A Shade of Difference

by Allen Drury

  The Congressman gave him a contemptuous stare as Patsy advanced burbling, with hand outstretched, and Felix came smoothly forward.

  “I’ll remember it,” he said “Don’t you get too big for your britches, either. And, ’Gage. Do me a favor and just leave me alone, will you? I think that would be best.”

  For a second before the Labaiyas were upon them and talk was no longer possible, hurt, protest, anger, and an agonized mixture of dislike and regret passed across LeGage’s face. Then without a word he flung away, past the Labaiyas, whom he was apparently too blinded by emotion to see, and on into the crowded living room, where a noisy throng was gathered worshipfully around the M’Bulu, holding court.

  “Nobody quarrels with the intensity of old friends,” Felix said with a bland smile that apparently dismissed it. “Cullee, we are happy to have you with us.”

  After five minutes of innocuous chitchat, however, Cullee noticed, the Ambassador glided quietly away and was presently to be seen off in a corner engaged in earnest conversation with the still-agitated chairman of DEFY.

  What this meant, the Congressman did not have much time to speculate, for very shortly gongs began to toll through the halls of “Harmony,” and presently the guests of the Jason Foundation were crowding in to take their places at the two enormous tables that had been prepared for them. The doors giving onto the central hall had been flung open in both living room and banquet room so that the two had in effect been connected into one huge dining area. At one end in a seat of honor Terrible Terry, flanked by LeGage and Robert A. Leffingwell, took his place amid much loud applause and eager cries of greeting; opposite him at the other end the Governor of California gracefully acknowledged a similar ovation as he took his seat flanked by his sister and brother-in-law. Television cameras around the walls peered up and down the tables to catch this distinguished guest with a piece of shrimp halfway into an open mouth, that distinguished guest mopping surreptitiously at a spot of spilled soup on the tablecloth before him. Those distinguished members of the press who were guests could be seen here and there down the table, eating busily with the rest; those other newsmen who were actually working stood against the walls among the cameras jotting notes on the appearance and behavior of the notables thus glamorously displayed before them. In hushed voices the network commentators identified the major guests for the audiences that would see them that evening in taped reports on half a dozen national news shows.

  There came presently the time of surfeit and speeches, and with a flourish the director of the Jason Foundation presented the Governor of California. Ted Jason rose and everyone agreed he had never looked so handsome and distinguished as he did making a graceful little speech of welcome to introduce the honored guest.

  It was a shame, he pointed out, that under the laws of South Carolina Negroes and whites could not associate at a public gathering, and therefore it had been impossible to hire a suitable hall for their distinguished guest this day. By the same token, however, it was fortunate for the Jason Foundation that this was so, for it had given the Foundation and, he might add, himself and his family, a chance to do particular honor to this great fighter for Negro freedom who had come to them from Africa. (Loud applause.)

  It was a shame also that the Government of the United States had seen fit to treat in so cavalier a fashion so fine and worthy a visitor to these shores. (Hisses and boos.) But here, too, the President’s failure was his, and his family’s good fortune, because it permitted them to extend on behalf of the people of the United States—who, he knew, did not agree with their President on this particular matter—a fond and cordial welcome to break bread with many of the greatest leaders of American thought. (Further warm applause.)

  It was also especially pleasing this day to have with them the great young Negro Congressman from California and the dynamic, fighting young chairman of DEFY, both of whom had done so much in the unceasing struggle to bring true liberty and justice to this great land of ours. (Renewed applause, shouts and whistles.)

  He was pleased to say that as a Californian, and as Governor of California, he was particularly proud of Cullee Hamilton, who fully lived up to the finest traditions of his race and of a state where he, the Governor, would say without undue modesty that great advances had been made under his Administration, and would continue to be made, for the great Negro race. (Wild applause, some standing.)

