A Shade of Difference

by Allen Drury

  “I do not know what explains it, Mr. President,” said Ray Smith severely, “unless it is shortsightedness of the most flagrant kind. Certainly a representative of the great Negro race—”

  “He’s practically terrified,” Murfee Andrews whispered to Cecil Hathaway.

  “—deserves better treatment than this from the President of the United States. How are we to hold up our heads at the United Nations, Mr. President? How are we to convince the African states that we are truly their friend? How are we to convince the world that we mean it when we talk of equal rights, equal justice, and life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for all men?”

  “Mr. President,” said the senior Senator from South Carolina with an ominous gentleness, “will the distinguished Senator from California yield?”

  “Mr. President,” Senator Smith said hastily, “I do not wish to get into an argument with the disting—”

  “Oh, Mr. President,” Senator Cooley said. “Now, I do not entertain at all the idea of getting into an argument with the distinguished Senator from California in this matter. But is it not true that in Gorotoland where this Emboohoo of Embewley—”

  “M’Bulu of Mbuele,” Ray Smith corrected nervously.

  “Emboohoo of Embewley,” Seab Cooley repeated firmly, “lives, there is reason to believe that slavery still exists? Is it not rumored that human sacrifices and even cannibalism can still be found there? Are there not even signs of Russian and Chinese Communist infiltration?”

  “Oh, well, Mr. President,” Senator Smith said with a relieved scornfulness, “don’t tell me the Senator from South Carolina is going to trot out old charges of Communist infiltration! Now, that is ridiculous, Mr. President.”

  “Is it?” Seab Cooley asked mildly. “Well, sir, I wouldn’t know about that. The Senator from California is much more of an expert on Communism than I am, that’s true, Mr. President. He knows much more about it than I do.”

  “What does the Senator mean by that?” Ray Smith demanded with a nervous anger. “I resent that, Mr. President!”

  “Now, Mr. President,” Senator Cooley said with a sad patience, “I don’t know what the Senator from California is talking about. I do think there is reason to believe that this African fellow that the President won’t entertain—and, in my opinion, wisely won’t entertain—is not all the Senator from California says he is. Representative of the great Negro race! Mr. President, I know representatives of the great Negro race. I know them in my own state, Mr. President, and, yes, I know them in the state of the Senator from California. The distinguished Representative from that state, Mr. Cullee Hamilton, Mr. President. There is a great representative of the great Negro race.” He fixed the junior Senator from California with a steady glance and his voice dropped to a siren’s whisper. “Does he deny it, Mr. President? Does he deny that Representative Hamilton is a great representative of the great Negro race?”

  “Why, no,” Senator Smith said nervously. “Why, no. Why, of course not. I don’t deny that Representative Hamilton is a great representative of his race.”

  “Worthy even to be a United States Senator, Mr. President,” Seab Cooley said softly.

  “Why, er—er—why, yes, I suppose so,” said Ray Smith helplessly.

  ‘This is murder,” Sam Eastwood of Colorado murmured to Alexander Chabot of Louisiana. “Somebody ought to stop it.” Alec Chabot smiled and shrugged in his dapper way.

  “Now, Mr. President!” Seab Cooley said, raising his voice suddenly, bringing his fist high over his head and crashing it down on his desk in his characteristic gesture, “I think the Senator from California should apologize to his fellow Californian, that great Negro Congressman who is even worthy to be a United States Senator, for mentioning him in the same breath with this—this—adventurer from Africa whom our President has wisely refused to entertain. He should apologize to him, Mr. President! He—should—apologize—to—him!”

  “This ‘adventurer,’ as you call him,” Ray Smith said, his tone rising slightly in pitch, “is going to be entertained in your own state tomorrow, Senator! Of course you know that!”

  “Oh, yes,” Seab Cooley said, “I know that. A pack of adventurers will entertain him, Mr. President. An ambitious family with its eye on the White House. The ragtag and bobtail of the American press, Mr. President. Oh, yes, they will all be there in my state of South Carolina making a Roman holiday for this adventurer. They will all be there!”

