The Death Ship by B. Traven Page B

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,