A Shade of Difference (103 page)

Perhaps in some strangely twisted fashion this was a tribute to America, which was not supposed to allow the sort of thing he himself officially condoned every day of his life in his own country. Perhaps like so many in the UN who practice the most vicious racial discrimination at home while denouncing it with an hysterical exasperation where it occurs in the United States, he felt in some odd subconscious way that somebody had to furnish an example and that America, by falling short of perfection, fell short of her duty as humanity’s conscience in these matters. He could not have analyzed it as he sat there, towering and glowering and concentrating with all the force of his great intelligence upon the speech of the Ambassador of Panama. Now nothing filled his mind but this, not even the situation in Molobangwe. Having reached his decision to remain, he had dismissed it. Now all his being was given passionately to the issue at hand, with the fierce singleness of purpose that had brought him steadily upward along his dangerous course since the long-ago days when
Time
magazine had noted the presence of “A Little Fresh Heir” in his dilapidated and dusty land.

Sensing his concentration—for the M’Bulu was one of those people whose thinking is sometimes louder than others’ conversation—K.K. was moved to jog his elbow and say airily, “My goodness gracious me, what a thundercloud you are this afternoon, Terry! Is this any way to act upon the eve of your country’s independence, I ask you!”

“I was just thinking,” Terry said with his sudden gleaming smile, “how dismayed our friends of the United States will be when they learn that decisions here will not be confined to that alone. What do you think they will do?”

The Indian Ambassador shrugged with a pitying smile.

“Oh, who knows? Protest. Exclaim. Attempt to secure postponements and adjournments and other diversionary things. But it will simply prove what I have told Hal and Lafe right along: you cannot deny the current of history. It will not matter, essentially, what they do. They will be helpless.”

“Will they?” Terry asked, his eyes narrowing as he studied the American delegation, far across the room. “I wonder.”

“Have faith!” K.K. chided him merrily. “Have faith, dear friend! Listen! Felix is preparing the way well. Everyone will be taken by surprise.”

“Hardly everyone,” the M’Bulu said.

Whatever the truth of this, the Ambassador of Panama
was
preparing the way well as he talked along, purposely keeping his indignation down, his sarcasm muted, his recital of the reasons for approving his amendment cogent and reasonable according to his point of view and that of many in the Assembly.

Again he stressed, more in sorrow than in anger, the theme that he was acting in the best interests of the United States, that he was a friend to America, that all her friends here in the United Nations simply wanted to help her achieve that condition of full maturity and civilization that would only come when her Negro citizens were accorded their full equality. In one sense, he said—this sense which was so important to the peoples of the earth, so many of whom had only recently come to nationhood under the aegis of the world organization—the United States itself could be called an “underdeveloped country” (the phrase, so beloved of the American State Department, brought a burst of laughter from many delegations)—underdeveloped in her treatment of the Negro, underdeveloped in her concepts of human dignity, underdeveloped in her inability, so far, despite more than a century of freedom for the slaves, to grant to all of their descendants the real freedom that could only come with absolute equality in all phases of her society and national life. This was what he and other genuine friends of America wanted, he said earnestly; this was all.

“But, Mr. President,” he said, and now he told himself with a mounting inner tension that he must be most gentle and dulcet, “it must be confessed that the United States to some extent seems reluctant to bring this about, and that is why my delegation and I and some others here in the Assembly have felt it necessary to propose the action outlined in my amendment. Just as many other states have been encouraged by decisions of the Assembly to do what is right and honorable in the eyes of history, so it is our hope that the United States may be similarly persuaded—not by our condemnation, Mr. President, which is really not intended in my amendment—”

“Bro-
ther!”
said the New York
Daily News.
“He means it,” the London
Daily Express
said indignantly. “Can’t you see that?”

“—but with our help, offered sincerely and in a friendly spirit by this body that represents the combined conscience of the world.”

He paused and took a sip of water. Before him the nations sat silent and attentive, and in the galleries the audience, as multicolored and variegated as the delegations themselves, leaned forward intently.

