Cannibals and Missionaries

by Mary McCarthy

  Jim laughed aloud. It was the old army game, popular with draft dodgers till the medics caught on; it had been used in the Navy too, he acknowledged, by scared young pilots hoping to duck out of a mission. A bar of soap was placed in the armpit, secured, usually, by adhesive tape; he had never understood the chemistry of it, but in a few hours the body temperature went way up. “How long will you need to have it there?” “Two or three hours. All night will be OK.” “Can you manage without the adhesive?” Victor thought he could if he did not move around much. “But can’t you pinch some from Denise’s kit?” he wondered. “Better not, my friend, if you think you can get along without it. Adhesive leaves marks.” “They come off with ether.” “No.” Jim was enjoying himself and he was sorry to see his confederate lapse so readily into a state of total dependency. He did not even have soap of his own. Jim passed him a fair-sized bar of Ivory in a Statler Hotel wrapping from his inactive shaving kit. “Laundry soap would be better,” said Victor. “Well, you’ll have to make do with what’s available. Be grateful it isn’t Camay.”

  During the night a hand tugged at him. “Senator?” “What is it, Victor?” “Don’t you want to try it yourself? That way, we could be shipped out together.” “No. Nice of you to think of it. But two would tax credibility.” “Well, you could leave me here.” Jim wondered whether he meant that. “Thank you, Victor, but I’m in no special danger that I know of. You’re a case all to yourself. Say, what about the pulse?” “Oh. Well, I’d need pepper for that. A lot of pepper. I don’t see how we could get any. They never give us pepper.” “Well, forget it. When Greet comes to examine you, you won’t need pepper to make your pulse race.” “That’s true.” It was good to know, at any rate, that Victor had some respect for limits: he could have proposed that Jim raid the kitchen for him. Essaying to fall asleep again, Jim set himself the puzzle of what war Victor had dodged—too young for Korea, too old for Vietnam. Korea, he concluded.

  “Do you mind if we talk a little?” Reluctantly, Jim moved nearer, renouncing sleep for a second time. “I want to tell you something. Jim—do you mind if I call you that? My mission in Iran. I was only going to report back to the Agency. I couldn’t see how that could hurt your committee. You were going to hold a press conference anyway.” Not in Teheran, brother, Jim observed to himself. But he let Victor go on. “You won’t believe it, but I identified with your committee. I would never have agreed to sabotage what it was trying to do. Like this afternoon. I really hold to what I said about art. I came on strong because I meant it. On that one point, I share the hijackers’ credo. It just so happened that I was able to play up to them without compromising my integrity.” In the darkness Jim grimaced. “Maybe you ought to defect, Victor.”

  Victor’s voice brightened. “Do you think so? It’s true that underneath I have an ambivalence about them. But I’d never really fit in. They’d never really accept me.” “Victor, the Apostate.” “Why do you have to mock, Jim? It’s been so fatal to you as a leader. And you’re better than that. But I want to go back to what I started to say. When I took the assignment to work my way into your committee, it didn’t feel right to me. I can confess that now. I didn’t see the harm in it, but it rubbed me the wrong way. Sailing under false colors with a group like yours that I respected. You don’t know it, but I’m a scholar in my field. I met Aileen once at a scholarly gathering, though she doesn’t remember it. But there was the free trip to Iran, where I could brush up on my subject in my spare time, and then there was the chance of associating with you people on equal terms…. Well, you know how it is.”

  “You were tempted,” agreed Jim. “But my conscience must have bothered me finally. Over Christmas, I did some heavy drinking, and, like a lot of compulsive drinkers, I have an allergy to alcohol. I can’t handle it. Well, you know what happened. I blacked out in my hotel room and if it hadn’t been for Sapphire I would have missed the plane at Kennedy.” That detail was new to Jim. “Yes. My unconscious must have wanted me to miss it. Anyway, I’ve been punished.” He waited, as if expecting Jim to complete his thought. “Sapphire?” “Of course. I killed her, Jim.” “Strange. I had the impression that Jeroen killed her.” “You’re mocking me again. You know what I mean. I had no business bringing her. It was my insecurity and selfishness. Because I wanted company, somebody to be with me that loved me, whatever I was or did. She didn’t want to come. Sapphire hated traveling, hated the cage. So I let her out.” He groaned. “For humane motives, Victor.” “Not entirely. I’ve gone over and over it, Jim. No. She got on my nerves, clawing at the cage and wailing. That began to undercut me. It was a reproach, telling me I shouldn’t have brought her. And I was still drinking. When I drink, I can’t stand any authority telling me what to do. If I hear of a rule, I’m bound to break it: observe the green light; no smoking in the toilet. All that stewardess had to do was tell me that I should keep ‘Minou’ in her cage. So I let her out. I tell myself that at least I could have kept her in my lap. Why didn’t I? Because I didn’t care, really, whether she prowled the aisles and disturbed the other passengers. I liked the idea. And that stunt she has—had—of hiding. The manhunt they put on for her. That was really rich!”

