MASH 14 MASH goes to Moscow (29 page)

“Whatever you say,” Trapper John said, and poured cognac in a glass for her. His eyes widened as she drank it at a draught. Her face turned crimson, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she made loud gasping noises.

“Are you all right, Bobby-Sue?”

It took her a full minute to get her voice back, and then she replied.

“It will take some getting used to,” she admitted. “That was the first cognac that ever passed my lips. But I am willing to make whatever sacrifices are required so that I may sing,
en duet,
with Cher Boris!”

“You don’t know what you’re saying!” Trapper John said, shocked.

“Just remember who gave her the cognac, that’s all!” His Royal Highness said.

The pain having passed, Bobby-Sue was suddenly in
a
very good mood.

“Isn’t this a
darling
dressing room!” she said. “Not quite as luxurious as I would expect for Cher Boris, but not bad.” She sort of skipped around the room, which was furnished, except for a Japanese-manufactured high-fidelity system and an American-made chair into which the maestro was fond of slumping with his feet high in the air, entirely with furniture from the “Priceless Collection” of the Louvre. She paused momentarily to examine first one and then another of the etchings on the wall.

“I think I must be
tiddly
,” she said, giggling a little as she leaned on the wall for support.

“What makes you say that?” Trapper John asked.

“Not only am I just a little dizzy,” Bobby-Sue confessed, “but my eyes are playing tricks on me. If I didn’t know better, I would think that those etchings are absolutely obscene!”

“Perish the thought,” Trapper John said. “It’s the booze.”

“I would certainly hope so!” Bobby-Sue said. She sort of skipped into the other room, which was the maestro’s place of repose, as he thought of it.

“Oh, this is darling, too!” she said. “And isn’t that clever—a mirror on the ceiling over the bed! So that he can practice the death scene of
le
moro
di
Venezia
,
I know.”

“How clever of you to figure that out,” Trapper John said. “I’d hate to tell you why some people think he put it there.”

“I am so happy just
being
here,” Bobby-Sue said, hanging on to the bedpost for a little support, “that I must sing.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Trapper John said. “What are you going to sing for us?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bobby-Sue said. “Something simple,” She paused thoughtfully. “Oh, I know.
Violetta’s
aria,
‘In core
scolpiti
ho
quegli
accenti
’*
the finale of Act One of
La
Traviata
.”
She took in a deep breath and started to do just that.

(* “Could It Be He Who Stirred My Heart.”)

Dr. J. F. X. McIntyre listened carefully, with a growing frown.

“Damn,” he said. “I knew it. She
can
sing!”

At that precise moment the telephone in the Louis XIV
boite
de
chambre
in the bedchamber of Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov began to ring.

The bed was occupied by four merry revelers, but not in the precise mixture of the genders those who knew the maestro would expect. They were all the same gender, thus were all fully clothed, and they were all laughing heartily between pulls at jeroboams of Piper
Heidsieck
’69.

“Even the timing was perfect,” Boris said. “I got them with the bucket of dishwater before Abdullah hit them with the bag from the vacuum cleaner! That made it stick all over them!”

“I got mine,” Dr. T. Mullins Yancey said with quiet pride, “—the one with the beat-up hat—when he still had his mouth open!”

“There goes the goddamn phone,” His Royal Highness Sheikh Abdullah
ben
Abzug said.

“I haven’t had so much fun since the time we turned the fire hose on the WCTU Men’s Auxiliary Convention on Bourbon Street,” Colonel Jean-Pierre de la Chevaux said.

“There goes the goddamn phone,” His Royal Highness repeated.

“You have to give them credit for tenacity,” Boris said. “They just won’t take no for an answer. But I’ll tell you this, it’ll be a cold day in hell before I give in!”

“There goes the goddamn phone,” His Highness repeated again, and this time when it became apparent to him that none of the others were interested, he crawled off the bed, found the
boit
de
chambre
,
and picked up the telephone.

“Up yours,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” asked a voice with impeccable diction.

“Your mother wears army shoes,” His Highness replied.

“May I speak with Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov, please?” the caller said. “Senator George H. Kamikaze speaking.”

“El
Noil
Snoil
,” His Highness said, switching to English, “it’s for you.”

“I’m not taking any calls,” Boris announced. “Especially not now.” He looked toward the door. “Hi, girls,” he said. “How was the shower? Are you all fresh and ready?”

“Last one
in’s
an old maid!” Dr. T. Mullins Yancey cried out, sitting up and holding out his arms in a gesture of welcome.

“Boris,” Colonel de la Chevaux said, “you better answer it. It’s the really private number.”

