A Shade of Difference

by Allen Drury

  “I think we should do the latter, Mr. President, for this has been our historical pattern from our beginning. I think that I can speak for the distinguished author of his resolution”—and again Cullee nodded—“that he thinks so, too. I know I can speak for the head of our delegation, our beloved friend from West Virginia”—and only the slightest change came over his voice, noticed and dismissed after a second’s puzzlement by only a few—“who is in New York right now, preparing to carry the battle in the General Assembly after we have joined the House in passing the Hamilton Resolution.” He paused and stared earnestly at his colleagues.

  “It is the right thing for us to do, Mr. President. It is as simple as that. Let us do it.”

  There was a burst of applause from the galleries as he sat down, and Verne Cramer in the Chair rapped sternly for order.

  “Visitors are here as guests of the Senate,” he said crisply. “No demonstrations are permitted. One more, and the galleries will be cleared. The junior Senator from South Carolina.”

  “Mr. President,” H. Harper Graham said with his dark-visaged scowl and somber air, “I invite the Senate to consider the actions of a worthless adventurer from Africa in my native city of Charleston as they apply to the traditional and historical relationship of the races in the southern states of this Union. Mr. President, I shall begin by—”

  “Let’s go have a cigarette,” the Cincinnati Enquirer said as there was a general rising and stirring in the Press Gallery. “He’s good for at least three hours.” And, leaving a corporal’s guard of two lonely wire-service men and the Charleston, South Carolina, News and Courier, they all trooped up the stairs and out to the gallery rooms beyond, where they would talk and gossip and pass the time of day until such time as Harper Graham should be through.

  So passed the time until six o’clock, as Harper Graham finished and yielded the floor to Arly Richardson; as Arly Richardson concluded, after sharp and sarcastic set-tos with Ray Smith of California and Irving Steinman of New York; as Rhett Jackson and Douglas Brady Bliss of North Carolina engaged in a lengthy duet on the status of the Negro in their state; and as Lacey Pollard of Texas in his stately way went back through the legal precedents to show that there was no reason, really, why the Senate should be bound in any way by the opinions or actions of the United Nations. During all this time, the President Pro Tempore sat slumped and inactive at his desk, puzzling and eventually alarming the Majority Leader, who finally broke the ostentatious silence that had prevailed between them since the end of Seab’s speech by jogging his colleague’s elbow and demanding, “Are you all right? This isn’t tiring you too much, is it?”

  “Do you care?” Senator Cooley inquired in a distant voice that concerned Bob Munson even more. “Do you really care, now, Bob? Wouldn’t it be better if I just dropped dead and then you could go ahead and pass that nice colored boy’s resolution? Wouldn’t that solve the problem for everybody?”

  “Now, Seab,” Senator Munson said with a rather nervous jocularity, “you’re not going to drop dead until the rest of us are long underground, so stop saying things like that. I’m just worried about you. You seem so subdued and tired.”

  “I’m an old man, Bob,” Senator Cooley said, and the Majority Leader realized with a sudden poignance that this was the first time he had ever heard Seab admit it. “I’m not as spry as I used to be. It isn’t as easy as it once was to restrain my colleagues from taking a misguided action.”

  “You could have avoided it,” Bob Munson started to point out, “if only you’d reached an agreement with Cullee—”

  “You betrayed me on that, Bob,” Senator Cooley said with a tired unhappiness that was more disturbing than any amount of his customary flamboyant anger would have been. “I trusted you, you and Orrin, and you betrayed me. I didn’t like that, Bob. But it doesn’t matter.”

  “Misunderstandings happen, Seab,” Senator Munson said. “Maybe both Orrin and I were so hopeful we were getting you two to agree that we heard things in what you both said that weren’t there. I’m sorry, and I know he is too. But don’t you think you’ve said enough on this? You’ve made a good speech on the subject; now why don’t you just let it stand at that? Your colleagues are doing a good job of making a record, and so have you. That’s all you need back home, isn’t it? Why not let it go?”

