A Shade of Difference (11 page)

In the aftermath of the dramatic confrontation between the American President and the Soviet Chairman at Geneva, this fact annoys and frustrates him increasingly as the tensions heighten. He does what he can to ameliorate differences; tries his best to serve as a bridge between East and West; is respected by the United States, treated with contempt by the Soviet Empire and its colonies, beseeched by the Africans and Asians, ignored by the Latin Americans, patronized by the French, criticized by the British, advised by the Indians, given hearty admonitions by the Canadians, and made much of by the American press. This last gives him some little wry amusement at times. He may be a figurehead to some, but he does rate well with the
New York
Times,
the
Post,
and the
Herald Tribune.
This is not such insignificant support, either, since most delegates to the UN are sensitive to the writings of the metropolitan press and eager to find themselves mentioned in its pages.

Today they should all be quite happy, for The Problem of Gorotoland is receiving its full share of attention, and discussions concerning it are being followed most attentively by all channels of communication. He is not surprised that this should be so, for he has followed the career of Terence Ajkaje ever since he met him in London ten years ago. It is not unexpected that the M’Bulu should have been able to take a matter so dear to the hearts of the press and raise it with skilled showmanship to a major international issue. It would be surprising, in fact, if he did not do so, adept as he is at parlaying his flair for the dramatic into big news. Combine big news with a moral issue, however clouded by events in Molobangwe and elsewhere, and headlines, radio reports, and television commentaries are bound to follow, in America. It is no wonder that the UN, which in its standard legal parlance is “seized of” issues when it assumes jurisdiction over them, should be seized indeed of Terrible Terry.

The thought of this brings a smile to the Secretary-General’s face for a second as he drops world problems to concentrate on his beard. “I don’t have five-o’clock shadow,” he remembers telling Senator Fry of the United States the other day; “with me, it is more like 9 a.m.” “It isn’t noticeable,” Hal Fry assured him, “but if it bothers you, why don’t you give in and let it grow?” The Secretary-General had shaken his head with a smile. “That’s only for northerners like the Ethiopians. I wouldn’t want to get people confused.”

He decides now that he can probably get by without a shave until time to get ready for the Turkish reception at the Waldorf tonight, especially since he doesn’t want to run the risk of cutting his chin again. He frowns as he notes the tiny clot of dried blood from the morning’s accident, but against the black skin it shows hardly at all, and after a moment he forgets it and turns away. Then he leaves the beautiful apartment with its sensational view of New York, walks past the pleasant office with its sensational view of Brooklyn and the river, quickly paces off the long corridor to the elevator, pushes the bell, and, after a moment, steps in. The Javanese girl who operates the elevator greets him respectfully; he responds, and then stands with hands clasped behind him and head thoughtfully bowed as they glide swiftly downward to the halls and corridors far below where the bickering heirs of Adam conduct their talkative and tendentious business.

4

It was at moments like this, the M’Bulu told himself with a happy satisfaction, when everything seemed to conspire to give his talents and abilities their greatest possible scope, that the world could not possibly avoid admitting that he was as dashing and effective a figure as he knew himself to be. Here he was, child of Gorotoland, heir to a threadbare kingdom, “a minor princeling,” as the London
Times
had dared to call him recently, and here was all the world, in solemn assembly arrayed, attentive to his every word. At least, most of them were attentive. The British Ambassador was, you could be sure of that, for all his outward bland imperviousness; and the American Secretary of State, and the Soviet Ambassador, and indeed nearly everyone else around the globe, for today almost every seat in the big pale mahogany-and-blue bowl of First Committee was filled. Only Cameroun and Congo Brazzaville were absent, and he knew what he thought of them, particularly Cameroun. He made a mental reference to Cameroun’s ancestors which was not complimentary, rearranged his gorgeous green and gold robes with a spiteful flourish, drew himself to his full six-feet-seven, and turned to the Yugoslav delegate in the Chair with a suitable dignity as all those on the floor and in the press and public galleries who did not speak English adjusted their earphones and prepared to listen attentively.

