A Thing of State, page 22
“Correct,” Ray Stanley said.
“It is leading the US into perilous waters,” the ambassador observed.
“Correct,” Ray Stanley said.
“Then why,” Tony Marsden demanded, and this time he too stepped beyond polite diplomatic discourse with a concerned directness not so acrimonious but perhaps even more unsettling than the typical blast from China or the resurgent Soviets, “are you not using your influence to try to change this, old friend? Is office that important to you too? Over principle?”
There was a silence while the Secretary for once found himself temporarily devoid of words. This was how the underlying realities of the world sometimes confronted you: they sneaked in in the midst of socially cushioned conversations and socked you in the ribs, as Mary had once put it. It had been a long time since his basic convictions about his own character had been so challenged. His answer when it came was slow and thoughtful.
“Office is not more important to me than principle, Tony,” he said. “I hope I would never betray my concept of myself in that way. But I have the same hope that you have when confronted by some policy of your government that challenges your concept of yourself—you add it all up and go along, because you hope that by doing so you can work from inside for changes that might make things come more into conformity with your basic beliefs. I know we’re in a dangerous downslide around the world. I know Sidi is trying to take advantage of it, this monstrous little pipsqueak defying the United States, apparently convinced that we won’t have the will or the integrity to stand up to him as we’re threatening to do. I know there have been too many precedents for that in recent years. I know it’s almost too late to recover world respect and belief in our word and our intentions. I am devastated by this, as one who has spent all his adult life in the service of our country’s foreign policy.
“But I also know that the President knows all this, too—in an intellectual sort of way, not in the gut-instinct way in which he knows things domestically. And I feel I should stay in here and attempt to hold him to it, without wavering and without letting his political sense overcome his moral and historical sense of what is right for this world.”
Again the ambassador gave him a long and penetrating look.
“And if you can’t influence him that way, you’d go?”
Again the Secretary thought long and hard before his answer.
“I think it is too early,” he said finally, “to make a decision on that. We will have to see what develops when—”
“Then you wouldn’t,” the British ambassador said, and was on his feet holding out his hand, which the Secretary took automatically in a farewell grasp. “Good luck, old friend. You can count on us in the Security Council, of course. May your tenure here continue to be all that you wish it to be.”
“Now, wait—” Ray Stanley said. “Wait a minute. I didn’t say—”
“What you didn’t say was quite enough,” Tony Marsden said, not unfriendly but in some subtle way not as respectful as he had been. “Give my love to Mary. We must all get together soon.”
“But—” the Secretary said.
Tony waved aside his protesting tone.
“Good luck to you, Ray,” he said. “Don’t bother to see me out. I’ll just run along.”
And did so, with a wave and a brief departing smile as he went out the door. It closed and the Secretary was alone.
* * *
But not, of course, for long.
Not long enough to think, just use the bathroom, return to his desk, and compose himself in sufficiently statesmanly stance to receive the French ambassador, who was ushered in within ten minutes after the British ambassador left.
The Secretary was glad at this moment that he didn’t have time to think. Tony had penetrated his armor most directly; he needed a little time to adjust. He didn’t want to face up immediately to the moral and ethical complications of what his ultimate course might be. He wasn’t ready yet to throw the world away for principle—nor by the same token was he ready to abandon principle, which in the last analysis had always guided his life.
Perhaps a big defiance by the small tyrant of a small country was not the point on which the decision should turn. Surely there were more important issues.
He wanted to talk to Mary, and perhaps to Eulie, though he knew what both would counsel.
He stood up with a warmly welcoming air. Suave and smiling, Georges Marranne, former foreign minister, former prime minister, presently, “in the twilight of my years,” ambassador to the United States, came slowly peering in with his air of a scaly but immaculately turned out old turtle. He was, as always, beautifully dressed, “a real d.o.d.,” as Bets referred to him, meaning “dapper old dandy.” Ray Stanley found him boring, pretentious, smug, and often quite insufferable, which, he often thought wryly, made Georges the perfect ambassador: one of his major jobs, after all, was to reflect his country.
