A Shade of Difference (38 page)

But they both knew they weren’t, of course. Few more intelligent people lived in Washington; few more perceptive, ambitious, and shrewd; few whose ultimate interests ran more nearly together. It was soon obvious to him that Patsy’s principal aim in life was to further the ambitions of her brother, then serving as Undersecretary of Defense before returning to make his successful race for Governor of California. Ted had lost his first wife and had not yet married the stunning Ceil who was now his second; Patsy, having nothing else to do with her time and share of the family millions, was keeping house for him on Foxhall Road and serving as his hostess. Felix was given to understand early that everything was subordinate to Ted, which of course made it doubly flattering when it became increasingly obvious that his own person and interests were assuming an equal, and soon a greater, place in Patsy’s life.

That this condition could not last, he was quite sure, but there were plenty of reasons why he should take advantage of it while it did. They were both extremely wealthy—although compared with the Jason millions, of course, his own patrimony seemed relatively minor—both ambitious, both determined, both inclined to be ruthless in going after what they wanted. They were also completely at home in the world of national and international society and politics in which they moved, aware of most of the subtle influences that went into its operations, quick to see and act upon those things that could be of use to them. “Those two
ought
to marry,” the editorial director of the
Washington
Post
had commented to Justice Tommy Davis as they watched the stunning couple circulate over the green lawns among the strawberry-laden tables at the British Embassy’s June garden party for the Queen. “They were certainly made for this town.”

They were made for something more, and both were aware of it. They were made for power. The difficulty involved in differing nationalities was not what it might have been in some other cases. The Jasons had interests in Panama, as they had in most places around the world, and Felix in any event was apparently embarked upon a substantial period of residence in America. “When Ted is President of the United States and you’re President of Panama,” Patsy had remarked after the wedding with a mock ruefulness, “where will I be?” “You can commute,” he had assured her with a pleasant smile, knowing that at that particular moment, probably the high point of their marriage as far as its emotional content was concerned, she would no more leave him than fly. But the day would come. When it did, it would be no problem. The marriage, he knew instinctively then, would go on regardless; have a brief season of passion now, then settle; and go on.

They had been married at the Washington Cathedral at an enormously popular and enormously attended ceremony ignored by the Archdiocese of Washington, since for political reasons of his own Felix had chosen to fall away from the Church and Patsy was not about to join. The newly-elected Governor Jason gave his sister away,
Life
and
Look
each gave the ceremony six pages, everybody who was anybody was there to give it blessing, and what one reporter referred to as “the treaty of mutual assistance between Jason and Labaiya” was duly consummated. Felix entered upon it hopeful that in time the Jason interests might be added to his own in pursuit of the purposes to which he knew his life to be dedicated.

What these were he never entirely told Patsy. She knew he was concerned about the Canal, that he felt, as he assured her quite truthfully most Panamanians did, a restless resentment of the relationship with the United States; but that he contemplated anything more she never suspected, for, after all, how could he? There was no way to achieve it, even if he did. His march with Aquilino Boyd on Independence Day 1959 had apparently been the high-water mark of Panamanian protest. Things had simmered since, but simmered, with a few relatively minor exceptions, quietly. Felix seemed increasingly removed from the inner turmoil of Panama as he moved on from counselor to Ambassador and went in due time from Washington to the United Nations.

The day might come when his dream of winning support from the Jasons would prove to be delusion—who could say what time would bring in the affairs of ambitious men?—but he would not have been human had he not made it the basis of an active hope. If Ted became President, would there not be a more reasonable attitude in the White House toward the aspirations of his brother-in-law’s country, a concession that the changing pattern of world events made no longer suitable the continuance of so archaic and antiquated a relationship between sovereign states? He had never spelled this out to Governor Jason, who kept his own counsel even more completely than Felix did, if that were possible, and thereby was perhaps the only man living for whom the Panamanian Ambassador felt a secret, uneasy awe. But it would not be human not to hope: it would make things so much easier all around if it should turn out to be true.

