Authors: B. TRAVEN
It was the other way round. I was invited here and I was invited there, to have a bite or a cup of coffee or a shot of gin. I got from this man two cents, from that woman three cents, and from another man one cent to help me along. They were not rich, but plain peasants. But they had a heart, every one of them. They all hated the police, and they cursed whenever I told what they had done to me.
I would give a second tenth of my million to find out who it is, in reality, that makes the laws about passports and immigration. I have not so far found an ordinary human being who would say anything in favor of that kind of messing up of people’s private affairs. It seems to me governments have to mess up things to create new jobs for officials and to produce evidence of their god-given right to collect more taxes.
9
Thirty francs, no matter how you get them, don’t last very long. Money always goes sooner than you expect it will. The same with really fine people.
Hanging around the docks one day, I saw two guys walking along and caught a few words of their conversation. There is something queer about languages. The English say that we can’t speak English, while we say that what the English talk is a sort of ancient Scotch, because no serious-minded person can ever guess what they mean when they start talking about races or movies or, worse, politics. That’s why the first English settlers couldn’t get along as well with the Indians as we can, because the Indians are hundred-per-centers, and the English are not.
But whatever language the limeys talk, I am not crazy about them. They don’t like us, either, and never did. It’s been going on now for more than a hundred and fifty years — ever since the tea-party that had no bridge-partners. The war made things worse.
You come into a port where the limeys are thick, and they shout as though they owned the world. Maybe in Australia, or in China, or along the coast of the Indian Sea. You step into a tavern like a good and decent sailor who is ashore for a couple of hours and wants to wash down the salt from his throat.
You don’t have to say who you are. You just step across to the bar and you say: “Hello, pal, gimme a shot. No, straight. Make it two.”
That’s all you need to say, and hell is let loose.
“Hey you, Yank. Who won the war?”
Now, as a decent sailor, what can you say to that? What has that to do with me? I didn’t win the war. Of that I am sure. Those who say they won it would rather that nobody reminded them of it, true or not true.
Again: “Hey, Yank, you’re a smart sailor. Tell the world who won the war!”
What do I care? I am drinking my hard washer, and ask for another, straight. Mother told me long ago not to meddle with boys who are not honest and who seek only trouble.
Now there are about two dozen of the limeys. Grinning and laughing. I am alone. I don’t know where the other fellows from my can are right now. Not very likely to drop in here, anyhow.
“Make this one a doubler. Mother’s son is thirsty.”
“Hey, submarine admiral, Nancy of the gobs. Tell us real sailors who won the war.”
I do not even look at the drunks. I punish them with my profound disrespect. But they cannot leave a guy in peace, especially since I am all alone. I don’t even know if the barman will keep neutral. I guess I shall have to say something. The honor of my country is at stake. No matter what it may cost me.
Now what can I say? If I say: “We,” there will be roaring laughter and a big fight. If I say: “The Frenchies,” there will be a fight. If I say: “I won it,” there will be a fight, and most likely the jail afterwards and then the hospital. If I say: “The Canadians, the Australians, the Africans, and the New Zealanders,” there will be a fight. If I stay on saying nothing, it will be taken to mean: “We Americans won it,” which, I know, will surely result in the biggest fight. I could say: “You English, you won the war.” This would be a lie, and that reminds me again of my mother, who told me a thousand times never to tell a lie, and always to think of the cherry-tree that was responsible for a president. So what else can be done about it? There is a fight on. That’s the way they treat the fine guys whom they called, when they needed them badly, “our cousins across the sea.” Not my cousins; no, siree.
So that’s why I am not so crazy about the limeys. But whether I liked them or despised them made no difference now. I had to be friendly, for they were all I had to rely on.
“What bucket are you from, chaps?”
“Hello, Yankey, what’re you doing here?”
“I was mixed up with a jane who had a sick mother. Had to take her to the hospital myself. So I was skipped, see?”
“Now it is too hot here for you, isn’t it? Polishing anchor-chains, hey?”
