Cannibals and Missionaries

by Mary McCarthy

  By night-time, he was almost himself again. They had moved him to the other sofa, in the family room, where he could watch television, which he followed remarkably well, considering that he seemed to have grown deafer in the last few hours and that his right eye, now blinking occasionally, was teary. The screen showed the helicopter, landing at a military airfield, and a crowd of reporters being held back by the military police. To the general surprise, he remembered about the tapes and about Helen, too. “Here you are, big as life,” he told her. “The good Lord answered our prayer.” They were not shown the departure of the Lodestar, if in fact it had actually left. But they saw the Minister of Defense again and clapped for him, like an old friend.

  When bedtime came, Gus was tucked in for the night on the family-room sofa. They found his pajamas in his old tapestry carryall and put them on him. It was quite an event for one of their number to retire in proper night clothes, rather than fully dressed. Carlos brought him his own blanket and a pillow. Instead of going to the attic, Denise was to sleep at his feet, with Frank next to her. Just before “lights out,” Elfride came in with a warm drink with a sedative in it. Horst had looked in for a minute, and all three Arabs had appeared to wish the old man a good night. Only Jeroen, in all this time, had not showed his face. It was his conscience reproaching him, Frank was sure. Frank was in a buoyant mood, having regained all his “pep” now that the Bishop was out of the woods, as he put it. Gus’s stroke, he believed, was going to prove to be the blessed turning-point in this whole adventure. God’s grace worked in mysterious ways, and He may have seen fit to try His servant with a little syncope in order to show these young anarchists the human havoc they could wreak through over-immersion in theory. “Over-immersion” was a funny way of putting it.

  At any rate, Gus’s own heart was touched by the attentions paid him. “You’ve been so good,” he kept repeating in his still quavery voice to everyone who approached him. Well, he was a Christian and supposed to love his enemies, which meant seeing the good in them. In view of that, the others decided not to mention in his presence the little thing that had just happened: a few minutes ago, Helen was turned back as she was mounting the stairway clutching as usual her rubberized dressing-case to freshen up for the night. Her toilet privilege had been revoked. She could go outdoors with the men, Hussein told her, barring the way with the submachine gun he had taken over from Ahmed. In the shock of it, she had said no, she wouldn’t, without considering her waterworks or the fact that it was dark outside so that no one would see her. Now it was too late. The single chamber-pot in the house had been placed where the Bishop could use it, and she would not want to do tinkle-tinkle and disturb him.

  Thursday was nearly over. Twenty-four hours had gone by since the Bishop’s “attaque,” as Aileen persisted in calling it—she had been talking French a mile a minute with Denise and Jean, the steward. There was no news yet on television, and the radio report was only that “negotiations” were proceeding through the Dutch Embassy in Washington. But on the scene there had been some changes—for the better, on the whole. Groups of hostages had been allowed to go out for walks, under guard and not too far from the house. Only Helen had been kept in, as a punishment, and Gus, on “doctor’s orders”—he had taken a few, remarkably spry steps in the family room, refusing Frank’s arm, but then had been made to rest.

  Outside, since morning, a new sight had met their eyes: a cordon of special police in black uniforms with white braid around the neck drawn up in the fields perhaps five hundred yards off. They were an elite force, Henk said, called the marechaussee—something like guardsmen—and were used in state emergencies. According to Ahmed, the people’s army had agreed to having them drawn up there, for its own protection. No sooner had the news gone on the air than curiosity-seekers had swarmed into the area. Last night the highway police had set up road blocks; the only cars permitted through belonged to people who lived here or worked in the pumping-station. But that had not stopped polder dwellers and pump men from hiking cross-country to have a look. It was to prevent that, partly, that the guardsmen had been brought in. A warning had gone out, too, against violating the air space immediately overhead. Yet the hostages on their walks today had seen civilian planes and a civilian helicopter. Most of them, Henk thought, had been chartered by the press and foreign television chains, but a few, surely, were taking tourists up for a spin over the area at so many guilders a head. It would not surprise him if a balloon were to appear. In fact, just before dusk, one group of hostages saw a glider. That was Holland, he explained; his countrymen were bound to turn the event into a carnival, with local-color touches. On the military’s list of problems would be an invasion of skaters along the canals.

