MASH 09 MASH goes to Vienna Read online

  Babykins lay down, arranged herself, and then turned and gently lowered the small, wet black bundle onto the hassock. With her nose, she directed the cub to a conveniently located source of nourishment in that area. A small black mouth opened, revealing a pale pink mouth. The mouth closed on a source of nourishment. The piteous mewing ceased. Babykins’ long, large red tongue came out and began to bathe the cub.

  Wee Black Runt, in both curiosity and outrage that someone else was moving in on the family restaurant (which only recently had been his alone), came bounding across the nursery floor. His mother growled a warning. He slowed his pace but kept coming. Babykins’ lips drew back, and she continued to growl. Wee Black Runt sniffed at the newcorner. His mother watched him closely. The growling continued. Wee Black Runt’s tongue came out and licked the newcorner.

  “Snookums, look!” the dowager duchess said. “Wee Black Runt thinks it’s his baby brother!”

  Whatever Wee Black Runt thought, it was obvious, even to his mother, that he meant the orphaned cub no harm. Babykins’ growling ceased. Wee Black Runt joined his stepbrother for lunch.

  Time passed. Against all odds, contrary to all the predictions of the veterinary profession, the cub (who was known, of course, as Wee Baby Brother) flourished in Babykins’ care. Wee Black Runt displayed a rather touching concern for the cub. When Wee Baby Brother first left Babykins’ presence, Wee Black Runt was at his side. When his brothers and sisters displayed what Wee Black Runt apparently considered an unfriendly interest, Wee Black Runt defended him with such ferocity and tenacity that it not only warmed the cockles of Mr. MacKenzie’s heart but made it unnecessary for Babykins to interfere.

  Within a matter of just a month or two, of course, his fraternal protection was no longer necessary. Wee Baby Brother had learned that the way to deal with his new family was to arch his back, hiss at them in warning, and if that didn’t work, to give them a good one across the chops with his right paw. That always worked, and soon peace, or really more an armed truce, reigned supreme.

  Wee Black Runt, moreover, and as sometimes happens, suddenly began to grow. Soon he was the largest of the litter, and it became necessary for Babykins to protect the rest of the litter from Wee Black Runt, and Wee Baby Brother, rather than the reverse. Between the two of them, and they worked as a team, they frankly made the lives of their brothers and sisters miserable. They could handle Wee Black Runt’s greater size, but there was no defense whatever against a ninety-pound black Bengal tiger cub who leapt to the attack from great heights, hissing, spitting, and flailing around with sharp claws at the end of each paw.

  It was for this reason that the dowager duchess and Mr. MacKenzie finally bit the bullet, their discussion following a long (and frankly somewhat liquid) dinner in the dining room of the Sword, Crown & Anchor Hotel in London.

  The dowager duchess of Folkestone and Mr. MacKenzie visited the Sword, Crown & Anchor as Sergeant Major (Retired) MacKenzie and Missus. The habitués of that establishment, retired or active Royal Marines (plus a handful of U.S. Marines assigned to the U.S. embassy and given honorary membership), had found it hard enough to believe that Black Dog MacKenzie had married at all. It would have been beyond belief that he had married the senior member of one of England’s noblest families and was now listed in the current Burke’s Peerage.

  On the night in question, Angus MacKenzie, shyly acknowledging a lengthy round of applause for his performance (a medley of “Braes of Melinigh,” “The Flowers of the Forest Land O’ the Leal,” and “Mrs. MacPherson of Inveran”, set his bagpipes down and marched none too steadily back to his table and his bride.

  He helped himself to four fingers of Royal Highland Dew Straight Scots Whiskey, tossed it down, and poured another four fingers into his glass.

  “Florabelle, darlin’” he began.

  “What is it, Snookums?” Florabelle replied.

  “Dumplin’,” he said, “we have got to kick the babies out of the nest.”

  Florabelle began to sniffle.

  “That won’t help a bit,” Angus said. “I feel as bad about it as you, Dumplin’.”

  “But they’re but eight months old,” she said. “Still wee babies.”

