MASH 14 MASH goes to Moscow (2 page)

“Of course I am, that’s why I’m the Chairman,” the Chairman said. “Well, Vladimir
Ivanovich
, here’s mud in your eye!” He tipped up the glass and drank deeply.

“Mud in
your
eye,” Commissar
Vladimirovich
said.

“Watch it, comrade!” the Chairman said. “You’re talking to your Chairman, you know!”

“No offense, Comrade Chairman.”

“Tell me, Vladimir
Ivanovich
, you like your job?” the Chairman asked.

“Oh, yes, Comrade Chairman. I take great pride in the service I am permitted to render to the Soviet people in my duty.”

“Aside from that, you like it? I mean, is your car all right?”

“I’m perfectly happy with my Cadillac, Comrade Chairman. I realize fully that we have to conserve our hard currency for important affairs of state, and that only you, Comrade Chairman, really need a Rolls-Royce.”

“Just between you and me, Vladimir
Ivanovich
, I’m not so sure the Rolls was such a good idea. You have any idea how hard it is to find parts for a Rolls in Moscow? And don’t you ever believe they don’t break down. I could tell you stories … but I’m getting off the subject.”

“Yes, Comrade Chairman?”

“You like your apartment? Your dacha in the country?”

“Oh, yes, Comrade Chairman.”

“And, just between you and me and the lamp pole, Vladimir
Ivanovich
, you get along all right with your private personal executive secretary?”

“To tell you the truth, Comrade Chairman, she’s been after me to get her a Ford,” the Commissar replied. “She says all the other girls have Fords, and that Commissar
Smersk
got his … you know who I mean, Natasha Goldfarb, the one with the big
…”

“I know the comrade,” the Chairman said. He winked.

“Well, Natasha’s got a Buick.”

“Comrade
Smersk
came to me personally about that,” the Chairman said. “Man to Chairman, so to speak. I listened to his problem, I sympathized with him, I told him to go ahead, get her a Buick. If that’s what it took to keep her happy, which meant that he would be happy, and could do a good job, the U.S.S.R. could afford it.”

“That was very understanding of you, Comrade Chairman.”

“I know,” the Chairman said. “And I’m preparing to do that same thing for you, Vladimir
Ivanovich
.”

“I was thinking along the lines of a Mustang,” the Commissar said. “I mean, she really doesn’t need a Thunderbird
…”

“You’re not listening to me, comrade,” the Chairman said, with just a touch of menace in his voice. “At least not carefully. You didn’t hear what I said about
Smersk
doing a good job. The way it works is
first
you do a good job, and then you can get your Tanya a Mustang. Maybe, in your case, a Pinto would be more appropriate, but in any event,
first
you do a good job. Am I getting through to you, Vladimir
Ivanovich
?”

“Am I to infer, Comrade Chairman, that … uh … there is … uh … some question about how well I am performing my duties?”

“You got it, Vladimir,” the Chairman said.

“I don’t suppose I could have another little belt of that capitalistic booze, could I?”

“Why not?” the Chairman said. “Just don’t make a pig of yourself.”

Commissar
Vladimirovich
took a moment to gather his thoughts.

“What exactly have I done wrong, Comrade Chairman?” he asked, finally.

“Let me put it to you this way, comrade,” the Chairman said. “I’m a busy man, you agree?”

“Oh, yes, Comrade Chairman, I agree.”

“And a busy man like me, an important man like me, should be devoting his time and effort to important things, right?”

“Oh, yes, Comrade Chairman.”

“Like the Chinese problem and things like that, right?”

“Absolutely, Comrade Chairman.”

“I mean, Vladimir, if I’m worrying about other things, who’s to mind the store? You get my meaning?”

“I get your meaning, Comrade.”

“A man in a position like mine, Vladimir—he just can’t afford complaints from home, you understand?”

“I understand.”

“And the situation really gets out of control when I get it not only at home, but from Comrade Katherine. I mean, what’s the point in having a private personal executive Chairman’s secretary if all you get from her is bitch, bitch, bitch, just like you get at home? You know what I mean?”

“I think so. Am I correct in inferring that you, Comrade Chairman, are hearing complaints about me, something I have done, from both your charming wife, Mrs. Comrade Chairman, and from Comrade
Popowski
, too?”

“That’s the bottom line, Vladimir
Ivanovich
,” the Chairman said. “That’s why I asked you in here for this little chat.”

“May I ask what the complaints are specifically, Comrade Chairman?”

“I wondered when you would,” the Chairman said. “I’ll give it to you in three-little words: Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov.”

“Oh,” the Commissar of Culture said.

“Is that all you’ve got to say? I tell you that my wife and Comrade
Popowski
between them are driving me crazy twenty-four hours a day, that I have hardly thirty seconds a week to worry about the Chinese problem and the Cubans and everything else, and all you’ve got to say is ‘oh’?”

“The problem of Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov is a delicate one, Comrade Chairman.”

