MASH 14 MASH goes to Moscow (3 page)

“So it is,” the Chairman said.
“Commissar of Culture.
Maybe you’re in the wrong job, Vladimir. How does Deputy Assistant Junior Commissar in charge of cutting fishing holes through the ice in Lake Baikal sound to you, Vladimir?”

“Comrade Chairman
…”
Vladimir began.

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Vladimir
Ivanovich
Vladimirovich
,” the Chairman said. “I regard myself as just one of the workers and peasants, and the last thing I expect in the world is special privilege just because I happen to be Supreme Chairman of the Party. You understand that, don’t you, Vladimir?”

“Yes, of course, Comrade Chairman.”

“On the other hand, Vladimir,” the Chairman went on. “Let’s face it, I’m not what you can call one of your ordinary run-of-the-mill workers and peasants. Right?”

“Absolutely, Comrade Chairman,” the Commissar of Culture replied.

“And when I ask a teensy-weensy little favor from one of my commissars, I don’t think I’m being unreasonable to expect to get what I ask for, do you, Comrade?”

“Not unreasonable at all, Comrade Chairman,” the Commissar said.

“And I don’t think that asking the Commissar of Culture to arrange for two performances of
Boris
Godnuov
at the Bolshoi is too much to ask of a Commissar of Culture, do you, Comrade Commissar of Culture? I mean, after all, that’s what you’re for, when you get right down to it, isn’t it, Comrade?”

“Absolutely, Comrade Chairman.”

“Then why did you send me this Form 344-A saying you won’t do it?”

“I didn’t say I won’t do it, Comrade Chairman,” the Commissar of Culture said. “I said Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov said he won’t do it.”

“Perhaps
Tovarisch
Korsky-Rimsakov wasn’t aware that I, personally, was interested,” the Chairman said. “Let’s face it, Vladimir, you’re the kind of commissar people like saying no to. Personality-wise, comrade, you’re a zero.”

“I personally told him, Comrade Chairman, that you were personally interested,” the Commissar of Culture said.

“And he still refused? What did he say?” the Chairman asked, incredulously.

The Commissar of Culture was visibly embarrassed.

“What did he say, comrade?” the Chairman asked, sternly.

“I hesitate to say it out loud,” the Commissar of Culture said.

“Well, then,” the Chairman said, “whisper it in my ear.”

The Commissar of Culture rose, walked behind the Chairman’s desk, bent over, and whispered Mr.
Korsky-Rimsakov’s
reply in the Chairman’s ear. The Chairman blanched.

“Not only,” he said, “is that not the sort of language one should use in the same sentence as my name, but, physiologically and anatomically speaking, it’s impossible.”

The Chairman of
the Supreme Soviet
of
the U.S.S.R. listened intently and took notes as the Commissar of Culture explained what, precisely, was the problem vis-à-vis having Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov give two performances of
Boris
Godnuov
at the Bolshoi Theatre.

When the Commissar of Culture had concluded his explanation, the Chairman looked thoughtful a moment and then said, “Well, Comrade Commissar, that’s it. So far as I’m concerned, you’ve done all that could be expected of someone with your rather limited mental ability. And, comrade, just between you and me, it will be a cold day in hell when someone who would say that about me will sing in one of my workers’ and peasants’ opera houses. He needs his mouth washed out with soap, that’s what should happen.”

“I very much appreciate your understanding, Comrade Chairman,” the Commissar of Culture said. “Will there be anything else?”

“Thanks for stopping in, Vladimir
Vladimirovich
,” the Chairman said.

“About the Mustang for my private personal executive secretary?” the Commissar of Culture said.

“Don’t press your luck, comrade,” the Chairman said.
“Auf
Wiedersehen
!”

As soon as the Commissar of Culture had closed the door behind him, the Chairman flicked the switch on his intercom. Then he said a naughty word and walked to the door.

“Katherine,” he said. “My little cabbage. Would you get my wife on the phone, please?”

“
Poopsie
,” Comrade Katherine
Popowski
asked. “What did he say?”

“You weren’t eavesdropping?” the Chairman asked.

“I had to go down the hall a minute,” Katherine replied. “Anyway, the intercom’s not working.”

“Speaking of which, what did the Commissar of Communications say about getting it fixed?”

Comrade
Popowski
snapped her fingers, a gesture of frustration. “I just
knew
there was something I was supposed to do.”

“Well, do it just as soon as you finish getting my wife on the line.”

“You don’t have to snap at me,
Poopsie
,” Comrade Katherine said. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

“Eavesdrop when I talk to my wife,” the Chairman said.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,
poopsie
,” Katherine said.

