Come Nineveh, Come Tyre: The Presidency of Edward M. Jason

by Allen Drury

  Or hadn’t they? He could still remember with an aching vividness the flickering moment when he and Cullee had come up to Oak Lawn six months ago to escape the savage contentions of the UN. The youth Hal Fry had entrusted to his care had been sitting under one of the giant old trees on the beautiful lawn that sloped down to the Hudson. They had talked to him for a while, as usual without eliciting response, and presently had started to go. They had said goodbye cheerfully and for just a second—a thrilling second—Jimmy had seemed to respond. There had been the start—almost the start—the intimation, the hint, the barest possibility—that he had tried to say goodbye in return. They had been elated, standing there on the lawn while he returned again to his placid smiling silence. Almost, they thought—almost—he had tried to come out of it. And if he could do so once, could he not again?

  So far, in the several visits Lafe had been able to make to him since, during the rising crescendo of the campaign and the busy weeks of transition, he had never again done so. The indications were that he would not do so now—or, quite possibly, ever again.

  And yet it was very important to the Senator from Iowa, just as it had been important to Cullee that day, and as it was important to Mabel, and to Claude and Raoul and K.K. and to many other people. They would all be as pleased as he, he knew, if the day came when he could say to them triumphantly, “Jimmy talked today. He responded. We’ve broken through. We’ve won!”

  It would be a small—a very small but in its way a very big—affirmation of life. And affirming life, Lafe thought with a somber grimness, was something that suddenly seemed overwhelmingly important, right now.

  How many millions there were—how many billions—for whom life’s affirmation rode uncertainly on the increasingly somber news that even now was coming over the car radio from the garish blue chamber where the races of man sat assembled in their bitterness, suspicion, anger and hate. The Soviet Union, true to its word, had taken its resolution to the General Assembly. The United States had done the same. This time Roger P. Croy had bestirred himself, been a shade more fleet-footed than Nikolai Zworkyan, introduced the American resolution first. Zworkyan had introduced his as the amendment this time. The results, it was clearly apparent as the debate raged on, were going to be no different.

  Right now Tanzania had the floor, and over his clipped and savage denunciation of corrupt, imperialist America the suave tones of Frankly Unctuous, broadcast simultaneously on radio and television, put it in a perspective that to Lafe, and he surmised to many millions, was chilling. Perhaps the most chilling thing about it, he realized as he piloted the car skillfully down the Garden State Parkway, was Frankly’s calm and indeed almost approving tone of voice. Many Americans, Lafe realized with a desperate heart, were relishing this day along with their enemies. Frankly for the moment, at least, appeared to be one of them.

  “It is evident,” he said in his smooth, rich, rolling tones, “that the vote will come very shortly on the Soviet amendment condemning the United States. It is also evident that it will be overwhelmingly approved.

  “The reasons for this have been made amply clear in the day-long debate that has included nations from all parts of the globe. With very few exceptions the United States has been vigorously, even harshly condemned. The exceptions have included nations such as Greece and Spain, tied to the United States by treaty or by hope of economic or military favors. America’s critics have included such notable spokesmen of the non-aligned world as India, such progressive republics as Libya, such outstanding leaders of world opinion as Chile and Indonesia. The cry, whether or not one may agree with it, has been clear and well-nigh universal: end American imperialism and restore world peace!

  “In this situation,” Frankly went on suavely, as in the background Tanzania concluded and the translator could be heard rendering Bulgaria’s harsh gobble into English, “the efforts of the United States so far have continued to be controlled and conciliatory. Obviously there is every determination on the part of the Jason Administration to avoid direct attacks upon the Soviet Union which might foreclose talks and agreement later. In a way which might seem surprising—were not America’s past record of impulsive aggression so well-known and bitterly remembered here—the United States appears to be receiving very little credit for the President’s forbearance. The Jason Administration is evidently carrying the unhappy burdens of the Hudson and Abbott Administrations. This is regrettable but, apparently, inevitable. It may well be—as this American and many others sincerely believe—that in his turn-the-other-cheek approach President Jason has found exactly the method to draw the teeth of the crisis and bring about that mutually respectful and mutually constructive conference with Russia’s leaders which he is seeking. But it is quite apparent that this approach will not receive the sanction or the ratification of a vote in the General Assembly, any more than it did earlier today in the Security Council. The reasons for this, resting upon the American record in the past twelvemonth, may be painful but, as Americans perhaps need to recognize and face up to, they may also be fully justified in the eyes of the world.… ”

  And obviously in yours too, you undercutting son of a bitch, Lafe thought with a savage contempt.… But maybe all was not so well with arrogant, intolerant old Frankly, after all. Rumors were beginning to get around Washington that Frankly and some of his very powerful colleagues of tube and newsprint had received threats during the campaign, that pressures had been attempted and had been at least partially successful—not coming, thank God, from the opponents of Ted Jason but from his “friends,” so called: from NAWAC and the fascist-minded left. These hints had taken a while to surface in Washington, but ultimately most things do surface in that ingrown, gossipy climate. Now they were the subject of common—and to those who really cared for the democracy—genuinely concerned discussion.

