Every second gold-covered chair at the horseshoe table, it seemed, was empty. The four smaller tables mocked him with their gaping vacancies. Ninety-six important guests had accepted the invitations to his first State Dinner. No more than fifty had appeared. To all intents and purposes, President of the United States or not, he was still segregated, and the house he lived in was segregated too.
From that moment on, the formal evening had been for him an embarrassment to be tolerated and a disaster to be survived. He could not now remember one dish he had eaten, or the sense of anything that Amboko had spoken about or what he had replied to Amboko.
Dipping his spoon into his dessert, an ice-cream mold of a miniature White House, he raised his head, one of the few times he had done so during the dinner, and quickly his eyes roved over the room. He had to be positive that he had not been oversensitive and mistaken, to be sure that the seats had not been filled in the interim. But there they were. Nothing had changed. More than forty were empty still.
His gaze crossed Nat Abrahams, then darted back and fastened upon his friend. Nat, adjusting his bow tie, lifted his fingers slightly toward him in a private communication of understanding and assurance. Dilman’s furtive gaze moved to Rose and Paul Spinger, and the empty seat next to them. That was disappointing too, but in a different way. Wanda had made her terms clear. She would come to the White House, not as his employee, not in the guise of some one else’s guest, but only as his own guest.
The Spingers, he remembered, had been the very last to arrive, Rose plainly distressed, her husband harried. The receiving line had already broken, and Dilman had begun to engage Amboko in diplomatic conversation once more, when he had seen the Spingers and excused himself to intercept them.
He had addressed Rose, searching past her. “Welcome, Rose. Where’s Wanda?”
“She refused, Doug. I scolded her, but—” Rose Spinger had shrugged. “She said you’d understand.”
The Reverend Spinger had joined them. Dilman had inspected the clergyman’s face, appraising it to see if he bore encouraging tidings, and at once he saw there was nothing to give him optimism.
“I received your message earlier, Paul,” Dilman had said. “You were still waiting for Hurley to return your call. I thought you’d be on your way to him by now. What happened?”
“I’d be on my way if there was some place to go,” Spinger had said unhappily. “I just hung up on Frank Valetti in Little Rock. It took a lot of—of wheedling and prying to find out he was there—and a half-dozen calls to get him to phone back.” Spinger had glanced around, to be certain that no one else was within hearing, and then he had gone on in an undertone. “I made it clear to Valetti that I was personally representing you, but he already knew that from radio and television reports. I told him I had to see Jefferson Hurley. I told him I would fly out and see Hurley anywhere, under any conditions. No use. Valetti insisted that Hurley was away on a trip, out of touch, and he did not expect to hear from him for at least two or three days.”
“What about Valetti himself?” Dilman had demanded. “Did you say you’d see him?”
“Yes—yes—I certainly did, Mr. President. I told him that since he was second-in-command of the Turnerite Group, perhaps he would do as well as Hurley. I told him I could be in Little Rock tonight to confer with him.” Spinger had paused, and shaken his head. “He was evasive and—and I’d say distrustful. He kept saying that no meeting with him would prove helpful. He kept saying only Hurley could speak for them, and Hurley was not available. I persisted that there were some questions that he could answer. He said flatly no, that he was in seclusion, that he didn’t want to be hounded and harassed by the press and Federal investigators, who’d only persecute him without good cause, and that my coming was sure to put everyone on his trail. Besides, he said, he was on the move, leaving the city. Well, I could see it was hopeless—”
Dilman, conscious of the time he was spending away from his honor guest, had quickly interjected, “Paul, did you get anything out of him?”
“There was nothing left to do but pose your inquiries to Valetti on the telephone. I told him you were deeply disturbed by the Hattiesburg kidnaping. I said that both you and the Attorney General wanted to be assured that the Turnerites had no part in that heinous crime, and that if they had not, it would do much for their cause if Hurley came forth and condemned such acts of violence. I reminded him that the Justice Department was investigating the Turnerites as well as other similar associations for possible Communist affiliations, and that they could forestall and thwart any repressive government action by voluntarily coming forward, opening their membership records and financial ledgers for the Justice Department. I implored him to cooperate. I begged him to get Jefferson Hurley to cooperate. I asked him if he would—” Spinger halted, swallowed, blinked down at his shoes.
