
“Hello? Hello?” (with a very heavy emphasis on the Hs.) “Can I…in?”
We turned. A young lady with a long cascade of black hair framing her rather gaunt face stood at our garden gate and seemed reluctant to open it. Across her shoulders was a large canvas bag—something like a mailman might carry. But the mailman had already been. Hours ago.
“Sure, come on in,” Anne said, beaming her usual welcoming smile.
“Ah, zank you, zank you.” The young lady seemed a little nervous. I stood up and offered my seat, but she seemed to prefer standing as she reached deep into her overlarge bag.
“I am your enum…enumer…enum…” She was obviously having problems explaining who she was, but as whatever word she tried to pronounce was unfamiliar to us, we couldn’t do much more than smile encouragingly and wait. Eventually she found the correct sequence of syllables.
“Enum-er-ator. Enumerator…yes…I am your enumerator. I am sorry. I am not from Ireland. I am from the Poland,” she finally explained and stood waiting for our reaction. Which—beyond a questioning expression—was not forthcoming. We had no idea what an enumerator said or did, so we waited for her to continue. We were, however, familiar with Poland and wondered if that might ultimately be a fruitful line of chat.
“You know about big national census?” she asked hopefully.
“Census?” I said. “No, we know nothing about any census.”
“But it has been on the TV…on the radio…for many weeks. All about it…big census. For all country…”
We looked at each other and shrugged.
“No, never heard of it,” I said. “But we haven’t been here very long. We don’t live here. We’re just visiting…we’re not Irish…”
“That is not matter,” said the Polish lady with emphasis. Now she sounded more certain of herself and her ability to deal with the minutiae of bureaucratic legalities. Her voice took on a more strident tone. “No, it is not matter at all. This form is for you. Please take.”
“But we don’t live here—we’re British, and we live in America. We’re just here for a few weeks…”
“Pliss,” the lady said. “Is law. Everybody must fill form. Everyone in Ireland…”
I thought I’d try one more time. “I’m sorry, but we are not Irish, we’re renting this place, so we shouldn’t be filling out any census forms. Otherwise your numbers will include hundreds, maybe thousands, of foreign tourists and travelers. It would be a very strange census!”
But our lady enumerator would have none of this. She had a job to do and seemed to relish her little arena of newfound authority.
“No!” she said again with a definite degree of determination. “It is law that if you do not fill in you will be punish. Very much…”
“Punished?” I asked.
“With a fine of twenty-five thousand euro and maybe—imprisonment. It is law!”
I was slowly moving toward the region of blood-pressure territory. “I’ve never heard of anything so bloody stupid in…”
Anne could see my patience was running out in this increasing cacophony of miscommunication, so she jumped in with her “let’s all calm down” demeanor, which she invariably demonstrates to great effect wherever we go and whenever I’m approaching the ballistic “rockets-away” stage.
So I left Anne to accept the form on our behalf and make some complimentary comments about its extensive content. And a few less complimentary suggestions, such as:
“This is a rather odd question here, number eleven. How many children have you given birth to…?”
“Yes, I see it,” said the enumerator. “There is problem?”
“Because then it says underneath ‘This question is for women only.’”
Our enumerator remained unamused.
“And there are some interesting choices for ‘ethnic or cultural background,’” said Anne. “For example, what is an ‘Irish traveler’—is that like the old tinker gypsies? Romanies? Or ‘Black Irish’—that sounds like a term Queen Victoria might have used…”
Again, no reaction. Just a rather grim-faced look from our Polish lady, who we felt must really be missing the good old days of Polish communism, when a mere nod from a loyal informer could have sent the two of us into Warsaw’s deepest dungeons.
It was my turn. I scanned the form. “Here’s an interesting question—‘Can you speak Irish—answer if age three or over.’ First, what does ‘speak Irish’ mean? I imagine every Irishman has some smattering of Gaelic in his vocabulary. But the age-three thing is curious. I’d have thought that anyone younger than three who was speaking fluent Irish would be of far more interest than the older ones. Just think—you’d be able to identify all your child prodigies in a flash…”
It was hopeless. The enumerator was determined not to be amused or distracted from her mission. Even when I pointed out that the whole form was legally invalid, as it guaranteed total privacy and anonymity and yet required names, addresses, phone numbers, and signatures.
“Okay,” said Anne. “Why don’t you leave the forms with us and we’ll have a look at them.”
Not good enough. Our enumerator was now determined to assert her authority. “I am come back here early Monday. Please have census forms ready for me…”
“We’ll be out on Monday,” I said.
“Well, please leave under mat outside. If not here, then it will be penalty. Twenty-five thousand euro.”
“Good-bye,” I said.
“I not making laws…I just doing job.”
I was about to remind her that such a remark has often been used throughout history (and particularly in Poland!) to justify the most heinous of crimes when one of my other selves—the far more gentle and empathetic self—suddenly popped out and he decided to take another approach.
“Listen”—big sigh of surrender here—“you look like you’ve been going all day and it can’t be an easy job. How about a cup of tea?” (Ah—the British solution to all adversities.) “Why don’t you sit down and take a break for a while…”
The enumerator looked as surprised as I was by this unexpected shift of mood, but she remained suspicious. “I sorry—I don’t have time…”
“Just five minutes…you’ll feel a lot better…”
More hesitancy. And then, like the shaft of sudden sunshine through gloomy clouds, she smiled a truly warm smile. “Thank you. This is so very kind…”
And so we all sat around the patio table together and talked about Poland. Anne had spent an extensive period in that country teaching alongside her Polish colleagues and preparing graduate students to provide services to visually impaired adults. She’d enjoyed her time spent in Warsaw, so the two of them compared notes on their favorite haunts and restaurants in the city. It was obvious our enumerator missed her family in Poland. But when she left she was still smiling. And we did complete the census form, and we did leave it under the mat on Monday.
Sometimes it’s better just to go along with a wink, a nod, and a smile.