  “When did I ever let anything go, Bob?” Senator Cooley asked wryly. “That’s my trouble, isn’t it? The Lord didn’t make me to let things go. He made me to keep fighting. Especially against things I feel are wrong, Bob. And I do feel this resolution is wrong. You can argue it any way you like, Bob; I still feel it’s wrong.”

  “What do you plan to do, then? Filibuster, later on?”

  “I won’t be alone, Bob, you can bet on that. I won’t be alone.”

  “Seab,” Bob Munson said gently, “I think you will be, and so do you. I’ve checked around, and aside from a few more brief speeches for the record, nobody wants to do anything more. Everybody wants to wind this thing up and adjourn the session, you know that. The resolution isn’t important enough to warrant the kind of fight you want to make.”

  “Isn’t important enough!” Senator Cooley said with a trace of his old doggedness. “I really think it’s wrong to humble ourselves, Bob, leaving aside all else. I really do. Can’t you understand that?”

  “I understand it, but, Seab—you’re not as young as you were. You really are old. I don’t think you should filibuster tonight. I’m genuinely worried about it.”

  “I don’t control the situation. You do, Bob. You aren’t about to send the resolution back to committee, are you?”

  “I can’t drop it now, Seab,” Bob Munson said. His colleague slumped back in his chair.

  “No more can I, Bob,” he said softly. “No more, then, can I.”

  There was an unhappy pause, during which, across the now half-empty chamber, Fred Van Ackerman engaged in a short and nasty exchange with Lacey Pollard. Finally the Majority Leader sighed.

  “I’m sorry, Seab. I really am.”

  “Don’t be,” Senator Cooley said. “I expect I’ll last, Bob. I expect I will.”

  But as he settled back into his seat, looking curiously alone, a sudden premonition shot through the Majority Leader’s mind that he might not; and it was with a disturbed and uneasy feeling that he turned his seat over to Stanley Danta a few minutes later and prepared to go on downtown to the National Press Club to put in an appearance at the cocktail party being given by the Washington Post for Mr. Justice Davis and the M’Bulu of Mbuele. He regarded the affair with considerable skepticism, but he expected he should be there just to see who else was and what they had to say to one another, a motivation that impels attendance at many a Washington cocktail party and one that draws some of the most startling conglomerations together to exchange their thoughts upon the topics of the day.

  He was not at all pleased to run into Fred Van Ackerman on the Senate steps and have him ask, quite unabashed, for a ride down in the Majority Leader’s official limousine. Fred was going to the party, too, it seemed, and after it was over he was going to come back and needle that old bastard Seab a little. Yes, sir, the junior Senator from Wyoming said with relish, he was going to make the old bastard sweat. Bob Munson told him that in that case he might have to help Seab filibuster, and said it with such conviction that his companion almost believed it. He could hear the wheels grinding around in that savage little mind all the way downtown and said nothing to disturb their whirring until they arrived at the door of the Press Club’s noisily clamorous East Lounge, where Fred said tersely, “See you later!” “Assuredly,” said Bob Munson coldly.

  There was vengeance in the air, he realized, thinking back to Brigham Anderson’s death and the censure motion against Fred, and somehow he must protect Seab against it. He was not so sure, as the roar of the room engulfed him, that he could.

  “But, my dear fellow,” Justice Davis was saying, over by the canapés, where a large and admiring group
surrounded him and the towering M’Bulu, “what an extraordinary sequence of events brought you to power. And how nobly you have handled the responsibility. How nobly!”

  “I have done my best,” Terrible Terry said modestly. “Against,” he added with a trace of annoyance, “what seemed at times considerable odds.”

  “I know,” Tommy Davis said quickly. “Oh, I know. But you have surmounted every test so well. No one has been able to stop you. Not your enemies in your native land, not the British, not our own more—more dismal, shall we say”—there was an appreciative titter from all around—“fellow citizens. It has been a clear and shinning record of which all men of goodwill everywhere should be, and are, proud!”

  “Hear, hear!” said the Ambassador of Cuba, and the Ambassador of Guiana said, “Oh, yes!”

