reversal of position. I can see you are perplexed that-”
“I
“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 him. 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.”
“I’ll do that at once, Mr. President. I’ll go upstairs and call Edna and Tim immediately.” He did not leave. He said, “I think we can agree, then, your first State Dinner has been a success.”
“In some respects,” said Dilman. He decided to say no more. “I’d better get to the East Room. They may be waiting for me.”
“I shall not be long,” said Eaton.
He left the room without a glance at Sally Watson.
Sally Watson had remained stationary in the corner of the Red Room, watching Arthur Eaton go into the Main Hall. He was moving purposefully, with concentration, and so she guessed that he was not yet on his way to the entertainment in the East Room. Restlessly she stayed on, waiting for the room to be emptied of all but herself. The moment that she saw President Dilman take his leave she gathered her long skirt a few inches from the floor for greater mobility. Just as Dilman disappeared into the Green Room, she hastened into the Main Hall.
She had the briefest glimpse of Arthur Eaton, beyond the central pillars, as he turned off to the wide staircase that led to the private apartments on the second floor. Except for the chief usher, the Secret Service agent Beggs, and a White House policeman, there was no one to observe her as she hurried along the red carpet of the arcade to the stairs. There she found two more Secret Service agents, who greeted her admiringly. For their eyes she made her ascent with more reserve and dignity.
The State Dinner had been a thrill for her, because of its success and despite its failure, although the failure part made her feel insecure about her position as social secretary. From the instant, however, that Arthur Eaton had sought her out in the Red Room, all thoughts of the dinner had vanished from her mind. Arthur-now really her Arthur, her darling, since she had visited him twice alone in his Georgetown house, and had had the one midnight drive with him to that tiny bar near the Normandy Farms, off the River Road in Potomac-had dominated all her waking hours. Arthur had been beautiful tonight, and in their minutes together, considering the important guests around, he had been almost daring. She suspected, from his lack of inhibition, that he had been drinking more than he ordinarily drank. She had not minded, indeed, loved it, because it had made him more open and romantic.
She remembered: he had teased her about their evening last week in his house that nestled behind the trees on Dumbarton Avenue. After dinner, after the maid and cook had retired, he had poured the brandies, while she
