Cannibals and Missionaries

by Mary McCarthy

  But in today’s flying auditorium Charles’s unabashed, intrepid old voice was tempting Carey to deny him—thrice over—if only he could. Though he was normally immune to social embarrassment (a female complaint, he considered), doubts as to the threshold of tolerance of less sophisticated passengers could not be repressed. Without ill will, with remorseful affection even, he wished their visitor would go back to first class, where, whatever he thought, he belonged.

  “So you plan to spend your time in that lovely country investigating torture in the Shah’s jails. And I shall be with my millionaires’ tour. As Lenin said, ‘From each according to his capacities.’ Dear me. I must say I’ve felt a qualm or two about my little jaunt. Mind you, I haven’t seen the toaster thing, but there can hardly be so much smoke without fire, can there? But then I said to myself that one would become a total shut-in if one let moral considerations dictate one’s travel plans. I suppose one could still permit oneself to visit the Scandinavian countries, though there’s so little to see there. And your delightful country, Mr. Van Vliet de Jonge, with its splendid museums and attractive people. The Dutch have been much maligned by their neighbors; I’ve never found them in the least stolid or phlegmatic. But France, Italy? Thoroughly corrupt and police-ridden, and in France you have shocking discrimination against the foreign labor force. No wonder, I say, that they have all these tiresome strikes. England? Well, one has one’s friends there, but there’ve been some quite off-putting disclosures about English prison conditions. And I’m told that Scotland Yard—can that be true, Dr. Cameron?—uses the third degree.” He laughed. “No, a peep into Portugal and perhaps into Greece, now that the colonels are gone, and then one would be forced to go virtuously home.” “Hear, hear!” came a mutter from the rear, causing Charles to turn around, smiling amiably in all directions like royalty acknowledging applause. Nevertheless he slightly lowered his voice.

  “I did draw the line at the colonels, but, between ourselves, my digestion was grateful for a holiday from the nasty Greek food and wine. As for Iran, well, I said to myself that it’s no wickeder probably than Spain, where my liberal friends go in droves. And what would I accomplish for those poor young oppositionists by staying home? It’s not as if the Shah were dependent on tourism to make ends meet, is it? I am not such a noodle as to fancy that my depreciated dollars could make the slightest difference to him. Then, too, I said, that were I to meet him, which is not beyond the bounds of possibility, I would give him a piece of my mind. ‘Look here,’ I would say—”

  Carey softly groaned. Nobody was censuring the old duck for clinging to the pleasure principle in the few years he had left. Amnesty International would surely get its tithe from the sybarite’s holiday that in his own mind he ought to be renouncing—Charles paid up regularly for his venial sins. And as for the Shah’s getting “a piece of his mind,” that could be forecast with utter certainty if an invitation to the palace were to be issued. No one within earshot today would expect Charles, wherever he found himself, to show a lack of gumption. But Charles was not going to meet the Shah, at least not immediately—a point that in the flush of victory he seemed to be over-looking.

  Indeed the fact of that victory—and of Charles basking like a lizard in the glory of it—was starting to worry Carey. The more he pondered it, the less he liked it. The old man’s naughty venturesomeness had been rewarded. He had got his way. With every captive eye watching, the hijacker had backed down. But to anyone familiar with power and its vagaries, it was obvious that consequences could be in store. Another passenger, encouraged by Charles’s success, would “try something,” and the hijacker would over-react, to prove himself.

  For the first time, Carey felt distinctly uneasy. He had a bodily premonition of danger, such as he had known once or twice—and with justification—in the navigator’s seat with an unseasoned pilot beside him, though now he could not sense, glancing about, in what quarter trouble might be lurking. He felt confident of his power to deter Cameron, who anyway was well fenced in by Charles and his lolling walking-stick. And he trusted Van Vliet de Jonge, a political animal like himself, to have the right reflexes if an emergency were to present itself. But he would feel far happier were he posted commandingly in an aisle seat to restrain any untoward moves. He meditated asking Aileen to change places with him. Yet the slightest stir among the passengers was capable, if he was right in his foreboding, of producing a volley of gunfire.