  “You are too kind,” the M’Bulu said. “I may say that it is men like yourself in the Western world who prove to us, who fight for freedom in Africa that there is hope for understanding and appreciation of what we are trying to do.”

  “What are you trying to do, Your Highness?” the counselor of the Australian Embassy inquired, but Terry gave him a startled and elaborately unyielding stare and continued unperturbed, as others drew slightly away from the counselor.

  “I assure you, Mr. Justice, that we Africans deeply appreciate what you and others like you are doing here in this country to bring greater decency to the world. We only wish all whose skins are as dark as ours would work as vigorously as you, whose skin is not.”

  “I say, hear, hear,” said the Ambassador of Ghana. “It is sticky,” agreed the cultural attaché of the Embassy of Sierra Leone.

  “You mean you disapprove of our distinguished Congressman and his resolution?” their host, the editorial director of the Washington Post, inquired with a chuckle as he approached the group in the company of Senator Van Ackerman. “Terry, how could you!”

  “I could,” the M’Bulu said, as they all laughed. “Oh, yes, I could. I do not think His Distinguished Distinction is a real friend to his own race. But he will not listen. Both his old friend, LeGage Shelby, and I tried to persuade him not to play the game our foes wish him to play. He has gone straightaway ahead.”

  “Perhaps Seab Cooley will stop him in the Senate,” their host suggested. There was a snort from Senator Van Ackerman.

  “Perhaps somebody,” he said darkly, “will stop Seab Cooley in the Senate.”

  “We know you don’t like Seab, Fred,” their host said as everyone laughed, “but surely you don’t approve of this tricky resolution, either. It’s just a stalking-horse for Orrin Knox.”

  “I’ll get to Orrin,” Fred Van Ackerman promised. “One stupid fool at a time. As for the resolution, I guess I can go along with it.”

  “But surely you don’t want to let your animosity toward Seab blind you to the meretricious nature of it,” Justice Davis said earnestly. “Truly now, you must be objective, my dear boy, you simply must. It won’t do to let yourself be blinded by prejudice, as They are.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Fred Van Ackerman said, giving him an insolent look. “What makes you think you’re so perfect? I may support this resolution or I may not.”

  “But, my dear boy,” Tommy Davis said in some dismay, “don’t you see that it’s—”

  “I see a lot of things,” Senator Van Ackerman said curtly. “Excuse me. I’ve got to get a refill.”

  “Goodness,” Justice Davis said as Fred elbowed his way through the crowd which by now jammed the East Lounge of the Press Club to capacity and overflowed raucously into the ballroom beyond. “What an unpleasant young man.”

  “He is that,” their host agreed with amusement. “But as long as he’s out to get Seab and Orrin, maybe we can live with him. Look on the sunny side of things, why don’t you, Tommy!”

  “Well …” the Justice said doubtfully. Then he brightened, turning quickly to the silently watching M’Bulu. “Possibly,” he said, “Senator Van Ackerman will succeed in killing the resolution while he is ki— That is,” he amended hastily, “I don’t mean to say while he is killing Senator Cooley, but—you know what I mean.”

  “I doubt it, Tommy,” the Majority Leader said, coming up behind him so unexpectedly that the little Justice jumped and almost spilled his Gibson. “I doubt if anyone really knows what you mean, including yourself. How did you get involved in this strange affair?”

  “It is not a strange affair,” Justice Davis said with dignity. “It is a fine party, and the basic reason for it is that I expressed a desire to meet His Royal Highness the M’Bulu, whom I had not met, and our friend from the Post, here, very kindly arranged it.”

  “A small, private greeting,” Senator Munson said, surveying the weaving figures, the rising voices, the reddening faces. He shook his head and blinked. They baffled him, but, then, they always had. He realized that the M’Bulu was watching him closely and, on a sudden impulse, smiled slightly and winked. The gorgeous figure towering opposite smiled back.

  “What do you make of it?” Bob Munson asked, holding out his hand. “I’m Senator Munson, Majority Leader of the Senate. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Call me Terry,” the M’Bulu said, moving away from the group toward a position by one of the windows looking down upon the hurrying homeward crowds on F Street, twelve floors below. “What do I make of what?”

