MASH 14 MASH goes to Moscow (7 page)

“Yeah, sure,” the singer replied, somewhat lamely.

“And what did he say?”

“What did who say?”

“Either Hawkeye or Trapper John?”

The singer responded that Trapper John had told him to attempt a biologically impossible act of self-impregnation.

“Will you guys knock off with that funny language?” Dr. T. Mullins Yancey said. “It makes me sick to my stomach.”

“Boris said that when he asked Trapper John to come over for a couple of days, Trapper told him to … ” (Colonel de la Chevaux told Dr. Yancey what Trapper John had told Boris to do.)

“Well,” Dr. Yancey said, “I guess that puts to rest once and for all the scurrilous allegation that the trouble with we who practice the healing arts is that you never know what we mean.”

“Is that all he said?” Colonel de la Chevaux asked.

“No,” Boris replied. “He said that if he and Hawkeye never see any of us again, it will be too soon. If I didn’t know better, I might get the idea that he doesn’t hunger for our company as much as we all hunger for theirs. There must have been some medical disaster which required their full attention.”

“Did you ask them when we can get together?” His Royal Highness asked.

“Trapper said the day after they harvest oranges on the North Pole,” Boris replied, speaking
Abzugian
, of course.

“If you don’t stop making those obscene noises, Boris,” Dr. Yancey shouted, “I will turn you, surgically, into a soprano!”

“Ah, Doc,” Boris said, beaming at him, “you just don’t know how good it makes me feel just to be with you guys, who love me for myself and not just for my God-given genius and talent!”

“Shut up and play cards,” Dr. Yancey said in almost a whimper. “Just shut up and play cards!”

“You
busy,
J
im
-Boy?”
the appointments secretary asked, sticking his head into the Oval Office.

“Jest
settin
’ here,
whittlin
’ and
rockin
’,” the occupant of that office said. “Something for you, Lester?”

“That Russian
fella’s
out here, Jim-Boy,” the appointments secretary said. “Says he’s got to talk to you.”

“Which Russian
fella
would that be, Lester? There’s a mess of ’
em
, you know.”

“The one with the blue-dyed hair, Jim-Boy—that one. The
head
Russian.”

“He trying to borrow money again, Lester? That what he’s after?”

“I
ast
him that, Jim-Boy, and he swears he won’t ask for a dime.”

“They always say that,” Jim-Boy said. “Then, before you know it, they’re into your pockets.”

“Shall I run him off?”

“Better not,” Jim-Boy said. “Send for What’s-his-name, the Secretary of State. I promised him I wouldn’t say
nothin
’ to the Russians without him being in the same room.”

“This
fella
says he wants to see you alone, Jim-Boy.”

“Just send for What’s-his-name, Lester. You’re not supposed to argue with me. I’m the head man around here. You
jest
can’t seem to remember that.”

“Sometimes I wonder, Jim-Boy, if this was such a good idea. It’s not what I thought it would be.”

“You had this part confused with Congress, Lester. I told you and I told you, if you wanted to fool around, you had to run for Congress. You should have known that you couldn’t fool around, not with the little woman living right here in the same building. Now, are you going to call What’s-his-name and tell him to hustle right over, or am I going to have to do it myself?”

“I’m getting right on it,” the appointments secretary said. “What do I do with the Russian until
Ol
’ Cy can get over here?”

“Give him a copy of
Playboy
to read,” Jim-Boy said. “Make sure it’s a complete one, with the centerfold. We had that delegation of Baptist preachers in here yesterday, and you know they can’t be trusted to leave the centerfolds alone.”

Ten minutes later, the Secretary of State arrived at the Oval Office.

“You sent for me, sir?”

“Hope I didn’t interrupt anything important,
ol
’ buddy,” Jim-Boy said. “But just as soon as you get under the desk, I’m going to let that Russian
fella
with the blue-dyed hair in.”

“You are referring to the Russian ambassador, sir?”

“You got it, Cy,” Jim-Boy said. “I gave you my word that I wouldn’t talk to them unless you were in the same room. When I give my word, I take it very serious—you know that.”

“But why do I have to get under the desk?”

“So he won’t see you,” Jim-Boy said. “He said he wanted to see me alone. Now, if I start saying the wrong thing,
Hy
… ”

“That’s Cy, sir.”

“Whatever. If I start saying the wrong thing, Cy-Boy, you just give me a little tug on my pants leg. O.K.?”

“I am at your disposal, sir.”

“Keep that in mind, Cy-Boy. There’s a lot of people around here who’d like to have your job, you know. You’re one of the lucky few who got to keep a limousine, you know,” Jim-Boy said. “Most everybody else’s driving themselves around town.”

