Cannibals and Missionaries

by Mary McCarthy

  “It is a pump.” That was the man in the whipcord again; his pale scarf, folded like a stock, could just be made out. In a body, the first-class hostages turned to him; all the carefully built little social barriers came down, as of course they had to in an emergency, with everyone standing here chock-a-block. He talked with quite a strong accent, difficult to place, but he sounded like a person who was very sure of himself. What they were hearing, he said, was a pumping-station. They were in Holland. And he was Dutch himself, naturally. “But I thought you said ‘Welcome to Flevoland’ or some name like that,” protested Beryl. She was right; it had been somewhat misleading. But “Flevoland,” it seemed, was the name of this part of Holland. From a lake which used to be here in Roman times that the Romans had called “Lake Flavus,” meaning yellow.

  “I’ll be darned,” said Johnnie. “What happened to the lake?” Well, that was a long story, said the Dutchman, and then proceeded to tell it, as people always did when they said that. But it was interesting and gave them something to think about besides the state of their extremities and the clammy fear that was starting to creep over them like the fog. The temperature was close to freezing, and standing on the icy concrete was an ordeal, especially for the women in their thin shoes. The group was at a loss as to how to interpret Gretel’s injunction not to move—did it mean stay glued to the spot or could they take a few steps to stretch their legs instead of just shifting from foot to foot?

  Anyhow, to hear the Dutchman tell it, the Roman lake and the land around it had been gradually taken over by the sea; then in recent times the process had been reversed. When the Zuyder Zee had been closed in from the North Sea, the old lake bottom had been drained and made into a “polder.” The highway underfoot ran along a raised dike, which was part of the system that kept the water out. But it was fresh water now, not salt—the Ijsselmeer, pronounced something like “ice,” he said. And this whole place they were on was a polder. “Land reclamation,” said Johnnie. “Now I get it. We’re on your ‘Oost Polder.’” Johnnie was amazing; one would think that he never read a book and cared for nothing but his pictures and sailing and horses, but one forgot that his financial interests brought him in touch with all sorts of remote places and people, so that he could be a mine of the strangest information. It would not be surprising if one of his companies had been researching these polders for investment. And once Johnnie got hold of a fact, it stayed with him. It was stored away in his memory for when it might come in handy. Like tonight. The Dutchman, you could tell, was pleased as Punch to meet an American who knew something about his country. If the circumstances had been more normal, one could have expected an exchange of visiting cards. As it was, they traded names. “Van Vliet de Jonge.” “Ramsbotham.”

  The reason the area was so empty was that it was all new land, ready for development. The water they had noticed to the east of them was a lake with brand-new artificial beaches for tourism. A few miles to the north, an airport was under construction. There would be some light industry in the new towns, but Flevoland’s 52,000 hectares would be used mainly for cereals, sugar beets, potatoes, and dairy-farming. “What about timber?” said Johnnie. “4000 hectares,” answered the other. “About 46,000 will be in agriculture.” Harold interrupted. He had had his fill of this discussion. What interested him was whether the hijackers were going to make them sleep in the chopper. The Dutchman doubted it. He supposed their hideaway would prove to be a farmhouse—a few had already been built, well set back from the road. “You may have noticed one or two from the air.” A farmhouse, he guessed, and a barn, too, had been taken over and got ready by their confederates. “Hopefully,” said Harold, with a short laugh. “Jesus, how many are we?” “Twenty-four, with the pilots,” said the Dutchman. “You’ve got it all at your finger-tips, haven’t you?” retorted Harold, who was clearly in one of his rude moods. He was someone who was sensitive to being left out.

  “What makes you so sure anyway that it’s this so-called polder of yours that they’ve brought us to?” “Why, he guessed it hours ago, back in the plane, didn’t he, Senator, didn’t you, Mynheer Van Vliet?” That was the little Economy class woman with all the rouge. “And now this pumping-station proves he was right. On a newly drained polder, he explained to us, the pumps run day and night. Maintaining the water level.”

