A Shade of Difference (33 page)

“Well, buddy,” Lafe Smith said with an appraising glance up and down the Lounge, “it sounds as though Felix has our work cut out for us, doesn’t it? You can always tell when somebody shakes this beehive. The buzz gets deafening.”

“Yes,” Hal Fry agreed as they walked along toward the snack bar at the other end, greeting fellow delegates on the way, nodding to friends, creating a stir by their passage. “I expect the
Times’
story is pretty well correct, too.” He was feeling better and more like himself this morning. A sleep of deep exhaustion had worked its benison during the night.

“Oh, yes, I think so. I had breakfast with my friend from Gabon and he’s apparently seen the amendment, which is being floated about by the Communists to everybody but us, of course. It’s not very complimentary, I’m afraid.”

“One thing I will say for the UN,” Hal Fry remarked. “It has succeeded in raising the power of words to a level never before achieved in human history. We go forth and do battle over phraseology in this place with all the fierce determination of the Greeks at Thermopylae. And behind the words, of course, the greater part of three billion people around the globe who have so little knowledge and education that they’ll believe the first word that reaches them and go into the streets and do battle just on the strength of it. That’s why these resolutions are so important, for all that they’re ‘just words,’ as the critics like to say.”

Senator Smith sighed as they reached the snack bar and ordered coffee.

“Yes. I could wish we weren’t quite so vulnerable to certain acts by certain people in certain areas, but—there it is. We are, I’m just surprised it hasn’t happened before. Where’s the hero of the hour, by the way?”

“Terry? I don’t know. He’s staying at the St. Regis. I tried to reach him there around nine, but he’s already left. Probably leading a pep rally in the Afro-Asian bloc.”

“Secretary Knox of the United States, please,” the young lady at the telephone desk said. “Secretary Knox, please call the Delegates’ Lounge.”

“Speaking of heroes,” Lafe said, “where is he? I thought he was due in this morning.”

“He’s coming. He called me a little while ago. Harley wanted him to stop by the White House before he came up, so he’s delayed a bit. But he’ll be here.”

“Let’s go find a table by the window,” Lafe suggested, “and see who gathers ’round.”

“All right,” Hal said, and they started back out into the main part of the crowded room, carefully balancing their coffee cups as they went. “Oh-oh!” Hal tossed over his shoulder. “Do you see who I see?”

“I do indeed. Suppose we do the gathering.”

“An excellent idea,” Hal agreed as they moved toward a sofa, occupied, and two empty chairs around a coffee table by the enormous wall of windows facing up the East River. “Good morning, gentlemen. Is this summit private, or can anybody join?”

“By all means, Hal,” Raoul Barre said pleasantly, ignoring the increased hum of comment that swept the room as the two Americans sat down. “I’m sure we have no secrets from you.”

“Felix does,” Senator Fry said. “Don’t you, Felix?”

The Ambassador of Panama gave his dry little self-contained smile and looked up from stirring his coffee with a bland expression.

“My dear Hal, only the necessities of having my amendment translated into Byelorussian, of all God-forsaken things, prevents it from being in your hands right now.”

“That was a very thoughtful move, on someone’s part,” Hal observed. “It preserves the element of surprise. At least for us. Apparently everybody else has seen a copy.”

“Oh, I think not,” Felix Labaiya said calmly. “Plenty of rumors, speculation in the
Times—
the usual stuff. But actual copies, no, I don’t think so. After all,” he said with a sudden pleasant smile, “I don’t mean to be crude about this. I’m only doing what, regretfully, seems necessary to salvage United States honor in the eyes of the world. No one should be more willing to support me than your delegation, Hal, as a matter of fact.”

“I assume your motives are of the most noble,” Hal Fry said, “because I think it would look rather odd if the brother-in-law of the Governor of California led a world crusade against the Governor’s country. The Governor’s country might not like it when it came time to go to the polls.”

“I married into a very understanding family,” the Ambassador of Panama said calmly. “I think my motivations will be quite clear to everyone when I speak this afternoon.”

“I hope so, because they baffle nearly everyone now.”

“Oh, I don’t believe so, Hal,” Raoul Bane said. “Not everyone. I think vast sections of Africa and Asia understand them very well. After all,” he said with a sardonic little smile, “it is as simple as black and white.”