“Georges!” he exclaimed, with his most fulsome, practiced cordiality.
“Raymond!” exclaimed Georges, equally hearty. “How nice of you to invite me to visit!”
“I would have come to see you, Georges,” Ray Stanley said, “except that this has been a very busy day.”
“Ah, yes,” Georges Marranne said. “Washington is in a bit of turmoil, is it not? Little Sidi has this big country”—he paused and with a twinkle used one of the startling bits of American slang he liked to throw in to shock people—“by the balls. Yes?”
“That’s right, Georges,” the Secretary said. “They’re really clanging. Have a seat.”
“Thank you,” Georges said, moving with sure instinct away from the big desk to the more intimate armchair by the window just vacated by the British ambassador. “Now,” he said, having carefully arranged his elderly bulk in its comfortable confines, peering at the Secretary across the top of the cane over which his beautifully manicured hands were draped, “what can our modest efforts contribute to the solution of this difficult problem for you?”
“Not only for us, Georges,” Ray Stanley told him, taking the chair opposite, “but for all of us who value decency and stability in the world—or perhaps I should say of the world. I know France has always been in the vanguard of such efforts.”
“Of course!” Georges said, accepting the compliment serenely as France’s due. “You can bet the farm on that.”
“Consider it bet,” Ray told him. “Now we approach a discussion in the Security Council.”
“Ah, yes,” Georges said. “And you wish us to support you in the condemnation of this piece of merde in Greater Lolómé.”
“Not only the condemnation but the actual control of this piece of merde.” the Secretary said. “Including, if necessary, the punishment of this piece of merde. Can we rely on France to join us in that?”
The ambassador looked profound, wiggled his eyebrows, pursed his lips. Oh, knock it off, Ray Stanley thought, but forbore. Presently, having mugged enough, Georges responded.
“I think,” he said, slowly, “I—think, that we had best take it a step at a time, should we not? Let us see how the condemnation goes, and if that proceeds in order, then we shall see about punishment. If he continues to be defiant, that is. He may surprise us all by agreeing to inspection.”
“I’m afraid that is not his mood,” Ray Stanley said.
Georges Marranne shot him a suddenly shrewd glance.
“You have had some direct contact, then?”
“Yes,” the Secretary said, and added blandly, “Hasn’t France?”
The ambassador stared at him for a moment. A slow smile began and spread. He looked more than ever the knowing old turtle.
“I am informed there has been a brief exchange of views.” His expression became more serious. “It was not encouraging.”
“No, he’s quite intransigent,” the Secretary said. “So the question remains: will France support us on the resolution and, if need be, after?”
“I can only reiterate,” Georges said, “one step at a time. When will you desire the Security Council to meet?”
“The President hasn’t indicated.”
“Ah, yes,” Georges remarked. “The President. Well, we shall see. It has been indicated to me that we will support you on the resolution. After that”—he raised his shoulders and looked skeptical—“qui sais?”
“It will be of no value unless it is fully implemented,” Ray Stanley said, “and unless it is made emphatically clear to him that it will be implemented by the full weight of a united world community.”
Again the ambassador gave his skeptical shrug.
“America, America!” he said with a smile. “Always absolutes! Always end-of-the-world decisions! Why not wait and see, Raymond? Have faith in France! More importantly”—his smile became fatherly if not downright patronizing, his tone gently chiding—“have faith in yourselves! Don’t be so nervous.”
“We aren’t nervous,” the Secretary said, unable to keep a certain irritation out of his voice: they were always so smug. “We just like to know where we stand.”
“Guarding the ramparts of freedom!” the ambassador said, beginning a slow struggle up out of his chair. “Is it not always so?”
“We hope so,” Ray Stanley said, rising to place a hand under Georges’s arm and give him a boost—perhaps not quite as gentle as it should have been, for the old turtle gave him a sudden penetrating glance. “We hope you’ll be with us, Georges.”
