by Allen Drury
Anyway, he told himself with an ironic humor, one couldn’t have the sort of thing that was being readied here by Felix Labaiya and his friends just at this time, right on the eve of the annual reception and dance that he and the President of the Assembly gave together each year. The annual United Nations Ball was scheduled for next Monday night, and to the planning for it he had been devoting most of his time in the past few days. He knew that this had been in part a deliberate attempt to find in all the details of catering and arrangement an antidote for thought about the issue now nearing decision in the Assembly; but also there was another motive.
There was something quite touching about this annual occasion when the nations danced together, and it deserved the best of attention and the best of moods to do it honor. It was always a glittering and pleasant affair—and something more. It was one of those poignant moments that occur once in a while on the East River when men tell one another, “This is the way it ought to be,” and manage to persuade themselves for a few brief swings of the Netherlands’ pendulum that it is not entirely beyond the realm of possibility that it may yet, someday, still be.
This fleeting, precious moment means rather more, in the United Nations, that it might if set in the humdrum context of the everyday. In Turtle Bay, where the frequent meanness of the performance must be matched daily against the greatness of the hope, it is somewhat more significant, in its wistfully sentimental way, than it would be elsewhere. It was suddenly very important to the Secretary-General that the annual Ball be held once again in the spirit of kindness and courtesy and optimism which each year transformed the unhappy divisions of the United Nations and for a few hours seemed to place genuine harmony within the grasp of those who danced the night away across the gleaming expanses of the Main Concourse.
But now it was time to put aside such thoughts for the time being, for the rotund little President from the Netherlands, tired but determined, had appeared to take his seat at the Secretary-General’s side, the galleries were full to overflowing, and in the great recurring semicircles of fluorescent-lighted desks that mounted from the well of the hall to the back of the room, all seats were filled with the gossiping, chattering, excited sons of man. Tension was beginning to grip the Assembly, and into it the President rapped his gavel several times with a nervous, commanding air.
“The plenary session of the General Assembly is now in session,” he announced at 3:17 p.m. “The subject matter of today’s session is the amendment offered by the delegate of Panama to his resolution calling for immediate independence for Gorotoland. Delegates will remember that debate on this amendment was put forward a week on Friday last at the request of the delegation of the United States.
“In order to refresh delegates’ memories on the subject matter of this amendment, I shall ask the Secretary-General to please read it to the Assembly.”
The S.-G., straight-backed and erect, his silver hair and classic black features weathered by his years of age and dignity, began to read in his softly slurred British accent the words of Felix Labaiya:
“Whereas, the distinguished representative of Gorotoland, acting in the greatest traditions of human freedom and decency, has been savagely attacked in a city of the United States of America; and,
“Whereas, this attack grew directly from policies of racial discrimination in the United States of America, which decent men everywhere deplore and condemn; and,
“Whereas, the continued existence of these policies in the United States tends to place the United States in direct violation of the principles of the Charter of the United Nations, and therefore casts grave doubts upon the qualifications of the United States to continue as a member of this body;
“Now, therefore, this resolution is hereby amended to direct the Security Council, acting on behalf of the United Nations, to make an immediate investigation of racial practices in the United States, looking toward the end of such racial practices, and offering the full assistance of the United Nations in this task so that the United States may truly conform to the principles of the Charter and be fully worthy of membership in this great body.”
“The Chair,” the President said, “finds that the precedents as to how we proceed at this point are somewhat hazy, since we have already had a debate and several votes concerning this proposal. However, since the votes did not occur on the substance of the amendment, the Chair will rule that debate will be resumed as though ab initio, providing that is agreeable to the Assembly.” He paused, there were no interruptions, and he went on. “The first speaker on today’s list is the mover of the amendment and resolution, the distinguished delegate of Panama.”
“I say,” the London Daily Express whispered, “isn’t that Hal Fry coming in over there?”
“So it is,” the New York Times agreed.
“Reports of his death were apparently somewhat exaggerated,” the Christian Science Monitor remarked.
“He looks all right to me,” said the London Observer. “Maybe it was all just psychological warfare by the State Department to throw everybody off.”
“No,” the Chicago Tribune said. “I know he was in the hospital. But I must say he looks reasonably chipper now.”
And so he did, as he came in with Lafe Smith and two U.S. delegation secretaries, just as the President called upon Felix, and took his seat with a matter-of-fact air alongside the British Ambassador. His vision was blurring a little; there were occasional sharp cramps through his back, chest, and stomach; he was, if truth were known, more than a little dizzy; but otherwise, at the moment, he was feeling pretty well. Above all, he was feeling well in his heart and mind, and that was the important thing. He had three different kinds of capsules in his pocket, but he was determined not to use them—he was confident he would not have to. He greeted Lord Maudulayne with a smile so natural that once more the British Ambassador dismissed the rumors he had heard so often the past several days in the Lounge.
“Good morning,” he said, shaking hands. “You look as though everything were all right.”
