Wharton said: ‘I have two teenage children, a boy and a girl. They’re going to be envious that I met you.’
Dave was trying to concentrate on making a great show, and the last thing he needed was to talk to a washing-powder magnate; but he realized he had to be polite to this man. ‘I should sign a couple of autographs for your kids,’ he said.
‘That would give them a thrill.’
Charlie snapped his fingers at Miss Pritchard, his secretary, who was following behind him. ‘Jenny, sweetie,’ he said, even though she was a prim forty-year-old, ‘get a couple of Dave’s photos from the office.’
Wharton looked like a typical conservative businessman with short hair and boring clothes. That prompted Dave to say: ‘What made you decide to sponsor my show, Mr Wharton?’
‘Our leading product is a detergent called Foam,’ Wharton began.
‘I’ve seen the ads,’ Dave said with a smile. ‘Foam washes cleaner than white!’
Wharton nodded. Probably everyone he met quoted his advertising to him. ‘Foam is well-known and trusted, and has been for many years,’ he said. ‘For that reason, it’s also a bit fuddy-duddy. Young housewives tend to say: “Foam, yes, my mother always used it.” Which is nice, but it has its dangers.’
Dave was amused to hear him talk about the character of a box of detergent as if it were a person. But Wharton spoke with no hint of humour or irony, and Dave suppressed the impulse to take it lightly. He said: ‘So I’m here to let them know that Foam is young and groovy.’
‘Exactly,’ said Wharton. Then he smiled at last. ‘And, at the same time, to bring some popular music and wholesome humour into American homes.’
Dave grinned. ‘It’s a good thing I’m not in the Rolling Stones!’
‘It certainly is,’ said Wharton in deadly earnest.
Jenny came back with two eight-by-ten colour photographs of Dave and a felt-tipped pen.
Dave said to Wharton: ‘What are your children called?’
‘Caroline and Edward.’
Dave dedicated one photo to each child and signed.
Tony Peterson said: ‘Ready for the “Mockingbird” segment.’
A little set had been built for this number. It looked like a corner of a swanky store, with glass cupboards full of glittery luxuries. Percy came on in a dark suit and a silver tie, like a floorwalker. Evie was a wealthy shopper with hat, gloves and handbag. They took their positions either side of a counter. Dave smiled at the pains Charlie had taken to make sure their relationship was not seen as amorous.
They rehearsed with the orchestra. The song was upbeat and light-hearted. Percy’s baritone and Evie’s contralto harmonized nicely. At the appropriate moments, Percy produced from under the counter a caged bird and a tray of rings. ‘We’ll add canned laughter at that point, to let the audience know it’s intended to be funny,’ said Charlie.
They did it for the cameras. The first take was perfect, but they did it again for safety, as always.
As they were coming to the end, Dave felt good. This was ideal family entertainment for the American audience. He began to believe that his show would succeed.
In the last bar of the song, Evie leaned across the counter, stood on tiptoe, and kissed Percy’s cheek.
‘Wonderful!’ said Tony, walking on to the set. ‘Thank you, everybody. Set up for Dave’s next introduction, please.’ He had a distinct air of embarrassed haste, and Dave wondered why.
Evie and Percy stepped off the set.
Beside Dave, Mr Wharton said: ‘We can’t broadcast that kiss.’
Before Dave could say anything, Charlie Lacklow said fawningly: ‘Of course not, don’t worry, Mr Wharton, we can lose it, we’ll cut to Dave applauding, probably.’
Dave said mildly: ‘I thought the kiss was charming and kind of innocent.’
‘Did you,’ said Wharton severely.
Dave wondered apprehensively if this was going to become an issue.
Charlie said: ‘Drop it, Dave. We can’t show an interracial kiss on American television.’
Dave was surprised. But, thinking about it, he realized that those few black people who appeared on TV were rarely, if ever, touched by white people. ‘Is that, like, a policy, or something?’ he asked.
‘More of an unwritten rule,’ Charlie said. ‘Unwritten, and unbreakable,’ he added firmly.
Evie heard the exchange and said challengingly: ‘Why is that?’
Dave saw the look on her face and groaned inwardly. Evie was not going to let this pass. She wanted a fight.
But for a few moments there was silence. No one was sure what to say, especially with Percy right there.