“Mr. President,” he said abruptly, and something in his tone made the Press Gallery, the United States delegation, and many another sit up, suddenly alert, “because it has become apparent that to continue to designate this issue as an ‘important matter’ within the meaning of Rule 85 of the General Assembly would hamper it by the requirement of a two-thirds vote for passage, I now exercise my right as its author to withdraw the amendment from the resolution on Gorotoland—I reintroduce it herewith as a separate resolution—and I move that it be declared by the Assembly to be
not
an important matter and therefore requiring only a simple majority for passage.”

At once the great chamber exploded, its patterns of color and costume breaking and falling apart into a moving, shifting mass of agitated people, many delegates leaving their seats to confer with one another in little groups in the aisle, many reporters hurrying from the Press Gallery to file stories, visitors in the public galleries exclaiming and turning to one another, voices raised in conjecture, counterconjecture, elation, approval, disapproval, wonderment, or dismay all across the big concave bowl. Into the hubbub the little red-cheeked President of the Assembly banged his gavel furiously for order, growing redder and more indignant as he pounded. Over and above the noise of the rest there could be heard the sound of someone in the United States delegation shouting “Point of order!” and presently it became clear that the cry came from Senator Fry. In five minutes or so, having finally secured some semblance of gradually returning decorum, the President gave him recognition and he proceeded with reasonable speed down the aisle and up to the podium.

“Mr. President,” he said, feeling excited and tense, feeling the dizziness and pain, but telling himself impatiently, The hell with it, there isn’t time to worry about that now, “I make the point of order that there is nothing in the rules to permit the distinguished delegate of Panama to take this action. Therefore it is out of order and his amendment must stand as an integral part of his original resolution on Gorotoland, which obviously
is
an important matter and
does
require two-thirds.

“I make the point of order that he is out of order in trying to do something he cannot do, under the rules.”

There was again an explosion of sound, and the Soviet Ambassador, pounding furiously on his desk with the flat of his hand, was also on his feet, shouting, “Point of order, Mr. President; point of order! Under Rule 82—”

“The distinguished delegate of the Soviet Union—” the President began, but Senator Fry, at a cost no one knew but himself, shouted, “Mr.
President!”
in so commanding a voice that the President’s voice died abruptly.

“Mr. President,” Hal Fry said sternly into the silence that fell with equal abruptness, “one point of order at a time, if you please. I demand a ruling on mine, which I have every right to make. I too, I thank my good friend from the Soviet Union, have in mind Rule 82, which specifically states, and I quote: ‘A motion—a
motion,
Mr. President—may be withdrawn by its proposer at any time before voting on it has commenced, provided that the motion—the
motion,
Mr. President—has not been amended.’ I request the ruling of the Chair on my point of order.”

For several minutes the President, the Secretary-General, and the Deputy Secretary-General conferred, heads together, over the book of rules. A tense hush fell on the great room, yet it was not really silent; it was impossible for it to be, so many people were moving, rustling, whispering, conferring.

“The Chair,” the President said finally, “finds himself in agreement with the distinguished delegate”—he paused, not for the dramatic effect it was, but because he was literally out of breath from excitement—“of the United States—” there was a great shout of “NO!” from many delegations—“that there is no provision in the rules for the action of the distinguished delegate of Panama, and therefore the Chair must rule that he is out of order.”

“Mr. President,” Felix said with a cold anger, “the Chair and the delegate of the United States say there is nothing in the rules to authorize my taking the action I have taken. By the same token, there is nothing in the rules to deny me the right to do so. Therefore, it is up to the Assembly to decide, Mr. President. I appeal the ruling of the Chair.”

“Mr. President—” Hal Fry began, but the President rapped his gavel firmly.

“No debate is permitted on either an appeal or a point of order, I will remind the distinguished delegate of the United States.” He passed the box of names to the Secretary-General, who drew one and handed it to him. “The voting will begin with Morocco. A vote of Yes will uphold the appeal and reverse the ruling. Morocco!”

“Oui.”

“Nepal.”

“Yes.”

“Netherlands.”

“No.”

“New Zealand.”

“No.”

“Nicaragua.”

“Abstentión.”

“Niger.”

“Oui.”

“Nigeria.”

“Yes.”

“Norway.”

“No.”

“Pakistan.”

“Yes.”

“Panama.”

“Yes,” said Felix coldly.

“Paraguay.”

“Sí.”

“Peru.”

“Sí.”

