Customs Officer K

K received the notice on a Tuesday morning. It wasn't handed to him directly but was, as usual, tucked amidst the endless pile of documents on his desk, as if it inherently belonged there. A thin sheet of paper, the printing slightly blurred, exuding the smell of cheap ink and some indefinable official odor. K was an ordinary customs calculation clerk in the Tax Building, responsible for processing import duties for goods from specific regions. He had held this job for many years, long accustomed to the monotony of numbers and the tediousness of regulations, precise as clockwork, and just as devoid of life.

But this notice was different. It announced a "Temporary Supplementary Tariff Regulation." The content was vague, the wording filled with ambiguous terminology and contradictory logic. What unsettled K the most was the final clause: "Effective immediately, certain tariffs will be levied based on 'Potential Impact Value.' Specific implementation details are to be determined at the discretion of individual officers, who will bear full responsibility for their decisions."

"Potential Impact Value?" K muttered to himself. The phrase felt like a smooth pebble rolling around in his mind, finding nothing to cling to. He tried to seek clarification from his supervisor, Mr. Grubach, but Mr. Grubach's office door was shut tight, adorned with a sign reading "In Long-Term Meeting, Do Not Disturb." The sign seemed to have been there for weeks, perhaps even months. K then tried the records room, searching for relevant explanatory documents, but the archivist, an old man with a perpetual cough and cloudy eyes, merely shrugged. He said the files for the new regulation hadn't been archived yet, and perhaps never would be. "Regulations are regulations, Mr. K. Understanding them isn't your duty. Execution is."

K returned to his cubicle, surrounded by gray partitions, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. He looked at the fresh batch of customs declarations on his desk. One was for plastic dolls imported by a toy company. According to the old rules, the tariff rate was clear. But now, he had to consider the "Potential Impact Value." Would these dolls bring joy to children? Would this joy foster curiosity about foreign cultures? Did such curiosity count as a "potential impact"? If so, what was its value? Or perhaps, would these cheap plastic products pollute the environment, incurring future cleanup costs? Did that count as a negative "potential impact"?

He felt a wave of dizziness. The numbers required on the form, once cold and certain, now transformed into huge question marks mocking his incompetence. He tried writing down an arbitrary number, but immediately crossed it out. He bore full responsibility. This responsibility felt like an invisible mountain crushing the air out of him. If he set it too high, the importer would complain, possibly triggering a trade dispute, and his superiors would blame him for "damaging the business environment." If he set it too low, national revenue would be lost, and he could be accused of "dereliction of duty" or "negligence."

In the following days, K descended into a state of paralysis. He couldn't process a single document. He stared at the item names – shoes, coffee beans, electronic components, books – trying to discern the ghostly "Potential Impact Value" behind them. He started suffering from insomnia, dreaming at night of being surrounded by countless goods, all questioning him: "What is my value? What is my impact?" During the day, he sat numbly in his office, the files piling higher and higher before him like a gray wall, isolating him from the outside world.

His colleagues seemed largely unaffected. They remained busy; the clatter of keyboards, the thud of stamps, the murmur of low conversations weaving together into a numbing background noise. K occasionally glimpsed them processing documents, apparently still following the old rules, or perhaps just randomly filling in a seemingly reasonable number. He wanted to ask how they managed it, but the words died on his lips. Did they have inside information? Did they simply not care about the "Potential Impact Value"? Or perhaps, was he the only one who had received the absurd notice that actually demanded compliance? The thought sent a chill down his spine.

He began to doubt himself. Had he misunderstood? Was something wrong with his mind? He reread the notice repeatedly; every word seemed to mock him. He even started researching the colors, shapes, and origins of the goods, trying to find some clue. He bought philosophy books, attempting to grasp the essence of "value" and "impact," but only grew more confused.

One afternoon, footsteps approached his cubicle. It was Mr. Grubach. He looked as though he had just emerged from an exceedingly long meeting, his face wearing an expression of weary authority. "K," he tapped the mountain of files in front of K, "What's the hold-up with your progress? I hear there's a serious backlog here."

K opened his mouth, wanting to explain about the notice, to articulate his predicament. "Sir," he said, his voice hoarse, "About that 'Potential Impact Value'…"

Mr. Grubach frowned, cutting him off. "What value? K, don't make excuses for your delays. Regulations are regulations. Just follow the procedures. Look at everyone else, aren't they managing just fine? The Treasury is waiting for our data. Don't cause trouble for me." He pointed to a document on top of the pile. "This one. Urgent. Process it immediately." Without waiting for K's response, he turned and left, leaving behind the heavy scent of tobacco and K's even heavier despair.

"Follow the procedures…" K repeated the phrase. What were the procedures? Wasn't that vague notice part of the procedure? He felt himself being crushed by a vast, invisible bureaucratic machine. All his struggles, all his thoughts, seemed insignificant and ludicrous before this machine.

He picked up the urgent document from the top – a shipment of imported screws. Screws. What "Potential Impact Value" could they possibly have? They were the foundation of industry, connection, fixation. But they could also be used in shoddy construction, leading to collapse; or used to manufacture weapons… His thoughts began to spiral uncontrollably again.

Suddenly, an idea struck him. Perhaps this "Potential Impact Value" didn't refer to the goods themselves, but to... himself? As the assessing officer, his decisions themselves created impact. Every one of his judgments invisibly shaped the flow of trade, perhaps even influenced the nation's economic pulse. So, was the tariff he needed to levy an assessment of the "potential impact" generated by his own actions?

The thought horrified him.

How could he possibly assess the impact of his own actions? And to whom would he pay this tax? He looked around. His colleagues were still busy, the fluorescent lights still humming. The entire world felt like a vast, elaborate lie.

Trembling, he picked up his pen. On the customs declaration form for the screws, in the space for the tariff amount, he didn't write a number. Instead, he slowly wrote his own name: K.

Then, he felt an unprecedented calm. As if a heavy burden had been lifted, yet also as if he were falling into a bottomless abyss. He didn't know what would happen next. Perhaps he would be fired, perhaps committed to a psychiatric hospital. Or perhaps nothing would happen at all; this declaration bearing his name would disappear into the vast bureaucratic system like any other document, leaving no trace.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The humming of the fluorescent lights seemed to grow louder, like a monotonous, eternal lullaby. He felt himself slowly becoming lighter, melting, turning into a sheet of paper, one printed with blurred text and smelling of cheap ink. Tucked between countless similar sheets, waiting for the next time it would be glanced at, or forgotten. Outside the window, the city's clamor continued, the great wheels of trade kept turning. And K, the insignificant customs officer, had become the very tariff he could not assess.