Cannibals and Missionaries

by Mary McCarthy

  “You may be right, my dear. When you’ve served on as many duly constituted bodies as I have, you come to expect eleventh-hour defections. But I reckon the Senator would have had the courtesy to have one of us paged here if he missed his plane for some reason. He and I are old acquaintances, though we’ve sometimes been on different sides of the fence. I made a long-distance call to his office the other day—to check up, don’t you know—and his right-hand man told me that Iran was on his calendar all right. ‘Glad you called, Bishop,’ he said. ‘I know the Senator is looking forward to meeting you again.’ So, until we have more information, I vote we give Sadegh the benefit of the doubt.” Aileen was surprised that a man of his age and reputation for godliness could be so easily soft-soaped. “That only proves that the Senator is a politician,” she said.

  The boarding sign went on. Passengers started filing into the second section of the lounge, past an Air France official at a high desk. A line formed. The Reverend hesitated. He made another lingering survey of the lounge.

  Aileen’s attention wandered. A new group of passengers, led by an Air France hostess, had entered from a corridor at the far end of the hall and was moving past the barrier, while the line already formed was halted. First class, naturally; they were being taken straight to the plane. She caught sight of a silvery head, then a tall, erect figure, which turned and scanned the queue and the slowly emptying lounge. The Senator! He was looking for them. Aileen vigorously waved. But he did not see her; she was too small. She reached in her bag for a handkerchief and signaled with it over her head. “Here we are, Senator!” But he could not hear her either. By her side, the tall Reverend was executing crossed-arm motions, like a trainman flagging an engineer. The Senator finally grinned and waved back. Then, making a gesture of helplessness, he moved forward, into the Security section.

  “Come on,” urged Aileen. “Bishop, don’t you think we ought to get in line now?” The minister was still worrying about his rabbi. “Should we have him paged on the loudspeaker? Rabbi and/or Mrs. Weill?” suggested the Bishop, amused. Aileen clapped her hand to her head. Her earrings bounced. “Heavens, I thought you said ‘Weiss,’ Reverend. There’s a Miss Weil over there telephoning. Or she was, a few minutes ago. But she pronounces it ‘Vile’ and spells it with one l. I was so concerned about the Senator that I didn’t see the connection.” She laughed to cover her confusion in making the admission, which was true but came out sounding lame, like a lie.

  It was the clerics’ turn to be bouleversés. Now they knew how it felt to hear casually, on the dawn of D-day, that a new element had been added to the troops. Open-mouthed, they looked to Aileen for explanations. “A journalist. She writes for The New Yorker. And The Atlantic Monthly.” “The Atlantic.” The Bishop nodded. “Sophie Weil.” “Why, yes!” exclaimed the Reverend. “I read an article by her only last month. On Oman, was it?” Brazil, the Bishop thought. Either or both, Aileen said. “Miss Weil gets around. Brazil was another torture story.” “Right! Right!” cried the Reverend. “I remember that too. Wonderful stuff!” It was as though the good religious man had totally forgotten about the “importance” of the rabbi.

  “Well! I guess that clears up the mystery. Not Sadegh’s fault, really. Just a little communications breakdown. The rabbi in Denver couldn’t make it and instead we’ll have Sophie. Coincidence of names. But why did he say ‘Mrs.,’ I wonder?” He shook his head. “Between ourselves, Miss Simmons, didn’t you find him kind of hard to pin down sometimes? As if there was no real, frank, open exchange…Of course, his English! But I guess our Iranian won’t be so fluent either.” He bubbled on joyously.

  “I didn’t meet Mr. Sadegh until this morning,” Aileen said. “At the check-in counter. He had Miss Weil with him, and we agreed to be seat mates. It was Mr. Asad who came up to Sunnydale to talk to me, with another young man. And we spoke French. If you mean, did they misrepresent this committee to me, no, I can’t say they did, Reverend, not really. They didn’t tell me a rabbi was coming, but then, apparently, you were mistaken about that, don’t you think so, Bishop? I must say, Mr. Asad might have let me know sooner that a journalist would be joining us, instead of leaving me a note last night at my hotel. But then, as I understand it, she isn’t to be part of our committee or sign any statement we may release. She’s going along as a reporter, on an assignment…. Isn’t that so, Miss Weil?”

