Capable of Honor (12 page)

“We
think so,” said the man from the
New Yorker
, somewhere behind her.

“We
think so,” said the man from the
Reporter
, somewhere behind him.

“We
think so,” said the man from the
New Republic
, somewhere behind him.

“We
think so,” said the man from the
In-Group Quarterly
, trying to see around them.

“We
think so,” said
Newsweek
, right out front and smiling up at Prince Obi with a fearfully concentrated gaze, horribly nearsighted but damn it, darling, I hate contact lenses and I will
not
wear glasses to a party.

“I’m damned if
I
think so,” Senator Smith murmured to his companion. Congressman Hamilton returned a grim little smile and nodded.

“Tell us what you think of the President’s defense of Standard Oil’s exploitation of your country,” the
New Yorker
demanded with a nervous little giggle, coming closer.

“Tell us what you think of this attempt by Washington to launch a new colonialism in Africa,” the
Reporter
suggested, lighting his pipe,

“Tell us what respect you think the United States can possibly hope to retain when it takes so backward and vicious an attitude toward its own great Negro people,” the
New Republic
proposed, elbowing one of their representatives absently aside as he grabbed another martini from a passing tray.

“Tell us
anything
,” breathed
Newsweek
, stabbing Prince Obi unexpectedly in the region of the belly-button with an eight-inch ivory cigarette holder picked up on a twenty-four-hour survey of Southeast Asia’s trouble spots last spring.

“Yes,” shrieked their hostess,
“do
tell us, doll!”

“It would hardly behoove me, as a visitor to your great country, to say anything critical about it at such a pleasant social occasion—” Prince Obifumatta began slowly.

“Yes, yes!” said the
New Yorker
eagerly.

“Yes, yes!” said the
New Republic
.

“Yes, yes!” said the
Reporter
and the man from the
In-Group Quarterly
.

“God, don’t keep us in suspense!” cried
Newsweek
. “Out with it. Obi, out with it!”

“But,”
said Obifumatta, “it does seem to me that in these times of great challenge—”

“In which the United States is playing, at best, a shabby and equivocal part,” the
New Yorker
offered quickly.

“—when the eyes of the world are upon this country—”

“Whose people and leaders seem absolutely stupefied by their own lack of intelligence and imagination,” contributed the
Reporter
.

“—and when both abroad and at home her attitude toward the colored races of this earth is under such heavy fire—”

“Which of course is God damned well deserved!” cried the
New Republic
, gulping his martini with a feverish concentration.

“—then it does seem to me—”

“Oh,
tell
us!” cried the
In-Group Quarterly
.

“—that there is reasonable ground for criticism in recent events.”

“How well you put it!” exclaimed
Newsweek
, extricating the cigarette-holder from Prince Obi’s midriff and swinging it about into the eye of the earnest little man from the
Nation
. “Doesn’t he put it well, everybody? Doesn’t he?”

“He’s a doll!” Selena Castleberry assured them, her hacked-off hair a-frizzle, her staring eyes wide with excitement. “I told you all he was a doll. Now you know!”

“We’ve just signed him to do his autobiography for us,” murmured the vice president of The Most Right-Thinking Book Publishers, Inc. “We’re going to call it
New Star Over Africa: My Struggle for Justice
, by Prince Obi.”

(“Well make a bid of five hundred thousand dollars plus 30 percent of the gross,” offered the representative of The Most Daring Young Right-Thinking Hollywood Producer. “We’ll budget it for thirty million, shoot it in Spain, and hire the entire nation of Dahomey to be extras. It’ll be the greatest!”)

“Oh,
God!”
Selena cried with a sudden yelp of pleased surprise. “There come Poopy Rhinefetter and the Princess Saboko! Now the party’s complete. Poopy! Poopy, darling! Do bring your lovely bride and come meet the greatest leader of Africa. This
man,”
she explained to Prince Obifumatta in a confidential voice that carried clearly over the clutter, the clamor, the raucous, smoke-laden roar of the aching, shaking, quaking room, “is almost as famous as you are, darling. He’s worth absolutely untold millions and he’s always to be found supporting the most
liberal
causes, and just three weeks ago he married that
lovely
girl, there. The Princess Saboko—your fellow royalty, doll. It was all so romantic. He found her last month, singing native songs at some place down in the Village, and before you could say clip-my-coupons he had eloped with her to Connecticut. The family’s absolutely
furious.
Their picture was all set to be on the cover of
Life
this week until you came along, you naughty boy, and they decided to run yours instead. Poopy and the Princess! Poopy and the Princess! Come over here this minute, you delicious dolls, and meet this wonderful man!”

