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Passport

A Novel of International IntrigueBy Michael R. Häack

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Michael R. Häack
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-3370-4

Chapter One

He saw me as soon as he entered the office. With a sigh and a smirk, which offered me precious little of the confidence I so desperately needed, he slammed the door and slapped his imitation alligator file case on the desk. I tried to remain calm, and sat with my legs crossed, and forced a smile.

"I can't believe you came here today anyway." Tall, dark, and arrogant, Mark had a way with words. The way was called control and seemed to go well with his job as a counselor. "I already told you there is little need."

In a disconnected manner, my face continued to smile, while the rest of me fought to overcome the urge to cry out, and I replied, "You said, maybe. You said we should take some time and consider, er, things. You gave me some hope." I wanted to scream now!

He ruffled his perfect long black hair, pushed black rimmed glasses up a Roman nose, and stretched out in his fine leather office chair, black of course, with arms crossed and legs pointed my way. His total body language said, "Crawl insect! You haven't a hope."

"Look, ah, Mike." Had he forgotten me or my name? I was still the same tall skinny blond guy in shorts who had been in his office only two days ago. "We spoke again this morning. She and I spoke. There is nothing more to say on the subject."

Desperation now. "No, but, she said maybe. She said we could take some time and try ..."

"No! That is not what was said."

"But wait, I have tried all the things you suggested ..."

"No," Mark was big on interruptions. "You are compulsive, obsessive, you clean house all the time, always have to work in the yard, you're not spontaneous. Basically, you do nothing to further the life of the marriage. My client has spoken. There will be a divorce!"

I tried once more. All I wanted was to be told maybe, perhaps in time. "She said that if I tried ..."

Mark continued. "The discussion was if she wanted reconciliation, which she does not. The matter is closed. You will be served the papers within a week. Now, are there any questions you have for me? If not I have further needs to attend to; my waiting room, as always, is filled."

Oh, gosh no. No questions at all. I mean, after all, you just slapped the lid on ten years of marriage with a coldhearted and businesslike shrug. No, I have no questions for you.

I mentally surveyed the waiting room. Who was next out there? If I held out long enough, would they all solve their problems, without the interference of dear Mark, and go happily home, together?

"So Mike, what are your plans? Perhaps a girlfriend in the future?" He was such an arrogant rat and his manners always ran to the cheap, sleazy and banal.

I refused him his moment of glory, stood up with what I considered a combination of scared anger, and angry dignity, crossed the room and closed the door carefully behind me. I mentally wished the sad souls in the arm-chaired waiting room good fortune.

Outside the weather was mild, the traffic passed at a brisk five o'clock stampede, and pedestrians charging by were indifferent to a broken heart. I decided to make the move at once. Closing my eyes I dashed into the street. Dead on the paving stones was exactly how I saw myself. That would end it all and I would have no need to face the future. Astonished and intact I touched a parked car across the street.

"Hey, you stupid ... you wanna get killed?"

Well yes, that was the idea.

Dazed, I fished out keys, started the car, and automatically drove to what had been our home. This house during the past three years had been a lovely place, 'til today. Today I arrived at an impersonal box, alien to me. Who would live there now? Perhaps the boyfriend from the south would move in. Name unknown, yet surely he must have been the one to encourage this abrupt end to life, hope and love.

"She" was there, and as much to insult as to isolate, was locked in the spare room. That room, which was to have been a children's room, had fallen far short of that goal as time wandered past, and no giggling brood arrived. I scooped up Adolph the cat, and went to sit in my domain, the garage.

In the soft garage light sat what would become her car, our precious Lotus Élan, and my old German Krobbelwagen. The place was clean, spotless as always, and quiet, way too quiet. I removed the gun from the closet and checked for shells. Now it was time to decide, where and how.

Shooting yourself in the head with a shotgun is never easy. The trigger is too far away for most arms. I was the exception. Six foot one inch tall and weighing the usual 145 pounds I had unusually long arms and would have been a great backstroke swimmer but chose to swim breaststroke in college instead. Still, it helped now as I could easily reach that trigger and planned to, but not here, not in the clean garage. Besides, the mess could get on the spotless white Lotus. Perhaps my compulsion with cleanliness saved my life that bleak evening in February of 1978.

Further plans for self-destruction abated as the door opened and she paraded out, grabbed the gun and remarked, "You can't be trusted with this. I'll take it!" That last night the cat and I slept in the car, not the Lotus of course. No good getting cat hair on the fawn-colored leather.

In the darkness of an early morning I gathered my clothes, the old car, and settled in with my brother.

I would continue to teach school for a while. I worked, without a contract and with very poor pay, at a middle school as a sports instructor.

My few friends, mostly guys I ran with on a cross-country team, lent precious little support for the times.

"Hey we've all been divorced. It's not a big thing. Life goes on." To them it was no big thing and we continued to run daily. I continued to run, ignored their mostly useless advice, and took up sulking and worrying on the side.

As time passed it appeared as if the world would revolve as always with one small exception; I was no longer a partner in a marriage.

Then, without warning, I read the ad in a travel magazine. Within weeks I obtained passport, visa, and money, and gathered possessions into one large backpack. Early one morning, while life went on as usual, I boarded a plane for New Zealand. I planned to emigrate.

Chapter Two

Ok, so I was a little overly excited, but then New Zealand was still wilderness country. Wilderness equaled exploration, which meant adventure. I was desperately in need of a change of life, thus, adventure. With a landmass the size of Colorado and a population of only three million, there was a lot of wide-open space.

New Zealand had some extremes to consider too. The top end of the north island is 'so California,' that a tiny town was even named after our over populated and polluted state. The countryside is fields of green, masses of trees, low hills, and beaches, beaches, beaches. The north island boasts New Zealand's two largest cities: Auckland, population one million, and Wellington, also one million. The remaining one million citizens are spread over the 45,300 square miles of the tiny South Pacific country.

The south island of New Zealand is a mixture of the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California, the fjords of Norway, and the ice fields of nearby Antarctica. Throw in such lovely cities as Christchurch, Queenstown and Dunedin, and such scenic spots as Cape...