“Another insidious conspiracy to deprive me of my simple pleasure!” Boris said, plaintively, but took the telephone from His Royal Highness. “Whoever this is, I wish you would call back in, say, half an hour. Something’s come up.”

“This is Senator George H. Kamikaze,” the senator said.

“You’re kidding!”

“That’s once,” the senator said. “You possibly remember me, sir, and I would hazard the guess that you are now experiencing some pangs of curiosity vis-à-vis how I came to have in my possession your unlisted telephone number.”

“That thought did run through my mind,” Boris replied. “And the only reason I am being patient with you is that I recall you are acquainted with my beloved baby sister.”

“Your memory serves you precisely,
”
the senator said. “And it was from that gracious and charming lady that I acquired your telephone number.”

“No problem,” Boris said. “I’ll have a word with her and have the number changed.”

“I have a personal communication from your sibling, sir,” the senator said, “which I would like to deliver as quickly as possible and in person.”

“You’re kidding!”

“That’s twice,” the senator said. “It is my intention, sir, to deliver the aforementioned message in person and as soon as this can possibly be arranged.”

“You’ve got a personal message from my baby sister?” Boris asked.

“That is the essence of what I have previously stated.” The other telephone in the room began to ring.

“There goes the goddamn phone,” His Royal Highness announced.

“Answer that, Horsey, will you? I’ve got Senator Kamikaze on the line.”

“You’re kidding!” Horsey replied.

“I heard that!” the senator said. “But since you didn’t say it, that only makes two and a half!”

“Answer the goddamn phone, Horsey,” Boris said.

“Not me!” Horsey said, horror in his voice. “Let Doc Yancey answer it. If anybody saw him with it in his hand, he could say it was an anatomical specimen.”

“Doc, please answer the phone!” Boris said.

“Oh, isn’t that darling!” Monique said.

“Maestro, may I presume to call upon you at your apartment, bearing the aforesaid message from your sibling?” the senator asked.

“This is my turn with Boris,” Angelique said, dropping her towel.
“1
won’t need that thing!”

“Senator,” Boris said, “it would be a little inconvenient, frankly, to receive you here just now.”

“Hey, Boris, it’s for you,” Dr. Yancey replied. “Some guy with a voice like a goosed canary wants to talk to El
Noil
Snoil
the Magnificent.”

“See what he wants, Doc,” Boris said. “I’m still talking to the senator.”

“Frankly, Maestro,” the senator said, “your sister was cognizant of the possibility that you would possibly find a visit inconvenient. She said I was to tell you
you
had to see me.”

“Oh, I’d
love
to see you, Senator,” Boris said. “It’s just that your coming here right now would be a little inconvenient.”

“Well, where can we meet?” the senator asked.

“How about the bar in the Dorchester Hotel in London a week from Monday?” Boris replied.

“Today, Maestro,” the senator said. “I think I should make you aware that I am empowered by your sister, in the event you cannot find time in your busy schedule to meet with me, to give an eight-by-ten glossy photograph of you to
Opera News.”

“They already have hundreds, thousands of my photographs,” Boris replied.

“Not of you laying naked on a polar bear rug playing with a rubber duck, they don’t,” the senator replied.

“Oh, my God,” Boris said. “She wouldn’t. You wouldn’t!”

“She did and I would,” the senator replied.

“I’ll meet you immediately at my dressing suite at the Paris Opera,” Boris said. “Just don’t let that photograph get out of your hands!”

He slammed the telephone in its cradle. “Put the towel back on, Angelique,” he said. “I must now go and make one more sacrifice to preserve the good name of grand opera generally and Korsky-Rimsakov specifically. Perhaps later!”

“Oh, Maestro!” Angelique said. “It’s my turn. Monique, Jeanine, and Jacqueline have had their turn!”

“So the ball bounces,” Boris solemnly intoned. “If Lady Luck had so willed, you would have gotten first crack at me when you drew lots. Don’t be a sore loser. I simply cannot abide sore losers.”

“You want to take this, Boris?” Dr. Yancey said, extending the rather oddly shaped telephone to him.

“God, I’d hate to tell you what you look like with that thing in your hand,” Boris said. “No, I don’t want to take it. It would look as if I were narcissistic. You just hold it to my ear.”

Dr. Yancey did as he was told. Colonel de la Chevaux laughed.

“What’s so funny, you overstuffed Cajun?” Boris snarled.

“Take a look in the mirror,” Horsey said. Boris did.

“Oh, God!” he moaned.

“You can put it in my ear if you want to,” Angelique said.