MASH 14 MASH goes to Moscow
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Authors: Richard Hooker+William Butterworth
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M*A*S*H Goes to Texas (V2)
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THE CHAIRMAN:
“This is your beloved Chairman) of the Supreme Soviet…. Who the hell, are you?”
“Come on in, Mr. Ambassador, Sit down and have a boiled peanut.”
“Hi, there. I’m
Shur
-lee
Strydent
, and I’m here to make you adore me.”
“I’ll tell that fat cop over there that you offered me a Hershey Bar and a dime to play show-and-tell.”
“Gadzooks, Birdwell. Get our friend down from the chandelier.”
They’ll all be hanging from the Kremlin chandeliers—before Moscow gets used to M*A*S*H
M*A*S*H Goes to Moscow
Further misadventures of M*A*S*H
Richard Hooker
And
William E. Butterworth
Pocket Book edition published September, 1977
M*A*S*H GOES TO MOSCOW
POCKET BOOK edition published September, 1977
This original POCKET BOOK edition is printed from brand-new
plates made from newly set, clear, easy-to-read type.
POCKET BOOK editions are published by
POCKET BOOKS,
& division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.,
A
gulf+western
company
630 Fifth Avenue,
New York, N.Y. 10020.
Trademarks registered in the United States
and other countries.
Standard Book Numbers 671-80911-3.
Copyright, ©, 1977, by Richard
Hornberger
and William E. Butterworth, All rights reserved. Published by POCKET BOOKS, New York, and on the same day in Canada by Simon & Schuster of Canada, Ltd., Markham, Ontario.
Printed in the U.S.A.
Books in the MASH Series
MASH
MASH Goes to Maine
MASH Goes to New Orleans, January, 1975
MASH Goes to Paris, January, 1975
MASH Goes to London, June, 1975
MASH Goes to Las Vegas, January, 1976
MASH Goes to Morocco, January, 1976
MASH Goes to Hollywood, April 1976
MASH Goes to Vienna, June, 1976
MASH Goes to Miami, September, 1976
MASH Goes to San Francisco, November, 1976
MASH Goes to Texas, February 1977
MASH Goes to Montreal, June, 1977
MASH Goes to Moscow, September, 1977
MASH Mania, February, 1979
In fond memory of Malcolm Reiss, gentleman literary agent
June 3, 1905—December 17, 1975
—Richard Hooker and W. E. Butterworth
The Commissar of
Culture of the Supreme Soviet
of
the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Comrade Vladimir
Ivanovich
Vladimirovich
, who, after all, had been around a long time, knew that he was in trouble from the moment the red telephone on his desk had rung.
The red telephone was restricted to communications of the highest importance between officials of the highest authority. He had been Commissar of Culture for three full years before he had dared to even hint that he would like to have a red telephone, and it had been three more years before one had finally been installed on his desk. In the two years that it had been on his desk, a symbol of his importance to the Supreme Soviet, it had rung but twice, and both times it had been a wrong number.
Ten minutes before, it had rung for the third time. He had grabbed it on the first ring.
“Office of the Commissar of Culture, Commissar V. I.
Vladimirovich
speaking,” he had said.
“Comrade, this is Comrade Katherine
Popowski
,” his caller had said.
“Who?”
“Comrade
Popowski
. Personal Private Executive Secretary to the Chairman.”
“What can I do for you, Comrade Personal Private Executive Secretary
Popowski
?”
“The Chairman has asked me to give you a message, comrade,” Comrade
Popowski
said. “He said to tell you that he would be ever so grateful if you could tear yourself away from whatever important affairs of culture you’re working on to give him a few minutes of your valuable time.”
“I see,” Comrade
Vladimirovich
said. “Well, let me check my schedule.”
“And he said if you’re not here in ten minutes, he will look forward to your postcards from
Umguuluk
and other points of interest in Siberia,” Comrade
Popowski
said. “May I tell the Chairman that he may expect you?”