  Every one of those aircraft carried photographers, one suspected. Frank, who had been allowed to bring his field glasses out with him, was sure he had caught sight of a telescopic lens pointing down at them from the helicopter. It was unpleasant to know one was being photographed by dozens of perfect strangers as one stumbled and slipped along the ruts of frozen fields with one’s casual travel clothes looking decidedly the worse for wear.

  The deterioration of one’s appearance was one of the crosses of captivity that one had to bear with equanimity. They were all in the same boat, luckily, and yet, unluckily, not quite. The men’s beards, for instance, grew at different speeds and some were coarser and spikier than others: Charles proved to be virtually hairless in the face except for his eyebrows, while Harold’s jaw bristled with a thick pepper-and-salt stubble. Moreover, one had only to look at the men to realize how favored women were in comparison. Even there, though, there were degrees. Eloise, with her mirror and tweezers, managed to be impeccable, while Helen was a sight. She had had an “accident,” poor dear, during the night, which had left a large spot that still showed, even when it had dried out, on the back of her dress, and all morning she had smelled of urine. One’s olfactories could not help noticing, either, that Sophie was menstruating; being older, in these close quarters, had its compensations. The close quarters meant, too, that every little imperfection showed up as if in a magnifying mirror: the gray roots, for example, at the parting of Aileen’s hair, a stye Beryl was getting, the boil on Victor’s neck.

  All were rumpled, and soiled as to collars and cuffs, though, again, not equally. Some looked “as if they had slept in their clothes,” as of course everyone had, but a few were fortunate in the materials they had happened to be wearing. Henry’s vintage herringbone seemed to be made of iron, and, until he had been stricken, the Bishop’s tweeds had not showed a wrinkle or a spot. Henk’s whipcord, too, was very wrinkle-resistant. As for Carey, he revealed his vanity every single night by taking off his trousers and sleeping on them to preserve the crease—like an actor on the road, he said—in his shorts and covered with his overcoat: he slid them under the rug, where they served as a mattress as well. No gentleman born could have done that.

  The black-and-white marechaussee had field glasses, which they trained on the prisoners and their guards at exercise. To them, the differences in grooming and cleanliness so apparent to the hostages themselves were probably not visible. They would all look the same. But the guardsmen were less interested probably in the presentability of the hostages than in their health and morale, which would appear to be good. If the uniformed men knew the number of the hostages and could count, they might notice that two had not been taken out for an airing and report that to their superiors. But through their field glasses they might see, too, that relations between guards and prisoners were far from ferocious; perhaps in order to leave that impression, the amiable ones—Carlos and Ahmed—had been chosen as “chaperons.” Nor would the impression be wrong. Inside the house, too, the atmosphere had lightened, leading one to wonder as to what could be the reason. Frank’s theory that Gus’s stroke had produced a change of heart had not won many converts; it was so obviously what a minister would like to believe.

  During the commotion caused by the stroke,
the idea of appealing to the press had been allowed to drop. This morning Aileen had tried to revive it, but she had been unable to compete with the distractions furnished by the cordon of guardsmen, the fresh air and exercise, and the continuing sideshow of airborne photographers and sightseers. With all these fresh sources of interest immediately at hand, they did not have time to worry about what might be happening in Washington and New York. Anyway, asking the press to stay away in a big country like America would be utterly futile if in a little country like Holland the authorities themselves could not do better than this afternoon’s spectacle suggested. Far from being considerate of others’ misfortune, people—not just the press ghouls—only wanted to batten on it.