  Aileen’s seat mate, a tall dark long-nosed young woman wearing a long suede coat, had silently come up. “Let me introduce you to the Bishop and the Reverend. I was telling them that you’re going to be with us but purely as a reporter. Mr. Asad and his friends made the arrangement with you. Or was it with your editor?” Aileen raised her head brightly, prepared to listen, as she did at assemblies when presenting a student speaker. The young woman turned to the two clergymen. “It was my own idea. I’ve known Asad for ages and when he told me the other night about your committee, I decided I wanted to go along. I guess I ought to have cleared it with all of you, since you’re the ones concerned….” This was Aileen’s opinion; the Bishop and the Reverend, however, were making chivalrous noises of dissent. “But there wasn’t time, and the Iranians, you know, are so frightfully vague. I wasn’t sure how many of you there would be or how to reach you.” Lucy Skinner College was not exactly a needle in a haystack, Aileen reflected. But she only nodded, as if in thoughtful accord, as she listened to the breathy voice addressing itself gravely to the two men, who were nodding also.

  “Did the Senator make it?” Aileen pointed; you could still see the back of his head in Security. “Terrific,” the girl said. “I suppose they kept him in the V.I.P. pen.” Aileen gave a little cry; she had not thought to ponder the implications of senatorial privilege. “Does that mean he’ll be traveling first class while the rest of us stay in Economy?” Miss Weil looked at her curiously. “What difference does it make?” The men too were gazing at Aileen, as if in wonderment. “Well, I mean,” she protested, “we’re a group, aren’t we? We have an agenda to discuss. We ought to elect a chairman. Don’t you think so, Bishop?” Before the old man could answer, Miss Weil declared, with a stifled yawn, that there was no cause for worry: the Senator could not ride first class unless he had paid a first-class fare. “The V.I.P. lounge is just a courtesy.” “But how do you know that?” Aileen said plaintively. “You sound so sure, honey.”

  In the line, the Bishop counted heads. “Five, with the Senator. But, Frankie, shouldn’t there be six?” “The rabbi,” Aileen reminded him. “But no”—she corrected herself—“Miss Weil is the rabbi, isn’t she?” “Somebody’s missing,” announced the Reverend. “Don’t you have a list?” Aileen said sharply. “Doesn’t any of us have a list?” Miss Weil spoke up. “There’s meant to be a professor with you. A Middle East specialist. From Buffalo.” “Bless you!” cried the Reverend. “Right! Right! Lenz, that’s the name. I must be losing my mind. You’ll think we’re a woolly lot of liberals, Miss Weil. With Sadegh disappearing and everything, I plain forgot about him. Lenz. Victor Lenz. Sadegh told me to add him. I have his career data here somewhere.” Inexcusable. But then Aileen recalled having seen the name herself, on the emended list they had sent her during the holidays. She had found one reference to him in the Readers’ Guide—an article or review in The New Republic—that she had not had time to follow up. “Well, we can’t wait for him,” said the Bishop. “We may find him on the plane.”

  But as they moved ahead, toward the barrier, a little blond man, unshaven, in a long dark overcoat, took a boarding-card from his teeth and accosted Aileen. “President Simmons? I met you once at a panel discussion. But you wouldn’t remember me, I know. I asked a question from the floor. Bishop Hurlbut, Reverend Barber, glad to know you. Sorry I can’t shake hands.” So this apparition was Lenz. In his left hand was an open basket that held what looked like blankets and some canned goods; a man’s purse and a long trailing scarf were slung around his neck; a folded tabloid protruded from an overcoat pocket; and in his right hand w
as a cage containing—surely?—an animal. “Sophie Weil,” Aileen indicated, when no one else spoke. “Lenz. Victor Lenz. My pleasure.” “Is that a cat?” said Miss Weil.

  The professor nodded happily. “Sapphire, my Persian.” He crouched down and spoke to it. “Yes, Sappho, nice Sappho, mustn’t be scared.” “You don’t mean to say it’s going with us?” cried Aileen. “Coals to Newcastle, yes, you may wonder. But I couldn’t leave her with the nasty vet, could I, Sapphire? We came down on the bus yesterday. Domestic airlines can be tiresome about animals. But we got to bed late, and Sapphire forgot to wake me this morning. So we nearly didn’t make it. I don’t suppose any of you knows where to get a drink here.” The smell Aileen had been noticing could not be the cat, then. In fact the professor reeked of stale alcohol.