  “But the second time? With the hijackers?” “I don’t remember. Maybe I was half-asleep. And how could I expect a hijacker to shoot her?” His voice rose suddenly, sounding shrill and aggrieved, as though someone was accusing him. That was where examinations of conscience tended to end—in a burst of pitiful anger. The Church was right; confession to a priest, carrying absolution and penance, was wiser. Poor Victor had run the gamut of emotions. The sequel, now, would be tears. No doubt he was right in blaming himself about the cat, but then everyone here, surely, had something to answer for that would make the present event appear like the workings of justice. “Let’s catch some sleep now,” he urged, and returned to his pallet.

  He was disturbed, for the last time, by Archie. Oh, Christ. Archie wanted to tell him, while the others were still asleep, that he had slipped a folded plan of the house and surrounding ground, with a sketch of a practicable tunnel, into Eloise’s vanity-case, under her powder-puff, camouflaged by a thick layer of face-powder.

  Twelve

  HENK COULD HAVE TOLD them not to depend on the release of the big NATO helicopter for the execution of their plan. Morning had scarcely broken when he learned from the downcast pilots that they would not be going today. Carlos had wakened them to say that their departure had been put off indefinitely, and Pieter was taking it hard: his wife in Sneek was due to have their first baby at any moment. Henk commiserated but saw no ground for appeal. The kapers must have their reasons. Having consoled the pilots with philosophy—the child would be born anyway—he was startled by Jim’s reaction to the news when it reached him finally during the breakfast service. “Jesus!” he swore, and let his cup of coffee spill over on Denise’s tray. What was it to Jim that a young father would not see his wife through her labor? Then, during the toilet “break,” Jim and Victor enlightened him.

  He was glad to be taken—though a bit late—into their confidence. He would have been sorry to be left out. In return, he sought to put fresh cheer into them. Their idea was sound. They had only to be patient and wait for the next opportunity, which might come sooner than they guessed. As material encouragement, he offered to contribute a fresh bar of soap and some snuff, to bring on sneezing. And as it happened, luck was with them. The sparkling film of hoarfrost had not yet melted in the morning sun rays when a small helicopter put down in the field.

  Welcome as the sight was to him qua duly inducted conspirator, he could not help reckoning the cost to his government of these repeated arrivals and departures. He pictured the Tweede Kamer in late session tonight—the billiard-green leather, pew-like benches and the gallery filled to capacity as his friend at Defense rose beside the Speaker to answer questions from the rightist fractions on the “squandering” of oil reserves during the national emergency to “coddle” a handful of impudent
terrorists. And the daily siphoning of the precious fluid—the life blood of the “system”—must be gratifying to the kapers’ pride. A pity, he thought, really, that no means had been found to convert earth gas to high octane fuel.

  The new helicopter seemed to have been expected. It brought a case containing Helen’s Vermeer and a small fair man with gold-rimmed glasses, recognizable to Henk at a hundred meters as his countryman. The unexpected was Charles, emerging gleefully from the freight bay and stretching his long legs. “Here I am,” he shrilled, entering the family room with unruffled composure despite the pistol at his back. “Don’t be tiresome, Hussein. I shan’t try to escape.” He looked around him happily. “How nice to be back. I always wanted the experience of being a stowaway.”

