A Shade of Difference

by Allen Drury

  Even during the high point reached in the early stages of the crisis in the Congo, their powers and influence at best had not been very great; now they have declined to a sort of innocuous and ineffective housekeeping that not all the earnest editorials at the time of his election have been able to redress.

  “It is with renewed hope,” the New York Times had commented then, “that the world hails the election of a new Secretary-General. Now, if ever, the United Nations has a chance to halt the decline of recent years and climb back to the high plateau of goodwill and sound endeavor that men everywhere still hope to find in the world organization.”

  Well, the hope had not been justified, because men everywhere did not hope to find the goodwill and sound endeavor so dutifully invoked by the Times. A great many of them just hoped to find one more mechanism for their own unchanging plans for world conquest. And their campaign to reduce the United Nations to just such a mechanism has made ominous and steady strides ever since. Endless debates, endless arguments, endless demands for impossible concessions, disorderly sessions of the General Assembly, frivolous demands for special sessions of the Security Council—there is no limit to the vicious ingenuity with which they frustrate the decent hopes of mankind.

  Now, he thinks as he goes into his private apartment off the office to see whether his heavy beard needs a quick shave before he goes down to lunch with Terence Ajkaje and the Soviet Ambassador in the Delegates’ Dining Room on the fourth floor, all is tenuous and uncertain and the future is dimmer than it has ever seemed, even in the great slab-sided glass monolith that houses the United Nations. “We fly on a wing and a prayer,” his American deputy had told a luncheon meeting of the United Nations Correspondents Association a week ago, “if we fly at all.”

  Yet there is, he tells himself with a sort of angry hopelessness, such great potential for good in the flimsy shield, riddled with national self-interest and competing sovereign claims, which men erected in San Francisco in 1945 in one more desperately hopeful attempt to protect themselves against the dismal winds that howl down the reaches of history. Only yesterday he had stopped by the offices of the Technical Assistance Fund on the twenty-ninth floor and been shown proudly by its director an enormous map of the world with little colored pins scattered over the surface, each representing a UN mission. Sometimes the mission consisted of eight or ten people; sometimes, in the vast expanse of some desert nation or the steaming jungles of another’s almost impenetrable heartland, the pin would represent just one man—just one, for so many hundreds of thousands of square miles, so many millions of people. But it was a start—it was a start. Here and there in the darkness the UN was lighting little lights.

  “Maybe a hundred years from now it will all add up to something,” he had remarked somewhat bitterly to the director, a doughty little Welshman grown gray in the service of the world organization.

  “It is the hope in which we live,” the director had replied; and had added gravely, “In which we have to live.”

  Technical assistance—the United Nations Children’s Fund—the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees—the United Nations Korean Reconstruction Agency—the United Nations High Commission for Refugees—the United Nations Emergency Force—the United Nations Special Fund—the Economic and Social Council—the Trusteeship Council—the Economic Commissions for Europe, Asia, and the Far East, Latin America and Africa—the United Nations Conciliation Commission for Palestine—the United Nations Advisory Commission on the Congo—the United Nations Refugee Assistance for South Africa—the United Nations this, the United Nations that—

  It is a proud roll call, even if it does represent a defiance pathetically tiny of the forces that conspire to threaten humankind everywhere. At least, the Secretary-General thinks with an ironic grimness, you can get East-West agreement on stamping out malaria in the jungles, and on inoculating natives against yaws, and on teaching a peasant how to plow a straight furrow, and on building a dam here and there to protect the crops and generate power. Maybe that, in the long run, is a work of the United Nations far more hopeful and far more lasting than all the bitter political wrangles that go on in the Assembly and the Security Council. Here in Turtle Bay on the East River, in the sheer marble-and-green-glass shaft of the Secretariat, he is aware that dedicated people from all the races of man are working in the light of a fragile promise and a desperate hope. They are people as human, as imperfect, as subject to red tape and petty ambition and simple error as people everywhere, yet for the most part he has found them to be earnest and idealistic and devoted to the world organization and the good of humanity. He sometimes wishes that those who freely criticize the UN could know, as he knows, the patient, persistent, day-by-day work of the organization as it attempts, so doggedly and under such great handicaps, to push back the night that threatens to engulf the world. The night is so black and the light is so feeble. But it shines. That is the important thing: it shines.

  And so, he thinks with an abrupt bitterness as he pauses for a moment to stare out his apartment’s glass wall at the steel and concrete crags of Manhattan that balance his office’s East River view over Brooklyn on the other side, one manages to convince oneself that it all adds up to something and really does encourage hope, and that the vicious political conflicts of the UN are really less important than its small, snail-like progressions in the area of social, economic, and human relations. One can almost persuade oneself that a Communist pounding on his desk to stop free debate, or an African sneering at a white man, or a white man bitterly denouncing another white man, can all be wiped out by sweetness and light in the Economic and Social Council or a tentative glow of compassion in the Children’s Fund. It would be nice to think so, but he knows the thought is not tenable for long. It is the fearful bitternesses that really matter; it is the terrifying divisions that really control man’s fate, not the temporary and tiny co-operations.

  And here he knows, as any honest man must know, that the outlook is not promising and the future is not bright. Ever since Geneva the neutral states have been beating a path to his door. The burden of each has been essentially the same: Protect us.

  “Protect you!” he had finally blown up at the smugly self-righteous representative of Ghana. “Protect you, when you did everything you could to subvert the Congo, and always try to play your own imperialist game in Africa! Why should I protect you, even if the Charter and the big powers gave me the authority to do it?”

  The Ghanaian had been angrily resentful and accused him of being a lackey of the British; but the S.-G.’s barb had sunk home, and it had been fully justified. They all wanted to follow their own cheap, self-serving little ends, and then when the going got rough they wanted a man whose powers they had blandly connived to diminish to come running and help them out. When they get scared, he thinks, they turn tail fast enough; but it is almost too late for them to do so, because bit by bit they have helped to whittle away the always flimsy powers of his office until now it is an almost empty shell.

  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 l
inger 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.