A Shade of Difference (106 page)

Nonetheless, he thought as he tightened his grasp on a little bottle of pills in his pocket, it should not be the move of the United States to be the first to raise the emotional cloud around this. His country had a case, in logic and justice, and it should be presented that way first. That would be consistent with the basic American concept of the United Nations—more idealistic, perhaps, than that of most. To that concept, as well as to his country’s own interests, he felt her delegation must try to be true.

He would begin, then, after Felix made his opening statement, on that theme which in these recent months, and especially in these past hours, he conceived to be a theme worthy of a man’s endeavors. There had come to him, in these two nights of certainty about his condition, a swift draining-away of more mundane matters, a rapidly diminishing concern for the affairs that occupied men less starkly confronted by their own mortality than he. Now his life was narrowing down to some final justification, some essential reality worthy of the sacrifice the Lord had placed upon him for some reason he could not understand. But perhaps the reason was simple. Perhaps it was to clear his mind and life so that he could make one last appeal to mankind to honor the promise it had made to itself here on the East River. Perhaps it had been done so that he could be free to urge his fellow men to honor, along with it, those qualities of tolerance and decency and love that they can sometimes achieve when all else is gone and they are left to realize at last their desperate need of one another in the night that surrounds the universe. Perhaps only one in his particular position at this particular time could do it. It could be, he thought as a sudden wave of dizziness shot through his head and his eyes began to blur again with the reddish tinge, that this was it.

“Good afternoon,” he said automatically to the delegate of Guinea as they arrived together at the Delegates’ Entrance; but the delegate of Guinea, after a startled and scornful look, did not reply. Very well, you bastard, he told the delegate of Guinea in his mind. Don’t speak, and see if I care.

But he did care, the Congressman from California admitted honestly to himself as he gave a deep, unhappy sigh and followed the flouncily spiteful delegate of Guinea in. He did care that there was so much hostility in the world, that things were on so personal a level here on this embittered issue, and that his own difficult position was so little appreciated and understood by those whom pigmentation should have made his brothers but politics and prejudice had made his enemies. He did care, for this was one extra little burden added to the rest that made life, at the moment, a heavy thing to bear.

Not that he would not or could not bear it, of course, for even without the example of Hal Fry before him, sketched in bluntest terms by Lafe Smith in the telephone call
that had brought him back to his duty here at the UN—even without good old Maudie, who had also been getting him here in her own loving, cantankerous way—he had his own character to rely upon. It was not a character to give in easily, no matter what the pressures. He was quite sure now that he would in any event have been right where he was, entering the Secretariat Building and turning toward the corridor to the Assembly Hall where there waited the fate of the new Labaiya Resolution and the judgment of the nations upon his own.

He did not know, as he turned left and joined the throng of delegates, spectators, and press who were taking the escalator to the second floor and proceeding toward the Assembly Hall down the long green-carpeted corridor, whether his wife or his friend would be here at this particular moment. Somehow he thought they might be, on this occasion, however carefully they had stayed away from the Senate. He had noticed the banners of DEFY among those that waved in a self-conscious straggle in the little parklike area across First Avenue where the police were accustomed to herd UN demonstrators, and it was not unlikely that the chairman was somewhere about. Perhaps even now he was conferring with Felix and his other friends in the Lounge or sitting with an air of ostentatious importance in the public gallery of the Assembly Hall. Sue-Dan, too, no doubt wearing stylish clothes and an expression as defiant as she dared, very likely might be there. He would just have to try not to see them, he told himself with a dogged determination. He really didn’t want to see them, so unsure was he of what he might do to LeGage after what LeGage had caused to be done to him, and so sure was he that from his wife he would receive just more hurtful words and hurtful actions.

Well, one thing was sure, anyway: he hadn’t been turned from his purpose in Washington, and he wasn’t going to be turned from it here. The United States was his concern, as imperfectly expressed, maybe, as most people expressed it, yet a passionate and overriding solicitude that dominated his thoughts and his actions, particularly right now. LeGage and all the dutiful echoers of his absolutist line in the white press and the colored press had done their best to throw him off balance; they hadn’t succeeded, so they had beaten him up—in a sense all of them had beaten him up, not just LeGage’s bullies. Sue-Dan had chimed in with her two-bits worth and tried to knock him off balance, too.

And yet he, Cullee, was still here, right where he had been, plowing along, confused about a lot of things, maybe, not very perfect, not very smart or brilliant, maybe, but knowing a couple of things that he’d take over them, any day: He knew he was honest, and he knew he was doing the right thing for his country, and, so as far as he was concerned, that was enough for him. As far as he was concerned, they could take a running jump and go to hell. They had shoved him off and they thought he’d come back, maybe, begging and crying and doing what they wanted. Well, they didn’t know old Cullee, even after all these years. If anybody did any coming back, it would be them, and maybe even that wouldn’t be enough. He had more important things to worry about now.

He shook his head impatiently as if to clear it of them, and it did seem to, a little.

He was aware as he walked along that the crowd was thinning around him, that those nearest him were falling away, that he was being left to move forward in a little isolated space that marked him out from the rest. Thus separated, his tall figure moved ahead, presenting to the hurrying crowd a picture he was not ashamed for it to see: his face still misshapen and puffy; a patch still across his forehead where the gash, fortunately only skin-deep, was beginning to heal; his left arm in a sling; his gait half limping and awkward because of the pain that still crippled his body. Let them look at what hate could achieve, he thought grimly. Let them think about it a little. It will do them good.

“I say,” the delegate of Kenya remarked to the delegate of Uganda as they came along a few paces behind, “that is a little crude, that physical display. Do they expect that actually to impress us?”

“Some people,” said the delegate of Uganda, “have no taste.”