Eventually, Wharton answered Evie’s question in his dry accountant’s tone. ‘The audience would disapprove,’ he said. ‘Most Americans believe the races should not intermarry.’
Charlie Lacklow added: ‘Exactly. What happens on television is happening in your home, in your parlour, with your kids watching, and your mother-in-law.’
Wharton looked at Percy and remembered that he was married to Babe Lee, a white woman. ‘I’m sorry if this offends you, Mr Marquand,’ he said.
‘I’m used to it,’ Percy said mildly; not denying that he was offended, but declining to make a big deal of it. Dave thought that was remarkably gracious.
Evie said indignantly: ‘Maybe television should work to alter people’s prejudices.’
‘Don’t be naive,’ Charlie said rudely. ‘If we show them something they don’t like, they’ll just change the goddamn channel.’
‘Then
all
the networks should do the same, and portray America as a place where all men are equal.’
‘It won’t work,’ said Charlie.
‘Perhaps it won’t,’ said Evie. ‘But we have to try, don’t we? We have a responsibility.’ She looked around the group: Charlie, Tony, Dave, Percy and Wharton. Dave felt guilty when he met her eye, for he knew she was right. ‘All of us,’ she went on. ‘We make television programmes, which influence how people think.’
Charlie said: ‘Not necessarily—’
Dave interrupted him. ‘Knock it off, Charlie. We influence people. If we didn’t, Mr Wharton would be wasting his money.’
Charlie looked angry, but he had no answer.
‘Now we have a chance, today, to make the world a better place,’ Evie went on. ‘Nobody would mind if I kissed Bing Crosby on prime time television. Let’s help people to see that it’s no different if the cheek I kiss is a little darker in colour.’
They all looked at Mr Wharton.
Dave felt perspiration break out under his skin-tight frilled shirt. He did not want Wharton to be offended.
‘You argue well, young lady,’ said Wharton. ‘But my duty is to my shareholders and my employees. I’m not here to make the world a better place, I’m here to sell Foam to housewives. And I won’t achieve that if I associate my product with interracial sex, with all due respect to Mr Marquand. I’m a big fan, by the way, Percy – I have all your records.’
Dave found himself thinking of Mandy Love. He had been crazy about her. She was black – not golden tan like Percy, but a beautiful deep coal-brown. Dave had kissed her skin until his lips were sore. He might have proposed to her, if she had not gone back to her old boyfriend. And Dave would now be in Percy’s position, straining to tolerate a conversation that insulted his marriage.
Charlie said: ‘I think the duet works as a beautiful symbol of interracial harmony without hinting at the prickly topic of sex between the races. I believe we’ve done a wonderful job here – provided we leave out the kiss.’
Evie said: ‘Nice try, Charlie, but that’s bullshit, and you know it.’
‘It’s the reality.’
Trying to lighten the mood, Dave said: ‘Did you call sex “a prickly topic”, Charlie? That’s funny.’
No one laughed.
Evie looked at Dave. ‘Aside from making jokes, what are you going to do, Dave?’ she said, almost taunting him. ‘You and I were raised to stand up for what’s right. Our father fought in the Spanish Civil War. Our grandmother won women the right to vote. Are you going to give in?’
Percy Marquand said: ‘You’re the talent, Dave. They need you. Without you they don’t have a show. You have power. Use it to do good.’
Charlie said: ‘Get real. There’s no show without National Soap. We’ll have trouble finding a new sponsor – especially after people find out why Mr Wharton pulled out.’
Wharton had not actually said he would withdraw his sponsorship over the kiss, Dave noted. Nor had Charlie said that finding a new sponsor would be impossible – just difficult. If Dave insisted on keeping the kiss, the show might go on, and Dave’s television career might survive.
Perhaps.
‘Is this really my decision?’ he said.
Evie said: ‘Looks like it.’
Was he prepared to take the risk?
No, he was not.
‘The kiss comes out,’ he said.
* * *
Jasper Murray flew to Memphis in April to check out a strike by sanitation workers that was becoming violent.
Jasper knew about violence. All men, including himself, had it in them to be either peaceable or vicious, according to circumstances, he believed. Their natural inclination was to lead a quiet, law-abiding life; but given the right sort of encouragement most of them were capable of committing torture, rape and murder. He knew.
