Sitting comfortably in front of a small fire after dinner, David's uneasiness lessened as he realized that the decision was as much his as it was Solomon Abikawai's and Travis's; he had not yet made up his own mind; even thinking of a move so drastic brought an awareness of the wrench it would be, the dislocation of his life and plans, and he was damned if he was going to sit like a scared child in a principal's office and worry about the judgments and opinions of others.
As he had expected, Solomon Abikawai initiated discussion almost immediately. He might have been asking a casual question of a tourist. "What do you know of my country, Mr. Champlin?"
"Mainly what your son has told me, sir, woven in with what I've read."
"Then you know more than most foreigners. It is generally known, of course, that we are a wealthy country in many respects. Our natural resources are enviable."
"And envied, sir." He had settled on "sir" as being respectful and not likely to be wrong.
"Yes." Abikawai's gaze was direct, ignoring the others. "And envied. As you say. Do you also know wherein we are vulnerable? Our weaknesses?"
"I should think that any Negro out of our South would be able to put his finger on several of them. I'd say one of the main ones would be the type of education that was made available under colonialism. It was bound to be an education aimed chiefly at increasing the value of the individual to the economic life of the country, at the same time maintaining his sense of inferiority and as far as possible erasing any sense of national pride." He stopped, afraid that he was talking too much, but Abikawai nodded slowly, and he went on. "In a country, as differentiated from a state in our Union, I suppose there would be exceptions. There would have to be a higher form of education encouraged for a certain group, an upper-echelon group, let's say, so there would be someone with whom at least to make a pretense of dealing." He stopped again, and again Abikawai nodded, not speaking, and he continued. "Isn't that what you have now? And will have when you become independent?"
Solomon's smile was so sudden and unexpected that David almost lost his train of thought. "Well put, Mr. Champlin. Given a reasonable world based on a reasonable system of ethics, these difficulties would not exist. Unfortunately, it is not a reasonable world. It is a civilized world." He smiled again. "As whites define civilization. Whether that civilization is good or evil we must leave undecided for the moment. What remains to be faced is that adaptation to that civilization is essential to survival. At least for the time being. The situation raises an interesting question for the defenders of that civilization to answer."
David had lost his self-conscious uneasiness completely now, no longer giving a damn whether Abikawai approved of him, thoughts crowding his mind that he wanted to voice whether or not this dark, compelling man agreed. "That sounds like a man who taught me when I was growing up—a Professor Knudsen."
"Bjarne Knudsen?" At David's surprised look Abikawai said: "Two of his books have been my most frequent reading. His conclusions are not comfortable for those who believe that the world can only progress through the triumph of what is called civilization today."
"He based a lot of his conclusions on comparative studies of African cultures and white cultures," said David.
It was like the starting gun for a football game; there was no longer a tete-a-tete between a young Champlin and an older, wiser Abikawai, but a four-sided debate, with Lawrence Travis jumping agilely from side to side verbally—supporting, opposing, whenever support or opposition would make the conversational blaze burn brighter. Every so often David turned to Jedediah, smiling, and said, "Hey, we missed that one on board ship." And Jedediah would remind him that they had been granted only a little less than a week; that they had agreed they had left the world unfinished.
Once Solomon Abikawai said: "As a pupil of Knudsen's you must know of the entirely different concept of land rights, for example, prevalent throughout much of Africa. In my country, for one, any concept of private ownership is difficult of achievement. Our lands were held—and still are in many of our clans—in continuity by the community, belonging to the community by right of descent from what has been best translated by others as a 'First Ancestor.' Conquest did not destroy this concept wholly. It was to the European a purely mystical concept, and as such, incomprehensible and unacceptable by those whose lives were lived by the standards of a cash economy, whose governments were founded on a cash economy. Because it could not be accepted by them, and was incomprehensible to them, it must be changed, translated into the cash economy both acceptable and understandable."
What Solomon was saying was not new to David. The Prof had guided him through the highways and byways of other civilizations, eyebrows bristling with interrogation. "This is bad, yes? Bah! It is not bad. What have we offered that has bettered it? Argue with me, David; argue with me—"
But never, he thought now, in his wildest imaginings, in his most involved arguments with the Prof, had he ever dreamed that any future that might lie before him, however unexpected, would involve him personally in those cultures they had discussed. In the world Solomon Abikawai was attempting to explicate, certain basic principles David Champlin had sweated to grasp through long nights of study were not necessarily the tools of enlightenment and progress; could be, instead, under certain conditions, tools of destruction. He attempted now, haltingly, to clarify this, to talk out his thoughts and ideas and conclusions, and he wondered at the man's apparently inexhaustible patience. Then he remembered from many years before something he had read in one of Gramp's books about Africa—the right of "palaver," the sacred right of palaver, the granting to every man at a meeting of the community the right to speak what was on his mind, even if it took many hours; even, he recalled, if the man was known to be the village idiot or a loquacious fool. Solomon Abikawai had not forgotten the ethical teachings of his youth. David stopped, embarrassed that he had taken up so much time, and finished by saying: "What it comes down to is pure democracy, sir. At least in my opinion. A democracy the rest of us couldn't handle if we had it. It would become corrupt in one century. One decade, perhaps I should say."
