Block 14: Country of Last Re-export¶
Block 1: Permit Number BR-2024-044812. I wrote it in the parking lot, engine running, the laminated Dalbergia nigra color card clipped to the visor. The brown in Box 14 has to match the brown on the card. Not chocolate. Not mahogany. The specific desiccated kidney-bean shade the 1992 convention agreed upon. If the inspector's eyes are tired, you lose the board. If they're sharp, you lose the board and the guitar case it rode in on.
Block 2: Exporter/Re-exporter Elias Thorne, 400-level luthier, collective member, owes me $3,400 in back courier fees and a favor from the Barret estate sale. He texted: Pick up the rosewood. Permit's in the glove box. Don't talk to the APHIS guy with the mustache. I didn't ask why. The favor is the only reason I'm here instead of at the hospital, where my sister is swallowing pills a nurse crushed into applesauce because she forgot how to swallow.
Block 3: Importer Me. Freelance repair tech. CITES courier. The woman in the plastic chair who knows the mustache inspector's name is Kowalski and he takes his break at 10:15 and returns smelling of vending-machine chili. The hierarchy at Window 4 is absolute: brokers with dollies, corporate shippers with manifests, then me—single board, hard case, sweat drying on my neck. I wear the collective's polo. It smells like shellac and someone else's deodorant.
Block 4: Country of Origin Brazil. Pre-ban. 1988 harvest, per the chain of custody: Fazenda Santa Luzia → São Paulo broker → Miami importer → Baltimore warehouse → Elias's basement → this case. Each stamp a signature. Each signature a body that handled it. The board weighs nine pounds. I carried it up three flights because the elevator was "reserved for mobility devices only." A security guard watched. He didn't offer help. He checked his phone.
Block 5: Species Dalbergia nigra. Appendix I. The color card is a lie we all agree on. The heartwood in the case is darker, redder, alive in a way the laminate isn't. I've seen inspectors reject boards for being "too purple." I've seen them accept boards that were clearly Honduran rosewood stained with tea. Kowalski has a magnifying glass on a chain. He uses it like a jeweler. He once made a broker cry over a smudged ink stamp.
Block 6: Quantity One (1) back and sides set. Book-matched. The glue joint is invisible. Elias's work. He says the wood remembers the tree. I say it remembers the saw. We're both right. The favor: he needs this board cleared by Friday for a client who pays in cryptocurrency and doesn't ask questions. The client is a man named Aris. Aris knows my sister's doctor. Aris sent a fruit basket to the ICU. No card.
Block 7: Description of Specimens "Pre-Convention Brazilian Rosewood (Dalbergia nigra) guitar back and sides set, finished dimensions 560mm x 210mm x 3.2mm." I copied the language from a 2019 permit that worked. The form asks for "marks, numbers, or identifying features." I wrote: Planer snipe, bass side, lower bout. Pencil mark: "BRT-88". The pencil mark is mine. I put it there in the parking lot. The snipe is real. Elias's planer has a nicked blade. He refuses to replace it. Says it gives character.
Block 8: CITES Appendix I. The highest protection. The board is legal because the paperwork says it is. The paperwork says it is because the stamps say it is. The stamps say it is because someone in 1988 wrote a number on a ledger in Portuguese. I don't speak Portuguese. Neither does Kowalski. We both pretend the translation is certified.
Block 9: Purpose Code T — Commercial. The lie that pays the rent. The collective sells the finished guitar for $18,000. Elias gets $4,000. I get $300 and the debt forgiven. My sister gets the applesauce. Aris gets a guitar with Brazilian rosewood back and sides, pre-ban, legal, certified. He plays it once. He hangs it on a wall. The wood dries. The glue joint holds.
Block 10: Source Code O — Pre-Convention. The only code that matters. The board existed before the law. The law protects the tree. The tree is gone. The board remains. The system eats the tree and shits the permit. I am the digestive tract.
Block 11: Country of Last Re-export USA. I am the re-exporter. I am the importer. I am the courier. I am the woman in the plastic chair facing the bulletin board of seized timber: a mountain of ebony, a palette of pernambuco, a single slab of rosewood labeled Abandoned — Owner Failed to Claim. Kowalski's magnifying glass catches the light. He looks at the card. He looks at the board. He looks at my hands. My nails are clean. I scrubbed them with a toothbrush and acetone.
Block 12: Date of Export Today. The stamp hits the paper. Thunk. The ink bleeds into the fibers. Kowalski slides the permit across the counter. "Next." The broker behind me sighs. The corporate shipper checks her watch. I pick up the case. The handle bites my palm. The board is legal. The favor is paid. Aris owns the wood. My sister swallows. The applesauce is sweet. I drive the case to Elias. He opens it. He nods. He doesn't ask about the pencil mark. He doesn't ask about the fruit basket. He hands me an envelope. Cash. Counted. Correct. I put it in my pocket. I drive to the hospital. The nurse says she ate the whole cup. I sign the visitor log. I don't wash my hands.