“Where did you say the Princess was from?” Obifumatta inquired.

“Some place in Ghana, I believe,” Selena Castleberry said. “Or is it Mali? Or maybe Nigeria? Oh, darling, who cares? She’s a princess, she’s lovely, and she’s Mrs. Poopy Rhinefetter. That’s all
anybody
needs to know. Poopy, this is His Royal Highness Prince Obifumatta, from Gorotoland. Your Royal Highness, this is Poopy Rhinefetter and Mrs. Poopy Rhinefetter,
Her
Royal Highness. From Ghana. I think. Those marks on her forehead are the marks of her royal birth, aren’t they, Saboko, darling?”

“Place dere bime roahll fadder,” the Princess Saboko said carefully, while her adoring husband swung at anchor off her left elbow.

“I am honored,” Prince Obi said gravely, sounding his most British. “Those are noteworthy marks, indeed. Are you from Ghana?”

“Dat my place,” said the Princess, and Poopy, apparently relaxed from some previous engagement, echoed happily, “Dat her place, everybody. Yassuh, boss, dat her place.”

“I see,” Obifumatta said in the same polite tone. “Whore of the earth,” he added pleasantly in Twe, “you are doing well in the white man’s world.”

“Anus of the universe,” the Princess responded cordially in the same language, “swallow your own excrement.”

“They
like
each other!” Selena cried ecstatically to the billowing room. “They speak the same language! These two great leaders of Africa are
here
with
us.
Oh, God, to think we are making such
progress
in world relations, right here in my humble flat! Oh, it’s wonderful!”

“It’s the greatest thrill of my life,” the
New Yorker
said soberly.

“The moment is really historic,” said the
Reporter
, relighting his pipe.

“I’m going to recommend a very strong editorial next week,” the
New Republic
announced.

“We shall run one next month,” sniffed the
In-Group Quarterly
.

“This sort of thing makes up for everything,”
Newsweek
said fervently. “Really for
everything!”

“And now,” Prince Obifumatta said gracefully, “I really must be buzzing off. Tomorrow is a fateful day for Free Gorotoland in the Security Council, you know, and I must rest and prepare.” He enfolded his hostess’ hands in his enormous paws. “It has been delightful, dear lady. I commend to you the Princess Saboko, who will tell you much of our difficult life in Africa now that she is Mrs. Poopy Rhinefetter. My thanks and blessings to you all.”

He waved to the turbulent throng, bowed low, and departed on a burst of approving shouts and applause.

“He’s a dreamboat,” murmured the
New Yorker
fervently.

“One of the authentic greats of our time,” agreed the
Reporter
, sucking deep upon his pipe.

“How wonderful the spirit of unity that binds the great black continent together,” the
New Republic
said gravely.

“With people like that in the world,” asked the
In-Group Quarterly
, “how can humanity lose?”

“They are both so
real,”
agreed the
Nation
. “What an experience!” “And the wonderful thing about it, darling,” murmured
Newsweek
, “is that these people aren’t
dull.
They aren’t
ordinary
Negroes, like ours.”

“Is this actually fresh air we’re breathing out here?” the junior Senator from Iowa asked the Congressman from California as they stood on the stoop in Sutton Place half an hour later waiting for an official U.S. delegation car to work its way through the crush in the narrow street and take them back to the Waldorf-Astoria.

“I’ve about forgotten,” Cullee Hamilton said. He sniffed. “Guess it is—or about as close as New York gets when it isn’t breathing the kind they were breathing in there. What a crew!”

“Marvelously enlightened,” Lafe Smith agreed, nodding to the Ambassador of Chad and his ample lady, who had emerged beside them into the snowy night. “Prodigiously progressive. Lavishly liberal. A three-thousand-dollar party for a ten-cent cause. Now they can all go home feeling so much better. It’s comforting.”

