The Form That Must Accompany the Form

The Ministry of Administrative Facilitation — a name that should itself be submitted as evidence in a court of law — had recently introduced Form 7-Delta, which was required to authorise the submission of Form 7, which had previously been required to authorise nothing at all, but had accumulated, over the years, a gravity of its own, like a bureaucratic moon.

Mr. Hamdan Obeid Al-Nuaimi, a man of forty-one years and immaculate dishdasha, arrived at Window 4 on a Tuesday at 8:04 a.m., four minutes after opening, carrying a folder so thick it had its own posture.

"I am here," he announced, with the solemnity of someone declaring war, "to register my uncle's goat shed as a commercial premises."

The clerk at Window 4, a young man named Fawzi whose ambitions had been efficiently crushed over eighteen months of government employment, looked at the folder, then at Mr. Hamdan, then at the folder again, performing the small tragedy silently.

"You have Form 7?" Fawzi asked.

"I have Form 7," said Mr. Hamdan, producing it with the flourish of a magician who has practised this particular trick in the mirror.

"You have Form 7-Delta? The form that must accompany Form 7?"

"I have Form 7-Delta."

"You have the supporting attachment to Form 7-Delta, which is Circular 19-B, sub-clause appendix?"

Mr. Hamdan paused. It was the pause of a man whose confidence, while substantial, was not infinite.

"That," said Fawzi, with the grim satisfaction of his profession, "is available only from Window 9."

Window 9, as any veteran of these premises would confirm, was a window in the sense that it had glass and a frame, but not in the sense that it was operated by a human being during business hours. It was staffed, intermittently, by a gentleman named Tariq who was known to appear on Wednesdays, except during the weeks when he did not.

Today was Tuesday.

Mr. Hamdan absorbed this with the philosophical stillness of a man who has parked in Abu Dhabi. He returned the following Wednesday at 7:55 a.m. and stood before Window 9, where Tariq was indeed present, eating a date with the unhurried manner of a man on a nature walk.

"Circular 19-B, sub-clause appendix," said Mr. Hamdan.

Tariq chewed. Considered. Swallowed.

"That form," Tariq said, "was updated. It is now Circular 19-B-Revised. The old one is not accepted."

"Where is 19-B-Revised?"

"Online portal."

The online portal, Mr. Hamdan discovered that afternoon, required registration with a username and a password and a national ID verification and a one-time code sent to a mobile number that must match the number registered with the Civil Registration Authority, which was the number of his previous phone, which he had dropped into the sea off the Corniche during Eid celebrations in 2019.

He updated his number with the Civil Registration Authority. This took eleven days and its own set of forms, two of which required the signature of a witness who was not a family member, which eliminated approximately everyone Mr. Hamdan knew.

He found a witness. He submitted the forms. He updated the portal. He downloaded Circular 19-B-Revised, printed it on paper of the specified weight — the portal was very particular about paper weight — had it stamped by a typing centre, had the stamp of the typing centre authenticated, and returned to Window 4 on a bright Thursday morning, sixty-three days after his first visit.

Fawzi looked at the folder, which had by now grown to the dimensions of a minor encyclopedia.

"Very good," said Fawzi. He examined each document with the focused neutrality of a man who feels nothing. "Everything is correct. I will now process your application."

Mr. Hamdan exhaled a breath he appeared to have been holding since August.

"There is, however," said Fawzi, "one small matter. The goat shed. Has it been inspected by the Municipal Agriculture Office?"

The silence that followed was of a particular quality. It was the silence of a man realising that the maze he has spent two months navigating was, in fact, only the entrance hall.

"The Agriculture Office," said Mr. Hamdan, with admirable composure, "is where?"

"Building C," said Fawzi. He almost added something sympathetic, but caught himself. Sympathy was not in the job description. "Take a number. The machine is outside."

Mr. Hamdan took his folder, straightened his dishdasha, and walked out into the morning sun, which shone with magnificent indifference on the parking meters, the palm trees, and the number machine, which displayed a small handwritten sign: OUT OF ORDER. PLEASE SEE WINDOW 4.

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