Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart by Stephen Benatar Read Free Book Online Page B

and once again pass through the metal-detector. Parking the car has taken all the coins he had—and the money he’s lent me wasn’t in change.
    American Citizen Services is to the right and up some stairs. A Marine security guard watches as we go inside. The young woman who greets us from behind her counter sounds Irish rather than American. I explain that I’ve lost my passport. (“Start easy,” Tom had advised. “Don’t throw it at them all at once.”) Totally unfazed, she hands me a form and asks us if we’d like to sit while I complete it. We go a little further in and the place opens up to resemble a vast modern bank: airy and pleasant with all the walls, desktops and partitions either cream-coloured or grey, and the carpet adding a bluish tinge. Typewriters, computers and printers introduce a lighter shade of grey. There are anomalies, of course: a vase of flowers, a large and leafy plant, the U.S. flag drooping from a staff topped by a golden eagle.
    We sit on plastic chairs and glance through the form: Application for Passport Registration. Initially there doesn’t seem a lot I can fill in. It starts with name, date and place of birth. Social security number. But then I find the next six questions to be simple. For my mailing address I give Tom’s. I tell them my gender; that my height is six foot; the colour of my hair, light brown; my eyes, blue. For my home telephone number they get Tom’s. (They get his business phone as well—that makes a seventh field not left entirely blank.) After that, it’s permanent address and occupation. Father’s name, father’s birthplace, father’s date of birth. Is or was father a U.S. citizen? Then comes my mother’s maiden name and a request for her details. Then it’s back to me. Have I ever been issued with a U.S. passport? (If yes, passport number, issue date and disposition. In this context, what does that mean, exactly? Neither of us knows.) Have I ever been married? (If yes, date of most recent marriage.) And so on. In other words, not without problems for someone like myself. Tom points out a note on the reverse side: if no birth record exists, a circumcision certificate might help to prove identity. “Oh, yes, extremely funny,” I reply.
    â€œOr family Bible records,” he smiles. “I find that equally endearing.”
    I put the form into a tray on another counter, more in an attempt to appear willing than because I think it’s of the slightest use to anyone. In the space for the first answer I have finally written—God help me—Tex Newman. (It could have been John Doe but that’s even worse.) As Tom indicates, they must have something to address me by, when they summon me to interview.
    Which happens surprisingly soon. An athletic black youth at the counter tells me my form appears to be lacking many essential details. I reply that I’m faced with certain difficulties that I should like to explain to someone. He glances at the five or six people waiting and—conceding that the matter may be complicated—decides to pass me on to a superior. This lady, he informs us, is the supervisor in charge of Passport Citizen Operations. What is equally impressive is that she, like the clerk, doesn’t keep us hanging around: no more than three minutes before we’re on our feet again.
    She’s an angular woman with greying hair piled high and spectacles dangling from a golden chain. She’s British. She means to interview me over the counter but Tom asks if it couldn’t be done in an office.
    And it could. We pass through a door whose lock is opened by pressing the right combination of studs and she leads us to a room with grey Venetian blinds, the same grey-blue carpeting, and a striking vase of gladioli next to her typewriter.
    We all sit. She gazes at us from across her desk with an air of solicitous refinement.
    â€œWell, Mr Newman, as I was