by B. TRAVEN
11
I was asked to “come in.” All the other people waiting here had to go, when their number was called, through a different door from the one I used. I passed through the same door through which the fat lady had passed. So I was, after all, to see Mr. Grgrgrgrs, or whatever his name was. Exactly the gent I was most eager to see. A person so kind as to give a lady in need, in so short a time, a new passport would understand my troubles better than anybody else.
The gentleman I met was short, lean, and rather sad or worried about something. He was dried up to the bones. He looked as though he had been working in an office before he had reached fourteen. I had the impression that, should it ever happen that he could no longer go to an office at a certain hour in the morning and work there or sit there until a certain hour in the afternoon, he would die inside of six weeks, believing himself a failure.
“Sit down. What can I do for you?”
“I would like to have a passport.”
“Lost your passport?”
“Not my passport. Only my sailor’s identification card.”
“Oh, then you are a sailor?”
When I said: “Yes, sir,” he changed the expression on his face, and his voice took another tone. He narrowed his eyes, and from then on he looked at me with suspicion written all over his face.
“You see, sir, I missed my ship.”
“Drunk, eh?”
“I never drink, sir. Not a drop. I believe in prohibition.”
“But did you not tell me you are a sailor?”
“Exactly. My ship got under weigh three hours before the time we were supposed to sail. I had presumed that we would go out with high water. As we had no cargo and were going home in ballast, the skipper didn’t have to wait for high water to come in, and so he ordered the ship to make off early in the night.”
“Your papers were left aboard, I suppose?”
“Right, sir.”
“I might have known this before. Do you remember the register number of your sailor’s card?”
“No, sir. I am sorry.”
“So am I. Where was the card issued? By what shipping board?”
“I don’t remember where it was. You see, I have shipped in coast traffic, Boston, New York, Philly, New Orleans, Galveston, and all along the Mexican Gulf. You see, sir, a sailor does not look every day at his card. In fact, I have never looked at all at what it said. Often it is not even asked for by the skipper when he signs you on. He takes it for granted that a guy has his card. More important to the skipper is what ship you have been on before, and under which master, and what you know about the job.”
“I know. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Naturalized?”
“No, sir. Native-born!”
“Birth registered?”
“I do not know, sir. When this happened, I was too small to remember exactly if it was done or not.”
“Then your birth has not been registered.”
“I said I do not know, sir.”
“But I do know.”
“Well, sir, if you know everything beforehand, why do you ask me?”
“Now, don’t you get excited here. No reason for that. Was your mother married to your father?”
“I never asked my mother. I thought it her own business, and that it concerns nobody else.”
“Right. Excuse me. I was only thinking that the marriage license might be found somewhere. Your father was also a sailor, like you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought so. Never came home again I suppose?”
“I do not know, sir.”
“Any relatives alive?”
“I do not know, sir. Never knew any.”
“Know somebody in the States who has known you since you were a boy?”
“I think there ought to be lots of people who ought to know me.”
He took up a pencil and got ready to write down names and addresses. “Will you, please, name any of these people who have known you for a long time let us say fifteen years or so?”
“How could I recall any of them, sir? They all are people of no importance. Just plain people. Working folks. Changing places whenever their work calls for it. I would not know their full names or even their real names, only the names we knew them by or called them.”
“Have you a permanent address back home?”
“No, sir. I could not pay for one. You see, I live on my ships, like most sailors do. When laid off for a while I stay in a sailors’ home or just in any cheap boarding-house near the waterfront.”
“Your mother still alive?”
“I think so. But I do not know for sure.”
“You do not know for sure?”
“How can I know for sure, sir? While I was away, she changed her address several times. Perhaps she’s married to somebody whose name I do not know. You see, sir, with us working people and sailors everything cannot be done as fine and smooth as with the rich guys that have an elegant house of their own and a swell bank-account and a telephone and a lot of servants. We have to look out first for a job, and afterwards we worry about other things. The job means eating. Without a job we are just like a farmer without a farm.”
“Ever gone to the polls to vote in any state election?”
“No, sir. I never had any time to mix with politics.”
“You are a pacifist?”
“A what, sir?”
“Well, I mean you are communist. You do not want to fight for the country.”
“I did not say so, sir. I think that as a sailor who works hard I am fighting every day for the greatness of my country. Our country would not be a great country if there were no sailors and no working-men,”
“Didn’t you say you shipped in New Orleans?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“Then, of course, you are a member of the — now, what is the name? Yes, of the Industrial Workers of the World. Syndicalism and such things?”
“No, sir, never heard of it.”
“But you said you shipped in New Orleans?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Never in Los Angeles?”
“No, sir.”