  This gathering today, he hoped, would prove both an apology and a recompense for the slur and slap at the peoples of Africa implicit in the President’s mistaken treatment of the M’Bulu. And it was particularly fitting that it should be held here in this city, which was about to become the newest battleground in the struggle of America’s own Negro people to achieve full equality under law. (Significant laughter, cheers, and applause.) He hoped this word would be carried back to the residents of the city, even though their newspapers and radio stations had seen fit to boycott the luncheon. (Sarcastic amusement; cries of “Shame! Shame!”) And even though their senior Senator, the Honorable Seabright B. Cooley, had seen fit to issue a statement in Washington denouncing the gathering as “an insult to South Carolina.” If he, Ted Jason, weren’t Governor of California and a proud resident of that state, he would be tempted to run for Senator right here next year and see if he couldn’t remove what was really an insult to South Carolina. Anyway, he fully intended to help whoever should do so. (Great applause and cheers; shouts of “Sink Seab!”)

  And so, without further ado, he would present the guest of honor they all wanted to hear, that brilliant, dedicated, fearless fighter for the freedom of his people and all peoples, His Royal Highness the M’Bulu of Mbuele. (Wild and prolonged applause, audience standing and shouting.)

  There followed one of Terrible Terry’s most effective speeches, filled with an impression of intelligence, idealism, and fierce internal anger which, taken together with his towering physical presence and his gorgeous robes, made fair ladies sigh and strong men be thankful they weren’t meeting him alone in a dark alley. As he railed at the United States, poured sarcasm on the United Kingdom, and repeatedly claimed for himself the role of symbol of all Africa, the television cameras had a field day around the tables, recording the Governor of California, dignified and approving; Robert A. Leffingwell, gravely attentive; the Panamanian Ambassador, breaking his customary impassivity with sudden sharp bursts of applause; his wife, eager and ecstatic; the chairman of DEFY, his eyes gleaming and an expression of fervent approval approaching hero worship in them; and the M’Bulu himself, gigantic and magnificent in his scathing denunciation of the enemies of Africa and the Negro race, whom he professed to have found at work in the United Nations and the city of Washington. Only the Congressman from California sat quietly and without noticeable response, on his face a peculiar combination of amusement, skepticism, patient boredom, and something that some perceptive viewers might characterize as contempt. The commentators couldn’t make much of his attitude, and after a couple of desultory glimpses the cameras left him and concentrated on the others.

  After half an hour of this there came one more slashing attack on the United States, one more magnificent defiance of “those too blind to see the road of history that lies before them,” and the speaker was done. Amid frantic applause and another standing ovation, the newspaper reporters fled to the telephones, which had been thoughtfully provided in “Harmony’s” library upstairs and began to file their stories. “TERRY RAPS U.S., U.K., AND U.N. ‘SABOTEURS’” the New York Post reported in the streets of Megalopolis an hour later. “COLORED RULER HITS LOCAL SEGREGATION,” said the Charleston News and Courier, which had decided to cover the story, after all.

  And once more, as the happy throng broke up into chatting, excited groups for coffee on the lawn prior to being taken away again in Cadillacs and buses to the various transportation terminals, the Panamanian Ambassador drew the chairman of DEFY aside for five minutes’ earnest conversation, in which they were presently joined, briefly but apparently
for some concrete purpose, by the guest of honor.

  A few moments later the Congressman from California was on the phone to the Secretary of State in Washington to report, “So far, so good, aside from words, and I guess we can stand them.” The Secretary thanked him, wished him well, and invited him to lunch at the Department next day. He accepted with pleasure but had to call back ten minutes later and cancel because the M’Bulu had informed him of a new development. The Jasons had invited him to stay over, he said, and use the house—the family had to leave right away, its members explained regretfully in the hearing of the press, but he might stay on and make use of all “Harmony’s” facilities if he wished to see the historic old city and its surrounding area. “Does that invitation include me, too?” Cullee had asked Patsy Labaiya, and with only a moment’s hesitation she had cried, “But of COURSE it does, Cullee! Do be our guest!” So he had changed his plans, he told Orrin Knox—or had them changed for him, rather.