“I’m aware of that, sir,” Cy said.

“Well, get under the desk, then, and let’s see what this
fella
wants.”

The Secretary of State got down on all fours and crawled under the massive, gleaming desk.

“Watch out for the spittoon, Cy,” Jim-Boy called.

“I wish you’d said that thirty seconds sooner,” Cy said under his breath.

Jim-Boy pushed a button on his
multibuttoned
intercom.

“Send in the Russian,” he said.

“Send in who?”

“The Russian. The one with the blue hair. The one you just told me is out there.”

“Excuse me, sir, you have the Office of the Presidential Assistant for Female Affairs. There’s no Russian here.”

“Oops. Wrong button. Sorry about that.” He bent over the
multibuttoned
intercom, found the right button, pushed it, and repeated the order to send the Russian in. Then he sat down in his rocking chair again.

“Sir,” the appointments secretary said, “the ambassador of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”

“I bring the warmest greetings of not only the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet,” the Russian ambassador said, “but of the millions of peace-loving workers and peasants as well.”

“Come on in, sit down, and have a boiled peanut,” Jim-Boy said, waving the Russian ambassador into another rocking chair and extending to him a bowl of boiled peanuts.

“Thank you so much,” the Russian ambassador said.

“Grow them myself,” Jim-Boy said. “And I don’t even send the General Services Administration a bill for them.”

The Russian ambassador put several of the boiled peanuts in his mouth. Despite long years of training and experience at eating what are politely called “ethnic” dishes at various diplomatic functions, he was unable to keep from making a face.

“Something wrong with the peanuts?” Jim-Boy asked.

“They are a new taste to me, sir,” the Russian ambassador said.

“You’re probably used to the Yankee kind,” Jim-Boy explained. “They roast theirs. We boil ours. I asked Senator Kamikaze … you know who I mean?”

“Yes, of course, the Japanese-American educator-statesman from California.”

“That’s the
fella
,” Jim-Boy said. “I asked him what he thought and he said they tasted like soap. But then, he’s a Republican, and they’re all a little sore about how the election turned out.”

“The Chairman of the Supreme Soviet and the millions of peace-loving Russian workers and peasants rejoiced in your election, sir,” the Russian ambassador said.

“Old Lester did tell you, didn’t he, that I’m not going to loan you any more money?”

“The gentleman you mention, sir, did make a statement along those lines,” the ambassador said.

“Just so we understand each other,” Jim-Boy said. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Are we alone, sir? Completely alone?”

Jim-Boy, before replying, put his right hand behind his back and crossed his fingers.

“Completely alone,” he said. “There’s nobody here but you and me and that oil painting of
Shur
-lee
Strydent
.” Jim-Boy indicated the picture of the actress-singer hanging on the wall.

“Ah, yes,” the ambassador said, “the actress.”

“The singer
and
actress,” Jim-Boy said. “Now there’s some who don’t appreciate Miss
Strydent
. My own brother calls her the world’s ugliest movie star, but he’s probably just saying that to make me mad. He gets his kicks making me mad. I keep that picture of her hanging there to remind me that I’ve got an obligation to the arts, if you know what I mean.”

“The arts? Of course, sir, I know what you mean. And it is the arts about which I wish to speak to you.”

“The arts? Funny, I thought you’d come to talk about those armored divisions you’ve been moving around Poland and East Germany.”

“You know about that, sir?”

“Got it straight from the horse’s mouth,” Jim-Boy said. “And from a source I can trust.”

“Oh?”

“From a classmate of mine. An Annapolis classmate. The navy academy. We take an oath, you know. Never lie to each other. Maybe to Congress and the army and the air force, but never to each other. That’s why I put him in charge over there in Virginia. In a job like that, you need somebody you can trust—you know what I mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I mean, I’d really hate to blow your country up, Mr. Ambassador, on the wrong information. If I’m going to do something like that
…”
He stopped in midsentence and seemed to shift on his chair.

“Is something wrong, sir?” the Russian ambassador asked. “It looked for a moment as if you were being pulled under your desk.”

“My foot went to sleep is all,” Jim-boy said. “Now, we started to talk about the arts
…”

“Indeed we did. May I ask, sir, if you are acquainted with the name Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov?”

“Of course I am, Mr. Ambassador. I’d hate you to get the idea that just because I went to Annapolis and come from Georgia that we don’t know what’s going on in the world. I’m fully aware that whatever that name was you said is one of the most distinguished of your countrymen.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the ambassador said, “but he’s one of
your
countrymen.”

“What was that name again?”

“Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov,” the ambassador repeated.