“What phonies there are in this city,” Cullee said in a curious tone that combined wonder, irritation, and a sort of despairing hopelessness at the prospect of ever breaking through to reality in such an atmosphere. “Six months ago they were giving poor old Terry the buildup and now he’s out in the snow on his ass. Not that I mind,” he added with a grim little smile, “what they do to poor old Terry. But it’s the principle of the thing.”

“The principle is consistent enough,” Lafe said thoughtfully as their car arrived and they got in. “Tear down your own country and its aims, ideals, and purposes as often and loudly as you can. Support any international brigand who attacks it and attempts to defeat it in world affairs. Tell yourself you do these things out of an enlightened liberalism and a genuine patriotism. Have another drink, and congratulate yourselves on your contribution to the forward progress of humanity. Be gay. Be happy. Be smug. Be secure.
In your heart you know you’re right!
Have another drink.”

“You sound bitter,” Congressman Hamilton said with a chuckle, giving him a friendly slap on the knee as they settled back and the car began its slow crawl through the swirling whiteness that still held the city. The storm that had already died in Washington would linger a while in New York before it moved on out to dissipate somewhere over the lost and lonely reaches of the black Atlantic.

“I am bitter,” Senator Smith said. “All that fuss we went through six months ago over Terry, and now we have to go through all this with his cousin. I must confess the UN gives me a terrible sense of being caught forever in a revolving door.”

“We’ll be off the delegation soon, and after that it will be somebody else’s headache. Personally, I won’t be sorry. I’ve got people to see and things to do.”

“You’re going to run for Senator from California, aren’t you,” Lafe said, more a statement than a question. The handsome black face beside him looked genuinely troubled for a moment, the big ex-track star’s frame moved uneasily.

“I am damned,” Cullee Hamilton said heavily, “if I know, at this point. You see, of all the things that are going to get caught in the squeeze between Orrin Knox and Ted Jason, little Congressman Hamilton from California is one of the most obvious.”

“Surely you aren’t going to side with Ted,” Lafe said as their car crept carefully west on 66th Street in the blinding white. “Somehow I can’t see you in with that crowd.”

“Except that he’s the governor, of course, and it is rather nice to have the governor on your side when you run for the Senate. Not imperative, but nice.”

“Buddy, I think you’ve reached a point where it doesn’t matter whether he’s on your side or not. Ted needs you, you don’t need Ted.”

“Which means he’s in a mood to bargain,” Cullee said. “Which is another factor.”

“Which is another factor. And Orrin isn’t in a mood to bargain?”

Cullee shrugged.

“You know Orrin. He bargains when it suits his integrity, but he won’t otherwise. Which,” he said with a sudden sidelong glance and smile, “suits me just fine, because that’s when I bargain, too.”

“You’re a pair,” Senator Smith conceded with an answering smile, “which is why your problem is relatively simple, it seems to me. You know who you’ll back for President when the time comes—if,” he interjected dryly, “Harley ever lets it come—and that automatically solves the Senate problem. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble bucking the Jasons. The rest of the family’s like Selena, in varying degrees: they all telegraph their punches.”

“Sometimes yes and sometimes no,” Cullee said thoughtfully. “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating them, particularly Ted. He’s the trickiest of the lot. For the moment, I’d prefer to let things ride without forcing the issue, if I can.”

“I gather from what Orrin said on the phone just now that Patsy and Walter Dobius are going to force it for all of us. So now what?”

Cullee chuckled.

“He did sound a little annoyed about it, didn’t he? It seemed to be more on his mind than the Security Council debate on Gorotoland tomorrow.”

“He just wanted to alert you to what was being planned so you could be thinking—his way. And you are, so he achieved his purpose, right?”

“I guess time will tell,” Cullee said lightly. Their car crept into Lexington Avenue and turned south. “How are you making out these days with all your romantic projects?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Lafe said, “even to that one. I haven’t got time for projects these days. I’ve got responsibilities now, you know.” His normally open and sunny face darkened for a moment. “Hal Fry left me some.”

“Yes, I know,” Cullee Hamilton said softly, his own expression saddened by the reference to the late Senator from West Virginia, former chief American delegate to the UN, whose death from leukemia six months ago had been one of the major tragedies of the last session. “How is his son these days?”