A Shade of Difference (15 page)

“We try to understand you,” the Soviet Ambassador said with a mock wistfulness. “We attempt to exercise every charity in seeing your point of view. It is only when you consistently play the imperialist game of the West that we find ourselves baffled and saddened that one we thought a good friend should so betray the cause of human freedom. It is sad.”

“You attempt to destroy my office and the United Nations every day in the world,” the Secretary-General said bluntly.
“That
is what is sad. If you people devoted one-tenth of the energy to building up the world that you do to tearing it down, what a wonderful world it would be.”

“You see, Your Highness?” Vasily Tashikov said with a show of frustration. “He persists in these historical fallacies.”

“I do not know about this,” the M’Bulu said in a placating tone. “All I know is that we regard him as a great defender of our liberties in Africa, and we in Gorotoland, particularly, are counting upon him to aid us in our struggle to be free.”

“The point is,” the Secretary-General said sharply, “that I can’t help anybody much. This man and his country have virtually destroyed my office and the UN itself.”

“But without the Secretary-General,” Terry objected with a sunny disbelief, “where would any of us be?”

“That is exactly it,” the S.-G. said grimly. “It is the question you should ask yourselves before it is too late altogether.”

“You are turning a delightful luncheon into a debate,” the Soviet Ambassador said regretfully. “And everyone is watching. It
is
sad, on such a happy day for our young friend’s country.”

“Yes, really,” the M’Bulu said. “You are much too gloomy, Mr. Secretary-General. We should all be friends! That is what the UN is for, is it not?”

“Who knows?” the S.-G. said, giving him a sharp, appraising glance. “What do you intend to use it for?”

“‘Use it for’?” the M’Bulu echoed. “For the independence of my country. And, after that, for the benefit of mankind. If Gorotoland can contribute to it.”

“Mmm-hmm,” the Secretary-General said. “Anyone who has sufficient goodwill and integrity can contribute to it. Some do not.”

“We would like to expel them,” the Soviet Ambassador agreed, “but it is so difficult, with the veto.”

“Accccchhhh!” the Secretary-General said, an indescribable combination of disgust, distaste, and dislike. “What a mockery you make of it.”

A look of amusement and, the S.-G. thought, understanding of some secret nature he could not interpret passed between his companions. Again the M’Bulu gave his hearty laugh and held out his hands in his palms-up gesture.

“Mr. Secretary-General, I think you are much too gloomy. Be of good faith, Mr. Secretary-General! Be of good cheer! It is a great day and all will come right for humanity!”

“Let me tell you something, Your Highness,” the Secretary-General said. “I served some considerable time as delegate before being elected to this office, and I will tell you something you should know. And that is that nothing good comes of the kind of game you are playing here.”

“What game?” Terry demanded in blank bewilderment.

“I tell you that as one African to another,” the Secretary-General added quietly, and for a long moment they stared at one another until the M’Bulu’s eyes dropped. But he covered it, again, with an infectious laugh.

“You speak in riddles, Mr. Secretary-General. Riddles, riddles. All I want is for us to be happy and enjoy the happy day for my country. Will you not drink to that? I think our friends the Secretary of State and the distinguished British Ambassador will think you are not comfortable being with me unless we have a little show of happiness.”

“The Secretary-General does not dare to appear happy in my presence,” Vasily Tashikov said with a laugh. “The world would think he was forgiving me for pointing out the historical facts about his position as agent for the colonialist powers. The world would think he was finally agreeing to the facts. Nobody in the West wants to agree to facts. That causes all our troubles here.”

“Very well,” the Secretary-General said, lifting his glass. “To the fact of human decency, which survives everything, even you.”

“To the human decency of the freedom-loving peoples,” the Soviet Ambassador said amicably. “I will stop there.”

“To everybody!” the M’Bulu said with a flashing smile. “Let us make it unanimous.”

“Now, what was that all about?” Hal Fry inquired. “The S.-G. looked as though he were drinking vinegar.”

“Drinking the blood of the West,” Claude Maudulayne said, “if Tashikov had anything to do with preparing the tipple. But Terry looked happy.”

