A Shade of Difference

by Allen Drury

  “Mr. President, I should like to inquire if the distinguished Secretary-General would wish to address us at this time?”

  So here it was, the S.-G. thought in the minute or two that he sat considering, while below him the Congressman from California looked up with a questioning air, in which respect and curiosity and a certain irony walked side by side. In the challenge of those eyes, much more than in the hundreds of others that watched him in a fascinated blur from floor and galleries, he could see himself mirrored. What now, old man? he asked himself with a bitter skepticism. You wanted a chance to speak, though you are afraid of it in your heart. What will you do, now that it has come?

  A minute later, his body having answered before his mind did, he found himself standing at the lectern, dignified and patriarchal and appearing to be wise; yet even as he began to speak he did not know exactly what, from all his tumbling thoughts, would emerge.

  “Mr. President,” he started slowly, while the Assembly accorded him what it had accorded no one else so far in the debate—an almost complete silence—“I have always thought that the Secretary-General embodied, to some degree, the conscience of mankind—at least I have thought he should try to do so. Sometimes I know this has not been easy for my predecessors. Sometimes it has not been easy for me.

  “It is not easy for me now.

  “Yet I must attempt it, for I regard it to be my duty.

  “The Assembly is seized here today of an issue upon which, obviously, great emotions rest. Members of the Assembly have made that amply clear, on both sides. Yet is there not some higher responsibility than that of emotion? Is there not a duty to the United Nations itself?”

  The first uneasy stirrings began below him, but he went steadily ahead.

  “Were I to yield to my emotions, Mr. President, I should perhaps find it pleasant to join with my good friend from Guinea and with His Royal Highness in an appeal such as they have made. Yes!” he cried, as an angry murmur began to rise. “Yes, that is right! Try to tell me I am not black! Try to tell me I have not fought for free Africa all my life! Try to tell me I do not believe in justice and democracy! Try to tell me those things, and I will say you lie!”

  He paused and stared out upon them sternly, until the murmur died and there was again a silence, restless but attentive, in the big blue-and-tan bowl.

  “Well, then. So I do not believe that such an appeal serves the interests of the United Nations, or of humanity. No more do I believe that the racial practices of the United States, which this resolution condemns, serve the purposes of the United Nations, or of humanity. So what is the solution, as between those two positions?

  “Mr. President,” he said solemnly, and now there was an almost painful concentration upon his words over all the great hall, “I do not believe this resolution should pass.”

  A sudden loud cry of “NO!”—a babble of sound—a roar of boos: he waited for them to subside, his expression indicating nothing, his classic head held rigid and unyielding.

  “This may be an irregular expression of opinion from the Secretary-General. Yet I deem I must express it in view of the dangerous emotions stated here.

  “Now, look you!” he said, as though lecturing children, which, in some cases, he was. “Do you not think the United States is aware, now, if it had any doubt before, of what the world thinks about certain of its unfortunate social habits? Do you think it has to be made clear by the formal condemnation of this Assembly?”

  Someone shouted “YES!” He ignored it.

  “I warn you of what the delegation of the United States has refrained from warning you: Such action could very well induce among the people of the United States a revulsion that would have the gravest effect upon future United States support of this organization.”

  Again there were boos, but this time not quite so confident—a little hesitant, a little unsure.

  “Yes. That is something you should think about.

  “Furthermore, the distinguished senior delegate of the United States is correct. There is too much backbiting here. There is too much vindictiveness. There is too much attempt to rewrite the wrongs of the past on this floor, and in so doing to turn them into the wrongs of the present and the future.

  “The United Nations is at issue here, just as much as any racial practices of any one of its members. Many of you do not have perfect racial practices in your own countries. But all of you have the greatest stake in preserving the United Nations as an instrument for peace and a protection for all powers under a rule of law. You are trying to ignore law here, as you have on other matters in recent years. You will do it too much, one day. And that will be the end.

  “Mr. President,” he said simply into the hush that followed, “I have spoken. Not to please anyone, but because I, an old man who will soon be leaving this world, would like to see it continued with some hope of decency and understanding among nations. Condemn me for it if you like. I have spoken.”

  And with a grave inclination of his stately head he returned to his seat beside the portly little President and looked out impassively upon the Assembly. You have done it, old man, he thought. You need not be ashamed of yourself any longer.

  There followed for several minutes thereafter a puzzled and uneasy stirring over the floor, particularly in the United States delegation, where there seemed to be some dispute as to what should be done next, and who should do it.

  “Is it the wish of the delegation of the United States—?” the President began uncertainly. Senator Fry raised his hand and came slowly forward, holding his body in a curiously bent way that indicated how painful its movements were becoming to him. There was a stir of interest and much comment through the chamber.

  “Lafe,” Cullee said, sliding over into Hal’s vacated seat beside him, “I’m worried as hell about that man.”

  “So am I,” Lafe said with a frown. “He’s apparently feeling much worse, but he won’t admit it.”

  “It’s seemed to me in the last few minutes that he was much more tense. I wish we could make him go lie down.”