“What did he say to that, Paul?”
“One word, Mr. President. A crude four-letter word. I am unable to repeat it. Then—then he hung up.”
Dilman had scowled. “That’s it?”
“That’s all of it, Mr. President. I’m afraid I failed you, but that’s the most I could do. They’re a mean, secretive bunch. One thing. Somewhere in our talk, toward the end, I did leave the door open. I told Valetti that he or Hurley could call me at any time, any hour, and reverse the charges, if they had a message for you.”
“They won’t call,” Dilman had said. “What do you make of it now? Do you think the Turnerites played any part in the abduction?”
“We don’t know a thing more than we knew this morning. Maybe yes, maybe no. As long as there is reasonable doubt, I don’t see how you can ban them.”
“I don’t either. . . . Well, Tim Flannery is down in his office, waiting to put out some kind of statement. When you get a chance, slip out and call him on the Entrance Hall phone. Tell him what you reported to me, in substance, and tell him that I suggest a non-committal statement over my name. Something like—you have made contact with a high Turnerite official, conversations are proceeding—the Group admits no complicity in the Hattiesburg affair—mean while, the Federal Bureau of Investigation is being reinforced with additional manpower for its pursuit of the criminals. Have you got that, Paul?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Now I’d better return to Amboko. He’s being about as cooperative as Valetti. What an evening.”
He had remembered all of this earlier failure as he studied the Spingers across the State Dining Room. Absently, he finished his dessert. From his close friends his gaze went to the dazzling gilded chandelier with its flame-shaped electric bulbs, then down to the gay flower-filled centerpieces on the table, and at last to the empty Wedgwood plate on the white damask linen cloth in front of him.
He hoped that his face did not reflect his shame at the massive rebuke of the empty seats. He was still that kinky-haired, thick featured relative of the orangutan, one of Zeke Miller’s Nigras, barely a second-class citizen. He could not help but be conscious of the oil portrait above the white marble mantelpiece directly behind him. Healy’s Abraham Lincoln. Would anyone but himself, Kwame Amboko for instance, appreciate the irony of it?
He glanced at his guest and realized that Amboko had been squinting at him thoughtfully through his rimless spectacles.
“A marvelous meal,” Amboko said with his always startling Harvard accent. “I regret it is finished.”
“You must come back soon for another,” Dilman said. Then he added wryly, “I’ll invite you, if I’m still here.” Down the table he saw a napkin fluttering. It was Chief of Protocol Illingsworth, pretending to wipe his mouth but actually signaling to him that the dinner was ended and that there was one more formality before the champagne and entertainment.
One more formality—and then he remembered it. Quickly Dilman pushed back his chair and came to his feet. Immediately the clatter of ice-cream spoons and the hum of conversations ceased. All eyes in the half-filled room were upon him.
Di
lman reached for his hollow-stemmed champagne glass, and his unsteady hand held it before him. “Ladies and gentlemen, I offer a toast,” he announced, “a toast from the people of the United States to the health and prosperity of the President of Baraza, Kwame Amboko, and the people of his free republic.”
Throughout the room, glasses tinkled and sparkled as the assemblage rose and joined in the official toast.
Awkwardly Dilman sat again, spilling some of his champagne on the tablecloth. He could see that Amboko was already standing, proffering his champagne, and piping out in his cultivated voice, “To the President of the United States of America, to the republic for which he stands, I reciprocate with our wishes for your health and prosperity and”—he half turned, lifting his glass toward the portrait of Lincoln—“to paraphrase the blessing and hope of your Emancipator, may our nations, under God, enjoy a new birth of freedom, so that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall never perish from the earth.”
Dilman drank, with everyone, and the champagne was curiously stale. He tried to fathom his honor guest’s toast. Had Amboko shrewdly tried to remind the whites in the room that not only must his own primitive land continue to know freedom, with America’s help, but vast America needed to begin re-evaluating its own attitudes toward freedom? Or had he been merely paying lip service to the greatest President and his most familiar quotation in the usual Fourth of July manner?
