Cannibals and Missionaries by Mary McCarthy Page A

in sordid Paris hotel rooms.” She shot a telling glance at the dusty rubber plants and unemptied ash trays in the lobby. “His color was awful yesterday. Like whey, as my Mamma says. Maybe one of us should go and knock on his door.” “If he’s dead, how will that tell us?” said the Senator. Nevertheless, he strode across the lobby and pressed the elevator button.
    “If he has gone and died and on Sunday too, what a nuisance,” Aileen continued. “One of us will have to stay, that’s all.” “Mr. Barber is the obvious candidate, isn’t he?” Sophie suggested with a small smile. Aileen’s face cleared momentarily. “How true. What else can the clergy do for us but marry us and bury us? Still, would it be right to go on to Teheran without him? The Bishop certainly wouldn’t want to.” The Senator’s deep laughing voice called out. “I don’t know about Victor, but the elevator has bitten the dust.”
    Sophie looked at the clock. “You three had better go on. I’ll wait here with Mohammed. We can send the concierge up on foot with a pass-key, just to ease our minds. When you check in, ask for a message.” “Well…” said Aileen. “It’s true, Sophie, you’re not one of the committee.” After a moment’s wavering, she followed Van Vliet and the Senator through the revolving door, reappearing promptly on the next rotation. “I have an idea. In case he still turns up. Will they maybe give him a visa at the airport in Teheran? Ask Mohammed what he thinks. A friend of mine once…”
    The question was rendered moot by the appearance of Lenz from the carpeted staircase. He had been stuck between floors in the elevator, and a chambermaid had let him out. He was carrying the cat-container, and the maid followed with his baggage. And he had his visa. He showed it to them, folded into his passport, seeming surprised but not offended at the general stupefaction. He could not know (Van Vliet reflected, pondering the gravity-defying power of ideas to stand unsupported by evidence) that his co-nationals had been fully persuaded that he was visa-less and half-persuaded that he was dead.
    Till now, it had not occurred to any of them to ask whether the cat needed papers. “Well, I’m not going to worry about that detail,” said Aileen, seating herself in the taxi between Van Vliet and the Senator, then turning around to peer out the back window to make sure the others got off. As the third taxi began to move, a clerk came running out of the hotel and signaled to the driver to stop. Lenz had forgotten to pay his bill, naturally. Aileen called to their own driver to stop too. Lenz had dismounted and seemed to be arguing with the clerk about the bill, angrily indicating some item with his forefinger. “They’re trying to charge him for Sappho,” estimated the Senator. In the third taxi, where Sophie was waiting, a large dog had sat up in the front seat beside the driver, contributing his bark to the affray while his owner held him back. He must be trying to leap over the seat at the caged cat in the rear. “Do you say it’s raining cats and dogs?” asked the Dutchman. “Or dogs and cats?” Aileen screamed. “Let’s go. I can’t stand it. I’m a wreck. Look! Now he’s going to wait for his change.” Lenz was still on the sidewalk, the dog was still barking and growling, and a fourth taxi was pulling up, when Aileen and the two men drove off.
    Nevertheless, the entire party reached the airport with a few minutes to spare. Alighting from the moving belt, Van Vliet and Aileen found the Bishop and the rector in the departure satellite talking with two ladies wearing mink coats and an old powdered man in a wide-brimmed black hat whom Aileen gaily greeted as “Mr. Charles.” Cameron was on the level below exploring the duty-free shops, where Lenz had stopped off too. Mohammed had been said good-bye to at the check-in counter, having earned a merit badge by remembering the cake and going back to fetch it