  “I weighed the little one,” Angus said. “Eleven stone, Dumpling, that’s what she weighed. God knows what Wee Black Runt weighs.”

  “Not Wee Black Runt! Not our Wee Black Runt! I couldn’t bear to turn Wee Black Runt loose, all alone in a cruel world!”

  “We’ll be keeping Wee Black Runt and Wee Baby Brother, Dumpling,” Mr. MacKenzie said. “I’ve already tol’ ye that. But the others have to go. It’s the only decent thing to do. They deserve people of their own.”

  “You’re right, of course, Angus,” the dowager duchess said with a stiff upper lip. “You’re always right.”

  “I keep telling you that.”

  “I shudder at the thought, however, of our babies huddled frightened and alone in shipping crates, not knowing where they’re going, not knowing why they have been suddenly torn from home and hearth.”

  “I’m two steps ahead of ye, Dumplin’,” Angus replied. “The Wog’s going to take care of everything.”

  “I do wish you would not refer to His Royal Highness by that appellation,” the dowager duchess said.

  “He calls me “Scotty” and I call him ‘Wog,’ ” MacKenzie replied. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Angus, far be it from me to criticize you for anything, but really, one should not refer to His Royal Highness Crown Prince Hassan ad Kayam, Heir Apparent to the Kingdom of Hussid, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary to the Fourth French Republic, the Court of Saint James’s and the United States of America, as ‘The Wog.’ ”

  “Well, that’s what he is, isn’t he? And besides, that’s why I asked him for help.”

  “I don’t quite understand you, Snookums,” the dowager duchess said.

  “For a wog, he’s really a decent sort,” Angus said. “When I spoke with him on the phone about sending Boris one of the puppies, he brought it up himself.”

  “What did he bring up himself?”

  “He said the very least he could do, since we were giving one of the puppies to Boris, was to send that ugly plane for him.”

  “You mean, he’s going to send a La Discorde* to England to pick up Boris’ puppy?”

  “Not only that, Dumplin’,” Angus said, “he’s going to deliver the others in it, too.”

  “That certainly is very gracious of His Royal Highness,” Dumpling replied.

  “Him being a diplomat and all, he said,” Angus went on, “that way we get around all the red tape about shipping dogs across international borders. ‘No Doggie, No Oily,’ was the way the Wog put it. He’s got a certain way with words.”

  (*La Discorde, of course, is the droop-nosed French supersonic jetliner. Unquestionably the world’s fastest passenger aircraft, it is also the most expensive to operate. Of the five which have been built, three were purchased by the Royal Hussid government, HRH Prince Hassan having been deeply affected by the piteous entreaties of the French minister of aviation, who said that unless Hussid bought some, none would be sold. Only Hussid, with a population of less than a million, but with oil reserves second only to Saudi Arabia (they provide 38 percent of France’s petroleum), could afford to fly the aircraft.).

  Chapter Five

  Three days later, a rather interesting convoy of vehicles rolled down Paris’ Boulevard Saint Michel. Preceeded by a Land-Rover carrying a half-dozen robed Arab-types, each armed with a chrome-plated submachine gun, the roof a veritable forest of flashing lights, screaming sirens and whooping whoopers, next came two Citroën sedans, black in color and each bearing CORPS DIPLOMATIQUE insignia on front and rear bumpers. Next in line was a Cadillac limousine, from whose gleaming fenders flew an ornate, silk-embroidered flag. Two curved swords were shown crossed over the silhouette of an oil- drilling rig, and above this was the familiar dollar sign. It was, of course, the somewhat less
than beloved national emblem of the kingdom of Hussid. Behind the Cadillac came another Citroën sedan, and, bringing up the rear, still another Land-Rover.

  At every major intersection the gendarmes on duty snapped to attention and threw the convoy a splendid salute. The word had come down, in no uncertain terms, from the Quai d’Orsay that there were two very good reasons why it behooved every patriotic Frenchman to extend every possible courtesy, professional and otherwise, to the diplomatic representative (and heir apparent) of His Most Islamic Majesty Sheikh Moulay Hassan of Hussid. The first, of course, was that France drew 38 percent of its petroleum needs from beneath Hussid’s arid sands and did not wish to do anything at all that might endanger the source of the supply.

