Cannibals and Missionaries (12 page)

Behind Aileen were a tow-headed young man and woman. He directed her attention to them. “Dutch!” he whispered. Aileen turned around. “What about it?” Van Vliet drew a hand across his eyes. No foreigner would understand. It always struck him as droll, almost uncanny, to find Dutch people outside of Holland, where they properly belonged—as though they were toy people who had stepped out of the tiny see-through box they lived in with their Queen and their princesses and Prince Bernhard and Klaus and the tulips. In a poem he had tried to express the idea of Holland as an imaginary country, invented by a travel author or satirist-turned-children’s-storyteller, in which he himself, poor Henk, was fated to be born and sit in a scale-model parliament and write despairing verses which nobody but another Dutchman could pronounce or understand. Being Dutch was a comical predicament, more grotesque even than being Swiss.
They
had watches and weather clocks and cheese with absurd holes, in the place of dikes and windmills and outlandish pipes, but at least they had Alps as a trademark instead of a flat country like the medieval picture of the world, which had not had scientific credibility since Columbus and the navigators.

No rational mind in this century could believe in Holland as a real place—where but in animal farmland could the Prime Minister be a Mr. Owl?—and finding Dutch people outside, in the real world, was a threat to any Dutchman’s sanity. Besides, on practical as well as ontological grounds, Van Vliet did not care to be picked out like a straw from a heap by unknown sharp-eyed compatriots who had the advantage of knowing
him.
“Van Vliet de Jonge! Did you see him?” the pair behind him would be telling each other. In a small country like Holland, where the main verticals were television aerials, it was too easy to be a celebrity. As leader of a new, left-of-center grouping, he was unavoidable in most living-rooms, including his own. Behind the famous uncurtained window panes, as he drove home in the black night, he met himself seriatim in brilliant Philips color, a gesturing household dummy, framed in the box. In his real body, he could not stop at a gin shop for a glass of genever or eat a herring from a street stall without causing a mild stir of recognition. In the extended family of the Netherlands, with its characteristic long memory, that was only to be expected; before he had been the deputy, he had been the scion of his father and his grandfather.

But abroad he was nobody, which was also to be expected. A few years ago, a Dutch company had taken a poll in France and Britain and found to its own surprise that the vast majority of newspaper readers could not identify the Prime Minister of Holland, the aforesaid Mr. Owl’s predecessor. Tested on other figures, older people remembered Queen Wilhelmina and, if politically conscious, Spaak—a Belgian. To be somebody and yet nobody was a typical Dutch irony, which Van Vliet when abroad preferred to relish alone and unrecognized over a dish of tripe or an
andouillette
in a bistro, pondering the sayings “a fish out of water” and “a big fish in a small pond,” with a melancholy flare, typically Dutch also, of the long nostrils, in his case, by luck, finely cut.

He had studied the Netherlands countenance and its register of expressions like Narcissus staring into a pool and decided that that widening of the nostrils, amounting to a sniff often in women, expressed a deep humor, in both senses, of the national soul but probably could be traced—half of him was a materialist—to the once widespread habit of snuff-taking and to the watery atmosphere that had been irritating the sinuses for centuries. You would not find it in Germans, even those nearby ones of the Rhineland. The nose and nasal passages were the seat of Dutch mental life, and the slow peristaltic intake of the nose-holes, as of a pensive digestive tract, had doubtless been a factor in developing the cheerful horn-blare of the Dutch voice, distinct from German gutturals, rasped from the throat, just as the Dutch language was distinct from German and not, as some fools insisted, a humble country cousin on the order of
Schwyzer-dütsch.

Being Dutch, he sadly recognized, was turning into a fixed idea with him, to which each and every experience seemed to be referring maniacally, and like any poor madman sensing himself pursued, he could not hope to find comprehension in foreigners. He heard Dutch voices over his shoulder, and “What about it?” this woman said, without sympathy. The Senator, for his part, on hearing American spoken behind him, would reach for his Parker or his Waterman—no complexes there; he was used to finding a
landgenoot
under every bush. Americans had the snugger delusion of taking their country for the world.