"Yes." Solomon's assent was simple, without embellishment. "I am afraid it is too late to save my country from that corruption, entirely. We can only hope to keep it at a minimum. For that reason we cannot accept help from those who seek control as the natural result of such help. We can only accept help selfishly, with no intent to repay in the coin of control. Wealth?" He shrugged. "I do not care if another country makes money from our riches if enough remains to us. Why should I? But I care that we be permitted to grow as our creator intended us to grow—to a peaceful maturity. Even if that maturity, when it is arrived at, seems to be a faulty one seen through eyes that cannot comprehend it."
He shifted his position in his chair, and David realized with a shock that for hours Solomon Abikawai had sat literally immobile, except for the muscles of eyes and face. He said: "We must start at the point of greatest weakness; a gap in our life that will destroy us even in the moment of birth. I refer to the gap between the educated elite of which you spoke and the people of the land, the communities and clans who, quite literally, are the country. Otherwise"—he smiled grimly—"we will become as other nations are becoming—the handwriting is on the wall—a country with airports on which few planes ever land, of great buildings that few people occupy, of traffic lights at corners where no traffic passes. Such a situation can spell dissolution or destruction; is spelling it in many places."
Jedediah stood up, walked to the fireplace, and stood with his back to it, looking down at David. "In the United States, David, I couldn't help noting a situation similar to the one my father speaks of as existing in Africa. Your so-called upper-class and middle-class Negro, your élite and near élite, have turned their faces away from those of their own people who have not had their advantages. The Negro leadership is too spotty, too varied in approach, in some instances too self-seeking, to be effective for all the people—the urban Negro, the ru
ral Negro, and the many types in between. Do you agree?"
"Certainly. I'd be a fool not to when it's so evident."
"The disadvantaged Negro there, whether he likes it or not, must in the final analysis rely upon the whites in those areas of decision that affect his life and the lives of his children, decisions that either give or deny to him respect as a human being. There are outstanding exceptions, of course, and I have met several, but for the most part the members of his race who have—" He hesitated, groping for a phrase.
"Made it," supplied David.
"Yes. Made it. Those people want no part of him. We don't want this situation in Zambana, where there will be no white rule, where if any man is disadvantaged it will be by his own people."
"We will not have it in Zambana." Solomon Abikawai put no stress on any word; there was no deepening of his voice; it was a simple statement of fact, and a rebuke to his son, who had said "We do not want" instead of "We will not have."
David knew, looking at the man opposite him, that Lawrence Travis had been right: this man was no seeker of power; he was genuinely a seeker of light for his people, wanting power only as a means to bring this light.
At the end of the long evening, while Solomon and Lawrence Travis talked briefly in the central hallway, Jedediah drew David aside, looking up at him and smiling slightly. "I hope?" he said simply. He made no attempt to hide, now, his knowledge of the unspoken reason for the meeting.
"I don't know. I have to think about it. And besides, the whole thing could fall through in Washington. It's still in the 'if' stage. Very 'if.'" He returned Jed's smile. "One thing I
understand. Your father's 'hands off' policy. It's got to be that way."
"We'll need watchdogs."
"Yes, but they'll have to be watchdogs with no masters of their own to protect. That's one of the problems. It's an ethical one. What would my government expect of me, if—"
Jedediah shrugged. "Of an 'adviser' only? I shouldn't think you would be expected to take an active part in furthering any political or material ambitions your government might have."
"Jed, damned if that isn't the first naive remark I ever heard you make."
***
Not even love had been able to overcome the discomforts -of two people occupying Sara's studio overnight, and when he came to the city David stayed at the "frightful great pile of gray stone" where Sara lived. Once in a while he was fortunate enough to be assigned a room on the same floor. Neither he nor Sara had been courageous enough to request this. "I can't," said Sara. "It's the watch pinned on that registration clerk's bosom that throws me."
On the weekend of the dinner at the Travises', David had been given a room two floors above Sara's. When he returned from the dinner he did not go to his room when the elevator reached his floor; instead he waited until its slow, creaking descent finally ended on the ground floor and he heard the doors clang shut; then he hurried down the wide staircase that flanked its shaft and along the corridor to her room. He knocked softly and started back in surprise when the door opened almost instantly. Sara pulled him inside quickly. "David, what happened? What happened? I'm busting. I knew, I knew all evening, that it was something important. I'd have died if you hadn't come down here—"
He kissed her, and for the first time since he had known her it was an absentminded kiss, then sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Crucial, baby," he said. "Crucial."