“Mr. Chairman,” he said soberly in his chopped, guttural accent, “I must thank you on behalf of my people in Gorotoland for permitting me to appear here before this august committee of the United Nations on this matter so dear to their hearts. A long period of desperate suffering under a ruthless colonialism”—he was aware of the slightest hint of motion from Lord Maudulayne and found it difficult to refrain from a broad grin—“has made their hearts desperate for freedom, Mr. Chairman. They look to you, the United Nations, to release them from their bondage. Now.” A sudden fierce look flared on his face and he banged his massive fist on the rostrum with an explosive force.
“Now!”

There was a burst of applause from many delegates and some desk-pounding by the Communist bloc. He acknowledged it all with a bow and went gravely on.

“I shall not delay you with a further recounting of the terrible struggles of my people to achieve independence. The distinguished Soviet delegate has already given you that sorry story this morning. It is one that does no credit to the colonial power which has been responsible.” He looked squarely at Lord Maudulayne, who returned the look with the slightest of ironic winks that clearly conveyed the comment: Why, you hypocritical little pip-squeak. Terry broke into a sunny smile and marveled at how effectively he could make his tone change altogether.

“But, Mr. Chairman,” he cried, “at last there is hope! Hope from the United Nations! Hope from the United States and the Soviet Union! Hope, not least, from the United Kingdom itself, which, remembering at last its traditional regard for the rights and liberties of men, now moves forward boldly to assist in the solution of this problem. Yes, Mr. Chairman, we look to the United Kingdom for the decision humanity and justice dictate! Give us your votes and support and we know the U.K. will join happily in immediate independence for Gorotoland!
Now!”

Again there was the burst of applause, the pounding by the Communists. In the midst of it the British Ambassador raised his hand for recognition.

“Mr. Chairman,” he said from his seat in a flatly impassive tone that instantly silenced the chamber, “exercising briefly the right of reply, I simply wish to reiterate again that Her Majesty’s Government have entered into a solemn obligation to establish the independence of Gorotoland in one year’s time. There has been, to my knowledge, no change in this position to warrant the assumption just made by His Royal Highness. Nor can there be, until the territory achieves adequate preparation for self-government. Surely His Highness is aware of that.”

And he pushed aside his microphone with an air of tired distaste, amid renewed desk-pounding by the Soviets and considerable stirring and muttering throughout the room. At the rostrum the M’Bulu permitted an expression of sadness to disturb his primordially handsome face, but when he replied it was in a tone of patient tolerance.

“Mr. Chairman, the distinguished delegate of the United Kingdom—whom I like to consider,” he added, with a wistful smile, “my good personal friend, however these differences of policy may divide us—is, as usual succinct and to the point. Naturally I am aware of the commitments undertaken by Her Majesty’s Government. I am also aware that history does not always wait upon formal commitments. I am also aware”—and his voice began to rise again—“that freedom is impatient! Justice is impatient! Gorotoland is impatient! What is the right thing to do is impatient! Her Majesty’s Government should remember that, too!

“But, Mr. Chairman,” he said, and he permitted his voice to modulate gently, “I am hopeful. I am always hopeful. There are signs of friendship and assistance from many quarters.

“Tomorrow I shall visit a famous city in the southern United States, and there I shall find friends and support. I shall visit Washington, D.C., and there, I understand, the President of the United States, that great man whom we all admire”—there was a thump from Vasily Tashikov, answering laughter from others, and with a sudden grin Terry amended his statement—“whom
some
of us admire, will entertain me at a dinner in the White House. And also, though we have our differences here, I understand that the distinguished delegate of the U.K. and his delightful wife, who is known to many of you, will entertain for me at a reception at Her Majesty’s Embassy. So, you see, though we argue here and have our differences in this great house of the nations, we are still all friends. I think we should all,” he added with a commanding gesture that started and encouraged the responding applause, “be very pleased by these indications of humanity and friendliness which mean that no real bitterness can linger here.”

“That’s what you say,” Orrin Knox murmured to Lord Maudulayne, who replied with an ironic snort. “I defy you to get up now and say all this isn’t so,” he whispered back. “You see how simple it is. Seek and ye shall find. Demand and ye shall get. The powers of the West are but as sheep, and a little child is leading them.”