  “How interesting, Mr. Van Vliet,” said Lily. “Do tell us what made you guess.” “Exercise of reason,” spoke up the Senator. “Plus being Dutch. When they asked for a helicopter, he had all the clues in his hand.” “Clues?” “Sure. The flying range of helicopters and their capability of landing in rough terrain without a runway gave him his coordinates. And being Dutch, he was aware of polder country—wide open spaces with hardly any folks around. In easy flying radius of Schiphol. Your ordinary passenger plane couldn’t have put down here. Well, maybe a Piper Cub. But for that we were too many, as Father Time said.” “‘Father Time’?” Lily sounded alarmed. “Jude the Obscure, Mother. Didn’t they have that on your reading-list at Saint Tim’s?”

  Margaret took up the questioning. “Thank you, Beryl. Now I wonder if this gentleman will enlighten us a little further. Can you tell us, sir, how these Germans and Arabs came to be acquainted with your uninhabited polder? Is it a matter of general knowledge?” Well, you could have knocked them over with a feather: “Hans” and “Gretel” were not German; they were Dutch. “You’ll have to think of some new names for them, Mother,” twitted Beryl. “And you don’t know any Dutch names, I bet.” “Naming the animals,” observed the Senator, in his dry way. “Try ‘Rip’ as in ‘Winkle.’” “But Hans is a Dutch name,” declared Helen. “Remember Hans Brinker or The Silver Skates? Mary Mapes Dodge. How I doted on that book. But I forget what his dear little sister was called.” “Well, give us some Dutch given names, Mr. Van Vliet,” ordered Margaret in her measured my-good-man tones. “Maarten, Willem, Adriaan…Liesbeth, Henriette…” “Saskia!” interrupted Helen. But who would want to call a hijackeress after Rembrandt’s glorious young wife? Mr. Van Vliet was thinking. “For him, you ought to have a Groningen sort of name. Gerrit…?” “Never mind this name game.” Harold’s voice was raised again. “What I’d like to hear is how our friend here knew the gang had asked for a helicopter.”

  Harold had a point. In first class they had not been told a word about a helicopter or any other kind of getaway plane. How was it that Economy seemed to know such a lot while first-class passengers had been kept totally in the dark? “Very simple. The hijackers told me,” cheerily replied Mr. Van Vliet and-whatever-the-rest-of-his-name-was. Again the first-class hostages could only gasp. This man had been in the terrorists’ confidence and was brazen enough to admit it. It was a horrid sensation to feel that you might have a Judas in your midst. Finally Charles, the old know-all, had the goodness to explain. Mr. Van Vliet de Jonge was a deputy in their Parliament. “The leader of his party, I believe. I knew his grandfather. Charming man. His party is in the ruling coalition, you see, and since our captors were negotiating over the wireless with the Dutch government, it was only logical that he should be chosen as intermediary. Which in turn permitted him to learn some of their demands.”

  “Of course, Mother,” cried Beryl. “Don’t you remember? There was a man they took up to the pilot’s cabin. Twice, I think. That was Mr. Van Vliet de Jonge, obviously. But you people never notice anything. If you saw him, you probably thought he was another hijacker. By that time, you were all drunk anyway like most of your generation. Except Mrs. Chadwick—‘just a little unseasoned tomato juice’—who was fainting.” “Manners, Beryl,” interposed Johnnie. “Keep your shirt on. Unlike you, honey child, the rest of us were under a strain. And, now that you mention it, I do recall somebody’s being hustled up those corkscrew steps. But I didn’t take much notice. And you’re right: just about then, Eloise fainted.”