  Like many of the old man’s boasts, this proved to be somewhat fanciful. To be accurate, he had come as a hitchhiker. “This delightful gentleman, Mr. Van der Kampe—your compatriot, Henk—was kind enough to give me a lift. Yes. We met by good luck at the heliport, when I was feeling frightfully down-at-the-mouth. Scarcely knowing what to do with myself, yet unwilling to turn tail and go home. Mr. Van der Kampe is from your incomparable Rijksmuseum, Henk. We found many friends in common. He explained to me as we chatted that he had been sent for to vouch for Helen’s Vermeer. If I divined correctly, the suggestion came from our friend Jeroen. Indeed, one can fancy it as an imperative. Naturally Mr. Van der Kampe was somewhat apprehensive as to the circumstances he might find here. I was able to allay his anxieties, and we became thick as thieves.”

  Henk’s eyes turned to the Rijksmuseum expert, who had remained impassive during this account of himself and his mission. He had set down the briefcase he carried and stood, trim feet together, like a mute exhibit being presented by Charles. Yet surely he understood English—which of the tulip-people didn’t? “But how did the two of you come to meet, really?” cried Sophie, voicing Henk’s own mystification as she looked from one to the other. “Why, my dear, he recognized me!” The small precise-featured Dutchman gave a small nod. “While I was having a cup of chocolate at the little bar they have. He saw me on television, imagine!”

  Henk and Sophie exchanged a smile. They had all seen Charles on television last night. On the seven o’clock news program and, as an encore, at eight. He had actually spoken a few quaint words of Dutch. “You were a hit, Charles,” said Jim in his easy tones. “Far outshining the rest. And, yes, I agree, quite memorable. Wouldn’t you say, Lily?” “Oh, by all means. The star. We were proud of you.” “But where was this bar?” Aileen asked. “My dear, I can’t tell you exactly. At the military airfield, where we landed.” “And they let you stay all night at a military airfield?” “I hid!” said Charles. Henk lifted a questioning eyebrow; he was acquainted with that heliport. “In the toilet for a time, if you must know. Then there was a jeep that I had noticed standing outside, which became rather chilly, I must say.” “An empty jeep?” “Oh, no. That would have been careless of them, wouldn’t it? There was a young soldier in a greatcoat asleep at the wheel.” “And then?” “And then, my dear, let’s just say that I have a way with me. In the end, the junior officer in command was most accommodating; you Dutch are so helpful to foreigners. Imagine if one had been in France. The only bother was that he was eager to furnish me transportation to Amsterdam. But I managed to stay put, resorting to what they call ‘delaying tactics.’ And the young men coming on duty had seen me on television. Some of them asked for my autograph. I expect they thought I was some figure of the stage or screen. In return, they were most informative. I learned that Helen’s picture had been left behind. It had stood there all day. Anyone could have stolen it.”

  He broke off and eyed Van der Kampe, who was examining the Titian with the aid of a loupe. At Charles’s prompting (“Do have a look at the splendid Ward they have in the next room”), he moved on into the beste kamer. Charles waited. “Well,” he continued, lowering his voice, “I was not quite so guileless as I led him to believe. Hussein, would you mind shutting that door? At my age, one must be careful of drafts. Thank you. To go on with my story: I was forearmed, you see, by my young informants. Being assured that the picture was there emboldened me to hang on. When Mr. Van der Kampe appeared, one of my young acquaintances, guessing my interest, nipped into the toilet, where I was taking evasive action, to tell me that orders were for that gentleman to embark with the painting. Not being familiar with art matters, he could not say why. But I intuited it and I posted myself at the bar, trusting that a conversation between us would open. When it did, I offered myself as his guide. We agreed that he would pass me off, should the deception be necessary, as a fellow-authority. From our Fine Arts Museum—between ourselves, shockingly weak in Dutch seventeenth century, but who would know that here?”

  Sounds from the shed announced that the Vermeer’s case was being opened. At a sign from Jim, Henk, drawing Sophie with him, joined Van der Kampe in the parlor. He had no great yearning to fraternize in Dutch with this landgenoot, but it was important to Jim to know how long, roughly, the authentication was going to take. In short, how soon he would be returning to Amsterdam. Victor needed to be ready.

