The Ugly American (23 page)

"She sweeps with her back straight," the woman said in surprise. "I have never seen such a thing."

Emma did not say a word. She continued to sweep right past them, out on the front porch, and then down the walk. The dust and debris flew in clouds; and everyone watching was aware of the greater efficiency of being able to sweep while standing up.

Emma, having finished her sweeping, returned to her house and began to prepare tea for her guests. She did not speak to them about the broom, but when they left, it was on the front porch, and all of her guests eyed it carefully as they departed.

The next day when Emma swept off her porch, there were three old grandmothers who watched from a distance. When she was finished Emma leaned her long-handled broom against the clump of reeds which she had brought down from the hills. The lesson was clear.

The next day, perhaps ten older people, including a number of men, watched Emma as she swept. This time when she was finished, an old man, his back bent so that he scurried with a crab-like motion, came over to Emma.

"Wife of the engineer, I would like to know where I might get a broom handle like the one you have," the man said. "I am not sure that our shorthandled brooms have bent our backs like this but I am sure that your way of sweeping is a more powerful way."

Emma told him to help himself to one of the reeds growing beside the house. The old man hesitated.

"I will take one and thank you; but if I take one, others may also ask, and soon your reeds will be gone."

"It is nothing to worry about, old man," Emma said. "There are many such reeds in the hills. I found these by the stream at Nanghsa. Your people could walk up there and bring back as many as the village could use in a year on the back of one water buffalo." The old man did not cut one of Emma's reeds. Instead he turned and hurried back to the group of older people. They talked rapidly, and several hours later Emma saw them heading for the hills with a water buffalo in front of them.

Soon after, Homer completed his work in Chang 'Dong, and they moved to Rhotok, a small village about seventy miles to the east. And it was not until four years later, when Emma was back in Pittsburgh, that she learned the final results of her broomhandle project. One day she got a letter in a large handsome yellow-bamboo paper envelope. Inside, written in an exquisite script, was a letter from the headman of Chang 'Dong.

Wife of the engineer:

I am writing you to thank you for a thing that you did for the old people of Chang 'Dong. For many centuries, longer than any man can remember, we have always had old people with bent backs in this village. And in every village that we know of the old people have always had bent backs.

We had always thought this was a part of growing old, and it was one of the reasons that we dreaded old age. But, wife of the engineer, you have changed all that. By the lucky accident of your long-handled broom you showed us a new way to sweep. It is a small thing, but it has changed the lives of our old people. For four years, ever since you have left, we have been using the long reeds for broom handles. You will be happy to know that today there are few bent backs in the village of Chang 'Dong. Today the backs of our old people are straight and firm. No longer are their bodies painful during the months of the monsoon.

This is a small thing, I know, but for our people it is an important thing.

I know you are not of our religion, wife of the engineer, but perhaps you will be pleased to know that on the outskirts of the village we have constructed a small shrine in your memory. It is a simple affair; at the foot of the altar are these words: "In memory of the woman who unbent the backs of our people." And in front of the shrine there is a stack of the old short reeds which we used to use.

Again, wife of the engineer, we thank you and we think of you.

"What does he mean, 'lucky accident'?" Emma said to Homer. "Why I looked all over for three months before I found those long reeds. That was no accident."

Homer did not look up at her from the letter. He knew that the indignation in her voice was false. He knew that if he looked now he would see tears glittering in the corners of her eyes. He waited a decent amount of time; when he raised his head she was just pushing her handkerchief back into the pocket of her apron.

Senator Sir…

Senator Jonathan Brown had started his political career with two attributes: a craggy face that reminded people of Lincoln's; and a high degree of corruption. As he grew older, his looks did not change much—his hair got gray, and he began to stoop slightly. But somewhere along the line, he completely lost his corruption.

Even his wife never knew about the shadow in his past. In 1924, when Brown was first running for the Senate, he had assumed that every person who went to Washington was either a criminal or a fool. At that point in his life, when he had just shuffled in from one of the most backward counties of his state to become first a State Assemblyman, and later a State Senator, he would much rather have been hung for being a crook than for being a fool. And the device which enabled him to win his Senate race was crude beyond belief. He had simply walked into the office of the president of the state's biggest private electrical company and told the executive that if he, Brown, were elected to U. S. Senate, he would be prepared to turn over the entire power output of the Elk Heart Dam to the utility company. In exchange he asked only two favors: that the company dissuade anyone else from running; and that they deposit $150,000 in the account of his campaign manager. The president of the utility company, a man of exceptional experience, took one look at Brown, knew that such brashness would surely find its political reward, and promptly agreed to both conditions.

Senator Brown was never quite sure when his corruption passed and his pride in the Senate began. Probably in his second term; but in any case, he suddenly became aware that he was very proud of the way the Senate ran its affairs. He had learned to distinguish between sound speeches and opportunistic speeches, and began to understand and appreciate the beauties of parliamentary procedure. One day he realized that the 96 men in the Senate were, quite literally, the most powerful political group in the world. As he achieved these perceptions. Brown became incorruptible, and his personal conscience became inflexible. Finally, the day came when he stood on the Senate floor and introduced the bill which took the Elk Heart Dam output away from the utility company. He was fully aware of the risk he was taking; and to his great relief when the president of the company came around and shook his hand four months later, he said nothing about the campaign gift.