  “There must be a drinking fountain somewhere,” volunteered the Reverend, stepping out of line and looking around him vaguely. The official at the barrier snapped his fingers.” Please, ladies and gentlemen! S’il vous plaît, messieurs et dames!” “You can get a drink of water on the plane,” Aileen heard the Reverend telling the professor, as the matron frisked her for weapons.

  But the retired Bishop of Missouri had a keener eye. On boarding the aircraft, he halted and from one of the pockets of his thick tweed suit he brought out a good-sized silver flask. “For medicinal purposes,” he said, offering it to the professor. “Get yourself a paper cup.”

  Aileen had questioned the Bishop’s wisdom in offering a hair of the dog to somebody so evidently in need of it. It would be the last straw, she thought, if the committee were to find itself with a problem drinker, as well as a cat, on its hands. Iran, being Moslem, was dry, presumably, but that did not apply to foreigners, not in big cities, and anyway alcoholics were cunning, adept at procuring bottles and hiding them like squirrels. The Bishop and the Reverend no doubt had experience in dealing with drunkards, and perhaps they could be trusted to handle Lenz, should he start picking fights with the secret police, for instance…It was not up to her to keep a watch on him; yet the habit of supervision (she had been a dean, for her sins, and before that a registrar) and foreseeing eventualities was hard to throw off.

  But before she could ponder the matter, a diversion had occurred. While they were filing through first class on their way to Economy, a large pale ringed hand had gone out to intercept the Bishop: “Gus! My dear man! How lovely!” And “Charles!” the Bishop had responded. The reunion had been cut short by the steward, chivying them on to where they belonged, past the Senator, who was already installed in his shirt sleeves in the first row of Economy, with his glasses on, and papers spread out all around him—they had given him a whole block of seats to himself. He jumped up and shook hands, explaining with a smile and a pained twist of the dark eyebrows that he had work to do: he would be stopping by for a chat as soon as his “desk” was cleared. “Did our friend fix his glittering eye on you?” he said to the Bishop.

  Then they were scarcely airborne when the same hand, followed by a snowy cuff, had parted the curtain that divided the sheep from the goats and the man called Charles had peered in: a long white papery face, long nose, dark eyes, dead black hair. After some debate with the steward, he was allowed to come through. He stood in the aisle, holding both the Bishop’s hands in his and proclaiming his delight in a high “English” voice that caused passengers in the rows ahead to turn about in their seats, as though anticipating a show. The fluting tones, rising to a rooster’s crow, suggested deafness or its social equivalent to Aileen.

  He was an old man, nearly as old as the Bishop but extremely well preserved, like a thin dried haddock. The raven hair was his own but certainly dyed, and his face was powdered with talcum. He wore a suit of coffee-colored silk, with many flaps and pockets, that looked as if it had been made for a planter in Java before the First War, an elegant soft shirt, and a beige waistcoat; on his feet were black silk socks and long shoes the color of old-time stove blacking. He fitted a cigarette into an ivory holder, and his jewelry consisted of monogrammed gold cufflinks, a plain heavy gold ring, like a man’s wedding band but worn on the right hand, an antique ring with an intaglio cut in some pale gem, and the latest thing in costly wrist-watches. And he was on his way to Teheran.

  “On a tour. Can you imagine it? I’m part of a first-class package.” The Bishop’s response, inaudible, could be inferred by anybody who was curious. “You too, dear boy? Isn’t that glorious? I shall certainly play hookey.” Charles’s tour was tremendous value, Economy class heard: first-category hotels, chauffeured limousines, archaeologists serving as guides, delicious food (they said), all included with the air fare, for less than it would cost Charles to dine out for a week in New York. Aileen was aware of a general stir in the public that perhaps represented envy. Nobody was paying attention to the hostess in the aisle demonstrating the inflation of the life jacket. “Trust the rich to find a bargain. I had no idea. In my poky way, I thought package tours were what my plumber takes. But I shall pay the price in socializing. My millionaires are up there drinking alcohol already. Full of Republican sound and fury. You should have seen the faces when I spoke to Senator Carey. Charming man. You would think, wouldn’t you, that collectors would be more civilized. That living with beautiful things would rub off on them. A total fallacy. By the bye, have you talked to the Senator? There in the front row; magnificent head. I suppose he’s bound for Paris to attend one of those ‘meetings’ politicians today go in for. I found him rather taciturn, I must say. You know he lost his wife.”

