MASH 14 MASH goes to Moscow (12 page)

“Tell me, Senator, does the name Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov mean anything to you?”

“He is the world’s greatest opera singer,” the senator said. “I have been privileged to hear him sing on many occasions.”

“See? I told you he was the kind of guy who would know,” Jim-Boy said to the Admiral and the Secretary. He turned back to the senator. “The Russian ambassador was just in here to see me, Senator. He wants to make a little deal.”

“I hope you didn’t loan him any additional funds,” the senator replied.

“Not a dime,” Jim-Boy said proudly. “Not a lousy dime. What he wants is for us to send this singer to Moscow. If we do, he’ll stop moving his armored divisions around Poland and East Germany, and, to sweeten the pot, he’ll even get What’s-his-name to stop banging his shoe on his desk at the UN and to stop calling me all those nasty names.”

“To reiterate, what has this got to do with you and me?”

“Well, when the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet himself, personally, called this guy and asked him to come to Moscow, he told him … well, you wouldn’t believe what he told him.”

“I think it would be best if I had all the details,” the senator said. Jim-Boy told him. “My sentiments exactly,” the senator said. “Even if it is, if I remember my undergraduate work in the procreation of the species
Homo sapiens,
an anatomical impossibility.”

“The Secretary and the Admiral have been going through their files, Senator, and have come up with the information that only four people in the world can make this singer do something he doesn’t want to do.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed. The first was His Eminence, John Joseph Mulcahy, titular archbishop of
Swengchan
,* presently assigned to the personal staff of the Pope. We just this minute got off the phone talking to the Archbishop.”

(* Archbishop Mulcahy served during the Korean War as a Chaplain (Captain) and was assigned to the 4077th M*A*S*H. He offered both spiritual and spirituous comfort to Maestro Korsky-Rimsakov during the period the singer was hospitalized.)

“I gather he was unable, or, more likely, unwilling to come to your assistance?”

“He said there was no way he was going to Moscow,” Jim-Boy said. “The next name on the list is that of the singer’s sister, Madame Kristina Korsky-Rimsakov O’Reilly* of the San Francisco Opera.”

(* Madame Kristina Korsky-Rimsakov was married to J. Robespierre O’Reilly, chairman of the board and chief executive officer of Mother O’Reilly’s Irish Stew Parlors, International. The details of their courtship and marriage have been recorded, in rather lurid detail,
in M*A*S*H Goes to Las Vegas.
(Pocket Books, New York.))

“Ah, yes,” the senator said.

“You know the lady?”

“I have that great privilege,” the senator replied.

“Great,” Jim-Boy said. “How about you calling her and asking her for me?”

“Might I inquire why you do not choose to telephone her yourself?”

“I tried to,” Jim-Boy confessed. “I got her husband, Robespierre, on the line, and he said he never lets his wife talk to Democrats.”

“I could have told you that,” the senator said.

“Are you going to help us or not, Senator?”

“Hand me the telephone,” the senator replied. He began to dial a number.

“You know the number?” Jim-Boy asked, surprised.

“No,” the senator replied drily. “I am simply testing the laws of probability.” The dull buzzing of the phone could be heard throughout the room, and then a voice came on the line. The Admiral reached over and pushed a button on the telephone which broadcast both sides of the conversation throughout the room.

“The J. Robespierre O’Reilly Residence,” an English accented voice said. “This is Quincy the butler speaking.”

“Senator George H. Kamikaze speaking,” the senator said. “May I please speak with Madame Korsky-Rimsakov O’Reilly?”

“I’m terribly sorry, Senator,” the butler replied. “Madame was already feeling rather badly when that horrid man in the White House telephoned. I’m very much afraid that Madame is now
really
indisposed.”

“In that case, Quincy, let me speak to Mr. O’Reilly.”

“I will
endeavour
to determine, Senator, if the master is available. Would you hold the line a moment, please?”

The senator took a long black cigar from his pocket, bit off the end, and put the cigar in his mouth.

“Light his cigar, Admiral,” Jim-Boy ordered. “He’s working for us now.”

“Hey, George, is that you?” A male voice came over the speakers. “I’ve been trying to get you for an hour.”

