Now he’d lost his nerve and wouldn’t fly it at the opening ceremony for the League Pavilion at the Fair.
He felt that flying the flag would be provocative to the US because it was a non-member state. He was suddenly frightened about raising the flag of another, perhaps higher, entity in his own country.
Pure funk.
Her brain told her that it was a trivial matter on one level but it had become for her highly symbolic at a time rich in symbolic conflict. Swastikas, uniforms, torch-lit processions, banners and bands.
God knows there was not much else left for the League but symbolism.
There was another part to the problem.
Sweetser felt it was his decision to make.
It wasn’t his decision to make.
It was her decision.
Sweetser had always seen himself as the doctrinist, the strategist. An éminence grise in the Secretariat.
Well, he wasn’t.
She’d even caught him calling himself Counsellor, when the League no longer used that title—and his claim to it, anyhow, had always been in doubt.
And these high and mighty views of himself had now led him to be insubordinate to her. A flaming row had ensued.
Unlike Sweetser, she did have a base of authority within the League, even if it did not flow from an official appointment. Arthur Sweetser had made himself a role as the odd-job man for anything to do with America—but his authority was circumscribed by his job in Information Section. Her authority, on the other hand, was expansive, free-ranging and not circumscribed by any Section.
She, at least, was someone who had the use of the bow, arrows and quiver of power.
Even if her authority was not in the wall-chart of organisational structure, her authority was as known as the brightness of day. She was a Diana.
Since Bartou’s decline and illness, she’d spoken, acted, and thought for Bartou. For all intents and purposes, she was Bartou. From this office her line of authority was directly to the Secretary-General.
But hell’s bells, she outranked them by aura alone—all of them: Sweetser, Ben Gerig, and all the other self-important little men.
And they knew it.
They knew it, they knew it, they knew it!
With those thoughts, Edith pulled herself together, took out a handkerchief and carefully dabbed her eyes, and checked her make-up in the compact mirror. Her eyes showed some strain.
She stood up. She turned to examine the seat of her skirt, dusting it with her hand.
Then, head down, she made her way back through the swarming people to the League Pavilion.
Outside the League Pavilion, she passed the chairs which were filling with guests for the opening ceremony, the young American official guides in their blue satin sashes showing the early arriving visitors to their seats.
She moved into the Pavilion noting with pleasure the crowd inside, pausing to stop a small boy picking at the exhibit which showed the League’s success at setting international names and dosage for sera and toxins.
She went straight in behind the exhibits to the staff toilets.
She stood before the mirror.
As usual she avoided seeing the complete picture of her face until the end, concentrating on the particulars of her fastidious new routine of make-up, luxuriating in her new American cosmetics. She’d gone into Manhattan last week to a ‘Beautician’ and asked for a completely new approach to her make-up. She’d been in there nearly two hours and came away feeling very pleased and renewed and with a very expensive package of new cosmetics.
She’d gone back to the hotel and thrown away all her old cosmetics and stuff.
In recent years she’d become insecure about her make-up. What she knew she’d learned from her mother and through rather secretive experiments within her inner circle at Women’s College although most of them had been against it. She’d even gone without make-up for a year.
Apart from things Jeanne had told her or she’d observed in other women, she had never really known about make-up fashion. It was something of a confusion in her head. She’d stuck to the older ways of her mother for too long.
Now she felt she was fully renewed. American or not, she liked the look.
Her lipstick was brighter. Her eyes larger.
After she’d repaired her face, she closed her eyes and repeated her intimate litany, saying soundlessly to herself: Edith Alison Campbell Berry, you are thirty-nine years of age; you are comely; you are radiant; you are a woman of precious authority in this world of strife: go forth.
She then opened her eyes and looked at herself, fair and square.
Yes, Edith Alison Campbell Berry, you are thirty-nine years of age.
Do you wish to be younger?
Did she wish to be younger?
Thirty-nine may be a fine age but for one thing, it did not proceed—at least as far as she could observe in the nature of things—to yet more glamorous ages. It was the Last Gorgeous Age to Be. Although she did know some glorious older women.
Yes, one could still be glorious into the older years.
But not glamorous.
Make A Wish.
If she had a wish she would wish to be one year younger. To have thirty-nine always ahead of her.
Wish Not Granted.
Well then, she would go and do wonders with this her last truly glamorous year.
She studied her re-enlivened face again, stepped back to see a fuller reflection of herself, turning her head left and right. Comely, radiant, perhaps even striking.
She turned away from the mirror, washed her hands and primed herself to have it out with Sweetser.
She had only an hour or less before the opening.
She went to Sweetser’s office which she’d walked out of after the flaming row and its stalemate. She’d left his office telling him that she was going ‘to consider her position’.
She had acknowledged that in the old days Sir Eric Drummond had not wanted the League to have a flag, did not think it proper for the new world organisation to cloak itself with the appurtenances of a nation state.