“You said it. How about stowing with you?”
“It might be done. Always a free hand for a sailor feller.”
“Where are you making for?” I asked.
“Lisbon and old Malta, and then Egypt. Can’t take ye that far, but welcome to Boulogne. From there on, you have to look out for your own future.”
“Boulogne will be okay with me.”
“See, the bos’n we have is a bloody devil, he is. If it were not for him, we could take you round the world sightseeing. Now, tell ye what we’ll do for you. You come round about eight at night. Then the bos’n will be so filled up he’ll be kicking over the rim. Doesn’t see anything and doesn’t hear anything. Now, you just come up. We’ll wait for you at the railing. Just look at me. If I tip my cap over onto my neck, everything is shipshape and you just hop on. But if anybody finds you aboard, don’t ever say who heaved you up. Sailor’s word.”
“Understand. I’ll be there at eight.”
I was there. The cap was cocked onto his neck. The bos’n was so well drenched that it lasted until Boulogne. There I got off, and that’s how I came to France.
I changed my money for French coin. Then I went to the depot. I bought a ticket to the first station on the way to Paris. The Paris Express. I boarded it.
The French are very polite gents. No one molested me to show my ticket.
The train pulled in at what they call a gare, which means their depot. So I came to Paris, which is supposed to be the paradise for Americans who have become sick of God’s country.
Now the tickets were asked for.
The police are quick in Paris. Since I had no ticket for Paris, and I had ridden all the way down from Boulogne on a very soft seat unmolested by anybody, I had become a case for the Paris criminal investigation police department, or something that sounded as highfalutin’ as that.
I knew a few words of French, and I hoped that this would save me, but these cops knew more about the English language than I shall ever be able to pick up. They must have had better teachers than we usually have.
Where did I come from? Boulogne. How did I come to Boulogne? On a ship. What ship?
The Abraham Lincoln
. No
Abraham Lincoln
lately in Boulogne. Where is my sailor’s card? Haven’t got any.
“You mean to say you have no —”
“No, I have no sailor’s card.”
I had become so used to that question that I would understand it even in Hindustani, whatever that may be. The tune of the words, and the gestures, and the lifted eyebrows that always accompany the question are so unmistakably alike among all the bureaucrats and policemen of the world that there never can be any doubt about what is asked.
“And I have no passport either. Nor have I an identification card of the French authorities. No immigration stamp. No customs-house seal. I have no papers at all. Never in all my life did I ever have any papers.”
I rattled off all this to spare them the work of questioning me for an hour. I could easily pass the toughest examination for immigration officers, because I have had the best schooling any guy ever can have.
The chief, who had wanted to spend an easy hour or two with me, became confused. He looked at me with dying eyes.
He seemed to feel that I had taken from him all his upholstered authority. He pushed around some papers lying on his desk to find a few questions for me. After a while, trying to compose himself, he gave up for the day.
Next day there was a hearing, of which I did not grasp a single word, since everyone spoke in French. When it was all over, somebody tried his best to explain to me that I had got ten days in prison for cheating the French railroad out of the money for a ticket to Paris. I learned later that in France one might get for such an offense as much as two years, but someone in court had said that I was too dumb to understand the French law and it would be an injustice to load two years on me.
That was the welcome the French gave a good American who had been willing to help them win democracy.
I have never been in prison back home. When home I am very decent and dull, just like all the home folks. When living among baboons, do as the baboons do. Life is easier that way, and you may find a dame who thinks you are a great guy in fact, the greatest guy on earth. But in foreign countries everything is different, and so am I. That’s why travel is educating. You never get educated staying home, because you stay dumb like the rest. If you show only a bit of intelligence above the average, everybody says you must be a crank, or something else must be wrong with you, or else you would not act the way you do and upset everything. Back home in Sconsin I would never have told a good story. Everybody would have said that I was silly, and I’d better buy the gas-station Mr. Jorgson is offering for sale. So I do not know how prison life is at home.
