MASH 08 MASH Goes to Hollywood Read online

  While variety was, as Boris put it, the spice of life, there were some performances where his exercise could not be a chancy, or hit-or-miss, proposition. When a role was going to place unusual strains on the maestro, nothing but the best would do. More than once, Cher Boris had been forced to go on stage unnerved by unsuitable exercise partners. For reasons he could not quite comprehend, a number of volunteers, despite solemn promises to Hassan beforehand, could not restrain themselves from either talking during the exercise (“If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a chattering broad!” as Boris said) or, worse, professing undying love, passion, and gratitude.

  All Boris required was the exercise. Anything in addition to the exercise distracted him.

  Fortunately, over the years His Highness had been able to establish a second, far shorter, top secret roster of exercise partners who not only performed their duties well but fully understood and lived up to the obligations inherent in the privilege of being selected as an exercise partner.

  The special roster for Paris listed but two names, Esmerelda Hoffenburg, the ballerina, and the Baroness d’Iberville. Both had unusual talents. The baroness, who had a Russian nanny as a child, had learned how to prepare blini (a sort of cold potato pancake served with sour cream and chopped onions), of which Cher Boris was inordinately fond, and was, moreover, one of the few people anywhere in the world who could stay with Boris when he went at the booze. Esmerelda Hoffenburg’s superb muscular control permitted exercise to take place when Cher Boris normally would not be up to it. . . say, after he’d spent the night with the baroness, lots of blini, and a gallon or more of Old White Stagg Blended Kentucky Bourbon.

  They were, moreover, fully cognizant of the great honor bestowed upon them. They had been called to serve again, something that rarely happened.

  “Whatever else might be said about me,” as Boris said, “let it never be said that I am selfish.” What he meant by this was that it was really unfair of him not to spread himself around as thinly as possible. “Far better that two-thousand women should experience the thrill of their lifetime,” he said, “than for one-thousand women to have seconds.”

  He deviated from this moral principle only when his art clearly demanded that he do so. It was only then that His Highness would get on the telephone to Esmerelda and the baroness to bring the tidings of great joy: “The maestro needs you,” he would announce. “You may come to the apartment.”

  They invariably appeared within minutes, although there is nothing to the story that the baroness’ Rolls-Royce always sat with its motor running waiting for the moment of glory. She merely had it waiting outside their apartment, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The engine was turned off.

  There was not, surprisingly, any jealousy between Esmerelda and the baroness. They had come to realize that there was, in fact, more than enough of Cher Boris for the both of them and that they should spend the effort they had been spending upstaging, so to speak, each other making sure that no other names appeared on His Highness’ special encore performance roster.

  They had, in fact, been summoned to the Avenue de la Grande Armee apartment the day before. They had arrived bearing large wicker baskets of food and drink.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Hassan had said, as they came into the apartment.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “That American conductor, what’s his name, Bernstone? ... at rehearsal he muttered something about a jambon* under his breath, and Cher Boris, I’m afraid, lost his temper.”

  (* Jambon: French for ham.)

  “Why should the mention of food annoy Cher Boris?” the baroness asked.

  “My dear baroness, I have no idea,” His Highness said. “All I know is that Cher Boris jumped off the stage, pushed Bemstone’s head through the kettledrum, and then threw the kettledrum, with Bernstone still in it, onto the Place de l’Opéra.”

  “And the performance is canceled?” Esmerelda Hoffenburg asked. “Is that what’s wrong?”

  “Oh, no.” His Highness said. “The Ministry of Culture and Fine Arts sent a Discorde after Karajan. He was in Rio, but he agreed to come, of course.”

  “Of course,” the baroness said. “But then what’s the problem?”

  “The maestro is melancholic,” His Highness said. “I thought perhaps you could cheer him up.”

  “I think I know just what he needs,” Esmerelda said, with a knowing smile.

  “Darling,” the baroness said, feminine menace in every syllable, “I’m first up this time, remember?”

  “I’m sure,” His Highness said, “that I may entrust our beloved maestro to your loving care.”