  The second, equally important reason was the ambassador himself. His Royal Highness Crown Prince Hassan ad Kayam had been, as everyone knew, the only customer for La Discorde aircraft, and that certainly should earn him a warm place in the hearts of every Frenchman. Most other senior foreign officials had shaken their heads sadly when offered an opportunity to purchase a La Discorde and a few of the ill-bred had actually laughed out loud at the suggestion.

  The back seat of the Cadillac today held a full complement of passengers, including two on the jump seats. This was out of the ordinary, because HRH seldom chose to ride with members of his staff. Today, however, three of the four normal occupants of the Citroën which customarily rode immediately before the Cadillac in the procession were riding with His Royal Highness.

  This change in protocol had been made necessary by the necessity of transporting a dog from Orly Field to the Paris Opera House. The pup, (he was, after all, only eight months old) had demonstrated an immediate and violent dislike for HRH’s staff. It had only been with some effort that he had been kept from eating them and forced into the Citroën’s back seat by one of HRH’s staff, using a chair and the techniques of a lion tamer.

  As the Citroën turned off the Boulevard Saint Michel onto the Rue de Rivoli, His Royal Highness, riding in the Cadillac behind, could see that the animal was cheerfully tearing up the upholstery in the back seat of the Citroën and pawing playfully at the glass which separated the back seat from the front seat.

  From the Rue de Rivoli the convoy turned onto L’Avenue de l’Opera, raced down that street through the

  Place de l’Opera, and made a sweeping U-tum to pull up beside the stage door of the French National Opera House. The moment the cars stopped, the chauffeur of the Citroën leapt out of the driver’s seat and fled screaming toward the safety of the Café de la Paix, located just across the street.

  “Highness,” one of HRH’s staff inquired, “what do we do now?”

  “Form a skirmish line around the car,” HRH ordered. ‘“See that the animal does not escape.”

  “We may, of course, shoot the beast to preserve life and limb?” the staff member inquired, rather too hopefully.

  “Of course not,” HRH replied. “You idiot, that dog is the property of the Maestro!”

  “Forgive me, Your Highness,” the man said and got out of the car and gave the necessary instructions. Finally, His Highness himself got out of the limousine. He was a true son of the desert, with the flashing eyes, finely trimmed beard and mustache one expects to see on a son of the desert. He would, however, have made a somewhat more imposing picture had it not been for his height and weight. His Highness stood five-feet-four and weighed one-hundred-ninety pounds, not counting the four pounds of golden rope with which his headdress was affixed to his round little head.

  His Highness sort of waddled up the stairway to the main door of the opera. A gendarme pulled the door open for him and bowed.

  The moment the door was open, His Highness smiled. He could hear the Maestro, Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov, the world’s greatest opera singer, and, for the past four years, an official national treasure of the French Republic, singing.

  The Maestro was in good form, His Highness noted. The chandeliers were rattling.

  A gendarme stood before each door to the auditorium. Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov refused to have a bunch of freeloaders gaping while he was rehearsing; visitors were forbidden. There were exceptions, of course, and His Highness was one of the two. (The other was the president of the Republic.) His Highness was bowed through by another gendarme. He stayed in the back of the auditorium until the Maestro had concluded his aria (Leicester’s aria from Act III of Donizetti’s Maria Stuarda “Oh, savage woman, a sister’s death warrant you have signed ... etc.) and then he applauded and shouted. “Bravo! Bravo!”

  Maestro Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov, who had been, in his role, looking shocked, aghast and heartsick, his hand held dramatically across his face, now stood up. He faced the audience, which he could not see, of course because of the lights.

  “Who dares to intrude on my rehearsal?” he bellowed.

  “It is I, Maestro, Hassan!” His Royal Highness called.

  “Have you the puppy?”

  “In a manner of speaking, Maestro,” His Highness replied.

  “You either have it or you don’t,” the singer replied. “Is that so complicated?”