For a long while he looks at me with dull eyes. He does not know what more to ask. He drums the desk with his pencil. Then he says: “Well, I cannot give you a passport, and that is all there is to it. Sorry.”
“But why, sir?”
“Upon what proofs? Your statement that you claim American citizenship is no proof. Personally, I believe that you are American. However, the Department of Labor in Washington, to which I am responsible for making out passports and other identifications, does not wish to know what I believe and what I do not believe. This office in Washington accepts only unquestionable evidence and no mere belief of a consul abroad. If you bring proper evidence, it will be my obligation to issue a passport to you. How can you prove that you are American, that I am obliged to spend my time on your case?”
“You can hear that, sir.”
“How? By your language? That is no proof.”
“Of course it is. It is the best proof.”
“Here in France there live thousands of Russians who speak better French than the average Frenchman does. That does not make a Russian a Frenchman, does it? In New Orleans, on the other hand, there are several thousand people who speak only French and very little if any English. Nevertheless they are as true Americans as I am. Texas and southern California are full of people who speak Mexican and Spanish, but they are Americans in spite of their foreign language. So what proof is the language you are speaking?”
“I was born in the States.”
“Prove that and I will give you a passport within two days. But even if you were born in the States, I would still have the right to question your citizenship, because it might have happened that your father, before you were of age, certified on your behalf for another citizenship. I would not go that far, of course. Just prove to me that you we
re born in the States. Or name me a few persons who will testify that you are native-born.”
“How can I ever prove anything, then, since my birth was not registered?”
“That is not my fault, is it?”
“It looks, sir, as though you would even doubt the fact that I was born at all?”
“Right, my man. Think it silly or not. I doubt your birth as long as you have no certificate of your birth. The fact that you are sitting in front of me is no proof of your birth. Officially it is no proof. The law or the Department of Labor may or may not accept my word that I have seen you and that, as I have seen you, you must have been born. I know this is silly, it is nonsense. But I did not make the law. Do you know that I might get fired or discharged from public service for having given you a passport without any other evidence than your word and your presence in person? Frankly, in your case I do not know what to do.”
He pressed a button. In came the clerk. The consul writes my name on a scrap of paper, asking me how I spell it. “Look up this name, please, Gerard Gales, last residence New Orleans, sailor, Tuscaloosa.”
The clerk leaves the door partly open. I see him going into a small room where all the files are located. I know what he is. looking for: the deported, the undesirables, the criminals, the anarchists, the communists, the pacifists and all the other trouble-makers whom the government is anxious to refuse re-entry into the country.
The clerk returned. The consul had been standing at the window in the meantime, looking out into the street, where life went on as busy as ever, papers or no papers.
The consul asked: “Well?”
“Not on file. No records.”
“You gave your right name, did you?” the consul asked. “I mean the name you were living by in the home country?”
“Yes, sir. I never had any trouble back home.”
The clerk left the room and I was again alone with the consul.
There was silence for a long time. I looked at the pictures on the wall. All faces familiar since I was a kid. All great men. All lovers and supporters of freedom, of the rights of human beings, builders of a great country, where men may and shall be free to pursue their happiness.
The consul rose and left the room.
After five minutes he came back. A new question had occurred to him: “You might be — I do not insinuate you are — an escaped convict. You might be wanted by the police at home, or in any other country.”
“You are quite right, sir. I might. I see now that I have come in vain to my consul, who is paid to help Americans in need. I see it is hopeless. Thank you for your trouble, sir.”
“I am very sorry, but in your case I simply do not see any way I could do anything for you. I am only an official. I have strict regulations by which I have to work. You should have been more careful with your papers. In times like these nobody can afford to lose his passport or similar important papers. We are no longer living in those carefree pre-war times when practically no papers were asked for.”
“Would you, please, and if you do not mind, tell me one thing, sir?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“There was here, yesterday afternoon, a very fat lady, with a dozen heavy diamond rings on her fingers and a pearl necklace around her fat neck which might have cost ten thousand dollars at least. Well, that lady had lost her passport just as I have. She got a new passport here in less than an hour.”
“I see, you are referring to Mrs. Sally Marcus from New York. Surely, you have heard the name before. That big banking firm of New York.” This the consul said with a gesture and a modulation of his voice as though he had wanted to say: “My good man, don’t you know, this was His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and not just a drunken sailor without a ship.”
He must have noticed by the expression on my face that I had not taken the information as he had expected I would. So he added hastily: “The well-known banking firm, you know, in New York.”
I still did not satisfy his hope of seeing me turn pale when such a great personage was mentioned in my presence.
But Wall Street, the house of Morgan, the richness of the Rockefellers, a seat on the stock-exchange has never made any, not even the slightest, impression upon me. It all leaves me as unimpressed as a cold potato.