“By jove,” the Manchester
Guardian
said with an excited relish, “I think you’re taking a licking. I think they’re going to do it!”

“I think they are, too,” agreed the
New York
Times
glumly. “What price the rules?”

“Labaiya’s entirely right,” the London
Evening Standard
said triumphantly. “Thank God the Assembly has sense enough to back him up.”

“Which God is that?” the
New York
Journal-American
inquired dryly. “Obviously not ours.”

“On this vote,” the President said into the hush that fell fifteen minutes later, “the Yeas are 59, the Nays 56, 5 abstentions, others absent, and the appeal is upheld. The ruling of the Chair is voided.”

“Mr. President!” Felix shouted from the floor, hurrying again to the rostrum, “I
move,
Mr. President, that I be permitted to withdraw my amendment and reintroduce it as a resolution.”

“You have the motion,” the President said. “All those in favor will say—”

“Roll call, Mr. President!” shouted Vasily Tashikov. “Roll call!”

“Roll call is requested,” the President said, reaching for the box and drawing a number. “The voting will begin with Iraq.”

“Yes.”

“Ireland.”

“No.”

‘Israel.”

“No.”

“Italy.”

“No.”

“Ivory Coast.”

“Oui.”

“Jamaica.”

“Yes.”

“Japan.”

“Yes.”

“Jordan.”

“Yes.”

“Kenya.”

“Yes.”

“Laos.”

“Yes.”

“Lebanon.”

“Oui.”

“The vote on the motion,” the President said twenty minutes later, “is 60 Yes, 45 No, 6 abstentions, others absent. The motion is approved.”

“Mr. President,” Felix said into the silence that followed, “I now introduce my resolution, incorporating in its entirety the language of my previous amendment to my resolution on immediate independence for Gorotoland.”

He paused while applause and shouts of approval swept across the floor.

“Mr. President, I move that my resolution, just introduced, be—”

“Mr. President!” Hal Fry called, walking again to the rostrum, not sure whether he could make it but forcing himself to concentrate on putting one foot before the other and finding to his surprise that they were behaving very well. “Point of order, Mr. President.”

“The distinguished delegate of the United States need not state it,” the President said, his rosy face looking quite pouty with annoyance. “The Chair is aware of the situation. The new resolution of the delegate of Panama obviously cannot take precedence over his original resolution on Gorotoland presently pending before the Assembly. The question therefore recurs on the recommendation of immediate independence for Gorotoland.”

“Requiring a two-thirds vote,” Senator Fry said with a passable attempt at humor, and a ripple of laughter, not unfriendly, ran across the floor.

“Requiring a two-thirds vote,” the President agreed. “I do not believe anyone disputes that.”

“I didn’t know about my friend from Panama,” Hal said, “I thought he might.”

Again there was laughter, increasingly friendly. The Assembly was relaxing, now that the prospect of a long debate was before it and now that a majority, however narrow, had achieved its objective of approving Felix’s surprise maneuver.

“Also, Mr. President,” Senator Fry said, “since the new resolution of the delegate of Panama will come before us
de novo,
there will be no parliamentary blockage of debate such as exists on points of order and appeals from rulings. The new resolution will be open to full debate.”

“That is correct.”

“It will have it,” Hal Fry promised, and left the rostrum amid a wave of laughter, and some encouraging applause.

“The question now occurs,” the President said, “on the first resolution of the distinguished delegate of Panama, to give United Nations support to immediate independence for Gorotoland. The Chair will confess that this sudden turn of events has left the Chair in somewhat of disarray as to speakers, since it was not expected that the Assembly would reach this resolution until tomorrow. The list of speakers has therefore not been made up. Is it the desire of the delegation of the United Kingdom—?”

He paused and looked down doubtfully upon the restless throng, as over on the side a hand was raised and someone called, “Mr. President!”

“The distinguished delegate of France,” he said with some relief as Raoul Barre came forward.

“Mr. President,” the French Ambassador said, “obviously this development has caught many of us by surprise. The President is not alone,” he added in a tone that brought laughter, “in being disorganized by it. I wonder, since the hour is approaching 6 p.m. and many of us in the natural course of events will soon be feeling the pangs of hunger, whether it would not be feasible to recess the Assembly until 8 p.m. This would provide time for dinner, time to complete the speakers’ list, and time for many of us to reappraise the situation as it now exists. I so move, Mr. President.”