“Oh, yes,” the ambassador said impatiently. “Thank you. Oh, yes, we will be there—as far as you go.”
“All the way,” the Secretary said firmly, a conviction in his voice that he did not entirely feel, at the moment.
“We await it,” Georges Marranne said, “with interest. Keep us au courant.”
“D’accord,” Ray Stanley responded dryly. “Don’t take any wooden nickels.”
“Or the Brooklyn Bridge,” the ambassador said with a chuckle.
“You’re dating yourself, Georges,” the Secretary told him as they reached the door. “That hasn’t been for sale for years.”
And so, lastly, came his conversation with that high and mighty, imperious and contentious, excruciatingly sensitive soul who was always hearing slurs in the most innocent remarks, the Secretary-General of the United Nations, the Hon. Kwazze Kumbatta of the Republic of South Africa.
Kwazze Kumbatta was also one of those whom Ray had met in his travels around the world—the first time, when the Secretary had been a member of the official US delegation to the inauguration of the new multiracial government in Pretoria.
“Call me Kwazz,” he had urged everyone on that wildly exuberant (for the victors) occasion, but it was obvious that the nickname, and indeed most remarks, had to be spoken carefully and in just the right, respectful tone, or Kwazz would take umbrage and bridle—which, Ray had observed, might be said to apply to the entire new government. They were still very skittish with power. Many ominous cracks were beginning to appear in the cobbled-together contraption they had created with the whites, Indians, and coloreds. The Secretary’s prognostications for the future of southern Africa were not optimistic, though the United States was doing all it could to encourage stability.
Soon after the new government took office, the post of Secretary-General had unexpectedly fallen vacant. Kwazz, who had been a very active figure on the darker side of the African National Congress, had been nominated by the government as South Africa’s candidate. The UN, in a characteristic spasm of symbolism, had promptly accepted the recommendation on a unanimous vote. The Hon. Kwazze Kumbatta (“KWA-zee Koom-BAH-tah,” as he had it printed directly beneath his name on all his official letterheads) took over administration of the United Nations and had been riding high ever since. Talk about us lecturing the world! Ray Stanley often thought, mindful of the Secretary-General’s frequent disparaging remarks about racial conditions in America: we aren’t in it with that one.
However, diplomacy was still diplomacy on many occasions, and for many reasons having to do with the need for stability in that part of the world, the market for American goods down there, and the vast mineral wealth of the country, now largely under control of its new masters—to say nothing of Kwazz’s own sensitivity—the Secretary’s tone was friendly but guarded now. In mind’s eye he could see Kwazz’s handsome high-cheek-boned face, intelligent gray-blue eyes, and lighter than normal skin, all inherited from some wandering Afrikaner, now lost to history, who had contributed to the family bloodstream a century ago. The expression, he knew, would be as cautious and guarded as his own. So was the voice.
“Yes?” the Secretary-General inquired carefully. “Who is this, please?”—although Ray of course had identified himself to the S.-G.’s secretary.
“This is Ray Stanley,” he said. “Is this the Secretary-General?”
“It is he,” the S.-G. said gravely. “It is my pleasure to hear from you, Mr. Secretary.”
“Mutual, Mr. Secretary-General.”
“You wish to discuss a date for the Security Council meeting on the problem posed by President Sidi,” Kwazze Kumbatta said. “Right?”
“Right.”
“Next Friday would be the earliest,” Kwazz said. “Is that agreeable to your government?”
“We would prefer it sooner,” the Secretary said, “but if prior commitments make it impossible—”
“You know how it is,” Kwazz said, deep voice sounding politely regretful, though the Secretary knew, from past experience, that Kwazz, like all Secretaries-General, was secretly quite pleased with anything, however minor, that would annoy the United States. “There are still flare-ups in Palestine—the wars in Sudan and Kenya may require action—Northern Ireland—Korea—Haiti”—his voice trailed away, there was a heavy sigh. “One never knows. It never ends, does it? It keeps us jumping.”