The Chairman walked back into his office and sat down at his desk, waiting for the telephone to ring. When it did, he grabbed it on the first ring.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything, darling,” he cooed. There was a reply, and then he snapped, “This is your beloved Chairman of the Supreme Soviet, that’s who it is. Who the hell are you?”

There was another pause.

“Who was that man, Olga? And what’s he doing answering the telephone in my bedroom? All right,
our
bedroom. Who is he?”

“
Anatol
the Hairdresser,” Mrs. Chairman replied.

“
Anatol
the Hairdresser?”

“
Anatol
says that Cher Boris would just love me if I wore a traditional pompadour,” Mrs. Chairman said.

“Cher Boris?” the Chairman asked. “Who the hell is Cher Boris?”

“Oh, my God, Sergei, your ignorance is showing again! Cher Boris is what we opera lovers call Maestro Korsky-Rimsakov. I should think that even
you
would know that much.”

“Of course I do. It just slipped my mind for the moment.”

“I suppose you’re calling me to tell me there’s good news,” she said, somewhat coyly.

“Well, the truth of the matter is, Olga,” the Chairman said, “I have just had a long talk with the Commissar of Culture.”

“And?” Mrs. Chairman replied, suspicion and menace mingling in her voice.

“There are, I’m afraid, certain problems I didn’t know about,” the Chairman said.

“Sergei,” Mrs. Chairman said. “You are not trying to lead up to telling me that Cher Boris is not coming back?”

“Olga,” the Chairman said. “My little cabbage.”

“Don’t start with that little cabbage business, Sergei,” Mrs. Chairman said. “Just tell me when he’s coming so that
Anatol
will have all the time he needs to do my hair.”

“There are some small problems, Olga, to tell you the truth.”

“But you’re the Chairman, stupid,” Olga replied. “What kind of problems could there possibly be?”

“Well, for one thing, the Bolshoi Theatre used to belong to his Uncle Sergei,” the Chairman said.

“Cher Boris’s Uncle Sergei?”

“Yes, my little cabbage. He was the Grand Duke Sergei Korsky-Rimsakov.”

“Cher Boris,” Mrs. Chairman said, rather dreamily, “does have a certain aristocratic air about him, now that I think about it.”

“And he wants it back,” the Chairman said.

“Who wants what back?”

“This singer wants the Bolshoi Theatre back. He says it was stolen from his family during the revolution, and now he wants it back.”

“Well, give it to him,” she said. “It’s little enough to ask, seems to me.”

“Olga, how would it look if it got out that the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet, guardian of the property of the workers and peasants, had given away the Bolshoi Theatre?”

“Keep it quiet,” she said. “Who has to know?”

“It’s not only that,” the Chairman said. “He wants fifty years’ back rent, with interest.”

“That sounds fair,” Olga said.

“It’s absolutely out of the question,” the Chairman said. “I can’t do it.”

“I’ve given you the best years of my life, Sergei,” Olga said. “God alone knows what I’ve put up with you. And when I ask for one little teensy-weensy thing, all I get is excuses.”

“Olga, what do you expect me to do?” the Chairman asked, desperately. “You wouldn’t believe what this singer of yours told the Commissar of Culture to tell me.”

“I’d love to know!” Olga said, and the Chairman was momentarily so angry and frustrated that he told her.

Mrs. Chairman giggled. “Oh, isn’t that
naughty!”
she said. “I’ll bet that’s the first time anyone ever said that to you, isn’t it, Sergei?”

“The first and the last time,” the Chairman said firmly.

“Let me put it this way, Sergei,” Mrs. Chairman said. “You’re always telling me how important you are, that you’re
Numero
Uno
around here. This is your chance to prove it.”

“Olga, there is no way I can give him the Bolshoi Theatre and fifty years’ back rent!”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something else, then,” Mrs. Chairman said. “I’ve got my heart set on this, Sergei, and you know what that means!”

The telephone went dead in his ear. The Chairman said another naughty word and was somewhat startled when there was a reply.

“Excuse me, Comrade Chairman?” said a rather plump gentleman in a gray suit, bearing seven identical medals, each in the shape of a red star.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Comrade Alexis
Alexovich
Posnopowitz
, Comrade Chairman.”

“And what the hell do you mean, busting into my office?”

“I am here to fix the intercom, Comrade Chairman.”

“To hell with that,” the Chairman said. “Get me the Paris Opera on the phone.”

“The Paris Opera? The Paris in France—that opera?”

“You got it, comrade, now get it.”

“Excuse me, Comrade Chairman, but you need permission to make an international long-distance call.”

“Permission? From whom do I need permission?”

“From your supervisor.”