“How are you, Radar*?” the senator said. “You were trying to get me?”

(* During his military service, prior to forming Mother O’Reilly’s Irish Stew Parlors, International, Mr. O’Reilly served as Company Clerk of the 4077th M*A*S*H. His ability to sometimes read minds had earned him the appellation “Radar.” Now, of course, only his intimates and high
muckety
-mucks of the fast food racket dared to so address him.)

“I called your office, George,” Radar said, “just as soon as it happened. They told me you were over in the White House. I didn’t believe
that
for a minute, of course. That’s one of those
whatcha
-call-’
ems
… scurrilous allegations.”

“What was on your mind, Radar?”

“You wouldn’t believe who called up here, George. At first I thought it was Boris playing one of his lousy practical jokes. But it was him, all right. I talked to him myself. There’s no mistaking that corn-pone voice.”

“As a matter of fact, Radar, I am at the White House,” the senator said.

“I’m really sorry to hear that, George;” Radar O’Reilly said. “Until you told me that, I thought you were different. But now you’re just like the rest of them—once you get elected, he stops being all those rotten things you called him during the campaign and starts being Our Distinguished Leader.”

“Radar, we must all make sacrifices for our beloved country. Certainly, you know me well enough to know how I loathe and detest being in the same room with him.”

“Then what are you doing there?”

“Our country calls us all at one time or another, Radar,” the senator said.

“I went to Korea,” Radar said. “Now it’s somebody else’s turn.”

“At the moment, to be specific, it’s calling Boris.”

“Boris? Don’t be silly. The only reason he got an honorable discharge the first time was because he had all those medals.*”

(* During his military service, Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov (a/k/a Bob Alexander) was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, the Silver Star, two Bronze Stars and five Purple Hearts, as well as the Korea Order of the Tae-
Guk
. He was never awarded, however, the Good Conduct Medal, nor was he ever promoted above Private First Class.)

“They don’t want him to go back in the army, Radar,” the senator said. “They want him to go to Moscow.”

“There’s no way he’s going to do that willingly,” Radar said. “At least, not unless they give him back Uncle Sergei’s theater and fifty years’ back rent.”

“I thought perhaps we might prevail upon Kris to intercede in the matter,” the senator said.

“For a Democrat? You’ve got to be kidding, George.”

“I am solemnly informed it’s quite important.”

“You mean he’s not smiling?”

“When he informed me of this matter, I couldn’t see as much as a bicuspid,” the senator said.

“Well, then, maybe I better ask Kris,” Radar said. “She was well on the road to recovery before El
Teetho
called up—then she got sick to her stomach again.”

“That’s certainly understandable,” the senator said. “But I would be grateful if you would bring the matter up with her.”

“Hold on, George,” Radar said. “Hey, Kris, are you still throwing up, or can you talk to George? You won’t believe where he’s calling from, and what he wants.”

“Is that you, George?” A gentle feminine voice came on the line. “Did Robespierre tell you who telephoned here before?”

“As a matter of fact, Kris, I’m with the individual to whom you refer at this very moment.”

“Oh, George, tell me you
haven’t
gone over to the enemy!”

“I am here under the flag of truce,” the senator said. “It is what is known as making a sacrifice for one’s beloved country.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “But couldn’t you have done it over the telephone?”

“The question is moot,” the senator replied. “I am here. The next question is how can we get Boris to go to Moscow?”

“If they’re not willing to give him Uncle Sergei’s theater back, I’m afraid he won’t go.”

“You-know-who told me this is a matter of importance to the country, Kris. He has to go. It is our nonpartisan duty to get him there, theater or no theater.”

“I see. Well, if you say so, George. There’s no way that I could make him go, even if I could—I’m really sick. Radar made some of his Mother O’Reilly’s Argentine chili last night, and that always knocks me out for a week or more. Have you thought of Archbishop Mulcahy?”

“The archbishop refuses to go,” the senator replied.

“Then that leaves you with only one choice,” Kris replied. “Hawkeye and Trapper John.”

“I don’t believe I know the gentlemen to whom you refer.”

“Boris generally calls Hawkeye the ‘Sainted Chancre Mechanic’ and Trapper John the ‘Pecker Checker.’ ”