“Like a cat on a hot tin roof,” the Secretary said.
There was an instant loss of cordiality at the other end.
“Funnily enough,” the S.-G. said, not sounding as though it were funny at all, “my tribal name as a child was ‘Little Jumping Cat.’ You did not know that?”
“How could I?” the Secretary inquired calmly.
“You should,” Kwazze Kumbatta said in an accusatory tone. “It is in my official biography distributed through this office.”
“I am sure our ambassador to the United Nations has read it with great care,” Ray Stanley said. “It just has not happened to come across my desk.”
“Ah, well,” the Secretary-General said, “I suppose your remark was not meant critically.”
“It is just an expression we have,” Ray Stanley said.
“Oh,” Kwazze Kumbatta said. “Very well, then. What position will the United States take on this matter of Sidi?”
“I assume you have read our official statement as presented by the President,” Ray said.
“You will file copies of your resolution prior to the meeting so that we may consider it?”
“Of course,” the Secretary said, permitting a slight impatience to enter his voice. “Don’t we always comply with UN procedures?”
“On the many occasions when you seek Security Council support?” Kwazze Kumbatta said. “Yes, that is correct. Very good.”
“What seems to be the sentiment up there regarding Sidi?” Ray inquired. “Have you had a chance to find out?”
“It is my duty to find out,” Kwazz said stiffly, sounding attacked again.
“And you have,” Ray Stanley said.
“I have.”
“Well?”
“I really do not feel,” the Secretary-General said, “that I have the right as Secretary-General to reveal the contents of confidential conversations I have had with members of delegations.”
“For heaven’s sake—” Ray Stanley began in a tired voice, then dropped it. “Of course you are right, Kwazz. I suspect they have not revealed much to you, anyway. I think you are still regarded as the new boy—sorry, I mean the new man—on the block. They would probably not confide in you, anyway.”
“I am privy to many of their secrets!” the Secretary-General said angrily. “And not as a ‘boy,’ either!”
“I amended that,” the Secretary said. “Calm down, Kwazz. Nobody’s criticizing you, but it does seem to me that you would know more about their sentiments than you are telling me. If, as I say, they really confide in you.”
“Yes, they confide in me!” Kwazze Kumbatta said angrily. “Many of them do not approve of the United States position this time. They feel Sidi has been punished enough.”
“Even if he is threatening the peace of the world—” the Secretary began, but was interrupted by the S.-G.’s heartily sarcastic laugh.
“What is that?” he demanded. “And where do you see it? Does such a thing exist? Where, Ray? Where?”
“And even,” the Secretary continued in a level voice, “if he really does have A-bombs that pose a threat to the entire region, if not to the entire world—”
“Oh, well!” Kwazze Kumbatta exclaimed, scornful laughter deepening. “Everybody has them, nowadays. What difference does that make?”
“If that truly represents your sentiments, Kwazz,” Ray Stanley said, finally provoked, “you strike me as completely unfit for your job. ‘The Worlds Conscience’ did the Times call you a few weeks ago in that Sunday magazine puff piece? What a conscience! What a world! And how snugly—and smugly—do you fit together!”
“Now,” Kwazze Kumbatta said, “I am really angry, Ray. I do not accept that kind of remark from you, or—”
“Or any other white man,” Ray Stanley interrupted.
Kwazze Kumbatta’s voice actually shook with anger.
“Or any man,” he grated out. “This is not amusing, Mr. Secretary. You are offending me. I hope your resolution fails! I hope your efforts fail! I hope you are humiliated!”
“You said Friday?” the Secretary inquired, unimpressed.
“I said Friday,” Kwazze Kumbatta snapped.
“We will begin circulating the resolution tomorrow,” the Secretary said in the same unemotional, unimpressed voice. “Please notify the members of the Security Council that I will appear in person this time. Say that we urge other foreign ministers and heads of government to attend, if they so desire.”