Now she was quizzing him about the “Dutch elm disease”—some kind of tree plague, he gathered, widespread in England and America but utterly unknown in Holland, which of course she did not believe. “I’m sure it started in Holland. All your lovely elms. Our campus has been
decimated.
” With a commiserating glance at the expressionless young people behind him, for whom English must be a second language, he abruptly disengaged himself and took a turn in the aisle to regain his equability. He would never convince her that tall healthy specimens of
ulmus campestris
extended their branches a few meters from his house; she would tell him they were oaks. But she was only trying to show a friendly interest in his country and could not know that to a Dutchman it was irritating to be lumped with tree beetles, “Dutch treats,” “Dutch uncles,” wooden shoes, the royal family, bicycle-pedaling (“Is it true that you’ve all taken to your bicycles to solve the energy crisis?” “No”), and so on. On meeting a French parliamentarian, would she be reminded of frogs’ legs and “French letters”?

He put his nose into the rear cabin and noted the sparsity of passengers: uneconomic for Air France, he would have thought, to keep these big planes flying during the off-season. In the pantry, he watched the hostesses preparing the drinks cart. Continuing his tour of inspection, he drifted forward to the toilets. Lenz had made his peace with the Jewish baby and was entertaining it with Sapphire’s mouse. All seemed to be well. On his return, he found that Aileen had profited from his absence to move next to the Senator, now sitting upright and reknotting his tie. Sophie was absorbed in the
Monde.
He took a seat next to Cameron, who declared himself ready for a whiskey. As they waited for the cart with its freight of bottles to be wheeled up the aisle, conversation was laborious. Van Vliet regretted the loss of Aileen. He tried Scottish separatism—there were interesting parallels with Holland’s Frisian minority problem—the don puffed and nodded. He mentioned a talk he had given to the Oxford Union on Surinam independence; Cameron was sorry to have missed it. “My line of country, you know.” There was a long pause; he drew on his pipe, evidently expecting his companion to continue unassisted. But Van Vliet’s natural volubility was failing him; this was Sisyphean work. “You were saying?” prompted Cameron. Van Vliet raised a finger. He thought he had heard a scream come from the service area.

“Oh, drat that cat!” Aileen exclaimed from the bank of seats opposite. “Those poor stewardesses! He’s gone and let her out again.” Cameron stiffened. “What? What? Oh, the cat; I see.” The Bishop leaned back. “We had quite a saga coming over. Professor Lenz allowed his pet out of its cage. They hate the confinement, don’t you know. But she led us a merry chase. Up and down the aisle and under the seats before they could locate her. You never saw such a to-do. And now history repeats itself. Well, we must bear with Clio, an old lady with one foot in the grave, eh, Dr. Cameron?”

A hostess went forward with a determined step, ignoring the passengers’ questions. “She’s gone to complain to the pilot,” Aileen announced. “The pilot yesterday was furious. You’d think that man would have more consideration. He’s only making it harder for other people to bring their cats into the cabin with them. Most airlines make them travel in the hold. But just because Air France is nice enough to let them ride with their owner, he abuses the privilege. And now the rest of us have to wait for our drinks till they catch that pesky animal.” Understanding that a cat was at large, other passengers in the vicinity were stirring, to peer circumspectly under the seats, but no one was taking action. Lenz, up front, seemed to be sitting tight. “Why doesn’t he
do
something?” Aileen cried. “And where have those hostesses got to?” With a small screech, she pulled up her legs. “She’s under here somewhere, I know it. Didn’t you feel her slip by then, Senator?” The Senator shook his head. Aileen examined a violet stocking for damage. “Isn’t anybody going to try to catch her?” she demanded. “Are we all afraid of a cat? I know I am. Did you see those claws yesterday? I don’t want her jumping in
my
lap.” “Here, kitty, kitty,” coaxed the Reverend obediently, patting his own lap. “Here, pretty puss.” There was no response. “I don’t see her,” he apologized. “Old Victor ought to bell her,” comfortably remarked the Senator, declining to be enlisted in a chase.

Van Vliet and Cameron chuckled. They had seen neither hide nor hair of a blue Persian but were agreeable to the consensus that one was prowling about; indeed, Van Vliet could almost have sworn that a minute ago he had felt something furry brush past his trouser leg. “She’s holed up somewhere, I’ll be bound,” said the Bishop. “Wonderful how they can make themselves small when they want to. My Rachel had a Maltese, couldn’t abide the sound of a vacuum cleaner—” “Yesterday Sophie found her,” Aileen interrupted. “Sophie!
You
look! Please!” The urgency in her voice surprised Van Vliet, yet he mentally seconded the motion. The pantry area was hidden from view by a partition, but his ears told him that activity back there had been suspended. Aileen had been right: for some nonsensical reason, no drinks were going to be served while the state of emergency lasted. And he had been looking forward to a glass.