  “It’s in the car, Maestro,” Hassan replied.

  “In the car? In the car? You disgust me, Hassan! Talk about cold, and cruel, only a backward Arab who takes his perverted pleasure from torturing a helpless animal would leave a helpless puppy in a car on a day like this.” He started off the stage.

  “Maestro,” the conductor asked, “what about the rehearsal?”

  “Don’t be such a callous ass,” the Maestro said. “How could you possibly expect me to sing, now that I’ve gotten, firsthand, another sickening example of man’s inhumanity to beast?”

  Coming up the aisle, dressed in the costume of the earl of Leicester, the singer made quite an appearance. He stood six feet six inches tall and weighed just over two-hundred-eighty pounds. The luxuriant beard which covered his chin and cheeks was all his. His dark eyes flashed.

  “Maestro,” His Royal Highness said, “it’s a gorgeous spring day out there. The temperature is exactly seventy- two degrees Fahrenheit. And the car is air-conditioned. The pup is perfectly comfortable!”

  “All alone,” the singer said. “At a tender period in his puppyhood, when he needs loving companionship above all else!” He strode purposefully past His Royal Highness, burst out into the foyer and descended to the street. He had no trouble locating the car. It was ringed with a line of Arabs in robes.

  Boris strode up to the Citroën. The pup, slavering somewhat from its mouth and displaying a rather impressive set of choppers, was pawing at the window. It was clear to everyone but Boris that he wanted nothing more than to eat an Arab.

  “Look!” Boris said. “He’s glad to see me! He knows that he’s mine!”

  “Maestro,” Hassan said somewhat breathlessly, for he’d had to run to keep up with the singer, “if I were you, I wouldn’t open that door!”

  Boris opened the door and then turned.

  “What did you say?”

  At that point, the pup reached out and nipped Boris on the hand. Boris yelped. The dog, growling mightily, retreated about two inches and seemed prepared to leap again.

  Boris looked at his hand. A couple of drops of blood, no larger than pencil points, showed where the skin had been just barely lacerated. Boris looked at it with mixed rage and horror.

  “That flea-ridden Hound of the Baskervilles has bitten Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov!” he announced. “Bitten me! His master!”

  “I’ll have him shot immediately,” Hassan said, snapping his fingers. With obvious pleasure, two bodyguards rushed up and worked the actions of their submachine guns.

  Boris sent both of them flying, one with each massive arm. Then he bent over to lean in the car.

  “Come out of there, you furry Benedict Arnold!” he said angrily, when he emerged he had the dog (which weighed, at about half of its ultimate size, only about one-hundred-fifty pounds) by the
scruff of the neck.

  The animal snarled, twisted, and snapped.

  “Bad doggie" Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov said at full volume. “It’s not nice to bite your daddy!” The pup had not (and as far as that goes, few people have) heard an admonition administered that close to the ear and at that volume by Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov. In something close to abject terror, it stopped snarling twisting, and snapping. Boris then grabbed the forepaw put it between his teeth, and closed his jaws. “Get the idea?” he said. The pup yelped. “Now, we’ll have no more of that, will we?”

  He set the dog down in the street. The dog looked up at him ears back, hunched over.

  “Well, you asked for it, you stupid beast!” Boris said, but the tone was somewhat softer, and the dog sensed it. The tail made a timid, tentative wag; the head cocked.

  “You may not be too bright,” Boris said to him, “but you’re sure a good-looking hound.”

  The tail wagged with more confidence now, sweeping back and forth on the cobblestones. The ears rose. The dog seemed to smile.

  “If you’ll promise to be a good boy,” Boris cooed, “Daddy will forgive you!”

  The dog rose on his haunches and laid his paws on Boris’ massive chest. He made whimpering noises of joy and love. His tongue came out and lapped at Boris’ beard. He had found a master he could love and respect. “You hungry, Prince?” Boris asked.

  “I thought we might drop by Le Tour de l’Argent,” His Royal Highness replied, making reference to one of Paris' best restaurants, the name of which aptly translates as “the tower of money.”