The toasts were continuing, from Secretary of State Eaton, from Secretary of Defense Steinbrenner, and were being answered in turn by Baraza’s Foreign Minister and Baraza’s Ambassador Wamba, and automatically Dilman responded to each and sipped the flat champagne.
Suddenly the ordeal was ended. He rose with Amboko, and both watched the dinner guests rising, the women in their formal gowns being led by their escorts or military attachés to the Red Room and Blue Room and Green Room for more champagne.
Again Dilman found Amboko squinting at him. He felt tired of formality and protocol. “Well, President Amboko,” he said, “I guess the rules say we’re supposed to have a few minutes alone upstairs to settle our problems. We’re supposed to make some kind of joint statement tonight or tomorrow. Ready to climb the stairs again?”
“Not necessary,” said Amboko. “I have made up my mind. I can say what I have to say right here.”
Dilman hesitated. “Very well.” There was something about Amboko’s expression, a warmth, a comprehension, that he had not seen before. For the first time, as they stood there—the two of them, isolated from the departing guests—they were not African and American, but two black men struggling in the power world of whites.
“I tried to hint it in my toast,” Amboko said. “I will be less cryptic now.” He paused to form correctly the words he wished to speak, and then he spoke. “I will take the risk. I will compromise. I shall return to Baraza and rescind all pending plans to repress our Communist Party. I shall not oust the Soviet Embassy or forbid the cultural exchanges with Moscow. In short, we shall attempt to maintain an open but watchful society such as you have here. You have shown good will in ratifying the African Unity Pact, and we shall display good faith by giving you what you need for bargaining with Soviet Russia when you meet with them.”
Dilman was overwhelmed by a sudden surge of affection for this scholarly young man. “I can’t tell you what good news this is, President Amboko. I can’t tell you how gratified I am.”
“If I may suggest one tactic, Mr. President. Let us make no mention of my concession in our formal announcement, only say that our talks were valuable to both of us and the agreements we reached will be jointly given out in the near future. This will afford me the opportunity to put my house in order back home. It will also equip you with something unexpected when you sit across from Premier Kasatkin to barter. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Dilman. He was still bewildered by the African leader’s change of heart. He wondered what had moved Amboko to make the concession that he had so recently opposed.
Amboko’s eyes had narrowed behind his spectacles. He said, “Perhaps, Mr. President, you are curious at my reversal of position. I can see you are perplexed that—”
“I am curious,” said Dilman quickly. “Of course, I am pleased. Your cooperation means so much. But I was wondering—”
“I will tell you,” said Amboko. “I will address you frankly, as I hope we will always address one another in the days to come. Until tonight I was reluctant to trust you wholly. Until tonight I thought you were the puppet of your Master Race in this country. Forgive me, but this I thought. Then tonight I saw the truth. I observed you look around this room, and I looked around it too, and the truth was clear.”
Dilman’s shame rose in his throat. “The chairs, you mean, the empty chairs?”
“Yes, my friend. I realized that you were not one of them, because they would not let you be. I saw you were on your own, because of your color. I saw you for the first time as a black like myself. I knew then that our problems were one. The freedom problem. You must win your freedom here as we must maintain our own in Africa. You must convince yourself that democracy in America is real as I must convince myself it is possible in Baraza. The guests who did not come tonight, the hurt they visited upon you, the illumination of your battle that they gave me, those absent guests were the ones who swayed me. I knew that you would always understand me and my people and our aspirations because, in a larger sense, they are your own. I can now trust you. I can now return to my homeland and take the risk of letting my people be freer, because I know you will never let us down. I am prepared to help you, because I believe you will always stand ready to help me. Not because we are both black, finally, but because we have both known bondage and we have the common human desire not to suffer it again.” He smiled beneath his broad expanse of nostrils and said in a kindly tone, “I thank the empty chairs, no matter how they may grieve you, for bringing us to friendship at last.”