“Comrade, I’m on my way,” Comrade
Vladimirovich
replied, reaching for his shoes even as he replaced the red telephone in its cradle.
“Tanya!” he screamed (the intercom was, again, not working). “Have my car brought around immediately! The Chairman himself wishes to confer with me on important matters of state.”
“But,” Comrade Tanya, the Commissar’s private personal executive secretary replied, somewhat petulantly, “you said we were going to the Japanese embassy. You know how I love sukiyaki, and you promised, you know you did!”
“Tanya, baby,” the Commissar replied, “it’s out of my hands!”
“That’s all I ever hear—‘It’s out of my hands,’ ” Tanya snapped. “Sometimes I wish I were still back at the tractor factory.”
“I’ll make it up to you, my little cabbage,” Commissar
Vladimirovich
said. “A little present…”
“Huh!” Tanya snorted.
“Maybe a little trip to the Black Sea?” he offered.
“If you really loved me,” Tanya said, “you’d get me a Ford. Lots of the other private personal executive secretaries have got Fords. Natasha Goldfarb’s commissar got her a
Buick.
And all I have is a lousy little workers’ and peasants’ model Fiat.”
“I’ll do what I can, Tanya,” the Commissar said. “Now wish me luck.”
“What’s the Chairman want, anyway?” she said, petulantly averting her face as the Commissar tried to give her a comradely little kiss.
“I wish I knew,” the Commissar said.
Fifty seconds before the ten-minute deadline had expired, Commissar
Vladimirovich
, somewhat out of breath after a 500-yard dash down the marble halls of the Kremlin, stood wheezing in front of Comrade
Popowski’s
desk.
“Comrade
Popowski
, I presume?” he said. “Commissar
Vladimirovich
to see the Chairman.”
“Boy, are you going to get it!” Comrade
Popowski
said. “Go right in!”
Commissar
Vladimirovich
pushed open half of the double door leading to the Chairman’s office.
“You wanted to see me, Comrade Chairman?” he asked, sticking his head in the door.
“Come in, comrade,” the Chairman said, fixing a smile on his face, getting to his feet, waving Comrade
Vladimirovich
into a chair.
“Nice to see you,” the Chairman said. “I don’t get to see very much of you, do I?”
“Not very much, Comrade Chairman,” the Commissar agreed.
The Chairman pushed a switch on his intercom. “No calls, Katherine,” he said. There was no response. “No calls, Katherine,” he repeated, and then, “Katherine? Katherine? Testing, one two three four.” Then he said a naughty word, got to his feet, and marched to the door. He opened it. “No calls, Katherine,” he said. “And call the Commissar of Communications and tell him if he can’t fix this damned intercom once and for all, I’ll send him back to Ulan Bator!”
Then he turned around, putting the smile back on his face.
“Little problem with the intercom,” he explained.
“I have the same problem, comrade,” the Commissar said, delighted that they had something in common.
“But you’re just the lousy Commissar of Culture, and
I’m
the Chairman,” the Chairman said. “There’s a difference, comrade, and don’t you ever forget it!”
“I agree completely, Comrade Chairman.”
“How about a little belt, comrade?” the Chairman asked. “To chase the chill?”
“That’s very kind of you, Comrade Chairman,” the Commissar said.
“I can offer you a little workers’ and peasants’ vodka,” the Chairman said, opening a cabinet. “A little People’s Democratic Republic of Hungary Slivovitz, or—and I wouldn’t want this to get around, of course—some very nice Old White Stagg Kentucky bourbon whiskey. I have the ambassador in Washington send me a couple of bottles in the diplomatic pouch every once in a while.”
“I’ll have the Old White Stagg, please, Comrade Chairman.”
“Say what you like about those lousy Americans,” the Chairman said, pouring three inches of Old White Stagg into water glasses, “they really know how to make booze.”
“You’re absolutely right, Comrade Chairman,” the Commissar said.