to the hand of Providence if it’s stretched out to keep him here. You just know he’s going to drink and make trouble, Mr. Van Vliet. The best thing that could have happened to our committee would have been to have him overlook that little formality. Now that we have wonderful Mr. Cameron, we don’t need another Middle Eastern specialist, who probably doesn’t know ten words of the language anyway. Utterly unreliable, that’s how he is, you’ll see. And yet I want desperately to help him out of the foolish trouble he’s made for himself, don’t you, Senator Carey? Is it just being American and neighborly, do you think? I wonder if there isn’t something more universal at work. As if in these few hours we’ve become an organic community, like a living body, and if one part gets cut off, all the others feel it…?”
Victor’s room did not answer, the rector reported. Aileen threw up her hands. “Where can he have got to? He’s found some low zinc, I’ll bet anything.” His key was not in his box but of course it could be in his pocket. “Strange that I didn’t see him go out, though. In the dining-room, where I sat, I had my eye on our bags and the door the whole time. And since then, we’ve all been here in the lobby. Are you sure you rang the right room…?” She checked her watch with the clock behind the desk. “Well, if he turns up in five minutes, and sober, he can still pass by the consulate.” “But it’s Sunday, my dear,” said the Bishop gently, interposing a word.
“Sunday! You mean the consulate will be closed?” She wheeled on Mohammed, forgetting in her agitation to speak French. “It’s not possible. They must work Sundays at your consulate. They’re Moslems.” Mohammed shook his head; the office was closed. He might have mentioned that sooner instead of letting her run on. When she had wanted the consulate’s address, did he suppose it was to put in her memory book? And why had none of the others seen fit to remind her that it was Sunday, since they all seemed to have known it? “We weren’t privy to your thoughts,” said the Senator.
In the midst of this, Sophie entered, breathless, through the revolving door, bearing a ribboned box from a pastry shop. The cake, of course. “I couldn’t find candles,” she explained. That was why she had been so long. But she had two votive tapers from a church in her handbag. “Did you steal them or pay?” The Senator was teasing, but she considered the question gravely, knitting up her brows—like a child, Van Vliet de Jonge thought. She had put two francs in the box and yet felt like a thief. “Quite right,” said the Senator. “They’re consecrated.” “I know.” Under her long arm was a magazine with a girl in a knitted cap on the cover: Elle. She offered it to Van Vliet: it had a nifty horoscope column; on the plane the birthday boys could read what the stars had to tell them. But she had chosen the wrong moment. The rector took the cake box from her and placed it out of view on a side table. “Professor Lenz has disappeared.”
The second and third taxis were now at the door. It was decided that the Bishop, with Dr. Cameron and the rector, should take the first one, immediately, to the airport. The others could give Lenz five minutes more, and if he was still missing, the second taxi would take Aileen, Van Vliet, and the Senator. Sophie volunteered to remain, with Mohammed.
Contrary to what might have been assumed, the dispatch of the first group did nothing to relieve the uneasiness of those remaining. For one thing, their shrunken numbers—they were only four now, not counting Mohammed—gave them a woeful look of having been abandoned, thus bearing out, Van Vliet noted, Aileen’s theory of a “community.” For another, now that the Bishop was out of the way, they could speak freely. “Do you think he could be dead up there?” Aileen asked before a minute had passed. “You always read about foreigners dying
Victor’s room did not answer, the rector reported. Aileen threw up her hands. “Where can he have got to? He’s found some low zinc, I’ll bet anything.” His key was not in his box but of course it could be in his pocket. “Strange that I didn’t see him go out, though. In the dining-room, where I sat, I had my eye on our bags and the door the whole time. And since then, we’ve all been here in the lobby. Are you sure you rang the right room…?” She checked her watch with the clock behind the desk. “Well, if he turns up in five minutes, and sober, he can still pass by the consulate.” “But it’s Sunday, my dear,” said the Bishop gently, interposing a word.
“Sunday! You mean the consulate will be closed?” She wheeled on Mohammed, forgetting in her agitation to speak French. “It’s not possible. They must work Sundays at your consulate. They’re Moslems.” Mohammed shook his head; the office was closed. He might have mentioned that sooner instead of letting her run on. When she had wanted the consulate’s address, did he suppose it was to put in her memory book? And why had none of the others seen fit to remind her that it was Sunday, since they all seemed to have known it? “We weren’t privy to your thoughts,” said the Senator.
In the midst of this, Sophie entered, breathless, through the revolving door, bearing a ribboned box from a pastry shop. The cake, of course. “I couldn’t find candles,” she explained. That was why she had been so long. But she had two votive tapers from a church in her handbag. “Did you steal them or pay?” The Senator was teasing, but she considered the question gravely, knitting up her brows—like a child, Van Vliet de Jonge thought. She had put two francs in the box and yet felt like a thief. “Quite right,” said the Senator. “They’re consecrated.” “I know.” Under her long arm was a magazine with a girl in a knitted cap on the cover: Elle. She offered it to Van Vliet: it had a nifty horoscope column; on the plane the birthday boys could read what the stars had to tell them. But she had chosen the wrong moment. The rector took the cake box from her and placed it out of view on a side table. “Professor Lenz has disappeared.”
The second and third taxis were now at the door. It was decided that the Bishop, with Dr. Cameron and the rector, should take the first one, immediately, to the airport. The others could give Lenz five minutes more, and if he was still missing, the second taxi would take Aileen, Van Vliet, and the Senator. Sophie volunteered to remain, with Mohammed.
Contrary to what might have been assumed, the dispatch of the first group did nothing to relieve the uneasiness of those remaining. For one thing, their shrunken numbers—they were only four now, not counting Mohammed—gave them a woeful look of having been abandoned, thus bearing out, Van Vliet noted, Aileen’s theory of a “community.” For another, now that the Bishop was out of the way, they could speak freely. “Do you think he could be dead up there?” Aileen asked before a minute had passed. “You always read about foreigners dying
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