  This was borne out by the evening news. On the screen they were shown the line of men in uniform, the barriers across the highway, and, behind the barriers—what they would not have suspected—a throng of cars, bicycles, small trucks, and pedestrians. Merchants were selling smoked eels and herring from booths on wheels to the crowd, and, despite the temperature, there was an ice-cream vendor with cones and Eskimo pies. Some schoolchildren were flying a kite with a long tail. A reporter with a notebook jumped the barrier, and they watched the police chase him and capture him. On the canal next to the highway there were skaters, sure enough, in bright caps and scarves, that the police had to turn back too. It was like a national holiday. “The kermis,” said Henk.

  This day had seemed the shortest of any they had spent in captivity. There had been no further mention of flying Gus out. That thought had fallen by the wayside, like the proposed appeal to the press. Gus himself did not want to hear of it. “I feel a power of good in me, Frankie,” he said firmly, meaning-one gathered—that he had been filled with the spirit during his close encounter with the other world and intended to remain among them as the vessel of it. The staunch old soul must believe that the power of good stored up in him could move mountains.

  For supper, there were pannekoeken—pancakes; Denise had made them as a surprise out of a mix she found in the housewife’s larder and fresh eggs from the chicken coop. After supper, there were two “tables” of bridge, played with new cards John and Beryl had cut out and colored, using the children’s crayons—the court cards, very amusing, had single eyes and two noses like Picassos. The match game Carey had showed Victor had caught on with some of the others, and a whole circle was concentrating on it. It was more of a puzzle, really: you had three matches representing cannibals and three representing missionaries, and the idea was to ferry them across a river in a boat that held two persons. The cannibals could never outnumber the missionaries at any stage, on one river bank or the other, or the missionaries would be eaten; all three missionaries knew how to row, and there was one rowing cannibal. Ahmed, who was on guard, came up to watch and suddenly put on a scowl. He decided that the game was racist. The real problem, he said, would be to keep the missionaries from enslaving the cannibals through the technology they brought with them, and the fact that the hostages had not seen that for themselves should show them how deeply racism was embedded in their culture. But, having recited his piece, the mercurial creature promptly came out of his sulk, took six matches—twisting the heads off of the ones that stood for missionaries—trotted them rapidly in pairs and singly back and forth across the rug, ending with two cannibals on the final trip and a winning grin on his brown face. He had solved the puzzle! Bravo for Ahmed! “You’re the rowing cannibal, Ahmed,” the Senator told him, which was a risky kind of compliment. But the budding terrorist was pleased as Punch.

  3 missionaries who can all row; 3 cannibals of whom only one can row.

  A river to be crossed. 1 boat holding two persons.

  The cannibals must never outnumber the missionaries on either bank of the river.

  Before long it was toilet-time. Yusuf came on guard and ordered Helen out with the men. By now she was used to the humiliation. Then lights out. They were all hoping to sleep, after their time in the open, breathing in pure air. But it was not to be. The group in the living-room had just settled down when the Bishop’s voice called for Frank. From the piteous sound of it they knew at once that something was wrong. They could hear Frank trying to comfort him. But it was not what they thought: Gus was not having a second stroke—he had forgotten the Lord’s Prayer. In comparison, that might appear unimportant, but to him of course it was everything. He sounded frightened out of his wits. Before going to sleep, it seemed, he had wanted to say his prayers and all at once he could not remember how the Lord’s Prayer began. In the dark now Frank was prompting him. “Our Father…” “Our Father,” the old man repeated after him. But he could not go on by himself. “Who art in heaven.” “Who art in heaven.” “Hallowed be Thy name.” “Hallowed be Thy name.” It was terrible to listen to it. He broke off with a moan and must have put his hand to his head. “Does your head ache?” “No.” He wanted to be left alone. There was silence, then he shouted in a terrible voice “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?” Christ’s last words—awful. “There, now, you see, you remember that,” Frank said, in a horrible effort to put cheer in him. “The other will come back in the morning, when you’re rested. All of us get these blocks. Often on the things we know best.”