“Everything is all right,” Senator Fry said. “Except,” he smiled and nodded toward the podium, “Felix, up there. He’s definitely all wrong.”
“Lafe,” Lord Maudulayne said, leaning forward and speaking across Hal, “I thought that was a stout defense of principle you made in Security Council last night. Very fine.”
“Fat lot of good it did,” Lafe said in a disgusted tone. “Thank you, though. I get so damned fed up with the hypocrisy here sometimes that it’s all I can do to avoid throwing up.”
“You would have been proud of him,” Lord Maudulayne said, sitting back, and Hal nodded.
“I know. It may not accomplish much, but it seems to me that we, and you, and the rest of us who feel the same way, have got to do it each time, just for the record. Somebody may be around to read it, if the whole thing collapses. Maybe it will furnish some pointers someday, for the next time.”
“I can just see them,” the British Ambassador said dryly, “scratching themselves and puzzling over one of our transcripts by the light of a tallow flare in some cave somewhere in the desolate ruins of what used to be Manhattan … But you’re right; it has to be done. Do you plan to get into this debate?”
“I think we’ll have to,” Hal Fry said. “It depends on what our friend has to say. It doesn’t sound very friendly so far.”
Nor did it as the Ambassador of Panama, small and dark and trim and neat, completely self-contained as always, spoke earnestly to the now-quiet Assembly.
“Mr. President,” he was pointing out as their attention returned to the podium, “much will no doubt be made here by distinguished representatives of the United States of the fact that in the past week the Congress has indeed passed the resolution of the Congressman from California.
“It is true that the resolution offers Gorotoland $10,000,000, which is a figure the United Nations cannot match.
“It is true that it offers a vague apology to the M’Bulu for indignitie
s suffered by him in the state of South Carolina.
“It is true that it offers a vague pledge to give further study to improving the conditions of the Negro race within the United States.
“The truest thing about it, Mr. President,” he said with a small, tight smile, “is that it is vague.”
There was a ripple of laughter and a scattering of applause here and there across the crowded chamber.
“Now, Mr. President, what was the margin by which the Congress passed this noble resolution, which will presently be offered here as an excuse to us not to pass my amendment? Was it an overwhelming vote, Mr. President? Why, certainly not. It was a margin of five votes in the United States House of Representatives. It was a margin of six votes in the United States Senate. There would seem to have been, Mr. President, some slight reluctance on the part of the Congress.”
Again there came the ripple of laughter, more scornful now.
“And what was said about the resolution, and what was said about us here in the United Nations? My distinguished colleagues, let me read to you. I have here three interesting quotes. One is from the chairman of the House Foreign Affairs Committee”—there were a few boos—“another is from a most sadly lamented statesman, the late Senator Cooley of South Carolina”—more boos, some laughter, some applause—“and the last is from the Majority Leader of the United States Senate”—ironic laughter, more boos. “The chairman of the House Foreign Affairs Committee had this to say about us—”
And he was off into Jawbone Swarthman’s more impolite and derogatory comments.
Poised alertly beside the Indian Ambassador, who had kindly invited him to occupy a seat on the floor with his delegation, Terrible Terry could hardly keep to himself the excited elation that filled his being. Now it was coming at last, the independence for Gorotoland for which he had worked so long and hard—he had no doubt of it. And coming at last, if the plans he and Felix and the rest had been formulating so carefully over the past week came successfully to fruition, was the proper judgment of history upon the arrogant and unthinking Americans who had permitted an inexcusable racial situation to exist long past the terminal point of history’s patience.
Child in pretty clothes wandering about the world tossing hand grenades into open windows he might be, in Lord Maudulayne’s casual and cutting description, but Terence Ajkaje was something more; a complex human being, as so many are complex, fitting one description this moment and another description the next, depending upon time and circumstance and the matters that engaged his attention. Capable of the most ruthless cruelty, the most carefree vindictiveness, the most irresponsible misuse of history’s forces, he was also capable of the most genuine and burning indignation at certain abuses in the world. He could suppress his own fellow blacks in Gorotoland with a harshness rarely matched in the United States of America, but when it came to the situation in that great land, he felt a passionate anger whose inconsistency never occurred to him at all.
Perhaps in some strangely twisted fashion this was a tribute to America, which was not supposed to allow the sort of thing he himself officially condoned every day of his life in his own country. Perhaps like so many in the UN who practice the most vicious racial discrimination at home while denouncing it with an hysterical exasperation where it occurs in the United States, he felt in some odd subconscious way that somebody had to furnish an example and that America, by falling short of perfection, fell short of her duty as humanity’s conscience in these matters. He could not have analyzed it as he sat there, towering and glowering and concentrating with all the force of his great intelligence upon the speech of the Ambassador of Panama. Now nothing filled his mind but this, not even the situation in Molobangwe. Having reached his decision to remain, he had dismissed it. Now all his being was given passionately to the issue at hand, with the fierce singleness of purpose that had brought him steadily upward along his dangerous course since the long-ago days when Time magazine had noted the presence of “A Little Fresh Heir” in his dilapidated and dusty land.