  “Well, old Cullee,” Terry said an hour later, stretching out to his full length on one of the outsize double beds in “Harmony’s” master bedroom, “imagine seeing you here in Charleston. I feel very flattered you decided to come and hear me.”

  “I want to do all proper honors to a famous symbol of my race,” the Congressman said calmly from where he half sat, half stretched on the other bed. Terry laughed aloud.

  “I know how sincerely you mean that. I know very well how sincerely you mean it, old Cullee, my friend from Congress. Where’s that pretty little wife of yours?”

  “She’s in Washington,” Cullee said evenly. “Where are yours?”

  “Molobangwe,” Terry said, and chuckled. “I was afraid I’d shock my strait-laced admirers in the United States if I brought them along.” He stretched again, like the jungle cat he was. “I wish I had one of them here right now. I could use her.”

  “I’m sure,” the Congressman said. “Did you think of asking Patsy Labaiya?”

  The M’Bulu gave a shout of laughter, sat up, and then dropped back full-length upon the bed.

  “I doubt if the notable tolerance of the Jason family would go that far. I’m sure the Governor didn’t raise his sister to sleep with a Negro. Tell me about this Charleston, though. We ought to be able to find something interesting here tonight.”

  “Is that why you decided to stay over?”

  “Oh,” the M’Bulu said airily, “many reasons, many reasons, Cullee, friend. Tell me: are you staying to spy on me for the distinguished Secretary of State?”

  “Yes,” Cullee said, “I am. Are you going to give me trouble?”

  Again Terry gave the shout of laughter.

  “Keep close and see.”

  “I shall. What did you think of the luncheon?”

  The M’Bulu gave him a sardonic wink.

  “Why, I think it was a great success. I got publicity for my cause. Ted Jason got publicity for his cause. And all those nice, wide-eyed, twittering fools who attended as guests were able to tell each other how enlightened and progressive and full of love for humanity they are. And they also got a chance to hear a big black man tell their country to go to hell, which seems to be what they like best … Cullee?” He frowned. “Why do so many Americans like to hear their own country attacked? Gorotoland isn’t much, as you know, but you don’t catch me or any of my people failing to defend it in the face of strangers. Why are so many Americans the other way?”

  The Congressman winced and shook his head.

  “I don’t know; I can’t explain it. I never have known how to explain it. I just don’t happen to be one of their kind, you might remember. This country has been good to me and I don’t knock it.”

  “Even when it does what it does to your people?” Terry asked.

  “Even when it does what it does to your people?” he said, returning to it as they started out three hours later, after a sumptuous candlelit dinner proffered by servants who tended them in impassive and expressionless silence, for a walk in the soft autumn twilight. The walk was Terry’s idea, and at first he had been disposed to make it in full regalia, or at least had teased his companion into thinking he would. It was not until Cullee became really angry in his protests that the M’Bulu had admitted blandly that he had intended to change into a conservative Western business suit right along.

  “But I had you worried, didn’t I, old Cullee?” he asked mischievously as they left “Harmony” and started along the Battery toward East Bay Street, one of the Jason Foundation Cadillacs following at a discreet distance a block behind. “You thought I was going to start out and create an incident right tonight, didn’t you?”

  He uttered his charming laugh and gave Cullee’s shoulders a fraternal squeeze with one long arm.

  “Relax. I wouldn’t do a thing like that to you, my friend. Think of the headlines it would make: ‘CONGRESSMAN AND TERRY INVOLVED IN RIOT.’ I couldn’t do that to you, Cullee.”

  “I think I could handle it if you did,” the Congressman said, “but it would be simpler if you didn’t.”

  “You wish to refrain from disturbances and protect the country,” the M’Bulu said, “even when it does what it does to your people?”

  The question hung in the gentle air as they walked along. The Congressman started twice to answer, then stopped. Finally he said with a frown, “You’d never understand, so forget it.”

