A Shade of Difference (17 page)

As far as he was concerned, the Secretary thought with some annoyance, he would love to kick the bucket over the moon along with Harley and not worry about it anymore. He smiled as he recalled the President’s remark about his own newly found diplomacy: he certainly had become a diplomat since leaving the Senate. But in the democratic system each job had its own imperatives, as each had its own prerogatives and privileges, and you inevitably found yourself adapting to the style of new responsibilities when you took them on. It was all very well to rise and denounce something in the Senate—and he thought for a wistful moment of what fun it would be to do it, just once more—but in the delicate area of international relationships it was not so easy or advisable to do so. Of course the Communists could, that was their stock in trade—but the United States could not. It would, ironically enough, shock all those powers that watched the Soviet performances with a secret envy and approval. They would never accept it from America. It would be much too uncomfortable to have two great powers acting like great powers. As long as the United States confined itself to acid rejoinders and refused to take the offensive, everybody could pretend it wasn’t so.

He swung again to the window and stared thoughtfully across at the UN buildings against the backdrop of the darkening river and Brooklyn, now becoming dotted with early evening lights as the day swiftly faded. On a sudden impulse he picked up a phone, had his secretary verify an appointment, clapped on his hat and coat, and hurried over.

“You know, Seab,” the Majority Leader murmured as they sat side-by-side in the Senate and listened with half an ear to the foreign aid debate droning on, “you ought to take yourself a cruise when this is over. Get away from it all. Relax. Rejuvenate. Regain your youth.”

His seatmate gave a chuckle and peered at him through half-closed eyes.

“Now, Bob, you know exactly where I’m going to be doing my cruising this fall. You know exactly where, Bob. In the great state of South Carolina, Bob. That’s where.”

“Things getting a little rough for you, are they?” Bob Munson asked. “I didn’t know that could ever happen to you, Seab.”

The senior Senator from South Carolina chuckled.

“Oh, yes, sir. Oh—yes—sir. Even to poor old beleaguered Seabright B. Cooley, servant of the people these fifty years, Bob. The little mice are nibblin’, Bob. They’re nibblin’ at me.
But,”
he said with a sudden emphasis, “I still know a thing or two, Bob. I’m not through yet. Or even near it.”

“What are you going to do?” the Majority Leader asked with the impersonal curiosity of one political technician to another. “Get involved in the race issue?”

“I’d rather not,” Seab Cooley said soberly, “if I can avoid it, Bob. It’s bad enough at best, and I don’t want to be stirring it around. Unless they push us too hard, Bob. If they push us too hard, Bob, then you’ll hear from me. Yes, sir, you’ll surely—hear—from—me.”

“Mmm-hmm. I expect we will. Well, we’ll try to get you out of here tomorrow night, Seab. The Speaker and I wouldn’t want Harper Graham and those other boys to have a free hand against you one minute longer than we can help it.”

“Where is he?” Senator Cooley said, hunching himself around and peering dourly over the Senate. “Where is that devious fellow, Bob?”

“I don’t see your distinguished colleague,” the Majority Leader said. “Probably on the phone to South Carolina right this minute lining up votes against you, Seab.”

“It won’t do him any good, Bob,” Senator Cooley said calmly. “It won’t do him any good at all.”

“Well, I hope not,” Senator Munson said truthfully, “but you never know. Mr. President!” he said, jumping to his feet as Paul Hendershot of Indiana concluded a lengthy attack on the bill. Powell Hanson of North Dakota, in the chair, gave him recognition. “Mr. President, I should like to advise Senators that it is the leadership’s intention to hold the Senate in session late tonight, possibly until ten o’clock or midnight, in the hope that we can conclude action on the pending measure.”

“Mr. President,” said Raymond Robert Smith of California, “I think we should have a quorum call so that a majority of the Senate can hear that important announcement by the Majority Leader. I so move a quorum call, Mr. President.”

“Now, what is that all about?” Senator Munson muttered in some annoyance to Senator Cooley as he resumed his chair and looked about the Senate at the handful of Senators present. “We don’t need a quorum until at least eight o’clock. We won’t begin voting on anything until then.”

“Maybe he has a delegation in town from California and wants the Senate to look busy for them,” the Senator from South Carolina suggested dryly. “Or maybe he wants to read us something for the Congressional Record. The old Record gets mighty important when you come to run for re-election, Bob. Maybe you noticed I’ve been using it a little myself recently.”