“Terry always looks happy,” Lafe Smith said. “Terry is having a ball. I understand Harley’s going to entertain him in Washington, and you folks are going to give him a reception at the Embassy, and the Jasons are going to roll out the red carpet in Charleston, and everything’s really going to be great. It’s the talk of the Lounge. Does Harley know all about this?”

“No, I doubt if he does, yet,” Orrin said. “I’ve got to call him before his press conference so he’ll be prepared for it if they ask him. Actually I think we can get out of it at the White House with just a little buffet or something; maybe Foreign Relations Committee, Foreign Affairs Committee, a few correspondents to give him the publicity he wants, and that ought to do it. And as for you, Claude, it’s none of my business, but the smaller that reception the better, it seems to me.”

“Oh, yes. We’ll keep it down. They’ll hardly know he’s been in town. We hope.”

“Good,” Orrin said as he signed the check for the delegates’ discount, “we’ll hope so, too. Hal, why don’t you go take a nap?”

“Do I look that tired?” Senator Fry asked with a smile. “I’m really not.”

“Keep an eye on this man for me, Lafe,” the Secretary said. “He worries me, suddenly.”

“It isn’t anything,” Hal Fry said with some annoyance.

“What?” Lafe asked in concern. The Senator from West Virginia looked even more annoyed.

“Now here’s Orrin making a federal case of it. I’m just having a little blurring of vision, a little reddish thing. Very temporary. Nothing serious. It’s only happened twice—”

“In twenty-four hours,” the Secretary of State said. “I saw you blink just now.”

“—and it’s just a little tiredness. Maybe I will lie down, but only for a little while.”

“Let me take you to the doctor’s office,” Lafe suggested. “That would be an even better excuse than cold pills.”

“Excuse for what?” Orrin asked. “No, don’t tell me. It can only be one of the nurses.”

“Raoul was telling me yesterday that the delegate from Senegal describes you as
‘le chasseur formidable,’”
Lord Maudulayne said. ‘“You’re the envy of the entire UN.”

“I don’t really deserve it, you know,” Lafe said. “No, really I don’t,” he repeated when they all laughed. “But I suppose it gives people something to gossip about in the Lounge … Well, let’s be off. Fourth Committee’s going back at three and I want to run across the street to delegation headquarters and check my Washington mail before the meeting starts.”

“I’ll come with you,” Hal said.

“Rest,” Orrin told him.

“Call Harley,” Hal replied. “You worry about the cares of the world and I’ll worry about me.”

‘It’s no care, really,” the Secretary said as they walked out of the dining room to the smiles and nods and little bows of many delegates who stopped their eating to watch them go. “You know that fatherly manner Harley’s developed lately. Terry will be charmed to pieces and all will be well.”

And as he turned at the door to give a cheerful farewell wave to the glittering M’Bulu, who waved cheerfully back, he actually believed it.

6

“What I can’t understand,” the
St. Louis
Post-Dispatch
remarked rather sourly as the Washington press corps drifted into the New State Department auditorium, “is why this press conference was called three hours early.”

“I suspect the President’s going to take off for the Upper Peninsula of Michigan tonight,” the
Houston
Post
said. “The word isn’t out officially yet, but I understand he wants to spend a few days up there in the back woods.”

“Oh, God,” the
Washington
Star
said with a groan. “More roughing it around the campfire for America’s Finest.”

“Just because you don’t like to fish,” said the
Baltimore
Sun.
“Anyway, let the great man have his fun. He has a tough job. It says here.”

“Oh, it is,” the
Arkansas
Gazette
agreed. “Nobody said it wasn’t.”

“I still think Governor Jason could do it better,” the
Herald, Tribune
said.

“What’s this thing the Jason Foundation’s throwing for that African gook?” the Memphis
Commercial Appeal
inquired. “I understand they’re going to serve white man
Bordelaise.
You boys better stay away from there.”

“Only bureau chiefs and columnists got invited,” the
Philadelphia
Inquirer
said. “You don’t suppose they’ll be eaten, do you?”

