A Shade of Difference (102 page)

Even so, he could not escape a feeling of regret at the way things were apparently going to develop. Many of his deepest instincts, many of his most deeply held beliefs and emotional attitudes, the mental equipment he had brought from Nigeria to his famous office had, like those of Orrin Knox in another context, been modified and changed and drastically revised by the realities of world events. Two years ago he, too, might have joined in the dangerous yet delightful game of Smack America; he, too, might have joined in pouring scorn and sarcasm upon any nation so naive as to argue that the Charter’s machinery to halt aggression should be applied equally to all. Now he knew that Smack America was a child’s game when placed alongside the earnest efforts of that strangely confused yet worthy nation to set its racial house in order. And he knew that the Charter had already been flouted so many times by aggression tacitly approved by the Assembly and the Security Council that now it was only the flimsiest protection to anyone.

It was no wonder, therefore, he thought as he watched the Africans in their colorful robes, the Indians and Arabs in their flowing gowns, and all the rest come in chatting and bowing and waving in the steadily growing noise and tension, that he should feel a sad disgust with so many of his fellows of the colored races.

They were great ones, he thought, for twisting the Charter out of shape to suit their own race-sick purposes. The day would come when they would pay for it, and dearly.

But this was obviously not to be that day, if all the things he heard in his aerie on the thirty-eighth floor were correct. No good could come from what was contemplated here, for the colored races, for the UN, or for the world. The gravest consequences might flow from it for them all if it went forward as planned.

Despite his determination to have none of it, and despite his woeful and startling explosion to Cullee Hamilton, he could not, as he contemplated these consequences, refrain from turning over in his mind the possible ways in which he could intervene to point them out. He perhaps could state them more directly than anyone else would wish to do, unless the Americans might feel themselves really hard pressed and so finally abandon niceties. His intervention would help to keep them from feeling that way and would also help to ward off the disastrous results he could see if they became sufficiently disillusioned.

He doubted, however, whether he should volunteer a statement. Perhaps if Tashikov should attack him, which was quite possible—the Soviet Ambassador often did it on the slightest of pretexts, apparently just to keep his hand in—then possibly he could take the floor in reply. Or perhaps he could arrange with someone else to give him an opening. To do so would bring him sharp criticism from many delegations, but he did not care. This was one of the times when they were playing with the future of the UN itself. He might not have much influence, but he intended to use what he had in the service of the organization, whether the organization liked it or not.

Anyway, he told himself with an ironic humor, one couldn’t have the sort of thing that was being readied here by Felix Labaiya and his friends just at this time, right on the eve of the annual reception and dance that he and the President of the Assembly gave together each year. The annual United Nations Ball was scheduled for next Monday night, and to the planning for it he had been devoting most of his time in the past few days. He knew that this had been in part a deliberate attempt to find in all the details of catering and arrangement an antidote for thought about the issue now nearing decision in the Assembly; but also there was another motive.

There was something quite touching about this annual occasion when the nations danced together, and it deserved the best of attention and the best of moods to do it honor. It was always a glittering and pleasant affair—and something more. It was one of those poignant moments that occur once in a while on the East River when men tell one another,
“This
is the way it
ought
to be,” and manage to persuade themselves for a few brief swings of the Netherlands’ pendulum that it is not entirely beyond the realm of possibility that it may yet, someday, still be.

This fleeting, precious moment means rather more, in the United Nations, that it might if set in the humdrum context of the everyday. In Turtle Bay, where the frequent meanness of the performance must be matched daily against the greatness of the hope, it is somewhat more significant, in its wistfully sentimental way, than it would be elsewhere. It was suddenly very important to the Secretary-General that the annual Ball be held once again in the spirit of kindness and courtesy and optimism which each year transformed the unhappy divisions of the United Nations and for a few hours seemed to place genuine harmony within the grasp of those who danced the night away across the gleaming expanses of the Main Concourse.

But now it was time to put aside such thoughts for the time being, for the rotund little President from the Netherlands, tired but determined, had appeared to take his seat at the Secretary-General’s side, the galleries were full to overflowing, and in the great recurring semicircles of fluorescent-lighted desks that mounted from the well of the hall to the back of the room, all seats were filled with the gossiping, chattering, excited sons of man. Tension was beginning to grip the Assembly, and into it the President rapped his gavel several times with a nervous, commanding air.

“The plenary session of the General Assembly is now in session,” he announced at 3:17 p.m. “The subject matter of today’s session is the amendment offered by the delegate of Panama to his resolution calling for immediate independence for Gorotoland. Delegates will remember that debate on this amendment was put forward a week on Friday last at the request of the delegation of the United States.

“In order to refresh delegates’ memories on the subject matter of this amendment, I shall ask the Secretary-General to please read it to the Assembly.”

The S.-G., straight-backed and erect, his silver hair and classic black features weathered by his years of age and dignity, began to read in his softly slurred British accent the words of Felix Labaiya:

“Whereas, the distinguished representative of Gorotoland, acting in the greatest traditions of human freedom and decency, has been savagely attacked in a city of the United States of America; and,

“Whereas, this attack grew directly from policies of racial discrimination in the United States of America, which decent men everywhere deplore and condemn; and,

“Whereas, the continued existence of these policies in the United States tends to place the United States in direct violation of the principles of the Charter of the United Nations, and therefore casts grave doubts upon the qualifications of the United States to continue as a member of this body;

“Now, therefore, this resolution is hereby amended to direct the Security Council, acting on behalf of the United Nations, to make an immediate investigation of racial practices in the United States, looking toward the end of such racial practices, and offering the full assistance of the United Nations in this task so that the United States may truly conform to the principles of the Charter and be fully worthy of membership in this great body.”