  “Of course you can, darling,” the baroness said. “How long may we have him?”

  “I’m going to the Opéra. The floor of the stage was dirty during rehearsal. Cher Boris was annoyed.”

  “And well he should have been,” the baroness said. She skipped toward the door to Boris’ bedroom. “Boris, darling,” she cooed, “it is I, the Baroness d’lberville.”

  “The one thing I don’t need right now is a sex-starved frog,” Boris replied.

  “I come bearing gifts, Cher Boris!” the baroness cooed.

  “What kind of gifts?” Boris asked, suspiciously.

  “Blini and me, darling,” she called.

  “You may bring the blini,” Boris said, “but keep your clothes on. I have enough weight on my shoulders as it is.”

  “If you’re tired, Cher Maestro,” Esmerelda called, “I’m here.”

  “God!” Boris replied. “A frog and a hoofer! Is there no limit to what I must endure for my art?”

  “Maestro,” His Highness called, “I’m going to the Opéra to make sure the stage is clean.”

  “Tell the general manager that unless it is spotless, I’ll mop the stage with him!” Boris replied.

  “May I come in with the blini, darling?” the baroness asked.

  “If it is clearly understood between you that there will be no bickering between you over who is to have the privilege of exercising with me,” Boris said.

  His Highness closed the door to the corridor as the ladies opened the door to the maestro’s sleeping chamber. He rode down in the elevator and got into his limousine for the trip to the Opéra.

  When he thought about it later, the whole horrible mess was his fault. If he hadn’t really laid the law down to the general manager, there would not have been frantic scouring and washing of the stage and the props. That he could not foretell what would happen explained, but did not alleviate, the disaster.

  At first, things seemed to have turned around and to be going well. Karajan arrived from Rio on the Discorde and immediately went to Cher Boris’ apartment to pay his respects. He too brought gifts, specifically a twenty-six-pound standing rib of beef, a small token of the respect and affection of the Rio de Janeiro Chapter of the Admirers of Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov. This was sent down the street to Maxim’s for roasting and returned accompanied by a jeroboam of Chateau Rothschild ’25 and the best wishes of the proprietor of Maxim’s.

  Boris’ spirits rose. It was pleasant, if not surprising, to learn that Karajan agreed that Bernstone was tone deaf and not equipped to lead a Salvation Army street corner ensemble, much less the Paris Opéra, when Boris, himself, was going to sing. The twenty-six-pound standing rib provided a nice little snack. Boris was even willing to forgive the miserly proprietor of Maxim’s for sending only one lousy little jeroboam, barely enough to wet his tonsils properly, and finally, both Esmerelda and the baroness remembered not to talk during, or even to offer effusive thanks after, the exercise.

  Thirty minutes before the curtain was to rise, Boris arrived at the Opera accompanied by His Highness, the baroness, and Esmerelda. The baroness herself volunteered to, and was permitted to, arrange his hair and comb his beard, and the general manager appeared in his dressing room to assure him that the stage and all props had been thoroughly scoured according to Prince Hassan’s direct
ions.

  Boris left his dressing room for his triumphal entrance in good spirits. He even turned and addressed the girls.

  “No promises now,” he said. “But I may, between the acts, feel up to a little exercise. Settle who it might be between you.”

  It was, in a way, the calm before the storm.

  The dramatic high points of the opera Siegfried revolve around swords. In the early part of the opera, Siegfried shatters one sword after another until he finally makes his own sword. The one he makes is so strong that when he whacks the anvil with it, the anvil shatters into little pieces.

  All of this went well. In Act I, as Boris as Siegfried shattered one blade after another, his female admirers cooed and moaned. When he cut the anvil in half, there was a full two minutes of tumultuous applause, which Boris acknowledged by standing center stage, arms raised above his head like a politician.

  He felt so good, in fact, that when he had finished exercising with the baroness, entr’acte, he told her that she could tell Esmerelda to hold herself in readiness for the intermission between Acts II and III.

  Act II went well, especially toward the end, where Siegfried sings the plaintive line, “I am so lonely! Is there no one on earth to serve me as a comrade?”

