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.”“No rumor, then: fact after fact,” the Cuban declared.“The preliminary vote says the Zionists will lose, no? By six, seven votes.No hope.The Arabs win, yes? Ah, but no, señor, no, the vote is postponed.And suddenly all the Latin countries in the Vatican’s back pocket? They swoon, all of them, Santa Teresa! Again they think, and think again their vote.Porqué? After his visit, the telephone call from your friend and client Mr.Rockefeller, of course.Convent girls falling, those men—they faint to his touch, no? Costa Rica, Venezuela, Honduras.” Sebastiano laughed, like a busy signal, staccato and harsh; he waved a tanned hand meaningly.“Mr.Rockefeller is a Svengali when he comes to call.He knows all, sees all—he knows where the bank president from Tegucigalpa has his millions and his mistresses, where the general from Buenos Aires receives la heroína, how the electricity came to Bolivia with the silent Germans who hide in the mountains—a very big mystery to the people.Mr.Rockefeller knows where the skeletons are.It is no matter to him to twist the knife for a vote to abstain: what are we to him?”“You know things, Alejandro.”“I pity the Arabs,” Sebastiano reflected, ignoring Foster.“I never thought I would, but I do: their terrible leaders, corruption even worse than in my Cuba … and, my God, their high priests or whatever they’re called, vengeance is all they offer, no hope.The Jews will drive them out like rabbits … and there will be war after war.Those unhappy, unlucky people.” He shook his head then gazed at Foster steadily, preparing to deliver a Cuban nugget of philosophy.“My father has been dead for twenty years, but he and my mother, God rest her, they gave me two good eyes.Mr.Rockefeller has nothing in his hand to harm me or my family.” Alejandro Sebastiano took a long, last drag from his cigarette and gave a most eloquent Cuban shrug.“Ah, but who knows what this terrible scandal is?”Foster raised his hands as if to make a point, but words failed him a moment too long.“We will vote as the Holy See asks.Who needs another war over Jerusalem? It’s madness.” Sebastiano flicked his expensive cigarette into the basin.“And remember, we took Jews when you and your heroic president refused them.You can keep your abstention, my friend, and all that comes with it.” He stepped past.“Buenos días, Foster.”“Alejandro …”He stopped in the open door.“You know, Foster, I thank you for all you did for my father and my family.But you know what they say about you here, the Spanish-speaking countries? They say you see a brown face and your mind goes blind.You cannot see us.I tell you something: someday you will see us and all the brown people.Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must use the men’s room.”Outside, an aide knocked.“Mr.Dulles? You in there? Mr.Dulles?”The vote was an hour away.LVIIThere was not a seat to be had on the UN assembly floor.Half the State Department had wanted to be there for the vote; Eleanor was one of the lucky few who got in, thanks to Foster.She sat at the very back of the press gallery, where one of the Washington wire reporters recognized her and gave up one of the few chairs in the press box.He dragged it in front of a pillar; Eleanor stood on the chair in her sensible shoes, her boxy purse clutched in front of her.Around her, the men from the press stood so close together few could find the elbow room to take notes; one or two wags propped their notepad on the back of the man in front of them.There was a steady buzz of talk, sparked by the tension and the din from the marchers and demonstrators outside, hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, singing the Hatikvah and chanting.The delegations below were packed together like spectators at a bullfight; a thin veil of cigarette smoke hung overhead in what had once been a Flushing Meadows skating rink and, before that, one of the 1939 World’s Fair sports halls.By an accident of the American calendar, Thanksgiving had bought the Zionist cause two days’ grace.The arithmetic was blunt; every newspaper in New York explained it on page one.Abstentions were crucial too, as each abstention lowered the votes needed for a majority.“Where’s Dr.Weizmann?” Eleanor asked the reporter next to her.The aristocratic old scientist who had led the Zionists for three decades was nowhere to be seen.“Back at the hotel, that’s what they said [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]