MASH 11 MASH Goes To San Francisco Read online

  Specifically, he examined, with a professional, expert eye, some 16-mm color films sent to him for comment by Theosophilus Mullins Yancey, M.D. (founder and chief of staff of the T. Mullins Yancey Foundation of Manhattan, Kansas). From time to time, Boris made little entries in a notebook.

  Dr. Yancey was a personal friend of the singer. They had met several years before, shortly after Dr. Yancey had published his famous treatise on exercise.*

  (* Sexual Intercourse As Exercise by T. Mullins Yancey, M.D., Ph.D., D.D., D.V.M. (1048 pp., illustrated, $9.95), The Yancey Foundation Press, Manhattan, Kansas)

  In that now famous work, Dr. Yancey expounded the theory that one particular form of exercise was far superior in every way (especially insofar as it toned up the muscles and forced blood to the brain, thereby facilitating more profound thought) to such things as jogging, pushups, swimming, and so on.

  Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov had recognized the book for the work of pure genius that it was as soon as he’d read it, and he’d written to Dr. Yancey to offer his congratulations. He had mentioned that he’d independently reached the same conclusions, and, in case the doctor might find his data of value in his work, had included several examples of how something he now correctly recognized as healthy exercise had improved his art.

  Dr. Yancey had at first been rather sceptical of the stories, but his curiosity had been piqued to the point where he’d made discreet inquiries. A friend in the Department of State had told him it was absolutely true that Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov, during one of his annual visits to the U.S.S.R., had indeed “accommodated” the entire (female) corps de ballet of the Bolshoi—at least, those members of it over the age of sixteen. It was generally (if privately) admitted in diplomatic circles that it had been this accomplishment that had resulted in his being designated a Hero of the Soviet Arts. The official reason had been his performance in the title role of Boris Godunov, which had taken place the next day—knowledgeable opera buffs held the opinion that Boris’ Boris had been better than Chaliapin’s had ever been.

  Over the years, both a professional relationship and a personal friendship had developed between the two men, and whenever Dr. Yancey’s staff came up with some interesting film, an extra copy was run off to be sent to the singer for his professional evaluation.

  The films Boris watched as the Le Discorde raced through the heavens toward Paris had been made, with the participants’ permission,* during what is known in some quarters as “physical congress.” The participants were those who had (generally after reading Playboy, Playgirl, Penthouse, and other periodicals of this type) come to believe they were not getting out of their marriages (or dalliances) what others were. In a natural desire to get what nature intended them to have, they came, in droves, to Manhattan, Kansas, where, under the most professional circumstances, of course, they had at it before the foundation’s cameras.

  (* As Dr. T. Mullins Yancey was wont to confess, among his professional peers, “You wouldn't believe the weirdos we get out here.”)

  Once the film had been processed, it was run off before a special team of Yancey Foundation specialists—a gynecologist, a psychologist, and a contortionist. These experts then prepared a report suggesting how things could be improved. When there were unusual problems, Dr. Yancey always sent the film to Boris for his expert assessment. Other films were sent simply on the chance that Boris might be interested in them.

  Three hours later, just before midnight, the Le Discorde swooped out of the sky like a drunken vulture and touched down at Paris’ Orly International airfield. Although the strictest secrecy regarding Boris’ travel schedule had been enforced, the word had somehow leaked out, and more than two hundred females were gathered at the field when the plane landed.

  The Orly Field riot squad had, of course, been placed on standby for Boris’ return. (Mr. Korsky-Rimsakov had been declared an Official Treasure of the French Republic some years before. This was both a tribute to his voice and to his ability to pack in customers at the Paris Opera. Whenever Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov sang at the opera, it was termed a “Performance Magnifique” and a 100-percent surcharge was imposed.)