  “All this,” Bob Munson said. He nodded toward the roaring room, where many eyes were now turned toward them in somewhat woozy curiosity. “Here you are, doing your damnedest to injure the United States, and here they are, doing you honor. Do you suppose it’s just the free drinks?”

  Terrible Terry shrugged.

  “I think it might be better for the United States if it were. But, no: I think there is something else, and I must confess, just between ourselves, it baffles me, too. I think there is an element in your society that enjoys being insulted by foreigners. It is the only way I can explain it. And of course,” he added with a grin of complete and happy cynicism. “Who am I to complain of that?”

  “Yes, I can see you’re not about to. Well: I think we have you stopped.”

  “The Hamilton Resolution? I think the UN will want more than that. Anyway, it may not pass the Senate. You know more about that than I do.”

  “I’m not worried. It will be passed by midnight.”

  “Despite the old man Cooley? I hear he is powerful.”

  “He was,” Senator Munson said. “In some ways he still is. But he has lost his magic.”

  “What?” the M’Bulu said in a startled tone. Then he smiled.

  “In my country, old men really do have magic. But when they lose it”—his face hardened—“they are put out to die.”

  “They often are here, too,” Bob Munson said. “But not this time,” he added softly to himself. “Not if I can help it.”

  “What?” the M’Bulu said again.

  “Nothing you would care about, or understand. When do you go back to Africa?” he asked politely. “I understand there’s a small rebellion there you might have to worry about.”

  “What have you heard?” Terry demanded sharply, and abruptly all his easily confident aspect had disappeared. “What is new on that today?”

  “Nothing,” the Majority Leader said in a surprised tone. “I thought you were in touch—”

  “I am,” the M’Bulu said. “There is nothing to it. It is all over. I, Terence Ajkaje the M’Bulu, tell you so.”

  “Well, good for you, Terence Ajkaje the M’Bulu,” Bob Munson said. Well, well, he thought; well, well. “Shall we drink to it?”

  “Scotch and soda for me,” the M’Bulu said, seizing one from a passing tray and drinking an enormous gulp straight down.

  “It’s nice you don’t have to hurry back,” Senator Munson said comfortably. “You’ll be able to see this whole thing through then, won’t you?”

  “Perhaps,” Terry said, staring straight ahead into some distance the Majority Leader could
not see but which apparently needed the M’Bulu’s most intense concentration. “I shall see.”

  “I hope so. We wouldn’t want you to have to cut short your visit before all your triumphs are completed.”

  “Where is Justice Davis?” Terry asked abruptly. “He wanted to talk to me—”

  “I’ll find him for you,” the Majority Leader said, looking about blandly at the circle of eager faces which was once more moving to surround them now that it was apparent their private talk was concluded. “Don’t go away.”

  Now what particular chord do you suppose I hit there? he asked himself as he pushed his way slowly through the room, shaking hands and nodding greetings and calling out the casual small change of the Washington cocktail circuit. Granted that Terry might be worried more than the world knew about the strange little uprising yesterday in Molobangwe, still it was surprising he should reveal it to the newly met Majority Leader. He did not suppose the M’Bulu’s inner feelings were often revealed to anyone, which was accurate; and he was at a loss to understand what sudden impulse or slipping of control had caused them to be revealed to him. He decided to tell Orrin when he saw him, for whatever it might be worth, as he moved on across the room, saw Tommy Davis and Fred Van Ackerman again talking in a corner, and was surprised and amused by the thought of how quickly these little collaborations and differences eddied and swirled in this hecticly self-conscious sector of American politics. More or less for the hell of it, he decided to join them, and was intrigued to see that Robert A. Leffingwell was doing the same from the other side of the room.

  “Good evening, Bob,” he said as their paths converged. The director of the President’s Commission on Administrative Reform looked startled for a second, then held out his hand with a fair show of cordiality.

  “Senator, how have you been? I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

  “No,” Senator Munson agreed. “How have you been? Keeping you busy over there in the Executive Branch, are they?”