Summary
A sepia-toned fever dream unfurls aboard a trans-Atlantic steamer where identity itself is contraband: Nellie Burt’s nameless adventuress clutches a Moroccan-leather passport that is not hers, Ross D. Whytock’s jittery ethnographer covets it as if it were the Holy Grail, and Walter Miller’s taciturn purser stalks corridors like a revenant customs agent. The ocean liner, shot through with expressionist shadows, becomes a floating panopticon where every porthole is an eye and every cough in the fog sounds like a judge’s gavel. The document—stamped, forged, bled upon—changes hands in a nocturnal relay of whispers, poker chips, and gunpowder perfume; each transfer erases a past and invents a future, so that by the time the foghorn signals Ellis Island the only thing left intact is the celluloid itself, sputtering like a faulty memory. The climax is not a chase but a slow dissolve: two faces superimposed over one blank page, asking whether citizenship is skin or script, while the ship’s band plays a waltz that nobody on shore will ever hear.
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