  He looked at his watch again. “Jesus!” he swore. They must have already overflown Paris. He would not feel easy till they were on the ground somewhere. Once they were on the ground, the likelihood of an incident within the plane would be minimal, or so his instinct told him. Outside, the police (in what country’s uniforms?) might surround the plane and, if negotiations broke down, try to take it by storm. But that would be a whole new ballgame, which the passengers would have to sit out in the grandstand, waiting for the result to declare itself.

  Charles’s zestful prattle had finally died down. Next to Sophie, Van Vliet de Jonge had turned his head and was scrutinizing the seats in back. He looked mystified by whatever he saw there. A note was passed along from him—addressed, surprisingly, to “Miss Symans.” She opened it and turned her head too, studying the rows behind. She frowned. “Something wrong?” inquired Carey. “Well, no. But it’s strange. He wants me to tell him whether some young Dutch people who were sitting back there were a figment of his imagination. Here, read it.” He put on his glasses. “You have to know the context,” Aileen explained. “He has this phobia about being Dutch. How they have a secret language and how Holland is an imaginary country. I didn’t follow it all too well. But when he sees Dutch people, I mean outside Holland, he gets a haunted feeling, as if they were a mirage.” Carey laughed sympathetically. “But the strange part is, Senator Jim, that young couple isn’t there any more. Isn’t that weird? Of course I don’t know they were Dutch. I just took his word for it. I didn’t pay too much attention to them. If you asked me, I couldn’t describe them. But I could swear there were two young people sitting behind us, and now that whole row is empty.” “Probably moved,” said Carey. “Yes, but where to? I don’t see them anywhere back there. Still, as I say, I might not recognize them if I did.” “Well, reassure him. Tell him you saw them too.” Aileen ruminated. “I suppose he missed them when he had to go to the men’s room.” Her sharp eyes flew open wide. “I’ll bet that’s why he went to the men’s room! The secret language. He wanted to pass them a message that nobody but a Dutch person could understand. Like a code. He had some plan in mind and needed their help.”

  Carey held up a hand. The pilot was starting his descent. Overhead, the seat belt signs flashed on. In a few minutes, they should be able to see land below. Now, short of a crash, nothing could happen, Carey decided: the passengers were concentrating on the windows, trying to make out where they were. He held his lighter to Aileen’s cigarette. “You’d better have one too,” she told him. “It’ll be our last for days maybe. They’ll never let us smoke on an airfield.” “‘For days’?” he said quizzingly. “Come on, it’s not that grim. The plane and the crew are all these fellows need for bargaining purposes. The odds are, they’ll let the passengers go. For them, we civilians constitute a headache.” She stared at him. “A ‘headache’? Why, Jim, with you aboard and the Bishop and the deputy, they’ve captured a real prize. Don’t you think these men know that?” He reflected. “No. I don’t believe they studied the passenger list.” She shrugged. “Even if they didn’t know in advance, by now they must realize.” “How?” “Senator Carey! Do you recall giving out your autograph to a whole pack of students back in the airport lounge? Do you think you were invisible? If I saw you, these men must have. And you had Sophie giving out autographs too. Don’t tell me a hijacker wouldn’t be interested. Why, this is the most important international hijacking that’s ever happened. Those millionaires up in first class are just the meringue on the pie.”

  The plane emerged from the c
loud cover. A patch of water was sighted, but then a swirl of fog came in. No visibility, Cameron reported from his window. The pilot had decreased speed. “Oh, God, what now?” said Aileen. “Holding pattern,” explained Carey. “Could be the fog. Or could be the pilot negotiating with the control tower for permission to land. Or could be he’s just waiting his turn.” “Wouldn’t you think that at least we’d have priority?” Aileen exclaimed, irritably stabbing out her cigarette. Then a rift in the fog opened up. Van Vliet de Jonge rose in his seat, like a rider in stirrups. “Holland!” he called out. “Nederland!” Tears of laughter were running down his handsome ruddy cheeks. The fog closed in again. The plane continued to circle.