“Little child, my hat,” said Orrin Knox. “Some child!”

But in this, as the M’Bulu bowed low and prepared to move on to the peroration of his brief address, the Secretary of State might possibly have been mistaken; for behind the broad-planed face and towering body before them at the rostrum there were many complex things, and one of them might well have been a little child. Certainly Terrible Terry was filled with a happiness so tense and excited that it might, in other surroundings, have been expressed with a child’s exuberance—a certain kind of child. The kind who might, in a moment of exhilaration, kill a lion with a spear, or catch a running wildebeest on foot, or, perhaps, castrate an enemy tribesman over a slow-burning fire and then roast the results for dinner.

For there was much to the M’Bulu of Mbuele that of course could not be known to great sections of the rest of the world, though it was clearly understood by many of his compatriots from the vast upsurging continent who, like himself, now appeared amid the trappings of Western civilization in the gleaming glass citadel of the UN. Many an echo from the savage depths of mankind was present, though not all white men were sensitive enough to perceive it in the bustling lounges, the long, murmurous corridors, and the contentious conference rooms on the East River. No tribal drums sounded in Turtle Bay, but their faint, insistent beat was never far from many ears; and in few did they beat with quite the commanding note that they sounded for Terence Wolowo Ajkaje.

It would have been important for many men to find out why, had there been time and not ten thousand other things to think about, for an understanding of his background and purposes might have permitted some more reasoned attempt to be forewarned and thus forearmed. But possibly even that would not have been enough. Intelligent anticipation can only go so far, even under the best of circumstances; and the M’Bulu was one of history’s sports in an age that encouraged them: extremely smart, extremely clever, deceptive, misleading, erratic, but, as many were now to find out to their sorrow, erratic with a plan.

That the plan was not his own, but that he should have been able to lend himself to it so willingly and improve upon it so brilliantly in his own right, was a tribute to a mind that had traveled a long way since it first became sentient in Gorotoland. Now as he stood in First Committee gathering his thoughts for his final comments before the vote on Panama’s resolution to have the General Assembly take up The Problem of Gorotoland, he was thinking with an approving awe of that predestined forward progress which had brought him to the point where he could sway the nations of the world. It had not appeared at first that he would even live to maturity, let alone achieve so high a dignity in the councils of the earth.

He had been born, twenty-nine years before, to the seventh wife of the 136th chief in direct descent from the legendary first M’Bulu, the great warrior Molobangwe. Many were the tales of this great one, and numerous the rival chieftains he was said to have killed to consolidate his power. One by one he had subjugated seven warring tribes, carefully marrying all the widows he created with each new conquest. (“You call George Washington the father of
your
country,” Terry was fond of remarking during his year at Harvard. “You should have seen the man I’m descended from.”) By the time he died peacefully on his pallet at the reputed age of eighty-one—the last M’Bulu for some years to expire so uneventfully—Molobangwe had carved for himself a sizable kingdom and done more than any other one man to populate it with the dominant Goroto people.

The kingdom, consisting of a small area of mountain highlands, some dusty plains and sparse grasslands, a few elusive streams, and two fair-sized, sedgy lakes, was favored by nature just sufficiently to permit its people a bare subsistence if they worked from sunup to sundown from the day of birth to the day of death. The populace, filled with the innumerable progeny of the late warrior king, was almost fatally diverted from this necessary diligence for the better part of half a century, for it was immediately torn apart by rival claimants to the vacant throne. (When he was at Oxford, Terry liked to refer to this as “our Wars of the Roses,” which sometimes made his listeners wince.) Out of the constant raiding, fighting, and general bloodshed there rapidly appeared and violently disappeared the first thirty-one of the 137 M’Bulus. With the thirty-eighth, a great-nephew in the female line of the great Molobangwe (although which female, tribal elders were never entirely clear), there finally arose a youth firm enough and strong enough to once again impose upon his warring people much the same
pax virilis
as that imposed by his fertile forebear.