  “And among them, Mr. President,” Senator Smith said in the same high-pitched, icy way, “the governor of my own state of California, the Honorable Edward Jason. I think the Senator from South Carolina owes him an apology, Mr. President for using such language about him. To say nothing of the distinguished audience that will honor His Highness the M’Bulu.”

  “They may do honor to him, Mr. President,” Seab Cooley roared, “but they do dishonor to the white race! And they do dishonor to the great state of South Carolina! When you dishonor the white race, Mr. President, you dishonor South Carolina. When you dishonor South Carolina, you dishonor the white race! Dishonor, Mr. President! Dishonor! That is what this kinky-haired kinkajou brings to America!”

  “Mr. President,” the Majority Leader said calmly, “if the Senator will yield—if whichever Senator has the floor will yield; I’ve lost track—I think we have had enough of this discussion of the M’Bulu and might now get back to the foreign aid bill, if we could. I think the Senator from California has made the point to his constituents that he wished to make, and I think the Senator from South Carolina has made the point to his constituents that he wished to make. At any rate, Mr. President, I think we should at least try to get back to the pending business. Is that agreeable to the two Senators?”

  “I still think the President is making a shocking mistake that will seriously damage the United States,” Ray Smith said doggedly.

  “I still think the Senator owes an apology to his great Negro colleague who is worthy to be Senator, to my state of South Carolina, and to the white race, Mr. President,” Senator Cooley said. “But,” he added sadly, “if he is going to remain obdurate in his contumacy, I can only watch him go with a sorrowing eye, a mourning heart, and a ‘Farewell, brother!’”

  “That was a great performance,” Bob Munson whispered sarcastically as they resumed their seats. “That was worthy of Booth in his best days.”

  “I said I still know a thing or two, Bob,” his seatmate said. He gave a satisfied chuckle. “I still do.”

  7

  “Mr. Shelby of the United States, please,” said the young lady at the telephone desk in heavy accents. “Mr. Shelby of the United States, please call the Delegates’ Lounge … Señora Del Rio of Peru, please call the Delegates’ Lounge … Signor Vitelli of Italy, please …”

  “Don’t go away, Felix,” LeGage Shelby said. “I’ll be back in a minute, I want to talk to you about this.”

  The Panamanian Ambassador nodded.

  “Surely,” he said. “I shall call Patsy while you’re gone if I can find a phone.”

  “Tell her I’ll certainly be in Charleston for the luncheon,” ’Gage Shelby said.

  “I think she knows,” said Felix Labaiya, and watched his companion swing away to the telephone desk in his pantherlike, self-important way. A peculiar expression gleamed for a moment in the eyes of the Ambassador of Panama: the expression reserved by the users for the used. Then he spied an Indian concluding a conversation on one of the instruments at one of the small tables along the wall and, with a quick step, moved toward it just in time to take it from under the nose of a Norwegian with the same idea. The Norwegian gave a sour smile, shrugged, and walked away. Felix dropped into the leather armchair alongside the table, dialed 9 for outside, and then dialed his home. From Dumbarton Avenue in Georgetown his wife answered immediately. The housekeeper, he deduced, was busy with dinner and Patsy was upstairs in the bedroom taking her usual rest before the meal. His voice took on the direct, impersonal note it usually held when he
addressed his wife on the telephone. He had once explained to her that he did not believe in using the instrument for romance. Someone might be listening.

  “This is Felix,” he said. “I am in the Delegates’ Lounge, as you can hear”—he put a hand over his right ear to shut out the booming loudspeaker, now calling for Mr. Hirosaki of Japan, please—“and everyone up here is quite excited about the President’s comments on Terry. It is ideally timed for us.”

  “Everyone here is terribly excited, too,” she said in a pleased tone of voice. “In fact, everyone is FURIOUS. Wouldn’t you know that old fool would put his foot in his mouth? Leave it to him! But, more fun for us. They’ve already had a big row about it in the Senate.”

  “Oh? Were you there?”

  “I was earlier, but then I had to go and have lunch with Beth Knox and Dolly Munson and Kitty Maudulayne and Celestine Barre—”

  “An interesting group,” her husband observed with a smile that sent some warmth over the wire. Patsy chuckled.