The world had moved on since Drummond’s days and flags were not only for nation states.
The League, anyhow, was something of a state, although not a nation, as such, it was perhaps a new form of state.
And in these darkening times, she wanted the League to declare itself more stridently, in a state-like fashion. A flag would proudly display and proclaim the power of the League—whatever power resided still within the noble institution.
The League should be an inviolable refuge for all.
People should be able to stand under the flag of the League and feel protected by it. It should provide a sanctuary for those standing under it—the flag should be a fearful warning: ‘do not harm this flag or those it represents or those who gather under its protection.’
It should be a declaration of a mighty, forbidding otherworldly power.
She’d considered just going ahead and flying it herself but that would be seen simply as a petulant act, to be laughed about by the men.
She stopped at the door of Sweetser’s office, thought about her approach, and then turned away and went back to her office.
The strategy in a stalemate was that you had to introduce a new factor to break that stalemate. You could not simply go over old ground.
She would issue Sweetser with a written instruction.
That would be the new factor.
She sat at her desk and summoned the stenographer through the intercommunication device.
The neatly folded, newly made flag with its virgin white rope and shining brass eyelets was still there on her desk.
The stenographer came in, dressed for the opening ceremony, surprised—perhaps grumpy—at being summoned to work on a day which was to be something of a holiday, but carrying her notebook and pencils.
‘I’m sorry, Frances, I have an urgent memorandum. Two memoranda. One to Mr Sweetser and one to Mr Gerig.’
‘Ma’am, are they for tomorrow?’
‘I want them typed now, immediately, and delivered by hand.’
No.
She changed that. ‘I will deliver them myself.’
‘Typed before the opening?’
‘Before the opening. Now.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Frances looked at her watch and then took a position of alert readiness with her notepad and a pencil, swallowing whatever irritation she felt. ‘I want this done with great urgency.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I’ve changed my mind, they will not be memoranda.’
Frances crossed out whatever she’d written and looked back to Edith.
‘They will be headed DIRECTIVE in capital letters and then OFFICE OF UNDER SECRETARY-GENERAL, then, “Temporary Office, League of Nations Pavilion, World’s Fair, Flushing Meadow, New York, New York.” Use the embossed letterhead and heavy cloth paper. The directive will begin: “My dear Sweetser, My dear Gerig. With the authority of the office of Under Secretary-General, Auguste Bartou, I hereby instruct you as follows:
‘Item One) The flag of the League of Nations will be displayed at the opening ceremony along with the flag of the United States. The American flag to the left and the League to the right on the hand-held poles already purchased.
‘Item Two) The flag of the League of Nations will fly at the same height as the American flag.
‘Item Three) Until raised, the flag will be held during the ceremony by a boy scout or state trooper or, failing that, by Arthur Sweetser.’
Edith laughed to herself.
‘Item Four) After today, the League flag will be raised on a permanent pole (to be erected) perceptibly higher than, and between the two poles already in place. The poles already in place will fly the American flag and the flag of the State of New York.
‘This directive overrides any pre-existing national flag protocols.
‘Please note, this is not a request but a directive.
‘It is to be executed forthwith.
‘Nota Bene: No excuse will be accepted for failure to observe this directive.
‘Signed: E.A. Campbell Berry.
‘Date it and also type in the time.’ Edith looked at her watch: ‘10.36 a.m.’ Now go, Frances. Quick sticks.’
‘Ma’am? Quick sticks?’
‘As fast as you can.’
Frances then said, ‘Ma’am, may I ask a question?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘With respect, that is …’
‘Yes, Frances?’
‘Are you really able to tell Mr Sweetser and Mr Gerig to do these things?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Pardon my ignorance, but are you then their boss?’
‘I am their boss.’
‘Well.’ She looked at Edith with uncertain regard.
‘Go to it,’ Edith said.
Frances moved quickly from the room.
‘I will come with you,’ Edith said, grabbing the flag and going with Frances to the typing office. She watched over her shoulder as Frances expertly typed the directives.
Edith took them as they came from the typewriter, proofread them and signed them. Flawless typing.
‘Thank you, Frances. Excellent typing.’
‘Ma’am, will I be needed again?’
‘I don’t think so. You can get ready for the Opening.’
As Edith turned to leave, Frances said, ‘Ma’am?’
Edith turned back, ‘Yes?’
‘I’ll watch for the raising of the flag.’
Edith smiled at her conspiratorially, ‘Can you raise a flag? Were you a Girl Guide, Frances?’
‘Oh no—I can’t do that. Oh Lord, don’t ask me.’
‘You’re free now—enjoy the ceremony.’
Frances said, ‘Go for victory.’
They exchanged kindred smiles.
At least she had one person on side.
Edith licked and sealed the envelopes, gathered up the flag, then dashed down the hallway to her office, put on her hat and gloves, grabbed her handbag, and half-ran to Sweetser’s office, knocked and entered without waiting.
He was standing at a small wall mirror adjusting his tie.
