Cannibals and Missionaries (42 page)

Still, the fact remained that eight hostages were fairly certain to be freed within the next hours, which showed that the government’s concessions, by and large, were meeting the commando’s requirements. Strictly speaking, half the number would have satisfied the terms. Old Charles and Warren and the two “boys” from Antibes had been thrown in as a gift, it would appear. Warren owned no art, and Eddie’s collection consisted of erotic prints from near and distant lands—“just a
potpourri
,” he explained with a withered smile—while John’s only holding was a collection of rare cookbooks. They were going to be set at liberty without any pretense of exacting a
quid pro quo—
an injustice keenly felt by Aileen. The case of Charles and his porcelains was slightly different; they were letting him go on his say-so, and now he was regretting it. “I’m hoist with my own petard, James,” he lamented. “I should have dearly loved to stay on with your brave committee, like a rump parliament, to the bitter end. So short-sighted of me. But that gorgon won’t hear of it. I don’t eat much, I said to her, and my conversation is good value, they tell me. But no. I have made my bed and I must lie on it.”

“James” would be sorry himself to see him go. It was a punishment prettily designed to fit the crime, for Charles, of course, had conned them: his porcelains, he had been confiding, were by no means as breakable as he had let on. These people had the art of punishment. It would “kill” Charles to leave now with his “whole” winter ruined, and to see himself separated from the anointed band of liberals seemed to be hurting the most. “Do I deserve to be sent packing with my millionaires, James? Well, I suppose I do. Yet I’d hoped there was a saving difference.” Jim was noncommittal; he trusted there was a credit balance in the Recording Angel’s books—Charles would have an account marked “Special.” But, apart from the wound to his feelings, he was probably well out of this business. Whatever he believed, his age and sybaritic habits did not fit him for a long internment. And, insofar as the future was legible, that was surely what was in store for the communion of saints.

On that subject, “James” had come to have second thoughts. He could not see that the trumpeted arrival of the paintings was going to solve anything. A brilliant coup, a stroke of genius, whatever you liked, nevertheless, when and if it happened, it would be unproductive in terms of final ends. The bleat from the sheared sheep “What will they
do
with our beautiful things?” had merit, on reflection. Unless he planned to open a gallery in the barn, there was nothing Jeroen
could
do with all that art. Well, he could hold it for exchange. Jim had been pointing that out to himself and others as if it were a self-evident proposition, needing no demonstration. But the longer he pondered it, the less reasonable it appeared. Exchange against what, exactly?

Safe-conduct? But that was already assured. Money? But if they wanted money—beyond the “price” of the helicopter—it would have figured in their demands. Having chosen, in lieu of it, “priceless” works of art, they would hardly be satisfied at this point to convert them into packets of currency, however portable. Liberation of comrades in Israeli jails? No doubt they would be glad to see that but they must be aware that it was chimerical—they lacked what Aileen called the
“atouts.”
The fact that a gang in Holland was holding some art works was of no concern to the Israelis. It might be different if the people’s army had got hold of the original Ark of the Covenant and Aaron’s rod and phylacteries. No. It came down, unfortunately, to Demand Two. And Demand Two was non-negotiable. Den Uyl could not and would not take Holland out of NATO or break relations with Israel at the beck of a terrorist’s will. And a demand of that type left no room for maneuver or compromise: offering to cut down the NATO forces by a quarter and being prepared to settle for a third; agreeing to reduce the Embassy staff in Tel Aviv over a period to be discussed. The Netherlands’ foreign policy could not be turned around to suit a few gunmen by the present team at bat; that would require a whole new ballgame and some funny new uniforms. What Demand Two, in fact, implied was Jeroen’s seizure of power. It would be interesting to know whether Jeroen himself understood that. Did he suppose he could build a power base on a single hijacking?