  The cabin was still, as if holding its breath. Then, without warning, with Mother Earth so near, pandemonium erupted. They heard a cat’s furious cries, a man’s angry yells, a metallic clatter as of something falling. From the rear, two shots rang out. The plane lurched, and the lights went dim. When they came back on, passengers were ducked down in their seats; the Reverend had assumed the fetal position. Carey looked back to where the shots had come from. By the serving-pantry, a tall fair-haired young man with big round spectacles stood holding a rifle; behind him was a fair-haired young woman, wearing glasses too. There was no sign of the grenadier. Up front, the machine-gunner was half-kneeling on the carpet, reaching toward his weapon somewhere ahead while clutching his leg and groaning. Further down the aisle lay a ball of bleeding blue fur. Beside it, Victor was weeping.

  As Carey sought to understand this frozen scene, the young man raised his rifle and took aim. Sapphire’s back arched; she rose into the air and visibly died. Crouched next to Carey, Aileen was moaning hysterically. “Why did they have to kill Sapphire? Why, Senator Jim? Beautiful, beautiful Sapphire. Oh, how cruel, how terribly cruel.” “To put her out of her misery,” Carey said, putting an arm around her. “You could see she was horribly wounded. I don’t understand who did that.” “‘Who did that?’” cried Aileen. “Why he did!” Carey’s eyes turned to the machine-gunner, who was picking himself up and retrieving his gun; he was ashy and his plump figure seemed to droop. “No!” Aileen cried, sobbing. “Not him. Him.” Carey’s eyes went to the young fellow with the rifle. He could not sort this out. “The Dutch!” Aileen exclaimed impatiently. “Those two. Him and the girl. I thought I didn’t remember what they looked like. But of course I did. I recognized them right away, the minute I heard the shots and peeked over the seat.”

  Carey supposed he was being exceptionally dense. “You mean, when he was shooting at him, he hit Sapphire too, by accident. She was in the way.” “He wasn’t shooting at him. Don’t you see, they’re all on the same side! The Dutch and the Arabs. They’re a gang.” He could not follow this reasoning. In his own mind, he had concluded that the tow-headed young man was a security guard or maybe an Interpol agent—there could have been a tip-off on this morning’s operation. On Aileen’s side, though, spoke the fact that the hijacker, strangely, had been allowed to repossess his gun; he held it with one hand while with the other he pulled up his trouser-leg to examine his calf, which was bleeding. “Yet somebody shot our friend there,” protested Carey. “Look. Surface wound, probably. I guess they aimed to disable him. Shoot at the legs—good police principle.” Aileen shook her head. “Nobody shot him. That was Sapphire. She clawed him. So they killed her.” She began to sob again. “Oh, poor darling Sapphire. She gave her life for us.”

  This was an exaggeration—her Southern fancy tearily doing its embroidery. Yet in the main Aileen’s reconstruction of the event and cast of characters was exact, as was swiftly demonstrated when the plane touched down. “Schiphol,” declared Van Vliet de Jonge, with a doleful countenance, as the fair strapping fellow and the girl strode ahead to first class, leaving the scowling young Arab with the machine-gun in charge. Almost at once, over the loud-speaker, they heard a woman’s voice speaking excellent Nordic English: passengers were to remain in their seats with their seat belts fastened; in due time, a cold snack would be served; those needing to use the toilets were to raise their hands and permission would be given but no paper was to be put in the bowl. Soon a steward came by, distributing extra blankets; the lights dimmed. Outside, dusk was gathering. It was four in the afternoon; they had been in the plane five hours.