  When he stopped, one was almost grateful for the dark. As if to bear out Beryl’s allegation, a distinct smell of alcohol was reaching their n
ostrils. It must come from the Vuitton case that had been thrown down with such violence; a bottle of whiskey must have broken—more likely, a pair of bottles. Still, Beryl’s outburst, whatever the foundation in fact, could not be dismissed as easily as her protector, Johnnie, seemed to think. To accuse your mother, in public, with strangers listening, of having been drunk was rather unforgivable. And, on top of that, to do a take-off of little Mrs. Chadwick’s la-de-da way of speaking. That was cruel. Actually nobody had been what you would call drunk, except the Potters, and Henry never showed it. When once in a great while he would have to be carried out of his club and entrusted to his chauffeur, it always came as a surprise: one minute he was erect and in full possession of his faculties (as far as could be judged), and the next he swayed and toppled over like a tall tree in a forest. It could happen at any time of day but only in the club—never when ladies were present. He was a gentleman to the core; the men said that when he keeled over it was almost a noble sight, like watching a cathedral pine fall. Unfortunately Helen, who now and then took one martini too many, in order to keep him company, had no head for liquor, which led people to think that she was an alcoholic and a cross for sober Henry to bear, when the exact opposite happened to be the case.

  The dark was doubly welcome because it gave them time to think about Charles’s revelations, and one would not like the person in question to be aware of it. There was no real reason to doubt that he was a deputy in Parliament, even though somebody like Harold might immediately want proof. Being self-made, Harold was naturally suspicious of those who had less of this world’s goods than he had acquired, and right now one could not altogether blame him; the present circumstances, so eerie, hardly conduced to an atmosphere of trust. But the fact that Charles had known this man’s grandfather was some sort of testimonial: Charles was awfully well connected. On the other hand, whoever one’s grandfather had been did not prevent one, these days, from crossing over to the other side-almost the contrary; a mother could scarcely be sure any more that her own children were not manufacturing bombs in the cellar. What really mattered in a critical moment such as this was not blood or the ability to get elected—look at Carey—but a sense of responsibility. Was this de Jonge a responsible person? That was what one needed to know. He might be everything that Charles claimed, a leader of his party and so on, yet he had an irresponsible air about him—insouciant perhaps was the word. As though the common peril was a matter of no concern. Of course that could be put on. In the morning one would be able to tell better; one liked to see the person one was talking to, in order to judge fairly. Now there was only the voice to go by, and the accent, though not his fault, did serve as a reminder that he could speak to the chief terrorists in their own language with no one the wiser. He was a great talker, clearly, and, without knowing more about him, one could not foresee what he might let drop to these compatriots of his, not necessarily meaning any harm.

  It would be wisdom to warn Helen, if one could just draw her quietly aside, not to dream of mentioning her Vermeer to him, which under ordinary conditions would be the most natural thing for her to do were she to find herself traveling with a pleasant-spoken Dutchman. Vermeers, as she ought to know, seemed to have a fatal attraction for art thieves and declared enemies of society. There had been that shocking case, a few winters ago, of the Kenwood House Vermeer. The terrorists had seized the canvas, in broad daylight at gun-point, from the lovely house, partly Adam, just outside London that had been a gift of Lord Iveagh to the public. Then they had cut strips off it and mailed them to a newspaper, just like that Getty boy’s ear. They threatened to “execute” it as an act of proletarian justice if their demands were not met by a certain date. Yet what was it, exactly, that they had wanted? Money, naturally, and for some Irish bombers in English jails to go free, and a food distribution, or was one getting confused with the Hearst case? There were so many of these raids and kidnappings, all alike basically, that it was hard to keep the long lists of “demands” straight. In any case, the world had waited, utterly aghast at the barbarity, for the appointed day to dawn, but then the day passed and nothing happened, and eventually the picture was found, not too much the worse for wear, in a London cemetery, propped up against a gravestone. The subject of the painting—a girl in a yellow dress trimmed with ermine holding a guitar—was very similar to Helen’s; you could almost speak of a replica, though Helen’s was an inch or two smaller and the landscape hanging on the wall behind the guitar-player was different. That was why so many of Helen’s friends had thought it was foolish of her to let hers go on show right on the heels of the Kenwood House atrocity; it was inviting a repetition.

