An administration paper of a few lines, without signature or regrets.
"We confirm that the situation of your partner does not fall within the scope of the special mechanism in favor of foreign nationals engaged in a sentimental relationship with a French national", he indicates.
"Point barre", shouts Marc.
It is through this series of impersonal words that the sexagenarian understood, this Tuesday, that his fight to bring his companion and his 11-month-old daughter from Vietnam had failed, once again.
It has been eight months since he saw them, separated from them by 10,000 km and borders desperately closed since the start of the Covid-19 crisis.
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That same Tuesday, however, the government congratulated itself on having put in place a "simplified and accelerated" procedure for this kind of situation.
"The binational couples separated by the crisis will finally be able to meet again!"
», Rejoices Jean-Baptiste Lemoyne, Secretary of State in charge of French citizens abroad, on social networks.
Binational couples separated by the crisis will finally be able to meet again!
The procedure has been simplified and accelerated:
- the first laissez-passer was granted today,
- the next ones follow for the more than 800 files under investigation. # LoveIsNotTourism
- Jean-Baptiste Lemoyne (@JBLemoyne) September 22, 2020
Unfortunately, the criteria of this derogatory device leave aside Marc, his wife Tinh, their little Louise and Huy, a six-year-old boy from a first union.
The couple, in particular, have never lived in France.
“If a child is not the product of a romantic relationship, what is it?
the father objects.
Their response is more than hurtful: it is an insult.
"
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Contacted, the Quai d'Orsay delays.
“The device set up is designed for people who do not share any legal ties,” he recalls.
Now, this family is united by a child.
His case was rejected because he must pass another, more traditional legal framework for a visa.
"
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The justifications don't matter.
For Marc and Tinh, these are new days of doubt, new desperate attempts, new unanswered emails looming.
Their story began so far away, on the shores of the Gulf of Thailand, around a photograph.
Almost a movie story.
He is an outstanding adventurer.
Author and photographer, in June 2018 he explored this region of Asia for a book that he would publish at Sipayat, the publishing house he runs in France.
In Rạch Giá, he immortalizes a woman with her baby.
This one asks him for a copy of the picture but the exchange is complicated, language barrier obliges.
It was then that the former reporter pushes the door of a small inn.
The person in charge of the place, who serves as a translator, collects the file herself to transfer it to the mother who is facing her.
“And that's how we got in touch,” smiles Marc.
"The world has collapsed"
The rest is written by skipping the bullet on the world map.
The couple meet in Bangkok, Ho Chi Minh City and set their sights on Bảo Lộc, a small mountain town, in a region of tea and coffee.
It in turn invests in accommodation intended to accommodate backpackers and motorcyclists who crisscross the area to the highlands of Đà Lạt.
But business will wait: Tinh is pregnant.
Louise was born on October 17.
Less than three months later, on February 7, Marc returned to France to participate in a series of literary events.
“This is where the world collapsed,” he breathes.
The Book Fair is canceled.
The other events follow.
The cataclysm is approaching.
Marc rushes to the Vietnamese embassy.
"The day I arrived, they had just received instructions not to issue visas to the French," he still enraged.
The man puts together his file, tries to use his network, alert elected officials on the case of these people who, like him, are "no longer entirely in France but not yet really in another country".
"I explained the history of our relationship, sent a selection of photos that tell our story, I even sent the bank summary of all the transfers linked to our guest house," he rewinds.
Nothing works.
“Every day, every week, I tell myself that it will open up, that we will be able to leave,” he repeats.
I've been telling myself since May.
"
On a daily basis, the couple cherish two moments of sharing.
They are simple video calls.
One in the morning, that is to say at the beginning of the afternoon in Vietnam.
"The little one comes out of the nap, we chat, I call her", describes Marc gently.
The other exchange is also sacred, in the afternoon, when it is dark in Asia.
"There, it's me and my partner," he slips away.
This is our story.
"
"We need a place to live together"
These moments are all that remains for Marc of his pre-crisis happiness.
For lack of tourists, the guesthouse closed.
The publishing house here also sank.
Marc takes care of his liquidation.
Since February, he has lived on the left to right, lodged with friends, tossed around in the winds from Touraine to Dordogne, from Orleans (Loiret) to Béziers (Hérault).
This is where he now hopes to welcome his family.
"Our project is not to come and become embedded in France," he complains.
It is a transitory project: we need a place to live together, while waiting for the place where we have decided to make our life.
But the administration, he says, is "invisible" and only responds with scraps of messages.
In a few weeks, Louise will be one year old.
When Marc left, his baby was not four months old.