So when he came to Memphis he listened to both sides. The city hall spokesman said that outside agitators were inciting the strikers to violent behaviour. The campaigners blamed police brutality.
Jasper asked: ‘Who is in charge?’
The answer was Henry Loeb.
Loeb, the Democrat mayor of Memphis, was openly racist, Jasper learned. He believed in segregation, supported ‘separate but equal’ facilities for whites and blacks, and publicly railed against court-ordered integration.
And almost all the sanitation workers were black.
Their wages were so low that many qualified for welfare. They had to do compulsory unpaid overtime. And the city would not recognize their union.
But it was the issue of safety that started the strike. Two men were crushed to death by a malfunctioning truck. Loeb refused to retire obsolete trucks or tighten safety rules.
The city council voted to end the strike by recognizing the union, but Loeb overrode the council.
The protest spread.
It got national attention when Martin Luther King weighed in on the side of the sanitation men.
King flew in for his second visit on the same day as Jasper, 3 April 1968, a Wednesday. That evening a storm darkened the city. In pounding rain, Jasper went to hear King speak to a rally at the Mason Temple.
Ralph Abernathy was the warm-up man. Taller and darker than King, less handsome and more aggressive, he was – according to gossip – King’s drinking and womanizing buddy as well as his closest ally and friend.
The audience consisted of sanitation workers and their families and supporters. Looking at their worn shoes and their old coats and hats, Jasper realized that these were some of the poorest people in America. They were ill-educated and they did dirty jobs and they lived in a city that called them second-class citizens, Nigras, boys. But they had spirit. They were not going to take it any longer. They believed in a better life. They had a dream.
And they had Martin Luther King.
King was thirty-nine, but he looked older. He had been a little chubby when Jasper saw him speak in Washington, but he had put on weight in the five years since then, and now he looked plump. If his suit had not been so smart he might have been a shopkeeper. But that was before he opened his mouth. When he spoke, he became a giant.
Tonight he was in apocalyptic mood. As lightning flashed outside the windows, and the crash of thunder interrupted his speech, he told the audience that his plane that morning had been delayed by a bomb threat. ‘But it doesn’t matter with me, now, because I’ve been to the mountaintop,’ he said, and they cheered. ‘I just want to do God’s will.’ And then he was seized by the emotion of his own words, and his voice trembled with urgency the way it had on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. ‘And he’s allowed me to go up to the mountain,’ he cried. ‘And I’ve looked over.’ His voice rose again. ‘And I’ve
seen
the Promised Land!’
King was genuinely moved, Jasper could see. He was perspiring heavily and shedding tears. The crowd shared his passion and responded, shouting out ‘Yes!’ and ‘Amen!’
‘I may not get there with you,’ King said, his voice shaking with feeling, and Jasper recalled that in the Bible Moses had never reached Canaan. ‘But I want you to know, tonight, that we as a people will get to the Promised Land.’ Two thousand listeners erupted in applause and amens. ‘And so I’m happy tonight. I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man.’ He paused, then said slowly: ‘Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.’
With that he seemed to stagger back from the pulpit. Ralph Abernathy, behind him, leaped up to support him, and led him to his seat amid a hurricane of approbation that rivalled the storm outside.
Jasper spent the next day covering a legal dispute. The city was trying to get the courts to ban a demonstration King had planned for the following Monday, and King was working on a compromise that would guarantee a small, peaceful march.
At the end of the afternoon, Jasper talked to Herb Gould in New York. They agreed that Jasper would try to arrange for Sam Cakebread to interview both Loeb and King on Saturday or Sunday, and Herb would send a crew to get footage of Monday’s demonstration, for a report to be broadcast on Monday evening.
After talking to Gould, Jasper went to the Lorraine Motel, where King was staying. It was a low two-storey building with balconies overlooking the car park. Jasper spotted a white Cadillac which, he knew, was loaned to King, along with a chauffeur, by a black-owned Memphis funeral home. Near the car was a group of King’s aides, and among them Jasper spotted Verena Marquand.
She was as breathtakingly gorgeous as she had been five years ago, but she looked different. Her hairdo was an Afro, and she wore beads and a kaftan. Jasper saw tiny lines of strain around her eyes, and wondered what it was like working for a man who was so passionately adored and at the same time so bitterly hated as Martin Luther King.
Jasper gave her his most winning smile, introduced himself, and said: ‘We’ve met before.’