  “Yes, wasn’t that a combination? But VERY interesting. Beth isn’t worried at all,” she added less cheerily.

  “She will be,” the Panamanian Ambassador promised, again with a smile. His wife laughed.

  “Yes. Well, I started the row, anyway, because the minute the news came over the wire—” Felix winced as he always did at the thought of the wire-service teletypes tapping away in the Dumbarton Avenue study; but it was Patsy’s money, and who was he to quibble? Just Patsy’s husband. “I got right on the phone and called Ray Smith, and do you know—he went right on the floor and made the most magnificent speech about it … At least,” she said more thoughtfully, “I THINK it was magnificent. The reports aren’t too clear yet, because Seab Cooley got into it somehow and you know how he can confuse the issue when he wants to. I don’t see why that old mountebank DOESN’T DROP DEAD. I really don’t. Anyway, it’s now a big issue down here, too. Which is all to the good for the luncheon. Now we’ll really get attention.”

  “I never doubted it,” Felix said with an irony he knew she didn’t miss. “When the Jasons go to work on something, I’ve found they rarely fail. Why don’t you buy us the Canal and give it to us for a birthday present?”

  “Wait until Ted’s elected,” she said cheerfully. “We may be able to work something out. What’s happening up there?”

  “Much discussion, much excitement, much annoyance. The Africans are very exercised, the Asians are upset. The Europeans are baffled and the Communists are happy. All in all, one grand mess.”

  “Will it help your resolution?”

  “Certainly. I don’t see any possibility of its failing now. Even if it gets blocked in the Assembly, I think it may be possible to get it to the Security Council as a threat to world peace. Particularly with this assist from the President.”

  “Felix,” his wife said, “I may be dense, but exactly how does the problem of Gorotoland affect peace? I mean, I can see that as a moral matter, possibly, as a nice thing to do, an idealistic gesture, it makes sense. But I don’t quite see how it rates as a threat to peace if Terry doesn’t get his independence until the date the British have promised him. After all, a year isn’t so long to wait. Just how does it come under UN procedure in the form you’ve presented it?”

  “UN procedure,” Felix Labaiya said dryly, “never was very exact, and it’s becoming less so every day. It’s already been attacked on just the grounds you say. The British tried to keep it out of First Committee, where it really doesn’t belong, with just that argument. But we’ve all learned things from the Russians. You can get the UN to do whatever you want it to if you just present it with something loudly enough and insist that it act. Maybe ten years ago sentiment for precedent could have been mustered to block the whole thing at the outset. Now you can get the Afro-Asians to go along with anything, provided certain of the big powers are against it. Once upon a time Britain could have got enough votes to have the whole thing thrown out. She doesn’t dare try it today. Not even with U.S. help.”

  “Yes, but what I mean is, why? Why is it so vital that Gorotoland be freed at once? Why is it such an issue? Why is everybody suddenly so wild on the subject?”

  “Specifically, why am I? Well, to me it’s simply a matter of common justice. Nearly all of Africa is free, just as the M’Bulu says, and it’s about time the rest of it was, too. And with Soviet help I felt it could be done most directly in the form in which I’ve presented it.”

  “Why did the Soviets choose you?” Patsy Labaiya asked. The Ambassador made a small, disgusted “Tchk!” sound and his tone sharpened noticeably.

  “No one chose me. No one chose anybody. It was my idea all along. I happened to mention the matter to Tashikov one day at lunch and he said they would be glad to help if they could. I’ve told you all that.”

  “Yes, I know. But it still puzzles me.”

  “Puzzling or not, it seems to be working perfectly all right. And of course the whole thing builds up beautifully for the luncheon and Ted. Would he like to come back up here with me and watch the final voting, or does he have to go right back to California?”

  “I expect he’ll have to go back,” Patsy said, “but you can talk it over in Charleston. He does want to come back through here and see the President; I know that.”

  “Oh? That’s intriguing.”

  “Yes, very. It’s a courtesy call, of course, but—”

  “One of those where you put your pistols on the table when you sit down,” her husband suggested with a smile. She laughed.