In time, so bland and well-behaved did his son apparently become, it came to seem that Luis Labaiya had won after all. On quick trips back to La Suerte he and Patsy entertained with a lavishness rarely seen in the Isthmus. In Panama, in Washington, and at the UN the Ambassador of Panama went about with a circumspect and equable air that presently erased many of the memories of whatever mood of rebellion may have shadowed his earlier years. These things were now attributed, if anyone thought of them at all, to youthful exuberance, a need to sow political wild oats, a tendency to substitute action for the sober appreciation of Panama’s best interests that any sensible man of course must have. “He just had to kick up his heels,” they said in the Zone. Felix smiled and went his way.

There came a time when heads as shrewd as his, constantly studying and analyzing and restudying and reanalyzing the complex of nations and personalities at the United Nations, came to the conclusion that there might be found in the Ambassador of Panama an ally worth having. A short but intensive courtship followed, in which Felix found himself wined and dined and flattered by Vasily Tashikov until, as he told himself dryly, it was running out his ears. To it all he responded with a bland pretense of gratification which apparently fooled and flattered the Soviets, for they began to turn to him increasingly on matters inimical to the West, seeking his advice, which he was always careful to keep noncommittal, and beseeching his active support, which he now and then began to give.

Potentially it could be a dangerous game, and he knew it. He must always bear in mind three things—the disapproval of the United States, the disapproval of his own government, and the disapproval, perhaps most important of all, of his wife and in-laws. The most he had been able to persuade his government to agree to had been an occasional abstention on a vote of interest to Washington. This had caused some raised eyebrows in the State Department, but the temper of the world was changing, a little show of independence was considered a good thing—“At least they can’t say we run Panama,” somebody remarked jocularly at a meeting of the Policy Planning Staff. “Anyway, not all the time,” somebody else responded wryly—and nobody became too alarmed. Very cautiously and very carefully Felix felt his way, widening the area of his freedom of action little by little; a process of education, of human manipulation, of playing with opposing forces, which fascinated him. The only thing he regretted was that it was something he could not discuss with anyone, even his wife. He could never forget that the ultimate result might yet be some explosive conclusion that would blow all his careful fabrics asunder. It might also blow his marriage asunder. There was no point in hurrying the day, though he was prepared to face it if the necessities of his country brought it about.

For there was something else about Felix Labaiya that no one suspected, and that was the fierce depth of his love for Panama. There was simply no argument as to what was right or wrong where his country was concerned. He was astute enough, and perceptive enough, to understand that this motivation could apply with just as overwhelming a force to the Americans as well, and indeed to most of the peoples with whom he dealt in the house of nations in Turtle Bay. But in his own case it erased all arguments of fairness, all appeals to reason, all attempts to see the American point of view on this issue that so deeply concerned his country. His deepest, and in a sense his only, love was Panama, and it followed therefrom that nothing could possibly deflect him from the basic purpose that was his. A thousand memories linked him to the Isthmus, its vistas, mountains, seas, islands, plains. Here he had been born, grown up, been influenced by his grandfather and father, matured physically, mentally, politically. This was his land. How could there be justice toward those who controlled its most valuable asset? They could quote statistics at him forever, explain how fairly they were administering it, point out that the Panama Canal Company made no profits, explain that its commerce furnished one-sixth of Panama’s income, place themselves on a high moral plane, and talk about guarding an international trust—and all this mattered no more to him than it did to the most ignorant mestizo in the streets. He held it as a matter of blind faith, as fierce and proud as that of Don Jorge, that the Canal was Panama’s. It was mentally, indeed almost physically, impossible for him to acknowledge any competing argument.