  By police count, thirty-seven ladies of various ages, shapes, and degrees rushed down the aisle to be his comrade and had to be peeled off the Korsky-Rimsakov shield.

  In Act III, Siegfried heads for Brunhilde’s rock to claim his bride. His way is barred by a character called the Wanderer, who stops him by brandishing his magic spear. Siegfried swings his sword at the spear, which shatters, and then proceeds to claim his Brunhilde. That was Wagner’s intention, anyway.

  What happened was that the prop master, driven to the edge of nervous exhaustion by the stage-and-prop washing, made a slight mistake. The spear he gave the Wanderer as he stepped onto the stage was a regular, ordinary spear of the nonbreakable variety. The sword that he placed in Boris/Siegfried’s hand was of the shattering variety.

  “Then I have found my father’s ancient enemy,” Boris sang, his voice rattling every last crystal in the opera’s chandeliers and putting at least twenty-six matrons into a semicatatonic state.

  Boris swung the sword against the Wanderer’s spear. The sword shattered in his hand; Boris found himself holding nothing but the handle. He stared at it a moment in utter shock. There was no sound whatever, not even a cough, from the audience.

  Realizing that the show must go on and that it wasn’t going to go on until the spear was broken (which was the cue for the sound-effects and special-effects men to do their thing, causing thunder and lightning), he quickly improvised:

  “I am Siegfried,” he sang, rattling the chandeliers again, “Who needs a sword?”

  He snatched the spear from the Wanderer’s hands. Grasping it in his massive hands, he bent it double. It should have splintered, cracked, been rent asunder. Unfortunately, the spear shaft was not wood. It was of Miracle Lexlon, the latest American invention, guaranteed not to rust, fray, peel, crack, or break. When Boris released the pressure of his mighty hands and arms, the spear shaft snapped straight again, good as new.

  “I’ll be goddamned!” Boris said, momentarily forgetting himself. Then he remembered where he was and what he was supposed to be doing.

  “I’ll break your magic spear over my knee!” he sang at the top of his lungs.

  He raised his knee and brought the spear shaft down on it. It bent double again and then immediately snapped straight.

  He looked at it with disbelief and then raised his knee again. And again the spear shaft snapped right back.

  And then it happened. No one knows who it was (the French maintain that it was a drunken American tourist, but there is no proof), but some man in the second balcony snickered and then giggled. The giggles were contagious. Within moments, from all over the theater, there was male laughter, loud, deep, belly-rocking laughter.

  Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov was being laughed at!

  What happened after that is not entirely clear. Three men were thrown from the second balcony into the audience, but it is not known whether the first man to laugh was among them or whether he was one of the four men in the second balcony who were dragged from their seats by outraged female fans of Cher Boris and hung by their feet from the ornate, cast-iron gas lamps that decorate the outer facade of the Opera building.

  Usually reliable witnesses reported that just before the curtain was rung hurriedly down, Cher Boris, apparently in the belief that Karajan was smiling, threw the spear at him. The spear missed the orchestra conductor but passed through the instrument of the second bass viol player, who thereupon went into hysterics.

  There is evidence to suggest that most, but not all, of the damage to the stage setting was caused by Mr. Korsky-Rimsakov after the curtain fell. Some of the damage was done by his enraged fans, after they disassembled the Korsky-Rimsakov shield in order to obtain pieces of pipe foundation as weapons.

  The last anyone actually saw Cher Boris was when he went to Brunhilde’s rock, more specifically through Brunhilde’s rock, ripping it apart with his hands as he set out in pursuit of the prop master, with the announced intention of tearing the limbs from that functionary.

  From that moment, he quite literally disappeared. There was, of course, a good deal of confusion. The Honor Guard of the Garde Republicaine, who were, of course, standing in their full-dress uniforms on the steps of the grand staircase, were immediately summoned to quell the riot. Unfortunately, they were immediately recognized as males and set upon by outraged Korsky-Rimsakov fans. Only the timely arrival of the First and Second Phalanx of the Metropolitan Riot Squad, Gendarmerie Nationale (Paris Region), prevented the lynching of several members of the Garde Republicaine.