Ahead of him, Sophie slowly unfastened her seat belt, set down the paper she had been reading, and, half bent over, her narrow shoulders hunched, went creeping along the aisle. “You! Back in your seat!” a male voice shouted, in a harsh, heavy accent. Van Vliet’s head turned with a jerk. At the rear of the cabin stood the pair of dark men who had been sitting behind him. The shorter and plumper had a submachine gun which he was aiming on a long diagonal in Sophie’s direction; the taller, with the mustache, had two grenades slung from his belt. Behind them peered two hostesses. They were being hijacked.

Sophie’s head came up. “Me?” Her bang and forehead appeared, followed by her wondering eyes. Then she must have seen the gun. Ducking for cover, she moved up the aisle, hitching along like a centipede, while the gun kept pace with her. A strangled voice inside Van Vliet pleaded with her to hurry: as in a nightmare or at a film, he could only watch—no sound came from his throat, merely a series of swallows. Across the aisle from him, Aileen had her hands to her ears, and her eyes were closed. It occurred to Van Vliet too late, when the poor girl had edged back into her place and was tremulously refastening her seat belt—a strange security measure, surely, to take under the circumstances—that he might have interposed his own body between her and the gun barrel. The realization shook him till a defense lawyer broke in to argue that flinging himself on top of her as she passed would only have succeeded in pinning them both to the floor.

Nevertheless, that he had failed to have the thought was somewhat humiliating. A sense of slight disappointment in himself merged with a sense of disappointment in the whole event. The hijacker, seeming satisfied, had lowered his gun, and the captain’s voice came soothingly over the loud-speaker: passengers were to remain seated until further instructions; if everyone stayed quiet and obeyed orders, no one would be hurt. On behalf of himself and the crew, he apologized for the inconvenience. Van Vliet smiled to himself at the inadequacy of this formula, yet as he analyzed his reactions, it seemed to him that Air France had found the
mot juste.
He was conscious chiefly of irritation, as at an untoward interruption, such as might be produced by a power failure or a tiresome visitor. The irruption of these men and their weapons was bound to be time-consuming, and as a busy person he already felt robbed of precious hours, which might turn into days.

He was also mystified, which added to his vexation. His instincts had been warning him that their committee might be followed, in fact accompanied, by the Shah’s spies—nothing could be more normal. And the event was busy proving him right, so that in some childish way he was pleased. Yet why this farce of a take-over? Perhaps he was still in shock, and his mind was not working well, but to him it made no sense. If SAVAK’s aim was to frighten off the committee, they ought to have waited till Teheran, where with no danger or “inconvenience” to the rest of the passengers he and his companions could be seized and loaded at gun-point onto an outgoing plane. Then, like one coming out of anesthesia, he remembered the Tel Aviv stop. Palestinians, not Iranians? The thought, dawning as a mere notion, brought him sharply to attention. He raised himself slightly in his seat and out of the corner of his eye he took fresh stock of the gunner, who had moved to the center of the cabin.

Beside him, Cameron spoke up. “Rather a bore, this, don’t you find? One reads about these bloody things but one doesn’t expect them to happen to oneself.” Van Vliet concurred. “Palestinians, do you think?” Cameron supposed so. “One can’t be sure of course till one hears them speak in their own language. Do you know any Arabic?” “No.” “Pity. Neither do I but I can recognize the phonemes—the noises they make, you know.” Van Vliet wondered why it was a pity. “You mean we might learn what they have in mind? But are they likely to talk much in front of us?” “No,” patiently said Cameron, “I was thinking that if we knew their language, we could open a dialogue with them.” The idea of Cameron’s opening a dialogue with anyone should have been funny, but Van Vliet, from the depths of his ignorance, was prepared to be respectful. “No chance that they might be Iranians?” Cameron turned his head. “Hardly. Your Iranian’s facial features and skin color set him off from the Arabs. Although there’s some Semitic admixture in the southeast. Anyhow, the Shah’s opposition doesn’t go in for hijacking. Rather indolent chaps, on the whole.”