Amboko extended his ebony hand, brightened by its large sapphire ring, and Dilman warmly gripped it in his own. He wanted to express his gratefulness further, but he was too choked with emotion to do so. At last he said, “Come, President Amboko, we can tell our visitors we are ready for some well-earned relaxation.”
Comforted by their agreement, the two men crossed the State Dining Room and entered the crowded Red Room. Dilman could see Grover Illingsworth’s towering, impeccable, waxen person rising above the crowded champagne drinkers. He beckoned to his Chief of Protocol.
“Mr. Illingsworth,” said Dilman, “why don’t you get President Amboko and his party settled for our little gala? In fact, you might start shooing everyone into the East Room.” Dilman turned to Amboko. “I won’t be a minute. I must find my Secretary of State, inform him of what we’ve agreed upon, so that he can have a joint press statement drafted at once. A copy will be at Blair House for your approval later tonight.”
Satisfied, Amboko gathered his entourage and followed Illingsworth out of the Red Room. As others began to move toward the door, and the crowd thinned, Dilman looked around the room for Arthur Eaton. He saw him finally, in a corner, deep in conversation with Sally Watson. For a moment he recollected Sue Abrahams’ gossip about the pair, and how he had dismissed it because Eaton was too circumspect and too old for Senator Watson’s child. But now, seeing them so close, he had second thoughts. They seemed right together: Eaton, despite the striking gray at his temples and through his hair, so much like a youthful aristocrat, bronzed, perfect in his faultless white tie and dinner jacket, and Sally Watson, despite her smooth, innocent countenance, so much like a mature lady with her beautiful carriage, and her bare shoulders set off by her costly white evening gown. They appeared scientifically matched. Dilman wondered where Eaton’s wife was this night, and if still in Florida, why she had not returned for this occasion.
He hesitated to separate them, yet knew that he must. Before he could move to do so, Eaton’s head turned toward Dilman, and Dilman was able to summon h
im. Eaton whispered something to his partner and came to Dilman at once, an inquiry on his features.
Dilman led his Secretary of State to the red silk Empire sofa against the wall, where they could have relative privacy. “I’ve finished with Amboko,” Dilman said. “He’s agreed to everything—everything.”
Eaton’s long diplomat’s face, used to shrouding reaction, this time could not conceal his surprise. “Really? Splendid, Mr. President. How did you accomplish it?”
Dilman would never let one like Eaton know the truth. He said, “Oh, we’d talked so much, and then suddenly, a few minutes ago, he threw in the towel. He said that he would put his entire trust in us, to protect him against his native Communists and Soviet meddling.”
“And we shall,” said Eaton. “I’ll speak to Monty Scott tomorrow. I’ll see that he has his best Central Intelligence agents over there. Were there any reservations?”
“Not one,” said Dilman. Then he snapped his fingers as he had an afterthought. “Except this. He wants our news release to be optimistic but ambiguous. He doesn’t want his concession made public until he’s had time to return home and secure his position there. Also, he thinks we should be silent about his concession so we can spring it on the Russians as a bargaining point.”
“Of course, of course,” agreed Eaton with a trace of impatience. “I suggested from the start that if we won this agreement from Baraza, we withhold it until we sit down with Premier Kasatkin. When Kasatkin begins to rave and rant about our ratification of the African Unity Pact, we hand him this concession to prove our good will. Will you sign the AUP?”
“Tonight.”
“Excellent, Mr. President. I’ll reopen negotiations for resumption of the Roemer Conference at once. The Russians seem to be agreeable to holding the talks in France, in Chantilly. Are you?”
“Perfectly.”
“Consider it done.”
“One thing, Mr. Secretary.” Dilman was conscious of his continuing formality with Arthur Eaton. Try as he would, he simply could not call this formidable person Arthur. “Edna Foster and Tim Flannery are standing by downstairs. Could you slip away for a few minutes and notify them? I promised Amboko a rough draft of our joint press statement at Blair House tonight. If he has any amendments, we can incorporate them in the morning. You can tell Flannery to let the press gang know they can go home and get some sleep. We’ll have nothing for them until nine in the morning.”
(1964) The Man Page 42