  Lafe sighed.

  “He won’t. He’s literally a dying man, but he won’t stop until he drops.”

  “But can’t we make him?” Cullee asked. Lafe shook his head.

  “This is the way he wants it, and the President and Orrin okay’d it, and so we’ve just got to support him as long as he wants to keep going.”

  “I feel the way I did the other night with Seab,” Cullee said unhappily. “I don’t like to see men eaten up by their duty.”

  “You’ve been, a little,” Lafe said, managing a smile. “Who are you to talk?”

  “Well, I can’t claim like that. That’s different.”

  “Only in degree,” Lafe said, his eyes going back with worry to Hal, now slowly climbing the stairs to the distant rostrum. “Listen. And we’d better be ready to go to him if he needs us.”

  But for the first few moments of his new appearance before the Assembly the senior Senator from West Virginia did not appear to need help, though all his symptoms were now rampaging through his body. Only his bow to the President showed it—generally in the right direction but sufficiently off center so that the comment from the floor grew louder. He turned back to the lectern, which he gripped with a painful desperation, and managed to begin his statement, slowly and carefully, with a tight and rigid control. It did not last.

  “Mr. President, the delegation of the United States wishes to commend and thank the Secretary-General for a … courageous expression of … opinion. It is … not the purpose of the delegation … of the United States … to delay … any longer …”

  “What’s the matter,” Cullee said sharply, and he and Lafe both stood up.

  “Come on,” Lafe said. “Let’s go!”

  “… a vote … on this matter,” Senator Fry said with an increasing slowness and almost, it seemed, a drowsiness. “And therefore, Mr. … President … we ask for an … immediate …”

  There was a flicker of
movement, the faintest suggestion of sound, and suddenly he wasn’t standing there any more. The rostrum was apparently empty, and from their seats above, the President and the Secretary-General were hurrying down even as others came hurrying up from the floor. A wave of excitement and shock filled the room, comment and question and the half-happy anticipation with which human beings greet the visiting of disaster upon one of their number. Many delegates stood and craned forward to see. Down the aisle Lafe and Cullee came running, reaching their fallen colleague simultaneously with the Secretary-General, who knelt at once beside him and cradled his head in his lap.

  “The doctor will come,” the S.-G. assured them hastily, and even as he did so, Hal’s eyes opened in a gray face and somehow, from somewhere, he managed a small, self-deprecating smile with which to greet his two frantic friends.

  “What a spectacle,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re getting on back to that hospital right now, buster,” Lafe said with a fright that made his words sound angry. “We’ve had enough of this nonsense!”

  “Not nonsense at all,” Hal contradicted, his voice growing a little stronger and steadier. “This is all an elaborate plot … by the American delegation … to gain sympathy. You wait and see.”

  “Plot or no,” Lafe said firmly, “you’re getting on back.”

  “No, I’m not,” Hal said, some color beginning to return to his face. “It was just a temporary dizziness. I’ve got some pills in my pocket—” He held out a hand to the S.-G., who helped him sit up, as above them the President, returning hastily to his seat, rapped the gavel and announced into the stillness that followed:

  “Delegates are advised that the distinguished delegate of the United States seems to have suffered a slight fainting spell, but he is already feeling better, and I think we can continue in a few moments, if delegates will be patient.”

  “Give me a glass of water,” Hal said. “It’s those two-tone jobs in my right pocket. Let me have one.” He managed a smile. “Or two.” He rubbed his forehead. “That was a damn-fool thing to do, but I just—just—blacked out, I guess.”

  “You must get back to the hospital,” Lafe said, but his colleague waved him off as the Secretary-General handed him a glass of water and Cullee, squatting down beside him, got the bottle from his pocket, shook out a couple of pills, and put them in his hand.

  “That’s better,” Hal said, swallowing them down. “Now give me a lift, Lafe. Don’t just stand there like a dope. Here, damn it!”

  And he held out a hand, which his colleague finally took, reluctantly, and together he and Cullee brought Hal to his feet, where he stood for a moment, rocking slightly, as a burst of applause, for the moment genuinely friendly, came from floor and galleries.

  “Now get back,” he said, again with a little smile. “I still have the floor.”

  “But—” Lafe protested. Hal waved him off and moved with a reasonably steady tread to the lectern as Lafe and Cullee and the S.-G. stood in a little protective group nearby. The President rapped his gavel and silence fell.

  “As I was saying when I was so rudely interrupted,” Hal Fry said in a ragged but somehow cheerful voice, and there was a wave of laughter, still friendly and encouraging, “the United States does not wish to delay a vote on this resolution. Therefore, Mr. President, we ask an immediate roll call.”

  A burst of approving applause, swelled with a note of real warmth, came as he left the rostrum, closely accompanied by his two colleagues but moving under his own steam, and came slowly back up the aisle.

  “The vote occurs on the resolution of the delegate of Panama on The Matter of the United States,” the President said, reaching into the box of names. “The voting will begin with Ethiopia.”