Jim strolled to the window and stood looking out. For a moment, he wondered whether he ought to discuss this with Henk. But that cheerful nature was already on record to the effect that Demand Two was “
pro forma.
” Jim shook his head. “Think again, Henk,” he silently adjured. “Review the bidding and try to explain the pictures.” Retracing the steps of his own reasoning, half-praying to find a false one, he arrived at the same starting-point: what end was served by bringing the pictures here? Well, they guaranteed the security of the command post; so far, that figured. It was demonstrable and would be demonstrated in the coming days. But reason could not rest there, although his own had been quite pleasantly doing that, like Aeneas in Dido’s arms, till jarred, just now, by a doubt. Impregnability, my friend, he had told himself, was not an end in itself. It must serve an ulterior purpose. For the
kapers
to stay holed up here impregnably for an indefinite period argued a great aim in view.

Staring out at the improbable, man-made landscape, he chuckled. They were plump in the middle of Nowhere. A diverting vision appeared to him, of the polder as Jeroen’s crazed kingdom, the farmhouse as his castle, his
feste Burg
(if it was not a sin to quote Luther), and the barn, hung with masterpieces, his royal picture gallery. He would be Lord of the Waters, and the committee would be his serfs, tilling the reclaimed land, making the sea floor bloom, maybe erecting a mountain or two, never to be manumitted,
et in saecula saeculorum.
They would breed, with each other and with their overlords, and produce the New Man. The fancy continued to tickle him, and he did not consider it altogether wide of the mark. Demand Two was irrational, and, if Jeroen did not know that, he was mad.

But would he be having the pictures flown to him, with another consignment to follow, unless he intended to persist in it? Otherwise, having achieved the majority of his ends, he would be calling for a plane to fly him and his cohorts and whatever trophies they desired to keep to an air-strip of his choice, there to prepare himself to strike again and yet again at the “system.” Electing that scenario, he would become a hero and a legend and perhaps disappear eventually like Prester John into the African continent. Here he was, instead, resolutely painting himself into a corner, or so it looked, if the decision to return the NATO helicopter was a sign. He intended to dig in for the duration with a skeleton crew of hostages and stand firm on Demand Two. The pictures would make him that much more intractable. The fact of having obtained them against all likelihood, abetted by Providence in the shape of the Bishop’s death, was apt to imbue him with a feeling of irresistible strength. The pictures were a misfortune, for unless he ceded sooner or later to the unbudging piece of Dutch reality represented by Mr. Owl, there was no way for this story to end.

Sophie held up a penny. He shook his head. “No sale.” His thoughts were too queer and gloomy to worry her with yet. Time would tell, and the exercise of reason could lead a man astray. For example, he had been considering only Jeroen—the brain of the undertaking and
qua
brain transparent, like a chess opponent whose intentions are manifest though the power to counter them may be lacking. But there were seven others among the hijackers who might be developing intentions of their own.

Besides, Henk and Sophie were in love. Analyzing Jeroen and his eventual aims no longer excited them except as a game or pastime which they could take part in as a duet. Love gave them a shorter perspective: seize the day. He wished them well and would be happy for them when finally—today or tomorrow—there would be fewer onlookers. But there was no way for that story to end either. Henk was married; there was no chance here for them to be alone, and afterward an affair was unlikely. Jim could picture a single tryst—
ite missa est—
in a KLM-style twin-bedder in the airport hotel on the day release to real life took place. But of course Henk’s wife would be meeting him. Now they could only touch hands as he lit her cigarettes, and he could take her arm on walks. No detail of this “tragedy” (actually an idyl) was missed by the chorus of sympathizers, which professed itself “sorriest” for Sophie, watching openly for her reaction when his wife appeared on television, noting the trembling of her hand when he held out fire for her True cigarettes. The spark that passed between them when their fingers met was likened by one of the chorus to the divine spark passing between God and Adam on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. “Probably friction from the rug,” Jim suggested, although privately he did not doubt that the sexual electricity between two such handsome creatures, one at the grave pole of being, one at the merry, could be referred to God’s creation.

He could marry Sophie when this was over. The idea had occurred to him, but he was not really tempted. He admired her aquiline beauty and sympathized with her tenseness; it would be a proof of loyalty to Henk and cement this experience. But he knew that he could never marry a journalist without asking her to give up her profession. He could not have a wife running around the world and exposing herself to danger while he sat reading the headlines in the Senate Office Building. A notoriously brave woman was a handicap to a political man. Yet during these last days his mind had been turning on marriage at least semi-seriously for the first time since Eleanor had died. Maybe it was a survival instinct: sketching out a future for himself with a woman by his side “tied him down” to having a future.