“I had, Seab,” the Majority Leader said, “but I just thought you had come across something of unusual merit that should be recorded for posterity—and sent out under your frank to the voters, of course. Well, if Ray Smith has something, it probably concerns movies, agriculture, or irrigation. I expect we’ll have to listen.”

What the junior Senator from California had, however, concerned neither movies, nor agriculture, nor irrigation, and in very short order it became apparent to his colleagues that it might behoove them to listen. He arose with a serious expression as Powell Hanson announced that, fifty-four Senators having answered to their names, a quorum was present. Arly Richardson of Arkansas leaned over to Elizabeth Ames Adams of Kansas. “Oh-oh,” he said. “Ray’s The-Gravity-of-This-Cannot-Be-Minimized attitude. I wonder what up.” “Undue Japanese competition for Southern California industries,” Bessie Adams whispered wickedly back. “They’ve found a new process for mass-producing crackpots.”

“Mr. President,” the Senator from California said earnestly, “I wish to call the Senate’s attention to a surprising and, I think, most disturbing development today in our relations with the great continent of Africa. I am informed, Mr. President, that the President of the United States has withdrawn plans to entertain one of the most distinguished representatives of the African continent, and, indeed, is leaving for Michigan to go fishing for five days and won’t even see him while he is in Washington. I refer, of course, to His Royal Highness the M’Bulu of Mbuele, certainly one of the most outstanding and noteworthy members of the great Negro race—”

“I knew he was afraid of Cullee Hamilton running against him,” Cecil Hathaway of Delaware whispered to Murfee Andrews of Kentucky, “but I didn’t know he was
that
afraid.”

“—and one who deserves, if anyone does, the recognition that should by rights be conferred upon him by the President.”

“Mr. President,” Bob Munson said, “will the Senator yield? Is it not the fact that His Highness’ country is still under British rule and he is not yet the head of an independent state? Might this not explain the President’s action?”

“I do not know what explains it, Mr. President,” said Ray Smith severely, “unless it is shortsightedness of the most flagrant kind. Certainly a representative of the great Negro race—”

“He’s practically terrified,” Murfee Andrews whispered to Cecil Hathaway.

“—deserves better treatment than this from the President of the United States. How are we to hold up our heads at the United Nations, Mr. President? How are we to convince the African states that we are truly their friend? How are we to convince the world that we mean it when we talk of equal rights, equal justice, and life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for all men?”

“Mr. President,” said the senior Senator from South Carolina with an ominous gentleness, “will the distinguished Senator from California yield?”

“Mr. President,” Senator Smith said hastily, “I do not wish to get into an argument with the disting—”

“Oh, Mr. President,” Senator Cooley said. “Now, I do not entertain at all the idea of getting into an argument with the distinguished Senator from California in this matter. But is it not true that in Gorotoland where this Emboohoo of Embewley—”

“M’Bulu of Mbuele,” Ray Smith corrected nervously.

“Emboohoo of Embewley,” Seab Cooley repeated firmly, “lives, there is reason to believe that slavery still exists? Is it not rumored that human sacrifices and even cannibalism can still be found there? Are there not even signs of Russian and Chinese Communist infiltration?”

“Oh, well, Mr. President,” Senator Smith said with a relieved scornfulness, “don’t tell me the Senator from South Carolina is going to trot out old charges of Communist infiltration! Now, that is ridiculous, Mr. President.”

“Is it?” Seab Cooley asked mildly. “Well, sir, I wouldn’t know about that. The Senator from California is much more of an expert on Communism than I am, that’s true, Mr. President. He knows
much
more about it than I do.”

“What does the Senator mean by that?” Ray Smith demanded with a nervous anger. “I resent that, Mr. President!”

“Now, Mr. President,” Senator Cooley said with a sad patience, “I don’t know what the Senator from California is talking about. I do think there is reason to believe that this African fellow that the President won’t entertain—and, in my opinion, wisely won’t entertain—is not all the Senator from California says he is. Representative of the great Negro race! Mr. President, I know representatives of the great Negro race. I know them in my own state, Mr. President, and, yes, I know them in the state of the Senator from California. The distinguished Representative from that state, Mr. Cullee Hamilton, Mr. President. There is a great representative of the great Negro race.” He fixed the junior Senator from California with a steady glance and his voice dropped to a siren’s whisper. “Does
he deny it,
Mr. President? Does he deny that Representative Hamilton is a great representative of the great Negro race?”

“Why, no,” Senator Smith said nervously. “Why, no. Why, of course not. I don’t deny that Representative Hamilton is a great representative of his race.”

“Worthy even to be a United States Senator, Mr. President,” Seab Cooley said softly.