  “But I might. A former graduate student at Harvard? Surely I know something about the United States!”

  “Only how to make trouble. I think you know that pretty well.”

  “Come,” the M’Bulu said as they reached Tradd Street, taking him by the arm and waving up the Cadillac, which put on a spurt of speed and drew sleekly alongside. “Let us go and see them in their native habitat, your people and mine. I would like to walk there rather than in front of all these fine white houses. I feel more at home. Perhaps it will suggest some thoughts to us. Take us somewhere near the Old Railroad Depot,” he told the chauffeur, who, like all “Harmony’s” servants, received his order without visible reaction. Cullee had no choice but to clamber in, and the Cadillac rolled off.

  “Now,” the M’Bulu said, after he had stopped the car and they had alighted and left it, again following discreetly a block behind, “here they are, the happy American Negroes.” A group of youngsters was playing ball down a side street, gossiping neighbors were talking over fences or rocking on porches; a drowsy peace rested on the colored sections of the city. Indeed, the M’Bulu and the Congressman furnished the only excitement of the moment: two such tall and stately men did not often walk with such a lordly air together down those humble streets. A little eddy of comment and discussion followed them as they moved slowly along. Terrible Terry was not disposed to let the mood of the moment rest. “What do you think of this?”

  “They look happy enough to me,” Cullee said. “They are happy, as a matter of fact.”

  “Right now. Oh, yes, surely, right now. As long as they don’t try to stir off their porches or play in some other street. But suppose,” he said dreamily, “suppose someone were to say to them suddenly”—and he half raised his voice as his companion caught his arm—“‘Come with me, my friends, and we will go have a fish fry on the Battery. Come with me to “Harmony,” where they like Negroes, and we will make “Harmony’s” neighbors like them, too.’” His voice dropped and he shrugged off Cullee’s hand. “What then, my friend? Would they be happy then?”

  “Keep your voice down,” the Congressman said quietly. “I don’t want to have to slug you.”

  Terrible Terry threw back his head and gave a shout of delighted laughter that caused heads up and down the block to turn and a little wave of answering, appreciative laughter to eddy in the wake of his.

  “It would be a fair match, Cullee. Six-feet—what, four?—against six-feet-seven, and I guess about equal in weight, give or take a few pounds. Yes, it would be quite a match. But again,” he said with a mischievous chuckle, “that incident. ‘CONGRESSMAN AND TERRY BRAWL IN
STREET.’ No, no, we cannot have that, my upright and self-righteous friend … So they are all very happy, are they?”

  “No. But they can’t get happier by your methods in this country.”

  “And what have they achieved by your methods?” the M’Bulu asked as they strolled along, avoiding a jacks game, detouring around two games of hopscotch, narrowly averting head-on collisions by fast footwork as a flying wedge of boys and girls from eight to twelve came shrieking and laughing down the street. “Well, let us see. One thing, of course, they have,” he said elaborately, “is a Congressman from California. And one from Michigan. And one from New York. And one from Chicago. And also, of course, some of them do drive big cars and many of them have television sets, for all of which they will be paying their own usurers 50 per cent interest for a hundred years to come. And their brave leaders like yourself, aided by some of those desperately enlightened whites, have managed to get Brer Rabbit removed from some schools, and nowadays when the white folks sing about Basin Street it isn’t ‘where the dark and the light folks meet’ any more; it’s where the people meet. And when somebody beats his feet on the Mississippi mud, it isn’t the darkies who do it; it’s the people who do it. And a well-picked handful here in the South do attend a few schools now that they didn’t once upon a time, and there’s public transportation they can use now, and some lunch counters where they can eat … Oh, yes, there’s been great progress, Congressman. But does a single one of them respect you or want you around?” he demanded with a sudden fierce challenge that made passers-by hesitate and glance at him with a quick curiosity. “Tell me that. Tell me that!”

  “Orrin Knox likes me,” Cullee said with a deliberate sarcasm, “and Ted Jason likes you. There’s two.”