Strange as it might seem, he had been considering Lily. Any single man in public life, he guessed, had an occasional pipe-dream of marrying a rich widow. Jim did not blame himself for it, though he feared it sprang from his indolence. As a clever lazy war veteran, he might have had the makings of a fortune-hunter in him, had he not married young. Now, with Eleanor out of the way, he was a “catch,” he discovered; his fan mail was replete with offers of marriage, filed under “Matrimonial,” in the “Inactive” drawer. Though the thought recurred idly when he contemplated his campaign debts, he put it aside. The woods were full of available widows of independent means, but he could be thankful that his requirements were inordinate—God’s grace, he reckoned, at work against the old Mammon. She would have to be pleasant to look at, with the hair color Nature gave her, pleasant-spoken—what his mother used to call a real lady—good company, capable of good works, no friend of the bottle and no enemy either, mature but not too old. There were few, if any, rich relicts answering to that description—St. Bridget of Sweden, who fitted (give or take a few visions), had passed on a long time ago. In short, it was a pipe-dream: Q.E.D. He indulged it, knowing the field: fund-raising dinners had taught him how little in deportment and personal attributes the rich had to offer and how much they demanded in the way of attention for the bounty of a four-figure check.

Yet here was Lily, who filled the bill on all counts and had the additional endearing attribute of being slightly absurd. At first sight he had typed her as an “older” woman, that is, beyond the age, but recently he had been trying to estimate how old she actually was. If you gave Beryl thirty-seven or possibly thirty-eight, then, assuming her mother had had her at the age of twenty, Lily would now be fifty-seven or fifty-eight, scarcely older than he was himself. And society buds in those days married early, so that she could have been eighteen, fresh from that social school of hers where they taught Dostoievsky along with riding-to-hounds, when she went to the altar (Episcopal)—which would make her nineteen when Beryl was born. Her skin was still fresh and smooth, except for a few perplexed lines across her pretty forehead; it was only the gray hair that put age on her, but he applauded her for not dyeing it, and, hell, his was nearly white. Nor was she a dim-wit, despite the initial impression. Her “inklings” were worth paying heed to, as Henk, too, had observed—she had made quite a conquest of Henk. That her collector friends and her daughter rushed to correct her every time she opened her mouth with some dreamy suggestion was an argument for her intelligence. It sounded as if her associates had been sighing over her for years. He got the sense, too, that her collection was regarded as a triumph of taste over buying power, i.e., that she was not quite as moneyed as the rest of them—all to the good; he would not want to marry a great smelly fortune and its bodyguard of tax-dodging lawyers. The attraction Lily exercised on him could have something to do with his feeling for the weaker party in any confrontation of forces. In her group here, she was a minority needing defense in its right to be heard. Henk had the same reaction, natural in a democrat, if not in the
demos.
Which reminded him: in the event of their marrying, something would have to be done about that society accent, which would not go down at Grange suppers; an elocution teacher could see to it—the voice itself was a nice soprano. The only drawback was Beryl.

“Funny bunch, aren’t they? What do you make of Lily?” “Why, I like her,” answered Sophie, having duly weighed the question. “She’s much the nicest of them, isn’t she? Henk says she reminds him of some pale pink rose she described that isn’t grown any more. Its name was Van F-l-e-e-t.” Spelling that out seemed to please her. “I’ll miss her and Beryl when they go. But of course they’re another world. If we met them again in real life, we’d have nothing to say to each other, would we? Except about
this.
Perhaps we should hold reunions, like the press corps that served in Vietnam. But those things are always grisly—total flops. You’ve been through some experience together which gives you the sense that you have something in common. But when you meet again, you find that you’ve all reverted to type. The thing that held you together is gone, and you discover that you don’t even have the same memories of it. It’s better not to try, I think.”