She stood in front of him, eyes shining, looking, in her pale blue tailored pajamas, like a small boy waiting to hear a story of the circus. "Go on, love. Go on—"
"There's so much to tell, and it's one o'clock—"
"I've got biscuits and cheese and instant coffee."
He wrinkled his nose. "Stale, cold biscuits?"
"Crackers, idiot. Crackers. You'll never learn—"
"Well, drag 'em out."
He took off coat, tie, and shoes, unbuttoned his collar, stacked pillows at the head of the bed and sat against them, long legs stretched out, toes wriggling in relaxed release. "My God!" he said. "My good, kind, beneficent, well-meaning God! You'll never believe it, pet—" His voice lost its lightness. "And I don't know what in hell to do."
She put a plate of crackers and cheese—"Biscuits," she said—on his stomach, in spite of his protests, and two mugs of instant coffee on the bedside table, then climbed over his legs to curl against the pillows, beside his shoulder.
"Start, David. Now."
"At the beginning. Please let me start at the beginning. And please to shut up till I've finished—"
It was a long story, completed only after additional and frequent admonitions—"Wait, Sara, I'm getting there.... Will you shut up, sweetheart?... If you'll just wait till I get to it..." And then, "That's the story, baby. As I said, crucial."
He had expected a torrent of comment, of quick rushing questions, words tumbling. Instead the small figure pressed against his shoulder was silent, and when he raised his head to look down at her he saw that her eyes were closed. With a gentle finger he flicked a cracker crumb from the corner of the soft mouth, then bent and kissed first one closed eye and then the other. "Sara. Smallest—I didn't mean to strike you dumb. I didn't think anything could. You all right?"
Eyes still closed, she reached to encircle his neck with her arm, burying her face in the hollow between throat and shoulder. "Oh, God, David, why can't we know, why can't we know all the time that things will be all right? Why do we have to hurt like death, not knowing? It's right, I suppose; it's right because when it comes all of a sudden it's nondeath and living again and wonderful—"
He felt the warm moisture of tears on his skin, and slipped an arm beneath her body, raising her and himself until they were sitting, then released her gently and swung his feet to the floor. "Sara, honey, take it easy. It's not sure yet by a damned sight A lot has to happen yet. And I'm not sure, either—"
She gave no sign that she had heard. Her lashes were wet, and she rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, like a child; then, with a movement so quick he had no time to stop her, she was in the middle of the room, running toward the bureau, yanking open a drawer. She began to pull out airline folders, flipping through them, tossing them to the floor.
He watched her, bewildered. "Listen, hon. You don't understand. Nothing's settled. Not even my own mind."
"These blasted timetables with their God's-eye view of the world—how can you tell where any place is if you stand on the North Pole and look south or something.... Here's one... here's a map an ordinary, semiliterate college graduate can read—"
"But Sara, you know where Africa is—"
"I don't know where Zambana is. And as far as I'm concerned, that's all there is of Africa at this point." She sat beside him, map on knee, one finger trailing south through Europe. "Rome... Madrid... Madrid? Maybe... Lisbon. Lisbon? Probably... Aa-aah! Barcelona... It's wonderful... Now... Guinea—Rhodesia—Senegal—Zambana! There it is, God bless it! There's Zambana... Lisbon's best. Lisbon has better air service...."
"Put that map away, nitwit. I'm not there yet. It hasn't even been decided on. I haven't even decided myself—"
The map slid to the floor from Sara's knees, and she stood slowly, so that she could face him, her eyes wide and frightened.
"You—haven't decided?"
"I—Sara, what's the matter? For God's sake, what's the matter?"
"If—if tomorrow—today—you knew they wanted you, if they told you today, you wouldn't say 'yes'? David—"
"I didn't say I wouldn't. I said I hadn't decided. That I don't know—"
"But David, there isn't anyone in the world better qualified. Your law—your studies here—"
He got to his feet, padding back and forth across the room, not answering her, not wanting to look at her, wanting above all else to take her into his arms and hide against his heart the fright in her eyes.
"David—a new country—a growing country—to be able to watch it and help it grow—all that you studied
about constitutional law and government—David, they need you—"
"Sara, you're jumping all the guns. I—well—I didn't pick Harvard because it's the best in constitutional law so that I could make what I learned operative in Africa. That wasn't why—"
"You don't think people sometimes have opportunities to go where they are needed just because they are needed? That maybe—"
"Sara, I'm not needed all that much. Solomon Abikawai is a brilliant man. And a wise one, well named. So is Jedediah. Good God, there are plenty of people they could get if I don't go. Better men than I am, with more experience. For that matter, they could get along fine without anyone."
"David—"
"I know that Africa's future is going to affect the entire world. And I know it would be the most damned interesting job any guy could be lucky enough to get. But—"
"But? But what, David?"
"I don't think I can explain. I don't even know exactly what I mean, myself. Commitments, and—well, a sort of debt—"