  Before that there had been the Rijksmuseum “The Love Letter,” which was stolen while on show in Belgium and savagely mistreated. They said that had been a professional “heist” but professionals were usually not interested in mutilating priceless treasures—only in collecting the ransom; they had nothing against the pictures as art. Normal criminality was a thing one could understand—the acquisitive instinct we all have, carried to wicked lengths—but the new wave of terrorism let loose on helpless works of art was beyond ordinary human comprehension. That Japanese woman spraying the “Mona Lisa” with red paint to protest the museum hours that she thought discriminated against Japanese workers or women or whatever. It was heartbreaking to read about these sprayings and gougings and hackings, which were all politically motivated at bottom, even if it was only a crazy Australian artist’s grudge against Michelangelo for being an acknowledged genius when he could not get recognition himself—so he attacked the “Pietà” in St. Peter’s. And you did not have to be a “proud possessor” to feel the hurt of it. The ordinary newspaper-reader, if the truth were told, had trembled far more for the Vermeer when it was threatened than for the Hearst girl or even the Getty boy.

  “I have many grandchildren,” old Mr. Getty had commented when he let it be known that he was not going to satisfy the kidnappers’ demands. He meant that if he paid up for Paul, the gangsters would be encouraged to kidnap the rest of his descendants one after the other. But the remark had been misinterpreted: people thought a callous old man was stating that among so many grandchildren one more or less did not matter. And if you compared the average grandchild with an irreplaceable work of art, that was true in a way, though one shouldn’t say it. Helen had many attractive grandchildren, who would doubtless go on breeding and multiplying on the face of the earth, but her Vermeer was one of a kind, or almost. It was like a trust she held for posterity. The pleasure owning it gave her was only the income. Rather, what had been the pleasure; the constant increase in burglaries, pushing up the insurance premiums, and now this wave of wanton terrorism were taking a good deal of the joy out of owning beautiful things. But to let them “go public,” as business people said of old family-owned companies, was not a solution; your precious works of art were no safer in a museum, as the Kenwood House crime proved. At any rate, Helen ought to be put on her guard. And if tomorrow, after a night’s sleep and a chance to look about, a council of war were held, to discuss the situation and size up the chances of escape, it would be fairer to de Jonge to manage to leave him out of it. Or if negotiation, instead, were decided on—one could always try—they should be chary of taking him into their confidence. One of their own group, by rights, should be the spokesman, since it was money, to put it coarsely, that would be talking….

  Now the moon was trying to show itself, and a few stars twinkled in and out of the clouds. The fog had lifted, and, besides, their eyes had adjusted to the darkness. It had to do with the pupils dilating or else contracting, one or the other—Harold, who had started out as a pharmacist, would probably know. They saw Beryl plump herself down on the pavement; she had plenty of padding but she would ruin her nice coat. The others had found it wiser to stay on their feet and keep exercising their limbs—the Senator was throwing imaginary pitches. The temperature was dropping; you could tell because the pavement was getting slippery—a thin
glaze of ice had started to form. Along each side of the road ran a ditch, too deep to see whether it held water. Beyond, there were tall reeds or sedges, and some distance off, perhaps half a mile, in the direction from which they had heard the foghorn, they could now make out a house of sorts, distinguishable by the roofline, and a big looming shed or barn. No lights showed.

  Every few minutes someone consulted Johnnie’s luminous watch. What had happened to their captors? No one was talking any more. Each seemed to be wrapped in his thoughts. The younger of Warren’s two friends had assumed a yoga posture. Helen’s head jerked on her neck; she was falling asleep on her feet. At that point, forceful Margaret decided to take the reins in her hands. “Rector,” she ordered. “Give us an evening prayer.” When he launched into “Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord,” everyone had to laugh—it was so appropriate. Then, looking around like a chairwoman, she called on Van Vliet to tell them what kind of government his country had. “Wait a minute,” burst in Harold. “Don’t say it. Let me have one guess. Socialist.” He had scored on the first try, which seemed to give him some grim satisfaction, though you would think he would rather have been wrong. “Thanks, Maggie, for asking. Now we know.” “Know what?” demanded Beryl. “Know what?” echoed the woman with the wailing Southern voice. They saw the Senator turn his head to listen.