Sensing his concentration—for the M’Bulu was one of those people whose thinking is sometimes louder than others’ conversation—K.K. was moved to jog his elbow and say airily, “My goodness gracious me, what a thundercloud you are this afternoon, Terry! Is this any way to act upon the eve of your country’s independence, I ask you!”
“I was just thinking,” Terry said with his sudden gleaming smile, “how dismayed our friends of the United States will be when they learn that decisions here will not be confined to that alone. What do you think they will do?”
The Indian Ambassador shrugged with a pitying smile.
“Oh, who knows? Protest. Exclaim. Attempt to secure postponements and adjournments and other diversionary things. But it will simply prove what I have told Hal and Lafe right along: you cannot deny the current of history. It will not matter, essentially, what they do. They will be helpless.”
“Will they?” Terry asked, his eyes narrowing as he studied the American delegation, far across the room. “I wonder.”
“Have faith!” K.K. chided him merrily. “Have faith, dear friend! Listen! Felix is preparing the way well. Everyone will be taken by surprise.”
“Hardly everyone,” the M’Bulu said.
Whatever the truth of this, the Ambassador of Panama was preparing the way well as he talked along, purposely keeping his indignation down, his sarcasm muted, his recital of the reasons for approving his amendment cogent and reasonable according to his point of view and that of many in the Assembly.
Again he stressed, more in sorrow than in anger, the theme that he was acting in the best interests of the United States, that he was a friend to America, that all her friends here in the United Nations simply wanted to help her achieve that condition of full maturity and civilization that would only come when her Negro citizens were accorded their full equality. In one sense, he said—this sense which was so important to the peoples of the earth, so many of whom had only recently come to nationhood under the aegis of the world organization—the United States itself could be called an “underdeveloped country” (the phrase, so beloved of the American State Department, brought a burst of laughter from many delegations)—underdeveloped in her treatment of the Negro, underdeveloped in her concepts of human dignity, underdeveloped in her inability, so far, despite more than a century of freedom for the slaves, to grant to all of their descendants the real freedom that could only come with absolute equality in all phases of her society and national life. This was what he and other genuine friends of America wanted, he said earnestly; this was all.
“But, Mr. President,” he said, and now he told himself with a mounting inner tension that he must be most gentle and dulcet, “it must be confessed that the United States to some extent seems reluctant to bring this about, and that is why my delegation and I and some others here in the Assembly have felt it necessary to propose the action outlined in my amendment. Just as many other states have been encouraged by decisions of the Assembly to do what is right and honorable in the eyes of history, so it is our hope that the United States may be similarly persuaded—not by our condemnation, Mr. President, which is really not intended in my amendment—”
“Bro-ther!” said the New York Daily News. “He means it,” the London Daily Express said indignantly. “Can’t you see that?”
“—but with our help, offered sincerely and in a friendly spirit by this body that represents the combined conscience of the world.”
He paused and took a sip of water. Before him the nations sat silent and attentive, and in the galleries the audience, as multicolored and variegated as the delegations themselves, leaned forward intently.
“Mr. President,” he said abruptly, and something in his tone made the Press Gallery, the United States delegation, and many another sit up, suddenly alert, “because it has become apparent that to continue to designate this issue as an ‘important matter’ within the meaning of Rule 85 of the General Assembly would hamper it by t
he requirement of a two-thirds vote for passage, I now exercise my right as its author to withdraw the amendment from the resolution on Gorotoland—I reintroduce it herewith as a separate resolution—and I move that it be declared by the Assembly to be not an important matter and therefore requiring only a simple majority for passage.”
At once the great chamber exploded, its patterns of color and costume breaking and falling apart into a moving, shifting mass of agitated people, many delegates leaving their seats to confer with one another in little groups in the aisle, many reporters hurrying from the Press Gallery to file stories, visitors in the public galleries exclaiming and turning to one another, voices raised in conjecture, counterconjecture, elation, approval, disapproval, wonderment, or dismay all across the big concave bowl. Into the hubbub the little red-cheeked President of the Assembly banged his gavel furiously for order, growing redder and more indignant as he pounded. Over and above the noise of the rest there could be heard the sound of someone in the United States delegation shouting “Point of order!” and presently it became clear that the cry came from Senator Fry. In five minutes or so, having finally secured some semblance of gradually returning decorum, the President gave him recognition and he proceeded with reasonable speed down the aisle and up to the podium.
“Mr. President,” he said, feeling excited and tense, feeling the dizziness and pain, but telling himself impatiently, The hell with it, there isn’t time to worry about that now, “I make the point of order that there is nothing in the rules to permit the distinguished delegate of Panama to take this action. Therefore it is out of order and his amendment must stand as an integral part of his original resolution on Gorotoland, which obviously is an important matter and does require two-thirds.
“I make the point of order that he is out of order in trying to do something he cannot do, under the rules.”