In 1942, Senator Brown became a member of the Senate Foreign Affairs Committee, and although in his younger days, he had not known whether Cambodia was in Africa or Asia, he now learned carefully and conscientiously every fact he could about foreign affairs. In three years he had become one of the best informed members of the committee. His seniority made it inevitable that he would become chairman of the committee; and when he did, one of his first acts was to make plans for a tour of Asia and the Far East. He intended to take Mrs. Brown along as well as one other Senator, two administrative assistants, and two secretaries.

The itinerary for the trip was long and detailed. Mrs. Brown blanched when she saw it, and reminded the Senator about his heart condition and his arthritic legs. Of both afflictions the Senator was deeply ashamed; he went to great lengths to conceal them, and he never allowed them to interfere with his work. The itinerary included visits to Manila, Tokyo, Formosa, Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, and Korea. When these inspections were completed, they would return to Washington by way of Europe, stopping briefly in Cairo, Rome, Madrid, and London.

"Now I want no whiskey-drinking, social-butterflying on this trip," the Senator told his staff. "I know these diplomatic boys. They'll try to show us the best side of things to keep their own appropriations up, but we're going to dig into everything. I want to talk to the natives, the low-ranking employees, and technicians in the field, and I don't want to spend too much time with the big boys. Everyone understand that? I'll take my own liquor along. John, you see that there's a case of sour-mash whiskey on that plane, and see that no one drinks it but me."

The cables began to hum as accommodations for the Senator's visit were arranged. Messages went to embassies in all of the countries he would visit; copies went to the Air Force which would supply the plane. Endless meetings were held to pave the way for the Senator's visit. The Senator was fully Aware how much work his trip entailed—but he was determined to get the facts firsthand. Several billion dollars had gone to the Far East, and he was determined to see for himself what effect the money had had.

One of the Americans who received a cable about Senator Brown's visit was the Ambassador to Vietnam, the Honorable Arthur Alexander Gray. He was expecting the cable, for he had already gotten a long informative note from an old Rhodes Scholar friend of his who operated the Japanese Desk at the State Department:

Senator Brown will be hitting Saigon sometime in the next month. I heard it as a rumor on the Hill and checked it out by making a few phone calls. In a few weeks you'll probably have a cable on it. Don't underestimate Brown. He's an old man, and it's true he used to be an isolationist—but when he became aware of world affairs he went into them with a thoroughness I've seldom seen equalled. Behind that whiskey-drinking, hillbilly manner, there's one hell of a tough man, and an honest one. Right now he's convinced that we're facing the final crisis with Russia, and that the next few years will decide whether we're going to win or lose. He's always saying this—in committee meetings, in. corridors, and at cocktail parties. And he means it. He'll go to any lengths to get information on which to base legislative recommendations of his committee.

Now all this is well and good, Alex, but there's one thing you have to watch out for. I know that you have nothing to conceal, but you'll have to be careful whom Senator Brown talks to. He has the knack of getting ordinary people to talk to him. He doesn't try to charm them—he looks like one of them, and he talks like one of them, and pretty soon they're spilling their guts to him. Last week I saw him operate with a delegation of natives from Ghana. They knew he was a southern Senator and were suspicious of his attitude toward colored people. My God, Alex, it was a masterpiece. He ambled over to them at a big reception, looking like a combination of Abraham Lincoln and an ape; he handled them beautifully, and there was never any question of his being condescending or prejudiced. He simply swept them off their feet with his information and directness about Ghana— he knew more about it than they did. At the end of the party the entire delegation piled into a taxicab with Brown, and rumor hath it that they spent the night drinking sour mash bourbon. And the rumor also hath it that on the information he got that night Brown is prepared to cut appropriations to Ghana by 30 per cent on the grounds that too much of it is going for administrative overhead and into the big cities.

Need I say more. This guy is honest and tough, and although you have nothing to hide I'm sure there are many ways to tell the same story. I am just writing ahead to tell you to prepare your story and to get it before him forcefully.

Ambassador Gray was not intimidated. He had handled distinguished and tough-minded statesmen before. He hadn't fallen on his face yet, and he wasn't going to this time. He thought for a moment, then turned and pressed a button on his desk.

"Call a full staff meeting in twenty minutes in the conference room," he said into a small black box on his desk. A half-hour later the ambassador and his staff were well into their plans for the reception, hospitality, and education of Senator Brown.

Sally Vincent started off. "Ambassador, I think I ought to work up a new brochure on the history of Vietnam and the political background for the Senator," she proposed. "I don't mean the ordinary sort of thing, because there's the chance that he may have seen other brochures we've prepared for previous visitors. What I have in mind is a real tough brochure emphasizing the rural problems which this country faces and something of the savagery of the Communists. I could put in some illustrations of typical Vietnamese farms, and mention the rainfall and that sort of thing."

"And something about fertilizer," the ambassador said with an unsmiling face. He had learned long ago that Americans from farm states were unfailingly interested in replenishment of the soil.

"Yes, of course, I'll have a section on fertilizer," Sally answered just as seriously. "In fact, I have some pictures here of that compost project teaching them to use various kinds of wasted vegetation for fertilizer." And she spread some glossy photos on the table for the ambassador to approve.

An agricultural technician officer then outlined an itinerary of a trip which he proposed the Senator take. Everyone was aware that the itinerary was quite artful. It took the ambassador past every agricultural station which the American mission had established; the Senator would never be out of sight of some sign of American aid. That he would not be seeing a typical countryside disturbed none of these realistic people.

An information officer stood up and presented the audiovisual devices he would prepare to "capsulize" the whole story. One of these was an hour and a half, specially spliced film which the information officer would put together with his own hands.