But it was an age in which to be cautious, if you wished to achieve something more substantial than headlines; a time to plan secretly and long before moving; an era in which the crumbling forms of world society furnished great opportunities to those who held tenaciously to their own private desires and advanced them when the time was ripe. The world was at loose ends. A purposeless illogic afflicted even the most carefully laid plans and projects of those whose writ had once run over many continents and across many seas; an insensate destructiveness crippled the crafty programs of those who sought to supplant them. A weird lassitude lay upon the West, an outwardly vigorous yet essentially nihilistic energy upon the East. Under their shadow those who were small and careful and discreet might sometimes achieve their purposes.

They might also, when the chance came right, furnish the fulcrum upon which to turn the earth.

So he had done in The Problem of Gorotoland, raised now by Terence Ajkaje’s visit to a Charleston school into an issue of such import that it might well weaken his life’s adversary in very grave degree in the eyes of many states and peoples around the globe. At first the matter had occurred to him—or, again, possibly, occurred to the Soviet Ambassador; here too his memory was a little hazy as to who had first proposed it when they had discussed it over lunch two weeks ago—simply as a generalized attack upon the West, a matter that would embarrass Britain, possibly bring her into conflict with the United States, strengthen his own standing among the uncommitted nations, make him more of a voice to listen to in the councils of the world. His government had not been averse to this when he explained it to them. Freedom was a great thing to be for, and Panama could not lose by taking an active hand in the fight for it, particularly in Africa. He had been gratified by the overwhelming approval that had come to him both in the United Nations and across the world. Then had come the bonus of the M’Bulu’s dramatic gesture, his devastating appearance before the General Assembly, his stirring call to action that had so excited and inflamed the Afro-Asian states. Now the issue was grave indeed for the great Republic and he, Felix Labaiya, had cut out for him a task more important and more vital than any he had yet undertaken.

As things stood now, it would take a two-thirds vote by the General Assembly to ratify his resolution and its amendment. He thought with a contemptuous smile of the feeble and futile efforts of the United States to head off his amendment yesterday, the series of crushing votes by which its moves had been defeated. Despite the recovery by the Secretary of State, the sudden sober realization of a challenge breath-taking in its implications which had finally gripped the Assembly and brought about a delay at the last moment, he was not too worried as he approached the door of Conference Room 9.

Terrible Terry, flanked by the delegates of Ghana and Guinea, was coming toward him with hand outstretched. He was Don Felix grandson of Don Jorge, and a supreme confidence buoyed him up. He was trim, neat, self-contained, and determined in his small, dark person; trim, neat, self-confident, and determined in his shrewd dark mind. His country needed him and he had never failed her yet.

He stepped forward with his pleasant suggestion of smile and bowed politely as he saw the group of midnight faces looking up to his with an eager and expectant air.

2

Now there was another problem to solve, the President thought with an exasperated sigh: it never ended, the tangle of jackstraws that history dumped upon his desk each day for untangling. He was aware of his own responsibility in the turn events had taken, he regretted now the very human impulse that had made him dismiss so lightly Terrible Terry’s request for full-scale red-carpet treatment, but he still could not regret or modify the basic judgment of the M’Bulu that had prompted it. The man whose ennobled visage stared forth from this morning’s editorial cartoon, godlike in aspect and haloed by an aura of light labeled “Freedom,” was still a devious little international adventurer, and the President knew not all the friendly press puffs in the world could change the fact. But, then, this was an age when the fact was not important. The legend was all that mattered.

This was not the first time, or, he suspected, the last, that certain journals around the country had gone to extraordinary lengths to confer their blessings upon such legends. He thought how nice it would be if someday the truth unvarnished emerged from certain editorial offices, but he had long ago concluded that it was not to be. Diligent and devoted reporters might record the truth as faithfully as competence and integrity enabled them, but inevitably editorial decision shifted the emphasis, shadowed the facts, threw everything subtly but completely out of focus, so that the hasty reader emerged with quite a different impression. And, of course, side by side with bland over inflation of favorites and bland denigration of opponents went high protestations of public morality, well-publicized speeches on freedom of the press, stern trumpetings against governmental censorship. Yet, he supposed, the editors responsible were quite able to convince themselves that they were honorable and consistent men.