“Delicate,
schmelicate
,” the Chairman said. “With all the cultural resources of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics at your disposal, you’re telling me that you’ve got a
delicate
problem with this singer?”

“Forgive me, Comrade Chairman,” the Commissar said. “But one cannot really accurately describe Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov as ‘this singer.’ ”

“Why not?” the Chairman asked. “What’s so special about him?”

“I believe you are aware, Comrade Chairman, that on his first visit to the Bolshoi Theatre Opera, several years ago, he was given a medal?”

“Which one?”

“Hero of Soviet Labor, First Class,” the Commissar said.

“For singing?” the Chairman asked, incredulously.

“Not exactly,” the Commissar said, blushing.

“Far be it from someone in my position, Vladimir
Ivanovich
, to listen to nasty rumors,” the Chairman said. “Especially nasty rumors concerning those beautiful young women of the Bolshoi Theatre Corps de Ballet—fantastic rumors, actually, ones which stagger the imagination. I’m sure you can put them to rest for me.”

The Commissar of Culture lowered his head and said nothing.

“I’m a man of the world, Vladimir
Ivariovich
,” the Chairman said, after a long moment. “You don’t get to be Chairman—or, more important, to stay Chairman—unless you’re a man of the world. I am—reluctantly, of course—willing to accept it, as one of those things that happen from time to time, that this ‘singer,’ shall we say, came to know rather well one of the ballerinas
…”
He looked at the Commissar of Culture.

The Commissar of Culture, not able to meet the Chairman’s gaze, shook his head slowly and sadly from side to side.

“Then two ballerinas,” the Chairman said. “I’m a sophisticated man. I’m willing to accept that. In my youth, as a matter of fact … well, there’s no need to get into that. That’s it. Two ballerinas who put aside their high Soviet moral principles in a moment of uncontrolled passion?”

The Commissar of Culture continued to shake his head slowly and sadly from side to side.

“You tell me, then, Vladimir
Ivanovich
,” the Chairman said. “Three ballerinas? Four ballerinas?” The Commissar’s head continued to shake.

“Five ballerinas? Six ballerinas? Twenty ballerinas? The entire Corps de Ballet?
All
of them?” the Chairman finally asked.

“All of the females over sixteen,” the Commissar finally said.

“All
of them?” the Chairman asked. “All thirty-six?”

The Commissar’s head, which had been shaking from side to side, now started nodding up and down.

“How long did it take him?”

“He was here ten days,” the Commissar said. “Five days here and five days in Leningrad. By the time he left Leningrad, he was working his way around again. The girls drew lots to see who would get seconds.”

“And for this we gave him a medal?” the Chairman asked.

“The girls insisted,” the Commissar said. “They didn’t want him to leave. They threatened to go on strike unless we offered him his citizenship back and an appointment as an Honored Artist of the Soviet Union.”

“He’s French, I understand?”

“No, he’s an American.”

“But he normally sings at the Paris Opera,” the Chairman said. “And how can anybody with a name like Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov be an American?”

“He was born there, Comrade Chairman.”

“Let that pass for a minute, Vladimir,” the Chairman said. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then reached for the bottle of Old White Stagg. He raised the bottle to his lips and drank deeply.

“Comrade
Vladimirovich
,” he began. “Vladimir. We have let our hair down this far, so let us continue to speak frankly. What we say here will stay here, if you get my meaning.”

“Of course, Comrade Chairman,” the Commissar said. “For reasons I don’t really understand, my wife is very anxious to hear this singer sing
Boris
Godnuov
.”

“I see,” the Commissar of Culture said.

“And Comrade Katherine wants to hear him sing
Boris
Godnuov
,”
the Chairman said.

“I was afraid it might be something like that,” the Commissar of Culture said.

“My peace of mind, comrade, is of great importance to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, you agree?”

“Of course, Comrade Chairman.”

“I mean, how am I going to have time to think about the Chinese problem, and the Cuban problem, and the rest of it if my peace of mind has been disturbed?”

“You’re absolutely right, Comrade Chairman.”

“Then maybe you can explain this, Vladimir
Vladimirovich
?” the Chairman said, slipping a sheet of yellow paper, Kremlin Form 344-A, Inter-Commissar Memoranda, across the table to the Commissar of Culture. The Commissar picked it up, although he knew its contents by heart, and read it.

“What does it say, Vladimir
Vladimirovich
?” the Chairman said, his voice soft but menacing. “Read it to me.”

The Commissar of Culture cleared his voice. “It says,” he said, “ ‘Regarding the Chairman’s Kremlin Form 344-A, subject: Opera Singer’s Singing, that the Commissar of Culture regrets to inform the Chairman that the singer in question, Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov, will not be available to sing in the Soviet Union at any time in the foreseeable future.’ ” He paused, swallowed, and went on. “It is signed, ‘Respectfully submitted, V. I.
Vladimirovich
, Commissar of Culture.’ ”