“All those in favor,” the President said. There was a great roar of approval. “All those opposed—” There was silence.

“Obviously it is approved,” he said, and amid a burst of jovial talk the Assembly disintegrated into its many human components and streamed and straggled out of the hall to its many destinations for dinner.

At 6:02 the delegate of the Malagasy Republic placed the first overseas telephone call from the Lounge, to his capital of Tananarive in the far-off Indian Ocean. By the time the call was completed twenty-three minutes later, thirty-nine similar calls from other delegations were clogging the lines out of Turtle Bay.

At 6:20 the Ambassador of the United Kingdom, the Ambassador of France, and the Ambassador of Niger conferred hastily on a sofa overlooking the Japanese temple bells on the First Avenue side of the Secretariat Building and then split up to hurry busily away to other conferences.

At 6:23, the Ambassador of Panama, similarly engaged, decided to find himself a seat in the lobby off the delegates’ entrance to the Lounge and let would-be conferrers come to him—there were so many of them—rather than bother to seek them out.

At 6:45, CBS-TV, NBC-TV, and ABC-TV had a joint interview with the M’Bulu, looking happy and excited and supremely confident as he stood, tall and gracious in his gorgeous robes, at the Assembly Hall entrance and told the world that nothing, now, could stop immediate independence for Gorotoland.

At 6:46 Senators Fry and Smith, at U.S. headquarters, began a four-way telephone conversation with the President and Secretary of State in Washington. At its conclusion at 7:05 the President and Secretary of State rejoined their ladies and the President and First Lady of Brazil in the Blue Room of the White House for a quiet family chat before the state dinner at 8 p.m. Senators Fry and Smith went back across First Avenue to the brightly lighted Secretariat Building, gleaming against Brooklyn in the chilly winds of night. The air was wet and raw and an occasional little flurry of snow gave promise of worse to come. Out in front, the flags of the nations, normally taken down at sunset but always flown during a night session, snapped like pistol shots in the rising wind.

At 7:10 the members of the Afro-Asian bloc emerged from a closed emergency meeting in Conference Room 9, refusing to answer the questions of the large group of reporters that surged forward to meet them but giving—by a combination of knowing looks, confident smiles, and scornful grins—an impression that all was under control as far as they were concerned. So their meeting was promptly interpreted, at any rate, in a dozen hasty news stories and TV-radio reports sent out to the waiting world.

At 7:30 in the Delegates’ Dining Room, Senator Fry, looking a little drawn but otherwise in good shape, had a hasty bowl of soup with the Ambassador of Niger, who had, to his surprise, searched him out and asked him to do so. Senator Smith, at another table across the room, did the same with his little friend from Gabon. Several of the more astute newsmen, noting these things, were not so sure that the Afro-Asian bloc was as united as it seemed.

At 7:45 the Soviet Ambassador swept into the Dining Room with Ghana, Guinea, and Guiana and took his usual table by the window overlooking the esplanade. They settled down, laughing and talking with an ostentatious animation, ordered a drink, and prepared to eat a leisurely meal, while all around the crowded room eyes and whispers took due note of their presence.

At 8:13, proving that the Soviet Ambassador and his friends had been entirely right not to hurry, the first handful of delegates began to straggle back into the Assembly Hall for the session called for 8 p.m.

At 8:43, everyone finally in place and the hall once more abuzz and aglitter with the colorful and contentious spokesmen of the nations, the President rapped his gavel and the session began. The delegate of the United Kingdom was recognized and walked with a businesslike dignity to the rostrum.

“Mr. President,” Lord Maudulayne said slowly, arranging his papers on the lectern before him, “it is not the purpose of the United Kingdom to delay these proceedings very long. We have made our arguments on this matter repeatedly, both in this chamber and in other chambers of the United Nations. You know where we stand.

“It is the belief of Her Majesty’s Government that the Territory of Gorotoland is not yet completely ready for the independence proposed in this resolution. This belief has been strengthened by events of recent days in the capital of Molobangwe—events which,” he added dryly, “were undoubtedly prevented from getting out of hand only by the presence of Her Majesty’s Government in the territory and the knowledge, on the part of those responsible for the disturbances, that the Government were prepared to move if necessary to assure the continuation of the leadership of His Royal Highness the M’Bulu.