“Why, er—er—why, yes, I suppose so,” said Ray Smith helplessly.

‘This is murder,” Sam Eastwood of Colorado murmured to Alexander Chabot of Louisiana. “Somebody ought to stop it.” Alec Chabot smiled and shrugged in his dapper way.

“Now, Mr. President!” Seab Cooley said, raising his voice suddenly, bringing his fist high over his head and crashing it down on his desk in his characteristic gesture, “I think the Senator from California should apologize to his fellow Californian, that great Negro Congressman who is even worthy to be a United States Senator, for mentioning him in the same breath with this—this—adventurer from Africa whom our President has wisely refused to entertain. He should apologize to him, Mr. President! He—should—apologize—to—him!”

“This ‘adventurer,’ as you call him,” Ray Smith said, his tone rising slightly in pitch, “is going to be entertained in your own state tomorrow, Senator! Of course you know that!”

“Oh, yes,” Seab Cooley said, “I know that. A pack of adventurers will entertain him, Mr. President. An ambitious family with its eye on the White House. The ragtag and bobtail of the American press, Mr. President. Oh, yes, they will all be there in my state of South Carolina making a Roman holiday for this adventurer. They will all be there!”

“And among them, Mr. President,” Senator Smith said in the same high-pitched, icy way, “the governor of my own state of California, the Honorable Edward Jason. I think the Senator from South Carolina owes
him
an apology, Mr. President for using such language about him. To say nothing of the distinguished audience that will honor His Highness the M’Bulu.”

“They may do honor to
him,
Mr. President,” Seab Cooley roared, “but they do dishonor to the white race! And they do dishonor to the great state of South Carolina! When you dishonor the white race, Mr. President, you dishonor South Carolina. When you dishonor South Carolina, you dishonor the white race! Dishonor, Mr. President! Dishonor! That is what this kinky-haired kinkajou brings to America!”

“Mr. President,” the Majority Leader said calmly, “if the Senator will yield—if whichever Senator has the floor will yield; I’ve lost track—I think we have had enough of this discussion of the M’Bulu and might now get back to the foreign aid bill, if we could. I think the Senator from California has made the point to his constituents that he wished to make, and I think the Senator from South Carolina has made the point to his constituents that he wished to make. At any rate, Mr. President, I think we should at least try to get back to the pending business. Is that agreeable to the two Senators?”

“I still think the President is making a shocking mistake that will seriously damage the United States,” Ray Smith said doggedly.

“I still think the Senator owes an apology to his great Negro colleague who is worthy to be Senator, to my state of South Carolina, and to the white race, Mr. President,” Senator Cooley said. “But,” he added sadly, “if he is going to remain obdurate in his contumacy, I can only watch him go with a sorrowing eye, a mourning heart, and a ‘Farewell, brother!’”

“That was a great performance,” Bob Munson whispered sarcastically as they resumed their seats. “That was worthy of Booth in his best days.”

“I said I still know a thing or two, Bob,” his seatmate said. He gave a satisfied chuckle. “I still do.”

7

“Mr. Shelby of the United States, please,” said the young lady at the telephone desk in heavy accents. “Mr. Shelby of the United States, please call the Delegates’ Lounge … Señora Del Rio of Peru, please call the Delegates’ Lounge … Signor Vitelli of Italy, please …”

“Don’t go away, Felix,” LeGage Shelby said. “I’ll be back in a minute, I want to talk to you about this.”

The Panamanian Ambassador nodded.

“Surely,” he said. “I shall call Patsy while you’re gone if I can find a phone.”

“Tell her I’ll certainly be in Charleston for the luncheon,” ’Gage Shelby said.

“I think she knows,” said Felix Labaiya, and watched his companion swing away to the telephone desk in his pantherlike, self-important way. A peculiar expression gleamed for a moment in the eyes of the Ambassador of Panama: the expression reserved by the users for the used. Then he spied an Indian concluding a conversation on one of the instruments at one of the small tables along the wall and, with a quick step, moved toward it just in time to take it from under the nose of a Norwegian with the same idea. The Norwegian gave a sour smile, shrugged, and walked away. Felix dropped into the leather armchair alongside the table, dialed 9 for outside, and then dialed his home. From Dumbarton Avenue in Georgetown his wife answered immediately. The housekeeper, he deduced, was busy with dinner and Patsy was upstairs in the bedroom taking her usual rest before the meal. His voice took on the direct, impersonal note it usually held when he addressed his wife on the telephone. He had once explained to her that he did not believe in using the instrument for romance. Someone might be listening.