So I said to the consul: “I do not believe that this lady is an American. I would think her born somewhere in Bucharest.”
“How did you guess?” the consul opened his eyes wide and almost lost his breath. “Sure, she was born in Bucharest, in Roumania. But she is an American citizen.”
“Did she carry along her naturalization papers?”
“Of course not. Why?”
“Then how could you tell that she is an American citizen? She has not even learned to speak the American language. Her lingo is not even East Side. I bet it is not even accepted at Whitechapel.”
“Now get me right. In the case of that lady I do not need any evidence. Her husband, Mr. Reuben Marcus, is one of the best-known bankers of New York. Mrs. Marcus crossed in the most expensive stateroom on the Majestic. I saw her name on the list.”
“Yes, I understand. You said it, Mr. Consul. I crossed only as a plain deck-hand in the forecastle bunk of a freighter. That, I see, makes all the difference. Not the papers. Not the birth-certificate. A big banking firm is the only evidence needed to prove a man a citizen. Thank you, sir. That’s exactly what I wanted to know. Thank you, sir.”
“Now, look here, mister sailor. Let’s talk this over and get it straight. I do not wish you to leave here with the wrong impression about me. I have told you that, under the circumstances, I have no power whatever to do anything for you. I am not to blame. It is the system of which I am a slave. If I had the power let us say if I were going to leave office anyway during the year to retire — I promise you, upon my word, I would be pleased to give you any paper you need. But I cannot do it. My hands are bound. Entirely.
Frankly, I believe your story. It sounds true. I have had cases similar to yours. The same result. Could do nothing. I believe you are American. I almost think you are a better American than certain bankers ever will be. You belong with us. You are the right blood. But I tell you just as frankly: should it happen that the French police bring you here before me, to recognize you, I would deny vehemently your claim to American citizenship. I might say, as a man, I would do it with a bleeding heart, but I would do it, because I have to, as a soldier in war has to kill even his friend when he meets him on the battle-field clad in the uniform of the enemy.”
“Which means, in fewer words, that I may go to hell.”
“I did not say that. But since we have become frank with each other, I might as well admit, yes, it means exactly that. I have no other choice. I might, of course, write to Washington and present your case. Suppose you could produce the names and addresses of people back home who know you. It would nevertheless be from four to eight months before your citizenship would be established satisfactorily. Have you got the means to stay that long in Paris to wait for the final decision of Washington?”
“How could I, sir? I am a sailor. I have to look for a ship. There are no ships in Paris. I am a high-sea sailor, not a sailor of vegetable boats on the river Seine.”
“I knew that. You cannot wait here in Paris for months and months. We have no funds to provide for your staying here. By the way, would you like to have a ticket for three days’ board and lodging? When it expires you may drop in again to have another one.”
“No, thank you just the same. I’ll get along all right.”
“I suppose you would rather have a railroad ticket to a port where you might pick a ship sailing under another flag, or you may have the good luck to find a master of an American ship who knows you.”
“No, many thanks. I shall find my own way.”
He sighed. For a while he went to the window looking out again. Nothing new seemed to come into his mind. It would have been a rare thing anyhow for an official to come upon an idea that is n
ot provided for in the regulations.
So there was nothing left for him to say but: “I am so sorry. Well, then, good-by and all the luck!”
After all, there is a great difference between American officials in general and European officials in general. The office hours ended at four, or even at three. When I was out in the street again I noticed that it was five. But at no time during my conversation with the consul did he show any sign of impatience or make me think that he was in a hurry and had to go home or to the golf links. Not all American officials are like that, yet there are still some. In Europe, however, I have never met any official who did not, fifteen minutes before his working hours terminated, start showing me my way out regardless of how important my business might be.
Now I had really lost my ship.
Good-by, my sunny New Orleans! Good-by and good luck to you.
Well, honey, you’d better stick up with somebody else now. Don’t wait any longer on Jackson Square or at the Levee. Your boy is not coming home again any more. The sea has swallowed him. I could fight gales and waves, be it with fists or with the paint-brush. But I have lost out in my fight against the almighty papers and certificates. Get another boy, sweetheart, before it is too late, and ere all your blossoms have fallen off in the autumn winds. Don’t waste the roses of your sweet youth waiting for the guy who no longer has a country, for the man who was not born.
Damn the skirt! Ship ahoy! Fresh wind coming up! All hands, hear, get all the canvas spread! Sheet home! And all of it. Up and high! A fresh wind is coming up!
12
The Paris-Toulouse Express. I am on the train and have no ticket. Just before we reach Limoges, tickets are examined. I have very urgent, and very private, business to attend to, and disappear. The conductor notices neither my presence nor my absence. I am still on the train after it pulls out of Limoges, and I still have no ticket.