“My government,” he added with some irony, “are not altogether surprised that His Royal Highness has refrained from expressing either his acknowledgment or his gratitude for this fact, but they do think that it should at least be stated for this record.”

There was some laughter, some comment. In the Indian delegation the Ambassador looked indignant, but his enormous guest remained impassive, a politely attentive expression on his face which disclosed nothing, conceded nothing. Lord Maudulayne stared down upon him with an equal impassivity for a moment, then went on.

“Her Majesty’s Government have established an orderly, phased, progressive development of complete freedom in Gorotoland, with independence to become fully effective one year from the tenth of this month. One year is not too long to wait to insure such an orderly transition. This organization is still concerned with problems of the Congo and elsewhere which arose because its pressures produced a disorderly transition to independence.

“I do not think,” he said, ignoring a wavelet of boos that flickered across the Assembly, “that we want to create for ourselves another such headache to add to those we already have.

“There is no doubt in the minds of Her Majesty’s Government that immediate independence for Gorotoland would produce chaos, armed conflict, civil war, and, very likely, the defeat, if not the death, of the M’Bulu himself.

“Therefore, we respectfully ask of this Assembly that it defeat the first resolution of the distinguished delegate of Panama and permit us to continue the orderly transfer of power in Gorotoland which has already been put into effect by Her Majesty’s Government.”

“Phew!” said the London
Daily Express.
“How pious can you get?”

“You mean you don’t agree?” the
Christian Science Monitor
inquired with some irony. The
Express
snorted.

“It’s all uranium, of course.”

“I didn’t know Gorotoland had any uranium,” the
Monitor
said skeptically. “In fact, I don’t think it does.”

“You’ll see,” the
Express
said darkly.

“Oh, come off it,” the
Manchester Guardian
said impatiently. “Gorotoland hasn’t got two sticks to rub together to make fire, let alone uranium. All the same, I’ll agree His Lordship is insufferably noble tonight. I wonder how that will go over with the duskier breeds without the law. Who are now within the law. Who now
make
the law, God rest Rudyard Kipling and Cecil Rhodes.”

“Would it matter what he said?” the
New York
Herald Tribune
inquired. The
Guardian
smiled.

“Not really, I suppose … I say,” he remarked with some interest as the British Ambassador returned to his seat, “what’s going on over there in your delegation? Is the U.S. going to speak now?”

“We weren’t scheduled to until later,” the
Herald Tribune
said with an equal interest. “Niger was next. But maybe they’re going to yield to us.”

And this was what occurred, as the tall delegate of Niger raised his hand and walked quickly down the aisle to the rostrum, there to announce in liquid French that his delegation would, if it pleased the Chair, yield its position on the speakers’ list to the United States. There was some muttering, but the President recognized the United States in a firm tone of voice, and it subsided. Lafe Smith rose and came down to the rostrum.

“This ought to be fascinating,” the London
Daily Mirror
said cheerfully. “I expect now you chaps will really let us have it.”

“Why?” asked the
New York
Times.

“Oh, because. Now that Labaiya’s amendment is back as a resolution, needing only a majority, you’ve got to get your votes where you can find them, haven’t you?”

“Maybe we’ll favor independence for Gorotoland just because we think it’s the best thing to do,” the
Times
suggested.

“Oh, my,” the
Mirror
told him. “I see Maudulayne isn’t the only pious one here tonight.”

But it was not in a pious tone of voice that the junior Senator from Iowa began his brief remarks, for he did not feel in a pious mood. He was, for one thing, in a state of tension about his colleague, though Hal seemed to be making it all right and only a sick tiredness around his eyes and a certain pallor in his face revealed to those who looked closely that he was not feeling well. Lafe had been able to understand and accept the mental attitude that seemed to have come upon his friend, but of course the physical inroads of his disease did not stop just because he had been able to rise beyond them mentally. They kept right on gnawing away, and Lafe lived now in constant fear that Hal might suddenly collapse at some moment of tension in the Assembly, his gallant heart brought low by the grim and graceless betrayals of the body.