“The Chair,” the President said, “finds that the precedents as to how we proceed at this point are somewhat hazy, since we have already had a debate and several votes concerning this proposal. However, since the votes did not occur on the substance of the amendment, the Chair will rule that debate will be resumed as though
ab initio,
providing that is agreeable to the Assembly.” He paused, there were no interruptions, and he went on. “The first speaker on today’s list is the mover of the amendment and resolution, the distinguished delegate of Panama.”

“I say,” the London
Daily Express
whispered, “isn’t that Hal Fry coming in over there?”

“So it is,” the
New York
Times
agreed.

“Reports of his death were apparently somewhat exaggerated,” the
Christian Science Monitor
remarked.

“He looks all right to me,” said the London
Observer.
“Maybe it was all just psychological warfare by the State Department to throw everybody off.”

“No,” the
Chicago
Tribune
said. “I know he was in the hospital. But I must say he looks reasonably chipper now.”

And so he did, as he came in with Lafe Smith and two U.S. delegation secretaries, just as the President called upon Felix, and took his seat with a matter-of-fact air alongside the British Ambassador. His vision was blurring a little; there were occasional sharp cramps through his back, chest, and stomach; he was, if truth were known, more than a little dizzy; but otherwise, at the moment, he was feeling pretty well. Above all, he was feeling well in his heart and mind, and that was the important thing. He had three different kinds of capsules in his pocket, but he was determined not to use them—he was confident he would not have to. He greeted Lord Maudulayne with a smile so natural that once more the British Ambassador dismissed the rumors he had heard so often the past several days in the Lounge.

“Good morning,” he said, shaking hands. “You look as though everything were all right.”

“Everything is all right,” Senator Fry said. “Except,” he smiled and nodded toward the podium, “Felix, up there. He’s definitely all wrong.”

“Lafe,” Lord Maudulayne said, leaning forward and speaking across Hal, “I thought that was a stout defense of principle you made in Security Council last night. Very fine.”

“Fat lot of good it did,” Lafe said in a disgusted tone. “Thank you, though. I get so damned fed up with the hypocrisy here sometimes that it’s all I can do to avoid throwing up.”

“You would have been proud of him,” Lord Maudulayne said, sitting back, and Hal nodded.

“I know. It may not accomplish much, but it seems to me that we, and you, and the rest of us who feel the same way, have got to do it each time, just for the record. Somebody may be around to read it, if the whole thing collapses. Maybe it will furnish some pointers someday, for the next time.”

“I can just see them,” the British Ambassador said dryly, “scratching themselves and puzzling over one of our transcripts by the light of a tallow flare in some cave somewhere in the desolate ruins of what used to be Manhattan … But you’re right; it has to be done. Do you plan to get into this debate?”

“I think we’ll have to,” Hal Fry said. “It depends on what our friend has to say. It doesn’t sound very friendly so far.”

Nor did it as the Ambassador of Panama, small and dark and trim and neat, completely self-contained as always, spoke earnestly to the now-quiet Assembly.

“Mr. President,” he was pointing out as their attention returned to the podium, “much will no doubt be made here by distinguished representatives of the United States of the fact that in the past week the Congress has indeed passed the resolution of the Congressman from California.

“It is true that the resolution offers Gorotoland $10,000,000, which is a figure the United Nations cannot match.

“It is true that it offers a vague apology to the M’Bulu for indignities suffered by him in the state of South Carolina.

“It is true that it offers a vague pledge to give further study to improving the conditions of the Negro race within the United States.

“The truest thing about it, Mr. President,” he said with a small, tight smile, “is that it is vague.”

There was a ripple of laughter and a scattering of applause here and there across the crowded chamber.

“Now, Mr. President, what was the margin by which the Congress passed this noble resolution, which will presently be offered here as an excuse to us not to pass my amendment? Was it an overwhelming vote, Mr. President? Why, certainly not. It was a margin of five votes in the United States House of Representatives. It was a margin of six votes in the United States Senate. There would seem to have been, Mr. President, some slight reluctance on the part of the Congress.”

Again there came the ripple of laughter, more scornful now.

“And what was said about the resolution, and what was said about us here in the United Nations? My distinguished colleagues, let me read to you. I have here three interesting quotes. One is from the chairman of the House Foreign Affairs Committee”—there were a few boos—“another is from a most sadly lamented statesman, the late Senator Cooley of South Carolina”—more boos, some laughter, some applause—“and the last is from the Majority Leader of the United States Senate”—ironic laughter, more boos. “The chairman of the House Foreign Affairs Committee had this to say about us—”

And he was off into Jawbone Swarthman’s more impolite and derogatory comments.

Poised alertly beside the Indian Ambassador, who had kindly invited him to occupy a seat on the floor with his delegation, Terrible Terry could hardly keep to himself the excited elation that filled his being. Now it was coming at last, the independence for Gorotoland for which he had worked so long and hard—he had no doubt of it. And coming at last, if the plans he and Felix and the rest had been formulating so carefully over the past week came successfully to fruition, was the proper judgment of history upon the arrogant and unthinking Americans who had permitted an inexcusable racial situation to exist long past the terminal point of history’s patience.

Child in pretty clothes wandering about the world tossing hand grenades into open windows he might be, in Lord Maudulayne’s casual and cutting description, but Terence Ajkaje was something more; a complex human being, as so many are complex, fitting one description this moment and another description the next, depending upon time and circumstance and the matters that engaged his attention. Capable of the most ruthless cruelty, the most carefree vindictiveness, the most irresponsible misuse of history’s forces, he was also capable of the most genuine and burning indignation at certain abuses in the world. He could suppress his own fellow blacks in Gorotoland with a harshness rarely matched in the United States of America, but when it came to the situation in that great land, he felt a passionate anger whose inconsistency never occurred to him at all.