Read Online Cannibals and Missionaries by Mary McCarthy - Free Book Online

brought out a good-sized silver flask. “For medicinal purposes,” he said, offering it to the professor. “Get yourself a paper cup.”
    Aileen had questioned the Bishop’s wisdom in offering a hair of the dog to somebody so evidently in need of it. It would be the last straw, she thought, if the committee were to find itself with a problem drinker, as well as a cat, on its hands. Iran, being Moslem, was dry, presumably, but that did not apply to foreigners, not in big cities, and anyway alcoholics were cunning, adept at procuring bottles and hiding them like squirrels. The Bishop and the Reverend no doubt had experience in dealing with drunkards, and perhaps they could be trusted to handle Lenz, should he start picking fights with the secret police, for instance…It was not up to her to keep a watch on him; yet the habit of supervision (she had been a dean, for her sins, and before that a registrar) and foreseeing eventualities was hard to throw off.
    But before she could ponder the matter, a diversion had occurred. While they were filing through first class on their way to Economy, a large pale ringed hand had gone out to intercept the Bishop: “Gus! My dear man! How lovely!” And “Charles!” the Bishop had responded. The reunion had been cut short by the steward, chivying them on to where they belonged, past the Senator, who was already installed in his shirt sleeves in the first row of Economy, with his glasses on, and papers spread out all around him—they had given him a whole block of seats to himself. He jumped up and shook hands, explaining with a smile and a pained twist of the dark eyebrows that he had work to do: he would be stopping by for a chat as soon as his “desk” was cleared. “Did our friend fix his glittering eye on you?” he said to the Bishop.
    Then they were scarcely airborne when the same hand, followed by a snowy cuff, had parted the curtain that divided the sheep from the goats and the man called Charles had peered in: a long white papery face, long nose, dark eyes, dead black hair. After some debate with the steward, he was allowed to come through. He stood in the aisle, holding both the Bishop’s hands in his and proclaiming his delight in a high “English” voice that caused passengers in the rows ahead to turn about in their seats, as though anticipating a show. The fluting tones, rising to a rooster’s crow, suggested deafness or its social equivalent to Aileen.
    He was an old man, nearly as old as the Bishop but extremely well preserved, like a thin dried haddock. The raven hair was his own but certainly dyed, and his face was powdered with talcum. He wore a suit of coffee-colored silk, with many flaps and pockets, that looked as if it had been made for a planter in Java before the First War, an elegant soft shirt, and a beige waistcoat; on his feet were black silk socks and long shoes the color of old-time stove blacking. He fitted a cigarette into an ivory holder, and his jewelry consisted of monogrammed gold cufflinks, a plain heavy gold ring, like a man’s wedding band but worn on the right hand, an antique ring with an intaglio cut in some pale gem, and the latest thing in costly wrist-watches. And he was on his way to Teheran.
    “On a tour. Can you imagine it? I’m part of a first-class package. ” The Bishop’s response, inaudible, could be inferred by anybody who was curious. “You too, dear boy? Isn’t that glorious? I shall certainly play hookey.” Charles’s tour was tremendous value, Economy class heard: first-category hotels, chauffeured limousines, archaeologists serving as guides, delicious food (they said), all included with the air fare, for less than it would cost Charles to dine out for a week in New York. Aileen was aware of a general stir in the public that perhaps represented envy. Nobody was paying attention to the hostess in the aisle demonstrating the inflation of the life jacket. “Trust the rich to find a bargain. I had no idea. In my