“You’re living in a dream world,” the
Post-Dispatch
said. “No such luck. Ooops! Everybody up!”

“Please be seated,” the President said, taking his customary stand at the high rostrum with the microphones, his press staff beside him in a row, the White House stenographer at one side transcribing busily. Before him in the auditorium he saw some two hundred members of the press corps in various stages of alertness, in back of them and on the sides the waiting television cameras. What he had begun by referring to as “my weekly ordeal” and had now come to regard as “my weekly picnic” was about to begin. He hadn’t much for them this time, but if he knew the press corps they’d develop something before the senior wire-service man put an end to it by crying, “Thank you, Mr. President!” and they risked life and limb racing for the telephones.

“I really haven’t much today,” he said. “The Ambassador of the Ivory Coast presented his credentials this morning. I had a short talk with the Ambassador of Rumania on a possible food grant there. The head of the World Bank and I had a short talk on the world economic situation, and the Secretary of Labor reported that unemployment has risen slightly—the Labor Department is releasing those figures later this afternoon. I have some new postmaster appointments and some new Generals in the Air Force, which I shall send down to the Senate tomorrow in the hope they’ll advise and consent to them. I shall take off tonight for my fishing camp on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for a five-day visit, and if any of you want to go along for a taste of life in the great outdoors, you’ll be welcome. Now I’ll answer any questions you have.”

Fifteen were on their feet at once. He picked a familiar face and nodded.

“Mr. President,” the AP said, “is it true that the government of India has invited you to make a formal visit in the spring?”

“That is under consideration.”

“Mr. President,” said the
Chicago
Daily News,
“since your Administration is deliberately withholding so much news from the public about current missile developments, do you think the country would be justified in becoming alarmed by the situation?”

The President started to look indignant but then thought better of it.

“No, I stopped beating my wife yesterday. You can ask her.”

“Well, Mr. President,” the
Daily News
said as his colleagues laughed, “that is all very well, but—”

“I don’t believe we are withholding information. If we are, write me a letter through the press office with specific examples and I’ll see what I can do about it. Next question?”

“Mr. President,” UPI said, “are you satisfied with the progress of the nuclear control talks at the UN?”

“They are never satisfactory,” the President said with a frank unhappiness. “They are always too slow and they never really come to grips with the problem.”

“Is that the Communists’ fault or ours, Mr. President?” the
Washington
Post
asked quickly.

“I prefer to think it’s theirs,” the President said. “Do you have some information to the contrary?”

“No, sir,” the
Post
said. “I just wondered if you were satisfied that we were doing all we can.”

“I am doing all I can.”

“Yes, sir,” said the
Post
.

“Mr. President,” the
New York
Times
said, “we have a question from our bureau at the United Nations. They understand up there that you are going to give a formal White House dinner for Terrible Terry—the M’Bulu of Mbuele, that is—that African prince from Gorotoland—”

“I
know who he is. Who tells them that?”

“Apparently he did,” the
Times
said.

“I haven’t heard about it.”

“Mr. President,” the
Los Angeles
Times
said, “you mean that he is inviting himself to dinner without your knowledge?”

“Apparently so,” the President said with a chuckle.
Ebony
magazine was on his feet at once, looking indignant.

“Mr. President,” he demanded, “do you mean to say, sir, that you are against entertaining visiting African dignitaries?”

“Now, I don’t recall saying that,” the President replied mildly. “Of course I am not against entertaining the official representatives of other countries. I do it all the time.”

“Who makes them official, Mr. President?”
Ebony
demanded in the same tone. The President looked surprised.

“I don’t quite understand your question.”

“I mean,”
Ebony
said, “are they officials because somebody says they are, or because
they are?”

The correspondents laughed, but the President only smiled patiently.

“I still don’t quite see it, but I suppose you mean would I receive Prince Terry if the British Government said they didn’t want me to?”

“Do you feel he has to have British permission, or do you feel he is a dignitary in his own right?”
Ebony
persisted, as the other correspondents began to fidget.

“Knock it off, Uncle Tom,” the
Philadelphia
Bulletin
murmured to the
Providence
Journal,
“knock it off.”