  “Probably. Well, I’m delighted everything’s going so well. Things are all set for the luncheon, too. It’s going to be wonderful.”

  “LeGage Shelby wanted me to be sure and tell you he would be there.”

  “I’m so surprised,” Patsy said ironically. “If there was anyone I thought would stay away, it was ’Gage Shelby. He hates headlines so … The one who says he is going to stay away, of course, is Cullee Hamilton, and he’s the one we really should have.”

  “Can’t your brother do anything with him? If he wants to run for Senator, I should think he’d need Ted’s support. Surely that provides some leverage.”

  “California’s a funny state,” Patsy said. “Just when you think you’ve got political leverage on someone, you find the leverage isn’t there and you fall flat on your face. The voters are too independent to co-operate. So is Cullee. Ted can offer his support, and it may be of some assistance, but his opposition wouldn’t hurt much. Everybody runs on his own out there. I certainly wish he would come, though. He’s so respectable. You know what ’Gage is.”

  “Yes,” said Felix Labaiya. “And here he comes now, so I’d better conclude.”

  “I wish you were here,” his wife said in a voice that suddenly changed completely. “Right here.”

  “Yes,” he said, thinking dryly. Well, that’s dutiful; I must be dutiful, too. He put a little fervor in his voice. “We must discuss all that in Charleston.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “A promise.”

  “I’ll hold you to it,” she said, “Tell ’Gage I’m absolutely thrilled to death that he will be with us.”

  “He will be thrilled that you are thrilled,” Felix said. “Good-by, now.”

  “How is she?” LeGage asked, dropping into the armchair on the other side of the table. “Well, I hope.”

  “So excited about the luncheon she cannot see straight,” Felix said, and they both laughed pleasantly over the fiction, which neither believed, that Patsy was ever so excited about anything that she couldn’t see straight.

  “Ah, yes,” ’Gage said dreamily. “That will be quite an affair, particularly with Justice Davis about to hand down a decision on that appeal for injunction on the school integration case. Quite an affair. Is Cullee coming?”

  Felix frowned.

  “Apparently he is not.” ’Gage frowned, too.

  “What’s the matter with that boy?” he asked in an exasperated voice. “Do
esn’t he know this is a chance to stand together and really strike a blow for something constructive? I ought to talk to that boy.”

  “I thought you had,” the Panamanian Ambassador said in some surprise. “And if you haven’t, why haven’t you? And if you haven’t, why don’t you?”

  LeGage gave an embarrassed little laugh.

  “Well, you don’t exactly understand the relationship between old Cullee and me. We were roommates at Howard, you know; we understand each other pretty well; and—well, he doesn’t take much from me without getting mad. I can’t push him; he gets stubborn. He’s already mad at me about something else down there, a bill that DEFY wanted to have passed, and—I just don’t know whether it would do any good for me to talk to him about the luncheon or not. That’s why I haven’t because I haven’t been sure. I thought it might just make it worse.”

  Felix Labaiya gave him a skeptical and appraising smile.

  “Don’t tell me there’s someone who has the great LeGage Shelby intimidated. I do not believe it. What does this Cullee have that I don’t know about? I shall have to cultivate him when I am in Washington.”

  “He’s worth it,” LeGage said. “He’s really quite a boy.”

  “You sound as though you genuinely admire him. This, too, is rare.”

  ’Gage Shelby smiled, somewhat uncomfortably.

  “Let’s just say he can—do things I can’t do.” A rarely honest expression crossed his face for a moment, and his companion realized that only a very genuine emotion could produce such a result in one who normally lived behind several brassy and self-protective layers. “He’s got guts about some things I haven’t,” LeGage said simply. “Let’s put it that way.”

  “And by the same token,” the Ambassador said firmly, “you can do things he can’t do. And you have the guts to do them, too. Such as lead DEFY to new victories and deal so splendidly with our friends of the Afro-Asian bloc here.”

  “That was one of the Nigerians on the phone just now,” ’Gage said with a pleased smile, distracted to more comfortable matters. “They’re having a conference in half an hour about your resolution and they want me to be there.”