  As though to help pass the time, the steward, finally, was willing to answer questions. He confirmed that Victor had released the cat from its container but he could not say for what reason. Possibly the animal had been crying. Then he did not know whether the hijacker had kicked the poor cat when it crossed his path, causing it to strike back with its claws, or whether the cat had struck out at him first, sensing an enemy. He favored the latter notion. “Les chats, vous savez, c’est une race mystérieuse. Très sensibilisée. Surtout les chats pur-sang. On leur prête des pouvoirs occultes.” Aileen wailed softly. The Bishop blew his nose. There was a silence. “But what happened then, steward?” Charles demanded. “One would like to hear.” Badly scratched and perhaps also bitten by the animal, the hijacker had dropped his weapon; that was the metallic clatter they had heard, as the gun struck the chromium of a seat frame. “And the Dutch?” prompted Aileen. “Dutch?” The steward had supposed they were Germans: “anarchistes de la bande Baader-Meinhof.” The deputy ruefully set him straight. “Des hollandais pur-sang, je vous assure.” At the moment of take-over, it appeared, they had moved in concert with the Arabs and seized the two cabins behind—the woman had a small pistol in her blouse. When the machine-gunner had let his weapon fall, the grenade-carrier must have summoned them. He had been holding two stewardesses in the strategic serving-pantry block at the center of the plane. “C’est le chef de la bande, paraît-il.”

  Cameron leaned forward. “How long would you say the gun was lying there before the other thugs intervened? One minute, two?” “Perhaps half a minute, sir.” “Umm. Pity Lenz didn’t seize the gun while he had the chance.” Aileen concurred. “Especially when you think that that was what Sapphire intended him to do. She gave him the opportunity, and he failed.” “You mustn’t attribute design to a cat,” put in Sophie sharply. “They have a brain the size of a minute.” “Pity the creature wasn’t rabid,” mused Charles with an elfin grin. “‘Rabid’?” said the steward. “La rage,” said Aileen. “Oh, sir, that has been taken care of. We have given the pirate an anti-tetanus injection.” Carey’s eyebrows went up.

  They wanted to know what had been done with the body. If they stood up, they could see it, still lying in the far aisle, the steward said. The hostesses had wanted to clean the blood off its fur and put it in a box for its master. But the hijackers had refused; they intended the corpse to be left there, as an example. “What monsters,” said Aileen. “Don’t you think we might ask the Bishop to say a prayer for her?” “No,” said Carey.

  He wrapped himself in his blanket, pulling it up over his eyes. When he opened them, it was night outside. In the shadowy dimness of the cabin, he perceived Victor, huddled in his long coat, kneeling in the far aisle by his cat’s side, keeping vigil. The deputy was awake too and watching. “Antigone,” he whispered. Carey nodded.

  He had dropped off to sleep again when two figures, one holding a flashlight, appeared—the mustached grenade-carrier and a stewardess. They went along the aisles, stopping here and there to tap a half-awake passenger on the shoulder. It reminded Carey eerily of school dormitory inspection or of the awful night-time summonses that were wont to rouse the men in sick bay. “Prenez vos affaires. Vous pouvez sortir,” the stewardess was murmuring as she went. The exodus had begun. Up front, the Israeli couple with their wailing baby were being ordered to get a move on. “Out! Raus! Weg,” the grenadier barked. From the rear cabins, men, women, and children were filing past with their hand baggage, some still struggling into their coats. A woman had forgotten her umbrella. “Later, madame. Maintenant vous sortez.” Aileen started to rise. “Pas vous, madame,” the stewardess intervened. So they were separating the sheep from the goats
. As the last camera-laden straggler passed through into first class, the lights went on full. Carey saw that he and his party were alone in the cabin. Victor had retreated to his place, up front. Nine little Indians, counting Charles.

  In the serving-pantry there was a sudden bustle. The hostesses came forward with trays. The grenadier, yawning, undid his bristling belt and tossed it on a seat like a discarded stage prop. He settled himself and accepted a tray.