7

We get to the embassy at half-past-nine and discover it’s been open for an hour. We’re directed to the Upper Brook Street entrance. A man in front of us has his attaché case looked into but we’re okay, neither of us is carrying anything. Oh, yes, Tom has a bunch of keys in his pants pocket. So he has to hand it over for a minute 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.

“Or 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.

“Well, Mr Newman, as I was saying, I’m afraid that this form requires—”

“I’m not Mr Newman. I’m sorry but it’s a good deal more complicated than that. You see…”

And I put her in the picture.

“Oh, you poor young man!” Mrs Bradley puts on her glasses and picks up my form again—finds nothing there she hadn’t found before—replaces it upon her blotter. She takes off her glasses, sucks one of the hooked ends for a thoughtful moment, then leans forward eagerly. “I don’t believe we’ve ever experienced quite this problem before…although strangely we did recently have occasion to assist an amnesia victim once he had recovered most of his memory.” She holds this out to me, almost literally, as a solid inducement to hope. “But tell me, have you seen a doctor?”

I assure her that I have.

Tom makes a suggestion.

“Oh, I’m afraid not,” she answers, most regretfully. “You need to understand, there must be millions of passports issued yearly in the U.S. and even if we could transmit a picture to every passport office in all the fifty states, it would be almost impossible to match it up.”

She smiles at me and pulls a face of deep apology.

“And supposing that your passport were issued in 1983, when the renewal period was made longer? Your photo would now be seven years old and, who knows, seven years ago you might have been just eighteen or nineteen…with spots and a crew-cut…?” She shrugs, eloquently.

This is dispiriting. “You mention all fifty states,” I say, “but doesn’t my accent pin me down to someplace on the East Coast?”

A short pause. “Oh dear,” she says. “I must confess to being a little out of my depth here. You’ve set me a conundrum. So perhaps if you wouldn’t mind waiting for just a minute…?”

It turns out to be more like fifteen. She sends us one Mr Herb Kramer, who’s about forty, big, sandy-haired, blue-suited. He comes in alone and shakes our hands with warmth. Mr Kramer is the vice-consul.

“I believe I’ve been made conversant with your plight. I have to say a case like this puts us in a difficult position.”

“Not half as difficult as the one it puts me in.”

“No, I’m sure.” He laughs, genially. “You see, our problem is we can only provide assistance to someone we know to be an American citizen. You’ll realize that given your memory loss this becomes a little awkward?”

“But my accent?”

“Yes, your accent. People do sometimes come to us with the most authentic-sounding…” He looks at me intently; looks at Tom; looks back at me. “Oh, hell. At a guess I’d say you come from New England. I’m a New Englander myself.”

“That’s what I’d have said, too.” (On both counts.)

“However, I doubt there’d be much value in communicating with the New England passport offices; there’s no way to systematically search their records. But I’ll tell you what we can do. We can send a cable to the State Department on the chance that someone might have started an inquiry.”

He’s perched on the edge of Mrs Bradley’s desk, pensively stroking his moustache.

“What’s tantalizing is to think we could already have received a cable from them. Or from some other post. A caller might actually have been right here asking about you. Every last detail could be sitting there awaiting us. But without a name to enter into the lookout check…” He spreads his hands. “So we have nothing to fall back on but the memories of our staff. Just now Mrs Bradley and I were questioning everyone on duty today. Unfortunately without the least bit of success.”

“Thank you, anyhow.”

“Well, it’s our job, of course. Your accent leads us to believe you’re American and therefore we’ll assume you are.” He says this in a fairly businesslike way but then he smiles. “Unless we happen to unearth some discouraging thing to the contrary.”

“Like what, for instance? That I’m a natural born mimic who’s spent time in New England?”

“Oh, believe me, it happens! I notice, by the way, you’re not totally uninfluenced by British speech patterns.”

This doesn’t strike me as being loaded but I do reply that, seeing it from his point of view, my claim could unquestionably be a hoax. “Nice work if you can get it.”

“Exactly. Oh, you’d be surprised at some of the tricks people try to pull. Also, you’d be surprised at some of the ingenuity they put into them.”

“Do they, so far as you know, ever manage to get away with it?”

“I doubt it. Our tests are extremely stringent. We look for very special responses.”

“Such as?”

They both laugh.

“And even apart from those tests,” says Herb Kramer, “one very swiftly develops a sixth sense.”

Although I acknowledge that his answer will be meaningless: “And your sixth sense regarding me?”

“That you’re genuine. Can I ask you a somewhat personal question? You have no credit cards nor traveller’s cheques. What’s your financial situation?”

“A real pain.”

Again he laughs. “Sure thing; must be! But the reason I ask is that it’s possible for us to give you assistance in getting back to the States. We’d make contact with the Department of Health and Human Services and they, if necessary, would help you find a place to stay.”

I like this man. He seems to come from almost the same class of human being as Tom. I like his attitude of innocent till proven guilty. I like his tact, as well: the way he doesn’t actually ask what I’m managing to live on. To say that Tom is keeping me would most likely convey a seriously misleading impression, especially to a man who, however well-disposed, is trained to be cynical. Even considering it in passing is something that makes me realize, all over again, how exceptional Tom is, and how incredibly lucky I was to have come across him. Unthinkingly, I flash him an affectionate smile, which could possibly confirm any suspicions my compatriot may have.

Herb Kramer takes my form and scribbles down some notes. Tom gives him a couple of photographs. The vice-consul promises he will do all in his power to speed up the inquiries.

He escorts us to the entrance (Mrs Bradley waves cheerily from a far corner and mouths the words “Good luck!”) and we leave the building in a fairly optimistic frame of mind.

We need all the optimism we can get. There’s another day of visiting hotels ahead of us.