  From the doorway Yusuf pointed his flashlight into the room. In its beam they saw Gus sitting upright in rumpled pajamas, his fringe of white hair awry. “No, Yusuf,” Frank said. “Turn it off, will you, please. We’re all right here, just a little wakeful.” At last they heard the Bishop snoring, more wheezily than usual, but not enough, they decided, to send for Greet. During the night, he started up several times calling for “Rachel.” He seemed to be asking her, whoever she was, for something. “Where the mischief is it? What have you done with it?” He was getting very excited. “What is it you’re looking for, Gus?” Carey’s easy voice asked. He had come to sit by him, to spell Frank for a bit. “Can’t remember. Whatever it was, she took it away with her and hid it. She’s always hiding things from me.” “His mind’s wandering,” said Frank. “No use hoping to sleep till he quiets down again.” “Tell her I need it. I have to have it now. I’m too old to put up with her tricks. You never loved me, Rachel. Don’t you think I know that? You only loved my love for you.” Then he fell to snoring again.

  “Oh, my goodness,” said Frank. “Do you think he really believed that all those years?” “He had doubts, I suppose,” said Carey. “Being a religious man. But if she loved his love for her, she loved him.” “Isn’t that a sophistry, Jim?” Those nearest could not help listening; it was curious how the word “love” made one prick up one’s ears even when one had passed the age for it. “But what about this whatever-it-is he thinks he’s lost, Jim? Do you understand what he’s talking about?” “His faith, I should think. She took it away with her when she died, and he needs it to meet her in Heaven.” The sofa springs creaked. “That’s it!” cried the Bishop, wide awake and chuckling. “Leave it to a Papist, eh, James? You darned fool, Frankie. I ordained you and made a good liberal of you, but even God Almighty couldn’t make a spiritual man of you.”

  Some time during the night, the Bishop died. He must have gone quietly, for no one heard him. He was already getting cold when Frank touched his hand and knelt down to pray for him in the first light. There was nothing to do but wait for their captors to come down and take over. It would not be possible to bury him because the ground was partly frozen. Probably the best would be to have his body flown out. His friends could see to getting him out of his pajamas and shaved and dressed. These were labors of love that, by giving them something to do, would help relieve their feelings. Surprisingly, Charles was weeping big tears. But the one closest to the Bishop was not as broken up as one would have thought: Frank merely blew his nose from time to time and shook his head. It was as if he were still shocked or bewildered by the statements Gus had made during the night. In view of those, it was just as well perhaps that the old man had not lingered; he himself would not have wanted to live w
ith his mind gone. And yet it was sad.

  At last Jeroen and Greet came in to look at the body. Yusuf had brought them the news, but the only sign of life from them for what seemed like ages was the squawking of their radio in the kitchen. Now that they were here, they were very inhuman in their attitude. They pulled back the blanket and carefully examined the body. Then Jeroen ordered Jean and Denise to dress it—breakfast could wait. He would not let anyone help them and he did not want the body washed or shaved. Nor would he tell Frank whether they planned to announce the death soon—Frank was thinking of Gus’s relations. “In our own time and in our own way. You will see,” Jeroen replied and walked out. No one had had the courage to ask him what they were to do with the Bishop’s things or any of the dozen questions that came to mind.

  When the body was dressed and reverently laid on the sofa, Jeroen reappeared. “Sit him up,” he ordered. The coins Denise had placed on the Bishop’s eyelids fell to the floor. “Now open the eyes.” Impossible to imagine what the purpose of this could be. Were they going to take his picture? The next thing they all knew they were being pushed into the parlor—Denise and Jean too. When the door was slammed on them, there was scarcely room to breathe. As they stood there, pressed together, swaying at the slightest motion and bumping into the plants, a rattle of gunfire came from behind the door. Then the door was opened, and they were allowed back into the next room—a privilege they could have done without. The Bishop’s body lay slumped forward on the sofa, riddled with bullets. Along his vest buttons were holes darkly oozing blood. Hussein was recharging the submachine gun. At a nod from Jeroen, Yusuf and Carlos carried the corpse out, dripping blood onto the rug.