“And what color is France trying to be?” Lafe Smith inquired. “Gray?”

“France believes in an intelligent adaptability,” her Ambassador said with some impatience. “We have many friends, good friends, in Africa. We do not intend to lose them. Surely you can understand that.”

“Yes, I understand. It’s all very practical.”

“I should hope so,” the French Ambassador said. “It is good to have a bridge between the two worlds, is it not? Possibly we can be of great assistance to you. Felix does not object if we try.”

“We are not prepared to compromise on this amendment,” Senator Fry said, “You both understand that, of course.”

Raoul Barre shrugged.

“Sometimes events conspire to make compromise seem more desirable toward the end than it does at the beginning. Surely two Senators do not have to be told that.”

“Two Senators who have the votes,” Hal Fry said with more show of confidence than he felt, “don’t have to be told anything.”

Felix Labaiya smiled.

“When the roll is called, we shall see on votes.”

“Well,” Hal Fry said, finishing his coffee and standing up, “that’s true enough. Are you speaking before Terry or after?”

“Possibly, after. I may permit him to prepare the psychological climate.”

“Trust him for that,” Lafe said. Felix Labaiya laughed.

“I do.”

The day’s plenary session of the General Assembly, scheduled to begin at 10 a.m., was, as usual, gradually pulling itself together in the Assembly Hall shortly before eleven. The Ambassador of the Netherlands, this year’s Assembly President, sat in his seat at the center of the high desk on the podium looking patiently about the enormous blue-and-tan room, a tidy little roly-poly man whose pink cheeks, white hair, and blue twinkling eyes gave him a deceptive appearance of jolly Santa Claus, belied by his brisk gaveling and firm rulings when his colleagues, as often happened, became obstreperous. At his right sat the Secretary-General, his fine head and thoughtful face in repose as he, too, waited patiently for the delegations to take their places. The S.-G.’s principal deputy, a lean, grizzled American who moved about with an air of intense and impatient energy that gave him the aspect of a greyhound on leash, had not yet appeared on the podium to take his seat at the President’s left.

On the floor of the huge concave bowl of a room—a room which, with its insistent pastels, its stark fluorescent lights, its garish fried-egg murals by Léger, its general air of being too bright, too harsh, too demanding, too loudly noisy in its
décor,
might almost have been designed deliberately to murder thought—increasing numbers of delegates were beginning to move to their seats at the long, gleaming wooden tables, like so many writing shelves in some gigantic schoolroom, that served as desks. In the radio, television, and translation booths, set high in the walls on both sides of the chamber, reporters, technicians, and members of the Secretariat could be observed chatting and gossiping behind the glass. The public and press galleries, banked up in sharply rising rows of seats at the end of the room opposite the podium, were rapidly filling. A constant stream of people passed back and forth through the aisles that divide the sections of seats on the floor, stopping to chat, to say hello, to greet one another with vigorous handshakes, to exchange hasty gossip and comment.

In all this colorful thronging assemblage of the nations, it could be seen that on this day more Africans than usual were wearing their native costumes, apparently by way of emphasizing that they were Africans—something the Ghanaians and Guineans often did but others were not so diligent about. Today bright robes and togas, vivid caps and sashes, could be seen dotted profusely about the room, standing out brilliantly against the sober Western business suits of the other delegations. This did not pass without comment, nor did the entrance of the major figures in the drama of the day: the Ambassador of Panama entering with the Ambassador of France; the British Ambassador and the Indian Ambassador, approaching from opposite ends of the aisle that divides the floor at the back from the first rows of the press gallery, stopping to greet one another with elaborate cordiality; the Soviet Ambassador, hurrying in with the Ambassador of Cuba, nodding brusquely to the head of the American delegation, who nodded as brusquely back. There was much questioning, particularly in the press gallery, where many correspondents were scanning the floor with binoculars, concerning the whereabouts of the M’Bulu. He had not yet appeared, and his absence served to increase the interest in the vast chamber, where many sought his giant figure.

There was an unusual air of drama and excitement about the Assembly this day. High at the back of the public galleries the blue-uniformed guards glanced at one another nervously, for one never knew when some well-organized disturbance might break out.