  How much of the support of Frankly and his friends for the Jason position was genuine and how much was dictated by the instinct of self-preservation, he did not know. Theoretically the media were staunch, fearless, upright, steadfast, courageous, undaunted, noble and true. Actually, confronted by a really genuine threat to themselves and their businesses—and that was the kind of threat that some astute minds had long felt to be implicit in NAWAC and the violent elements supporting Ted Jason—they were as capable of trimming to the wind as anyone. There comes a time with most men when self-preservation cancels all else; and he thought, with a certain relish he tried to keep from being too vindictive, that even for the smug know-it-alls who had for so long lectured and directed the world with their superior wisdom and slanted news, the day could come.

  He hoped with a shiver that it was not here yet, because if it were, it would be one of the surest and most obvious signs that the American Republic, as it had been founded and as it had endured, was to be irrevocably changed. Ted Jason, he knew, had no such intention; the great majority of his supporters in the media had no such intention; but there were people in the world who did have such an intention, and some of them were working as busily inside America as others were working out, to bring it about.

  The terrible situation that now confronted the country could very well provide the quickest and most efficient chute to hell for all the democratic traditions and still worthy—if, as always, confused—ideals of the great Republic.

  He sighed and glanced quickly at Jimmy. Eyes straight ahead, apparently not even noticing the countryside racing away on either side, he smiled his gentle and embracing smile. Lucky bastard, Lafe thought with a sudden deep bitterness, lucky bastard, to be out of it. And then, of course, was deeply ashamed of himself and said aloud, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” And received from Jimmy nothing save the placid, mindless, heartbreaking smile.

  For a moment, riding along with his silent burden at his side, the Senator from Iowa had a sudden apocalyptic vision of people all over the earth with their worries, hopes, fears, concerns, going about their business while a little band of insane men pirouetted on the top of the he
ap in their dance of mutual death. Right now all over the globe people were getting up or going to bed, eating or making love, being born or dying, getting ready to go to the store, talking to their neighbors, waiting in hospitals worrying about their loved ones, vacationing at the beach, climbing mountains, working in the office, building dams, cutting down timber, stopping for a hamburger and milk shake, driving down the street, gossiping with friends, sitting in restaurants, looking at beautiful views, cleaning the house, going to the movies, watching television, going to the supermarket, walking the dog, planting the crops—doing simple things, getting along from day to day, living, making plans. Some were working on small areas of hope, such as getting Jimmy to talk; some were working on larger areas, such as trying to save the Republic and the peace of the world. But most were just going along with their lives, doing the best they could, nothing very dramatic or special, just the things that made sense to them, trying to find some purpose in life, trying to survive and keep on going.

  And ’way up above, ’way up top, the dance of death, where the dancers must be extremely sure-footed or bring themselves and all, even the great globe itself, crashing down forever into the final silence.

  He became aware of a new note in Frankly’s voice, hushed and expectant.

  His attention stopped wandering and came back, concentrated and intent, to the contentious hall of nations he knew so well.

  “At the insistence of the Soviet delegation,” Frankly said, “the vote will be recorded by poll instead of on the voting board where the votes of all delegates are recorded instantaneously when they push the proper button at their seats. The President of the Assembly, Ceylon, has drawn lots to determine who will cast the first vote. The Secretary-General will now call the first name and proceed alphabetically thereafter.”

  “The Maldives!” came the steady voice of the S.-G., and the Maldives voted Yes on the Soviet amendment to the American resolution.

  Interrupted repeatedly by excited, approving demonstrations from the galleries, again dominated by NAWAC, and by occasional dismayed outcries from a few unfashionably out-of-date friends of America, the tally mounted steadily to its inevitable climax.

  Somewhere along the way, Lafe became aware that an odd thing was beginning to happen to Frankly Unctuous. His running commentary appeared to be just as smooth and effortless, his conclusions just as dogmatic, positive and knowing, but now and again there began to be evident a curious, unexpected little hesitancy; a surprising, almost candid, moment of open disbelief; an inadvertent, surprisingly honest glimpse of genuine dismay, that this should actually be happening to his country and to the man whose Presidency he had so vigorously supported, in whose principles and policies he so determinedly believed.

  It was covered up very smoothly with years of practice, but to an astute ear like Lafe’s, it was apparent that for the very first time, ever, Frankly Unctuous was actually beginning to be a little frightened by what the world was doing to his country. He believed desperately in the UN. He believed desperately in Edward M. Jason. He believed, though very grudgingly most of the time, in the United States of America.

  And now suddenly all these beliefs were at sixes and sevens with one another, and underlying his comments Lafe could sense the beginnings of the agony of a man who must at last make a real, Doomsday choice—a man who was beginning to suspect, terrifying though it might be to the lifelong assumptions of a rigidly closed mind, that he might have to decide in favor of the awful, blundering, despised America he had criticized with such implacable diligence for so many long and profitable years.