  It was more than an hour before order was completely restored and someone realized that Cher Boris had not recently been in evidence. He had not gone to his dressing room. Neither had he returned to his apartment. Nor had he made an appearance at any of his favorite bistros—Harry’s New York Bar, the bar at the Ritz Hotel, or the Crazy Horse Saloon on Rue Pierre Charron.

  It was, of course, naturally presumed that Cher Boris was just a little upset by having been laughed at, and that he would, in a matter of hours, surface. An ad hoc committee of the Chamber of Deputies was quickly formed to present the official apologies of the French Republic whenever Cher Boris reappeared.

  When he didn’t appear within eight hours, a discreet message was passed to the gendarmerie ordering them to locate the singer and report his whereabouts directly to the office of the president, where the president and his wife would wait for the word.

  When the gendarmerie were unable to locate the singer anywhere in Paris, the search was widened. But it was fruitless. Cher Boris had vanished from the face of the earth.

  Chapter Six

  “And how did you find the martini, Dr. Pierce?” the white-jacketed sitting-room waiter of the Framingham Foundation inquired, hovering solicitously over the table.

  “I just looked on this little table here,” Hawkeye said, “and there it was. Now, please don’t take this as a criticism, but it was a little wet.”

  “But I know the barman only put in six drops of very dry vermouth,” the waiter replied.

  “Well, there you are,” Trapper John said. “That’s twice as much as there should be.”

  “If you’ll give me your glasses, gentlemen,” the waiter said, “I’ll take care of it.”

  Dr. Pierce and Dr. McIntyre, as if wired together, raised their glasses and drained them and then placed them on the silver serving tray.

  “It wasn’t necessary that you drink them,” the waiter said. “I was going to replace them.”

  “Never let it be said that I’m a martini snob,” Trapper John said.

  “Waste not, want not,” Hawkeye said.

  “And just three drops the next time around, if you please,” Trapper John said.

  The wai
ter marched away, across the thick carpets of the sitting room, toward the sitting-room serving bar. It was a large, high-ceilinged room furnished with comfortable, leather-upholstered chairs and settees, the walls lined with books and large oil paintings of past Framingham Foundation presidents and distinguished fellows of the foundation.

  Dr. Pierce was a fellow of the foundation. Dr. McIntyre was a special guest of the foundation. The rigid membership requirements of the foundation limited fellowship to those gentlemen who had been married for seven years, a requirement which Dr. McIntyre, despite his other obvious qualifications, did not meet. He was still a relative newlywed and as such could not be trusted not to confide in his wife certain facets of the Framingham Foundation.

  Dr. McIntyre was allowed sitting-room privileges and use of the downstairs bar, the basement sauna, and the lower dining room. He was not permitted access to the upper-level dining room, the upstairs bar, the library, or the theater. Neither was he allowed to bring guests to the foundation’s Cambridge, Massachusetts, home.

  “I wish I’d gotten married earlier,” Dr. McIntyre said, wistfully.

  “I gather you refer to this evening’s presentation in the theater?” Dr. Pierce replied.

  Dr. McIntyre nodded. “And I can’t go into the library, either, while I’m waiting for you.”

  “Well, I’m not going to leave you alone, Trapper,” Hawkeye said. “I’ve already seen Miss Bonnie Bazoom and Her Dance of Desire.”

  “That’s very good of you, Hawkeye,” Trapper said. “I always feel like such a second-rate citizen when all the fellows go to watch the strippers.”

  “Terpsichorean ecdysiasts is the term,” Hawkeye said, sternly. “I’ve told you about that before, Trapper.”

  “I’m sorry,” Trapper said, humbly. “It keeps slipping out.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to learn to control yourself,” Hawkeye said. “This is the Framingham Foundation.”

  “It won’t happen again,” Trapper said.

  “It had better not,” Hawkeye said. “Ah, here comes the sauce!”