Cannibals and Missionaries (6 page)

To tell a little more truth (it was wise to be candid with oneself), there had also been the promise of getting to know the Senator, a handsome man in his photographs and recently widowed. She saw them flying to Shiraz over weekends and renting a car to explore the country together, picnicking in the ruins; the others would not be interested in antiquities, probably, and, if some were, they could come along, sharing the expenses.

“A rabbi is so darned important,” the Reverend was stating, as if to himself. He had sunk down on a bench opposite her while the Bishop had gone to the men’s room. Aileen made no comment. Instead, she voiced her own worries. “They should be calling our flight any minute now. What do you suppose has happened to the Senator? He was meant to be coming in on an early plane from Washington.” “Oh?” That was news, evidently, to the Reverend, but, unlike him, she had not been
totally
remiss. Last week she had had her secretary call the Senator’s office in Washington; his chief aide said that Iran was certainly on the boss’s calendar and asked the girl to tell President Simmons that the Senator was looking forward to meeting her. This had given her the right, she thought, to call again, and yesterday the same aide had said that, yes, he was booked this morning on a flight to Kennedy. But it was typical of Miss Meloney, in many ways an excellent secretary, that she had not thought to find out
what
flight. It could have been late or canceled. But unless you knew the flight number there was no way of checking up. “Mr. Barber, do you think you could just go downstairs and ask Mr. Sadegh if there’s been a message?”

“Sadegh has gone,” said the minister. Aileen let out a wail and fell back in a heap on the bench. Unbelievably, while the two clerics were checking in, the Iranian had made a phone call and “discovered” he had an appointment. So he had asked the minister’s son for a ride back to town. “And you let them go,” said Aileen. Useless to wonder why he had not exercised some parental authority. She turned her stricken face to the Bishop, who had seated himself during this exchange and was rocking calmly back and forth with his big umbrella between his chubby knees. “If the young fellow wanted to make himself scarce, plenty of vehicles were available,” he observed.

Aileen felt ready to cry. The Senator was going to be a No Show—hadn’t she always had the presentiment? The Iranian, somehow, must have known it or found it out from his phone call. “Then he just couldn’t face us and he ran away. Don’t you agree, Bishop Hurlbut? Don’t you
know
that’s what’s happened? I vote we go home.”

“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 was 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.