  If Frankly was beginning to feel this, Senator Smith was sure, so were all his friends and fellow mind benders of the media. Walter Dobius, too, must be having very disturbing second thoughts at “Salubria.” In the editorial conference rooms of the Times, the Post, the networks, and all their imitators across the land, men must even now be looking at one another with an uneasy surmise as NAWAC shouted in the galleries and on the floor of the General Assembly hatred spewed forth upon their country while the world proceeded solemnly to vote on the exact opposite of the known facts. In all those arrogant minds and all those intolerant hearts there must even now be growing the terrifying question: could we possibly have been wrong all these years? And if we have been, and if as a result the country is now beginning to slide out from under us at last in response to pressures both foreign and domestic, then God, what shall we do now to save ourselves and the society which has given us, and suffered us, so much?

  Well, he thought bitterly: let the bastards sweat—except, of course, that this was not a very sensible attitude either, because, as Ben Franklin had remarked with a wisdom not remembered of late by his mutually cannibalizing heirs, if we do not hang together we shall all hang separately. And when we have hanged separately, either at the direct hands of NAWAC or something like it—or at the indirect hands of an Administration too shattered by foreign and domestic pressures to control the violent who would destroy the freedoms of all citizens on the pretext that Edward M. Jason must be supported—what then will be left of the marvelous experiment of Ben and his remarkable band of brothers?

  He supposed, Lafe thought as he drove along with an automatic carefulness while the tally mounted in the Assembly and Frankly sounded increasingly strained, that Hal Fry had probably summed it up best six months ago, not only for the world to which he was speaking at the time, but for his own countrymen as well. The United States had cast its vetoes in the Security Council, the last bitter battle over Gorotoland and Panama was moving to its climax in the General Assembly. The Senator from West Virginia, chief United States delegate, was dying of leukemia. He had made his way by sheer will power to the podium of the Assembly and made a speech many preferred to forget, though its peroration still lay uneasily on the conscience of the world—as it should lie, Lafe Smith reflected grimly, on the consciences of his countrymen as well. The message applied to America too, now, as it had never applied before.

  “Oh, Mr. President!” Hal had cried, mustering from somewhere a last desperate energy that carried him through. “How does mankind stand, in this awful hour? Where does it find, in all its pomp and pride and power, the answer to its own fateful divisions? Where on this globe, where in this universe, is there any help for us? Who will come to our aid, who have failed so badly in our trusteeship of the bounteous and lovely earth? Who will save us, if we will not save ourselves?

  “I say to you, my friends, no one will. No one will. We are wedded to one another, it may be to our death, it may be to our living. We cannot escape one another, however hard we try. Though we fly to the moon and far beyond, we shall take with us what is in our hearts, and if it be not pure, we shall slaughter one another where’er we meet, as surely on some outward star as here on earth.

  “This is the human condition—that we cannot flee from one another. For good, for ill, we await ourselves behind every door, down every street, at the end of every passageway. We try to remain apart: we fail. We try to hide: we are exposed. Behind every issue here, behind the myriad quarrels that make up the angry world, we await, always and forever, our own discovery. And nothing makes us better than we are.

  “Mr. President, I beg of you, here in this body of which men have hoped so much and for which they have already done so much, let us love one another!

  “Let us love one another!

  “It is all we have left.”

  “On this vote,” said Ceylon with a smug satisfaction, “the yeas are 99, the nays are 28, and the amendment of the Soviet Union to the resolution of the United States is agreed to.”

  A savage whoop of triumph rose from Assembly and galleries, and in the aisles various Africans began to dance.

  “They like us,” the Secretary of State observed dryly. It was the first voice that had broken the silence of the Oval Office in fifteen minutes and the Secretary of Defense, the Majority Leader of the Senate and the Speaker of the House all looked a little startled. Arly Richardson an
d Jawbone Swarthman, in fact, even appeared annoyed by his flippancy. But if a man could not be flippant in such an hour, what could he do?

  Apparently, if he was President of the United States, he did not do anything, at least outwardly. Bob Leffingwell had studied that impassive face for some minutes now as the tally in the General Assembly rolled steadily higher against America, and its owner was still as much enigma to him as he had always been. How does a man look, how does he feel, when he has led his country into something like this? Ted Jason’s expression, attentive, alert but otherwise completely unrevealing, gave no clue. The President remained a mystery, the Secretary of State conceded with an inward sigh. Whether the mystery would ever have an explanation no one but the President, in all probability, could say.

  Except that it must have an explanation. It must. Even as they sat there the world, or whatever passed for “the world” in these chaotic and hopelessly fragmented times, was attempting to drive the final nails in the American coffin. And here sat the man who bore the responsibility of response, his idealism betrayed, his hopes shattered, his options narrowing down with terrifying rapidity to—what? What were his remaining options, and what could he possibly do, now that he had let so much precious time slip away, had sacrificed forever the only thing that really mattered, under all the missiles and bombs and monstrous armaments of war—the Moment. The moment to act—the moment to be decisive—the moment to be brave—the Moment, which was all that ever really counted in the chance-filled, unpredictable affairs of men.

  The Moment, of course, and the character: that was what it came down to, when all else was tossed in the balance and found wanting. In the slow, patient, inexorable judgment of history, these alone mattered. The moment came, and if you did not have the character to grasp it, history bade you a dispassionate farewell and moved on to someone else.