In Paris it was this way:
First day: Registration. Bath. Health examination. Bedclothes obtained. A book from the prison library. Cell assigned. Take possession of cell. First day gone.
Second day: The money they found on me was handed over to the treasurer of the prison. I had to make several statements as to whether it was my money, whether any of it was missing, whether the coins were exactly the same as far as I could remember. All this was written in three thick books. Also information was asked as to other valuables found on my person, of which there were none, and which I had to testify to several times, signing my name about two dozen times in as many books and on as many blanks. Afternoon: Called for by the minister of the prison. Sort of Protestant or Calvinist. He spoke good English. It must have been the English William the Conqueror spoke before he landed on the coast of old England. I did not understand one word of his English. I was in France, therefore I was more courteous than at home, where one is thought silly when courteous; so I did not let the minister feel that I did not understand what he was talking about. Whenever he mentioned God, I thought he was talking about a goat. That was the way he pronounced it. Not my fault. So the second day came to an end.
Third day: In the morning I was asked by about fifteen different officers if I had ever in my life sewn strings on aprons. I said that I had not, and that I had not the slightest idea as to how it is done. Afternoon: I am called for by eight or nine prison officials who inform me that I have been assigned to the sewing department to sew on apron-strings. I have to sign my name on dozens of blanks, which takes all the afternoon.
Fourth day: I have to appear in the store, where I receive a pair of scissors, one needle, about five yards of thread, and a thimble. The thimble did not fit any of my fingers. I complained, but I was told to be quiet; they had no other thimble to satisfy my peculiarities. I had to sign my name in books several times. Each time, before signing my name, I was asked if I had the needle, and if the needle was still good, or if I thought it looked as though it had a dull point. Afternoon: I was shown how to set up in the middle of my cell a little bench in such a way that it would be seen from the peep-hole in the door. On this bench I had to lay out in open view the scissors, the needle, the thread, and the thimble. These things were not laid out any old way. They had to be arranged in a special manner, which took me all afternoon to learn, because every time I thought it was right, the officer told me it was wrong and I had to do it all over again until he was satisfied. But he added that there was still something lacking in accuracy. Outside my door a cardboard sign was put above the peep-hole, which stated that the resident of the cell had scissors, a needle, a thread, and a thimble. When this sign had been put on my door, the fourth day was gone.
Fifth day: Sunday. Something said about good behavior, and the Lord will do all the rest.
Sixth day: In the morning I am taken to the shop in which I have to work. Afternoon: I am given a place to sit and to work. Sixth day gone.
Seventh day: In the morning a prisoner is introduced to me as the professor who is going to teach me how to sew on apron-strings. Afternoon: The prof shows me how to use the needle, and how to get in the thread without biting up too much of it. Seventh day gone.
Eighth day: The prisoner in charge of my education shows me how he himself sews on apron-strings. Afternoon: Bathing and weighing. I am asked if I have any complaints as to treatment or food. I tell them that I am used to better food and a better sort of coffee. No one takes any notice of my complaints; they only say it is all right, they cannot grow a special coffee for me. The eighth day is gone.
Ninth day: During the morning I am sent for to see the chief warden. He asks my name, and wants to know if I am the guy whose name I said was mine. I answered: “Yes, sir.” Then he asks me if I have any complaints. I tell him that I am not much satisfied with the food and the coffee. He says: “The French law is the best law in the world, and there is no country more civilized than France.” I have to sign my name in two books. Afternoon: I am shown how to sew on apron-strings. The ninth day gone.
Tenth day: During the morning I sew on one apron-string. The guy who teaches me how to do it examines the string it took me an hour and a half, perhaps two hours to sew on. Then he says that it is not sewn as well as he had thought I would do it, and that he feels sorry that he has no other remedy but to cut off the string and have me do it all over again. Afternoon: When I am half-way through sewing on the string again, I am called to the chief warden, who tells me that tomorrow morning my time is up. Then he says that he is sorry that I have to leave, but it is the law; he has been satisfied with my good behavior, and I have been an example to other prisoners.