Irving Wallace - The Man

Dilman 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.