  An abrupt singing silence fell on the hall, and into it Ethiopia gave her expected answer, clear and firm.

  “Yes.”

  “Federation of Malaya.”

  “Yes.”

  “Finland.”

  “No.”

  “France”—and there was a quick intake of breath as Raoul Barre called out his one crisp word:

  “Oui!”

  “Gabon.”

  “Oui.”

  “Ghana.”

  “Yes!”

  “Greece.”

  “No.”

  “Guatemala.”

  “No.”

  “Guiana.”

  “Yes.”

  “Guinea.”

  “Oui!”

  “Haiti.”

  “Oui!”

  “Honduras.”

  “No.”

  “Hungary.”

  “Yes.”

  “Iceland.”

  “Yes.”

  “I still think—” Lafe was saying in the delegation, but Hal Fry shook his head.

  “I’ll go back pretty soon,” he said. “This will be over in a little while, and then I’ll go … Look, Lafe,” he said softly, “I’m not under any illusions. The next will be worse. And the next. And the next. And the next … When I go back to the hospital tonight”—and a bleakness that wrung the hearts of his two colleagues as they leaned close to listen came suddenly into his eyes—“I won’t be coming out again. I know that. So just—let me stay. Okay?”

  Lafe bowed his head.

  “As you say.”

  “Anyway,” Hal said, more lightly. “I’m not through yet. I may have something else to say.”

  “Now, damn it—” Lafe began again, but again Hal stopped him.

  “I may not. But again I may. We’ll have to see the note on which this ends. After all,” he said with a last show of humor, “who else is better equipped to give a valedictory, if that is what it should have to be?”

  “You break my heart,” Cullee told him simply.

  “Listen to the vote,” Hal commanded lightly, though the dizziness and pain were back again and the pills were not really helping very much. “That’s more important than hearts, right now.”

  And as the long roll call moved on, it did become important, quite literally the most important thing in the world at that moment, so that as it neared its end the great room was gripped with an almost unbearable tension and excitement in which only an occasional sharp intake of breath, a muffled exclamation, the sound of someone accidentally hitting the metal shade of his desk lamp with a pencil, broke the silence. Many delegates were keeping their own tallies, and from them there spread like lightning across the floor the startling word: the vote was coming down to its finish in a tie. Four names remained, and the President called them out with an almost defiant loudness that betrayed his own excitement:

  “Denmark!”

  “No.”

  “Dominican Republic!”

  “Sí.”

  “Ecuador.”

  “No.”

  “El Salvador!”

  “Sí!”

  “On this vote,” the President said, his voice trembling slightly, there are 60 Yes, 60 No, 2 abstentions, others absent.”

  He paused for a moment, while all over the chamber there was an explosion of bottled-up emotion.

  “Under Rule 97,” he went on, reading from it as it lay before him on his desk, “‘If a vote is equally divided on matters other than elections, a second vote shall be taken at a subsequent meeting which shall be held within forty-eight hours of the first vote, and it shall be expressly mentioned in the agenda that a second vote will be taken on the matter in question. If this vote also results in equality, the proposal shall be regarded as rejected.’

  “Therefore, if it is the pleasure of the Assembly, it is the intention of the Chair to call a subsequent meeting of this plenary session for 3 p.m. on Monday next—”

  “Mr. President!” someone called from the floor, and down the aisle to the rostrum there could be seen advancing the dapper figure of the French Ambassador, walking in a purposeful but unhurried fashion as a wave of noisy speculation followed in his wake.

  “Mr. President,” Raoul Barre said calmly, �
��all delegations have discussed this matter at great length both publicly and privately in recent days. Therefore it is quite likely that no votes will be changed should a subsequent meeting be held.

  “Furthermore, I do not know how others feel, but my delegation is sick of it, we believe the time of the Assembly has been employed enough in this matter, and we are not disposed to consider it any further.

  “Therefore: since another vote would result in the same tie, which in turn would result in the defeat of this resolution, my delegation, which voted Yes, will now change its vote and vote No, thus guaranteeing the defeat of this resolution, which in our opinion is inevitable anyway, and clearing the agenda for other matters before this Assembly.”

  “Mr. President!” the Soviet Ambassador shouted into the uproar that followed. “Mr. President, it is out of order for a delegate to change his vote after the result is announced!”

  “There is nothing in the rules that says so, Mr. President,” Raoul Barre said in a bored and contemptuous tone. “Furthermore, I do not remember the distinguished Soviet delegate being so tender of procedure early this morning when several votes were changed after announcement of the first result on Gorotoland. In any event, we have changed our vote now. There it stands. Does anyone wish to join the distinguished Soviet delegate in shouting about it?”

  “Mr. President!” Vasily Tashikov cried in an anguished voice. “Mr. President!”

  “I hear the delegate,” the President shouted, furiously banging his gavel. “I hear the distinguished delegate, who will be in order! So will this Assembly be in order! … Now!” he said explosively when a reasonable facsimile of calm had been restored. “Does any other delegation wish to change its vote, one way or the other?”