At three minutes to eleven the President rapped his gavel smartly and announced in his brisk broken English, “The plenary session of the General Assembly is now in session and the delegates will please be in order. The pending business is the draft resolution submitted by Panama on The Problem of Gorotoland. The Chair calls upon the distinguished delegate of Panama, Ambassador Labaiya, to speak to his resolution.”

Far over at the right of the chamber, from his delegation’s place next to Paraguay, Felix Labaiya could be seen, as heads turned and voices hushed, rising and moving down the aisle toward the podium. In a moment he had walked up the steps to the speaker’s stand, bowed to the President, and turned back to face the attentive assemblage, many of whose members were adjusting earphones and settling back to listen.

“Mr. President,” he said, choosing to speak in English rather than Spanish (many delegates took their earphones off again), “I should like to defer my statement in order that the Assembly may first hear a brief statement by a distinguished visitor to the United Nations who, we hope, will soon join us as a member in his own right, His Royal Highness the M’Bulu of Mbuele. I realize that it is somewhat irregular, Mr. President (“When did that ever stop the UN?” Lafe Smith whispered to Claude Maudulayne, over on the left where the U.S. and U.K. delegations sat side by side), but this was announced last week and I believe has the general approval of most of the delegations. I would hope that neither the United Kingdom nor the United States would object.” He paused with pointed politeness for a moment; both the delegations concerned sat impassive, and after a moment he went smoothly on. “Then, Mr. President, I now invite the Assembly’s courtesy and attention for our distinguished visitor, His Royal Highness the M’Bulu.”

There was a burst of applause as he returned to his seat, and for a minute or two the room hummed again with gossip and comment as the podium remained empty. In the pause the Secretary-General’s American deputy, who could be seen by the nearer delegations to be looking angry and disturbed, came from the President’s private room directly behind the wall that backs the podium, took his seat, and whispered across to the President and the S.-G. For a moment their heads were together, and just as they broke away again, the other two men startled and bothered too, there was a mounting commotion over on the left side, where delegates could see the door of the room behind the podium. It was followed in seconds by a sudden gasp from all around the hall.

The M’Bulu appeared and walked with his stately tread to the lectern, clad in the robes he had worn in Charleston, spattered and bedraggled from head to foot with rotten tomatoes, rotten eggs, streaks of mud and dirt.

For a long moment the gasp that had greeted his appearance was succeeded by silence; and then Ghana and Guinea were on their feet applauding, the rest of the African and Asian delegations were beginning to stand, from the Communist bloc came raucous bangings and thumpings on desks, a little group of Negroes in the public galleries suddenly unfurled the red and black banners of DEFY and began screaming unintelligible things, the enormous chamber was suddenly filled with a storm of sound. One by one the smaller nations, the so-called neutrals, the uncommitted states, all the peoples around the world who for one reason or another had cause to applaud anyone who would defy the great powers of the West, stood and applauded too. Very few delegations, in fact, remained seated and silent. All those who did were white, and many of their members looked desperately troubled and upset.

“Oh, brother,” Lafe Smith said softly to his colleague, “this is serious.”

“Yes,” said Hal Fry grimly. “Indeed it is.”

For several moments the television cameras roved about the chamber, catching the United States and United Kingdom delegations looking soured and isolated in a sea of standing, applauding delegates, bringing the impassive face of the M’Bulu, head erect, eyes straight ahead, repeatedly before the viewers, lingering with loving attention on his spattered robes, while the press reporters stood in their gallery and scribbled hasty notes. Then with a sure instinct for timing Terry brought the tableau to a close by raising a long left arm. A quick hush fell, and into it he said one slow and powerful word that renewed pandemonium:

“Free-
dom!”

Immediately the roar of sound welled up again as the chant was repeated from all across the floor:

“Free—
dom!
Free—
dom!
Free—
dom!”

The Africans were in a frenzy, the Asians wildly excited, the Communists, for once, in the presence of a showman better than they were. The President of the Assembly, his rosy cheeks purpling, his blue eyes popping, pounded and pounded and pounded his gavel, his shouts for order drowned out in the rhythmic chant that filled the Hall and drove out thought and sensation with its hypnotic reiteration.