The Man

Dilman, conscious of the time he was spending away from his honor guest, had quickly interjected, “Paul, did you get anything out of him?”

“There was nothing left to do but pose your inquiries to Valetti on the telephone. I told him you were deeply disturbed by the Hattiesburg kidnaping. I said that both you and the Attorney General wanted to be assured that the Turnerites had no part in that heinous crime, and that if they had not, it would do much for their cause if Hurley came forth and condemned such acts of violence. I reminded him that the Justice Department was investigating the Turnerites as well as other similar associations for possible Communist affiliations, and that they could forestall and thwart any repressive government action by voluntarily coming forward, opening their membership records and financial ledgers for the Justice Department. I implored him to cooperate. I begged him to get Jefferson Hurley to cooperate. I asked him if he would-” Spinger halted, swallowed, blinked down at his shoes.

“What did he say to that, Paul?”

“One word, Mr. President. A crude four-letter word. I am unable to repeat it. Then-then he hung up.”

Dilman had scowled. “That’s it?”

“That’s all of it, Mr. President. I’m afraid I failed you, but that’s the most I could do. They’re a mean, secretive bunch. One thing. Somewhere in our talk, toward the end, I did leave the door open. I told Valetti that he or Hurley could call me at any time, any hour, and reverse the charges, if they had a message for you.”

“They won’t call,” Dilman had said. “What do you make of it now? Do you think the Turnerites played any part in the abduction?”

“We don’t know a thing more than we knew this morning. Maybe yes, maybe no. As long as there is reasonable doubt, I don’t see how you can ban them.”

“I don’t either… Well, Tim Fla

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Now I’d better return to Amboko. He’s being about as cooperative as Valetti. What an evening.”

He had remembered all of this earlier failure as he studied the Spingers across the State Dining Room. Absently, he finished his dessert. From his close friends his gaze went to the dazzling gilded chandelier with its flame-shaped electric bulbs, then down to the gay flower-filled centerpieces on the table, and at last to the empty Wedgwood plate on the white damask linen cloth in front of him.

He hoped that his face did not reflect his shame at the massive rebuke of the empty seats. He was still that kinky-haired, thick featured relative of the orangutan, one of Zeke Miller’s Nigras, barely a second-class citizen. He could not help but be conscious of the oil portrait above the white marble mantelpiece directly behind him. Healy’s Abraham Lincoln. Would anyone but himself, Kwame Amboko for instance, appreciate the irony of it?

He glanced at his guest and realized that Amboko had been squinting at him thoughtfully through his rimless spectacles.

“A marvelous meal,” Amboko said with his always startling Harvard accent. “I regret it is finished.”

“You must come back soon for another,” Dilman said. Then he added wryly, “I’ll invite you, if I’m still here.” Down the table he saw a napkin fluttering. It was Chief of Protocol Illingsworth, pretending to wipe his mouth but actually signaling to him that the di

One more formality-and then he remembered it. Quickly Dilman pushed back his chair and came to his feet. Immediately the clatter of ice-cream spoons and the hum of conversations ceased. All eyes in the half-filled room were upon him.

Dilman reached for his hollow-stemmed champagne glass, and his unsteady hand held it before him. “Ladies and gentlemen, I offer a toast,” he a

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 ma

The toasts were continuing, from Secretary of State Eaton, from Secretary of Defense Steinbre

Suddenly the ordeal was ended. He rose with Amboko, and both watched the di

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 a