Half an hour later, the plenary session finally convened, the hall filled once more with tense and rustling life as the excitement of issues fiercely met and battles about to be joined gripped all its occupants, the Ambassador of Panama stood for a moment with his hands rigid upon the lectern and looked out upon the acrimonious descendants of Adam in all their shapes and shadings. He had slept hardly at all in forty-eight hours, and if he had stopped to think about it, the strain would certainly be telling upon him now. But he had not had time to think, and a keen excitement had buoyed him up all through the many conferences and telephone calls and private talks that had followed the Assembly’s dramatic and surprising support of his position in last night’s session.

He had not known, when he withdrew his amendment and reoffered it as a resolution in its own right, what the response would be. He had gambled that a majority would go with him, and a majority had. He had not known, when the vote came on Gorotoland, whether two-thirds would be with him, though he had made some careful plans for it. The plans had paid off.

Now he did not know what the decision would be on his resolution calling the United States to the bar of history to answer for its racial practices; but here, too, he was hopeful. He was aware of the hesitations that intimidated many all over the world, but he was also aware of the instinctive hostility to America’s social attitudes that was at war with the hesitations. It was his task now to play upon the hostility as he could—not violently and antagonistically, as some others could be counted upon to do before the debate concluded, but with the delicacy and finesse that he knew was one of his greatest talents and most became him.

“Mr. President,” he began quietly as the rustling diminished and the enormous hall settled down, “I do not think, at this late hour in the Assembly’s consideration of this serious matter now before it, that there is any need for extended discussion on my part.

“You all know the terms of the resolution. You all know the racial conditions in the United States which have prompted me to introduce it.

“Some of you know this from first-hand experience.” There was an angry little murmur of agreement. “Others of you soon may. All of you whose skins are not white know that any time, as you move about this country, on the business of the United Nations or simply as tourists, you too may suddenly be subjected to rejection, insult, or even physical danger because of your color.” He paused for a moment, then asked slowly: “Does this seem right to you?”

A roar of “NO!” replied, and the tension in the hall shot up several levels.

“No more does it to me, and that is why I, who have the closest family ties with the United States, have introduced this resolution. It is an attempt to help the United States—to try to persuade the United States to be the true home of democracy that we who are her friends desire her to be.”

“And give her a black eye in the process,” Senator Fry murmured to Lord Maudulayne, down on the floor. The British Ambassador smiled and gave a quizzical shrug.

“I know it is fashionable in some circles in the United States,” Felix went on, “for some enemies of this organization to say that my resolution is designed simply to embarrass the United States in the eyes of the world.”

“He heard you,” Lord Maudulayne said, and Hal Fry, responded with an amused nod that felt as though it almost took off the top of his head.

“This is a childish interpretation. Nothing is further from my mind, or from the minds of those here in the United Nations who sincerely believe in racial democracy. Only enemies of the United Nations itself would attribute such motives to anyone here.

“Only reactionaries would say a thing like that of the United Nations.

“Our motives are honorable and our purposes are clean.

“We are not vindictive. We are not hostile. We are not unfriendly. The United Nations does not operate, ever, on such unworthy motivations.

“We reject all such reactionary attacks upon the United Nations, and we do so proudly!”

“Oh, bro-
ther,”
the
New York
World-Telegram
murmured to the Manchester
Guardian
as an explosion of approving applause responded. “How noble can you get?”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” the
Guardian
murmured back.

“Earnestly, then, and honorably,” the Ambassador of Panama said with a quiet emphasis as the favoring outburst died down, “I present to you this resolution that will give the strong encouragement and assistance of the United Nations to the United States as it strives to correct its deplorable racial practices.

“I commend it to the good faith of all who truly believe in democracy—not just the mouthing of democracy, but the practice of democracy.

“I commend it, particularly, to the United States itself, whose distinguished senior delegate I have asked repeatedly to support it. He has refused on behalf of his country. So, Mr. President, regretfully but acting in the right, this Assembly must do for the United States what the United States will not do for itself.

“Justice and honor dictate this course, Mr. President. Injustice and dishonor, only, support the other.

“I appeal to you to see the right and act in the right.”

And with a graceful little bow to the Assembly and its President, he left the rostrum and walked at a dignified pace up the aisle to his seat, surrounded by prolonged applause, many delegations standing, as he did so.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Lafe remarked, and Hal smiled.

“Not what I expected.”

“I imagine others will provide it. How do you feel? Are you going to be up to this? I’m perfectly willing to take the first phase of it if you—” Hal shook his head.

“I’m all right It isn’t very bad today. With a little luck”—he paused, and for just a second, before he thrust it resolutely away, a sadness briefly clouded his eyes—“I’ll manage all right.”

“The next speaker,” the President announced, “is the distinguished delegate of the United States.”

There came a ripple of anticipatory comment, a heightening of excitement; all those delegates who did not understand English put on their earphones and switched to the English channel. Senator Fry came slowly down the aisle, nodded briefly to Terry and K.K. as he passed the Indian delegation, ascended the rostrum, and bowed to the President. Then he turned and stared out into the closely watching eyes of the nations, the hovering and merciless gaze of the television cameras looking down from the glass-enclosed studios high along the walls above.

It could be seen, on many screens in many places over the world, that he was holding himself very erect as he prepared to speak. His face looked a little thin, but his expression was steady and outwardly untroubled. To the millions who studied his appearance, there seemed to be a certain tension about the way he held himself, but otherwise, nothing. They did not know, and he was not about to tell them, that it had been all he could do to get down the aisle without falling. In the terrible irony of his disease, almost none of its symptoms appeared on the surface. He looked like a kindly, earnest, pleasant-faced man, a little tired and under an understandable tension in view of the attack on his country. With an effort whose cost no one but he could know, he began to speak in a reasonable, unhurried voice.