  Charles remained oblivious of the commotion in the aisle caused by the news he had just disseminated, which was sending autograph-hunters forward with menus to be signed. “Such a joy to see you, my dear. And how splendid to know that we shall be together on the plane tomorrow. Sensible of you to go tourist class. The rich are only tolerable in their own settings. Those dreadfully named Bloody Marys they’re engorging. So menstrual, I always tell them. Well, as a good Democrat, I shall have a split of champagne with my lunch.”

  The Bishop must have warned him that others were listening. Disappointingly, for a time nothing further could be heard. Aileen had resigned herself to yesterday’s Figaro and was scanning the Classifieds for items of interest when Charles again became audible, expressing concern for the Bishop’s health. “You’re dressed much too warmly, dear fellow. These carriers are always overheated. You’ll catch cold, and that will be tiresome for you. Light-weight summer suits, I find, are best for plane travel, in this natural color. It shows the dirt less than the dyed silks, despite what people tell one. Then I always travel with a shawl or two as well as a light overcoat. And you must be careful about the sun, even in winter out there. We shall have to find you a proper broad-brimmed hat. Felt, not a Panama, mind you. The tomb-towers, as you’ll see, can be damp.”

  He had no suspicion, evidently, of the Bishop’s mission “out there.” The thought that any motive other than site-seeing could be operative had not crossed his mind. Aileen wondered how those two could ever have come to know each other; maybe ADA, she speculated. But if “Charles” was such a Democrat, why was he traveling with a group of rich Republicans? “Collectors,” he had said. She got up to go to the ladies’ room, edging past Miss Weil and giving a little wave, as she went, to the Bishop.

  When she came back, with her hair fluffed out under her turban and fresh mascara, the Bishop was waiting to introduce them. “President Simmons, my old friend Charles Tennant. Won’t you join us, Miss Simmons?” “Well, just for a minute.” She took the vacant place between the two ancient men. Against the wall, near the serving-pantry, the Reverend was talking happily with a hostess, who was getting the drinks cart ready. “Charles is bound for Iran too,” the Bishop explained. “So I gathered,” said Aileen. “Did I hear you say something about collectors, Mr. Tennant? Is it a tour of art collectors you’re with?”

  It was an archaeological tour got up by a band of “proud possessors” who were discovering Iran as it threatened to make
itself scarce. The energy crisis was responsible for bringing them together on a common carrier; normally they would have chartered a plane or flown in a baby jet belonging to one of their companies—two of the men in the party were company directors. The poor dears saw this as their “very last opportunity” to tour the famous ruins, visit the museums, and explore some of the new digs before the Shah raised the price of oil again. There was a curator from the Fine Arts Museum with them, who was hoping to interest them in financing new excavations—an unlikely eventuality, Charles considered. “You mean the Boston Museum,” Aileen decided. “But why? Are you all from Boston?” She ought to have remembered that the museum was renowned for its oriental section. “Dear me, no,” said Charles. “We’re from New York and Pittsburgh and Cincinnati and Hartford and Worcester—the dark satanic mills.” “Charles lives on Mount Vernon Street,” put in the Bishop. “He has a crackerjack oriental collection.” “Almost nothing from Iran, alas. A few Khabur bits and pieces I picked up fifty years ago. No, our little curator is the only knowledgeable member of our party. Like some of the ladies, I’ve been ‘cramming’ for the journey.”

  He turned to Aileen. “You must come to tea one day if porcelains interest you.” Then he gave a screech. “But you have some lovely Chinese work in your museum!” “You know our little museum?” Better than she did, she perceived, as he named a “hare’s fur cup” and some “priceless blanc de Chine” that she could not picture to herself—ages ago, in her predecessor’s time, an alumna had left Lucy Skinner a lot of chinoiserie. “Those people with you, are they important collectors?” she said.

  “Je regrette, monsieur…” The steward was telling the gentleman that he would have to return to his own class; the hostesses were about to serve drinks and needed the aisle clear. The Reverend was waiting to reoccupy his seat. “Well, that was nice!” Aileen declared, when Charles had gone. “Bishop, do you know what a hare’s fur cup is?”