  Though content to be enlisted in the rescue operation, Henk, on reflection, did not share Jim’s sense of Victor’s peril, which was based, he thought, on a misreading of the kapers’ mentality. He doubted that CIA agents in the present circumstances were an endangered species needing protection. Almost the contrary. As the kapers would view it, if he read them right, he and Jim, even Sophie, were key imperialist agents operating under the cloak of liberalism and more deserving of execution by a people’s firing squad than a rank-and-filer like Victor, were he to be exposed. In the scale of things, Victor would be judged to be a mere tool exploited by the bosses for his language skills and his Middle East credentials, and he had only to confess to be given a second chance. Redemption would be easy, as often happened with informers. To an observer, that seemed obvious. Yet the wretch, being fearful, was unwilling to take the chance. He preferred to be saved by his Great White Father, the Senator.

  In any case, Henk was happy to do his share. It would be their first act of subversion. Like a schoolboy, he was almost offended when his snuff was refused. He had agreed, of course, to say nothing to Sophie, and Jim, he noticed, was keeping his distance from Lily this morning. Wisely, Henk considered, for that observant lady was likely to detect his suppressed excitement and remark on it wonderingly in public. One of the conditions of the game of skill they were playing was that anyone not in the secret had to be looked on as a potential enemy.

  Entrusted with the vital mission of sounding out Van der Kampe, Henk felt honored and slightly apprehensive. He was a scout, obliged to step carefully lest an over-heavy footfall or the crackling of a twig give his purpose away. On entering the room with Sophie, he had experienced a kind of stage fright; he swallowed to moisten his dry throat. Danger was an exhilarant. He had lost all sense of proportion, he told himself, for the slight risk they were running was as nothing in comparison with the permanent danger that surrounded them, whose effect was mainly depressing. He supposed the difference was that this danger was of their own choosing—they were courting it, you might say, like a woman.

  Van der Kampe would not say how long it would take him to pronounce on the Vermeer. He seemed irritated by the question. An irritable fussy little man, the worst type of Netherlander, and made nervous, evidently, by the guns—he did not appear to have noticed the highly visible wiring—and by the mixed company he found himself in. He was a snob, natuurlijk, and the apparition of Charles in full traveling regalia at the heliport must have led him to expect better things. “Of the old school, that one,” he said to Henk in Dutch with a pale purse-lipped smile. The rest he found harder to catalogue. Mrs. Potter, he understood, would be traveling back with him in the event that he could certify her painting. Her husband was standing by in a hotel in Amsterdam—in the bar, Henk imagined, and not with a cup of hot chocolate. He saw that the uneasy
fellow was taking Margaret, who retained some semblance of grandeur, for the owner of the Vermeer. “One of the great old fortunes, my ‘guide’ let me know.” Henk redirected the authority’s deferential gaze. “Not that lady!” Van der Kampe exclaimed, shocked. “We’re prisoners,” Henk reminded him. He felt embarrassed in front of this stranger for the state of Helen’s dress, as if she were an aunt or an even nearer relation.

  Van der Kampe excused himself. He had forgotten their state of duress. And now he understood (he said) why Henk had been anxious to learn when he would be returning to Amsterdam. “You will be wanting to send messages to your wife and children. By all means. Lose no time, please, in penning them. I shall be more than glad to deliver them to your home.” Henk felt Sophie stiffen beside him at the words “vrouw” and “kinderen.” But Van der Kampe’s field of vision, on the whole perhaps fortunately, did not seem to include Sophie. If Henk were to mention that the feminine shape opposite him bore an uncanny resemblance to the Empress Theodora in the Ravenna mosaic, Van der Kampe, he supposed, would explain that that was not his “field.” “Your address, please, and may I offer you pen and paper?” Henk reflected. “You must write,” said Sophie. For a moment, Henk could think of no message to send that would not be heavily humorous (“Greetings from Flevoland”) or a lie (“I miss you and think of you constantly”). In the end, he wrote “I am well. I amuse myself and I send you my love. Greet Elisabeth.” “Who is Elisabeth?” said Sophie. “The wife of Den Uyl.” To shake off the thought of his family, he moved to the window, where he had a good view of the helicopter. There should be room, he estimated, for another passenger. Mrs. Potter was a small woman, and Van der Kampe was not much bigger. With the Vermeer out of the way, one of them and Victor, supine, ought to fit quite easily into the cargo bay.