Roman Bureaucracy Strikes Again

The phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Amore!” It’s Stella, my wife. “You forgot our appointment at the Anagrafe (Rome’s City Hall, Hall of Records, whatever). Bring some ID with you.”
“I am writing,” I try to point out. In vain.
“You have to verify that I am who I say I am.”
“I what?”
“Just come, hurry, and don’t forget your ID,” Stella reminds me before hanging up.
Living in Rome’s old centre means you don’t have too far to go to get anywhere. And the Anagrafe (City Hall, Hall of Records, whatever) is no exception, though going there always makes me break out in some kind of nervous rash. I wonder what adventures await me today.
I walk in and immediately see Stella standing at one of the clerks’ desks. She waves and I join her. Without further ado, I hand the clerk my British passport.
He looks at it, stares at it, studies it at length, at my photograph, turns it over and over, and finally pronounces his verdict: “But you are not Italian.”
“No, I’m not,” I agree, thinking we have a live one here. “That is a British passport you are holding.” But the blood is already pumping, boiling, suspicion rearing its ugly head. Here we go again!
“Then you can’t verify that the lady is who she says she is.”
“The lady is my wife!” I respond, ignoring the look on Stella’s face, the look that always says: ‘Calm down. Losing your temper won’t help.’
“You are not Italian!”
That does it! “I am the lady’s husband,” I say, enunciating each word carefully, thinking he might not understand. But he understands only too well. He responds with an upward jerk of his chin while simultaneously making a ‘tut-tutting’ sound, which basically means “Too bad, it’s the law, that’s life, and there’s nothing you can do about it!”
I knew I should have stayed in bed this morning. “My whole life is in this building,” I very nearly shout. I’m sorry, but stupidity does that to me. “Marriage certificates, residence papers, work permits, my children’s birth certificates, MY WEDDING CERTIFICATE!”
He doesn’t budge. I look at the two mandatory cops standing beside us, but before I can say another word – they’ve obviously been listening – they mimic the ‘chin jerk and tut-tut’ gesture.
Suddenly, my anger evaporates, and I laugh, feeling a little foolish. They almost fooled me. “All right,” I ask the clerk. “Where is it?”
“Where’s what?” the clerk responds.
“The candid camera!”
The clerk and the two mandatory cops look at me as if I were quite insane. Maybe I am.
“Look, sir, there’s no point going on about it,” the clerk insists. “You cannot verify that this lady is who she claims to be.”
“SHE’S MY WIFE!” I shout.
“But you are not Italian.”
I look at the two cops again, and again get the ‘chin jerk and tut-tut’ gesture. So I look around, see two men (total strangers for God’s sake!!!) and inquire if they are Italian. Yes, indeed they are. Then would they mind verifying that my wife is the woman she claims to be? No, they wouldn’t mind at all.
I look at the clerk and at the two mandatory cops. “These two gentlemen don’t know my wife from Adam,” I point out.
"Yes, but THEY are Italian!" the clerk responds, ending it with a ‘chin jerk and tut-tut!’

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