‘Arthur.’
He turned away from the mirror and fixed his fine smile on her. ‘Calmed down, Edith?’
‘I am calm, Arthur.’
‘Feeling better?’
She was trembling but it was inner trembling and she did not give a damn. She said to herself, I’m trembling because it’s natural to tremble.
‘Arthur, about the flag …’
‘Don’t apologise, don’t give it a second thought. Matter closed.’
He went back to the mirror, making another adjustment to his tie.
She had observed that here on his home ground in the United States, Arthur was an even more confident person. On home ground he was able to present himself with mystique—as an officer of the distant international institution with unknown authority—among people who had never seen the Palais or been to Geneva.
Back in Geneva he was just a familiar face about the place, known for what he was.
From his mirror, speaking without turning to her, perhaps watching her in the mirror, he said, ‘In the flow of history the matter of the flag will be nothing.’
‘Arthur, I am not here to apologise.’
He paused at the mirror for an instant, and then slowly turned to her.
Now that she had his face-to-face attention, she said, ‘I am herewith instructing you to raise the League flag at the ceremony this day at noon.’
‘I thought we went through all this. There is to be no League flag. It would be an error of judgement. Drummond would not have tolerated it.’
‘Drummond is long gone, Arthur. And yes, we did go through it. I said that I would consider my position. I have considered my position. I have made my decision.’
Breaking their eye contact, Arthur looked at his wall calendar as if maybe he had got the day wrong—the year, the century. ‘You have made a decision?’ he said to her, still without looking at her.
‘I have made a decision and I have here in my hand a directive.’
Arthur looked back to her. His look had a merry smugness. ‘In normal circumstances, and as a matter of courtesy, I would study your suggestion and consult with Ben, but we haven’t the time.’
He then made to tidy up his desk. Again looking away from her.
‘I agree,’ she said. ‘We haven’t time.’
‘Leave it be, then, Edith. When we’re back in Geneva and if you still think that it’s important, I will raise flag protocol with Avenol. God, we could even form a committee to consider it.’ He then looked at her, smiled his dazzling smile, and said, ‘Happy now?’
‘Arthur,’ she stared unblinkingly back into his smile, ‘Arthur, it isn’t a matter of whether there is time for discussion. I am issuing you with a directive. By my hand.’
He leaned on his desk, looking down at the desk, as if pushed to the limits of his patience.
‘Here it is in writing.’ She held it out to him.
He did not take it or look at it although he could not avoid its presence thrust out there into his field of vision.
She felt a wave of indecision. If he didn’t take it, the situation would collapse onto her.
Then what?
She hadn’t thought it through.
Then what?
Humiliation, that was what.
‘I’m issuing the same directive to Ben.’
He remained there, leaning forward on his hands.
‘Arthur. Take it.’
She gave the directive a slight flick.
He remained leaning on the desk, eyes down.
The Living Statue: adopt the pose of any well-known personality.
Was he doing a Mussolini?
She was tempted to drop it onto his desk in front of him.
That would not work.
It was important that he take it from
her hand.
‘Arthur—I have resolved this matter. Take it.’
He looked up. ‘Surely you do not have the authority?’
She could tell by his voice that the fight was still there, but that he was now also slightly unsure of himself.
He’d asked a question.
His error.
‘I have the authority, Arthur. If you do not take this, I will suspend you and I will suspend Ben.’
He tossed his jaw up and woofed back, ‘And then what? Ship us back to Geneva in disgrace? You’re a big girl, Edith, but I don’t think you could take on Ben and me.’
He laughed and tried to throw his laughter over her, like sand into her eyes.
It was an acted-out, insecure laugh.
He was cracking.
She gave a small tight smile which in no way went along with his laughter, a managerial smile, ‘Arthur, if you do not accept this directive I will call in the State police and have you removed from this office, from this site, and from this fairground.’
As she said it she felt all breath leave her lungs. She did not quite recognise her voice.
She tried to remember how to breathe.
Her mind then rushed to question the linkage of her authority.
Did it really stretch from the League in Geneva to the police force of the State of New York?
How would she convince the State police of her authority? Would they believe a woman? Would she need a cable from Bartou? How would she establish her command?
Probably through Grover Whalen, President of the Fair Corporation, who had rather liked her when they’d met at meetings and receptions.
It would be all monstrously hard.
Edith. It would be impossible.
She had gone too far. And she knew it.
Go further, Priestess of Delphi—‘I feel assured of Grover Whalen’s backing on this.’
That was ambiguously put.
It was a desperate throw.
Sweetser then looked up from his desk. His eyes expressed an unaccustomed, stunned look.
The Statue Awakens. He stopped leaning on the desk, straightened up, did up the top button of his suit coat, and took the directive from her hand.
He’d taken the directive. He’d obeyed her.
Make your will, Arthur.
He opened it with his Fair-crested ornamental letter opener and took out the directive, holding it as if it might bite.
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