  A platoon of the riot squad had set up barriers and water hoses as a diversionary tactic, and the Korsky-Rimsakov fans had been fooled by it. They were still swarming around a remote corner of the huge field when the Le Discorde taxied right up to the main terminal building. With a precision that only long hours of practice had made possible, Boris’ ground transportation swung up to the plane. First there was a Gendarmerie Nationale riot bus, from which forty stalwart, helmeted gendarmes leapt to form a corridor from the jet’s steps. Next came a black Citröen limousine, bearing Corps Diplomatique license plates and flying the Royal Hussidic colors on the right front fender.

  Six robed Arabs, each one bearing a silver-plated submachine gun, jumped out of the vehicle and took up positions inside the lines of gendarmes. Next a Cadillac limousine Screeched to a halt. It, too, bore the Royal Hussidic coat of arms and the diplomatic license plates. Two more Arabs jumped out of this vehicle, one out of each side. The plane-side Arab held open the rear door of the Cadillac until the singer came running down the steps of the Le Discorde and jumped inside. The door was then slammed shut. The slammer and the other Arab then jumped into the front seat.

  A radio signal was relayed and sirens and flashing lights on two waiting motorcycles burst into life. The limousine raced off behind them into the night.

  There was a passenger in the back seat of the limousine waiting for Boris. With visible affection, he leaned over and kissed the singer wetly.

  “God, I’m glad to see you, Prince,” the singer said with obvious sincerity. “I missed you terribly in Moscow.” The passenger kissed the singer again, rather fervently.

  “Christ,” the singer said. “Have you been rooting in garbage cans again, you mangy hound? Your breath would stop a clock!” He pushed the dog, a Scottish wolfhound, off the brocade upholstery onto the floor. The animal began to whine piteously.

  “Stop that, for Christ’s sake!” the singer said. “It will get you nowhere with me, and you know it!”

  The dog whined even more piteously.

  “Well, all right,” the singer said. “You can get back on the seat, but for God’s sake, breathe in the other direction!”

  The dog climbed back on the seat, laid his head on the singer’s lap, and made a growl of contentment in his throat.

  “It’s you and me, Prince, alone and afraid in a world we never made,” the singer said to the animal as he scratched his ears.

  “To your apartment, Maestro?” the chauffeur’s voice, over the intercom, asked.

  “God, no!” the singer replied. “I couldn’t bear to stare at those bare walls all by myself. Besides, it’s only midnight. Take us to the Casanova.”

  “Your wish, Your Excellency,” the chauffeur replied, “is my command.”

  “I know,” Boris replied. “Step on it, Omar, will you? I ran out of bubbly somewhere over Poland.”

  Chapter Five

  Boris had barely entered the Casanova, been shown to his table, and had his first jeroboam of bubbly opened when there was a disturbance at the entrance.

  “What do you mean, I can’t go in there?” an American voice said, in a basso very clearly as deep as Boris’ basso, and in the inimitable (some say ludicrous) accents of those who have been educated at Harvard College and/or University. “My dear fellow, I am Matthew Q. Framingham, and I go wherever I wish!” There was a pause, during which the assistant undermanager and the manager himself, while waving their hands in the peculiar manner of the French, explained that the alcove toward which this gentleman (who, at six-feet-four and 225 pounds, was sort of a seven-eighths scale replica of Boris—less, of course, the beard) was moving was occupied by Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov, and thus was off-limits to the general public.

  “Let me assure you, sir,” Mr. Framingham said, letting a bouncer who had s
neaked up on him from the side have a short, but painful, thrust in the abdomen with the point of his umbrella, “that if it were not for the presence, for reasons which escape me, of Mr. Korsky-Rimsakov in this somewhat seedy and obviously disreputable establishment of yours, I would not be here myself. I told you who I was.”

  He was three-quarters of the way across the room now, close enough to alarm several members of His Royal Highness Prince Hassan’s bodyguard. There was the sound of scimitars being drawn, and the oily click of submachine gun bolts being opened and closed.

  Mr. Matthew Q. Framingham spotted Mr. Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov.

  “Boris!” he said, somewhat peevishly. “Will you cause these terrible people to cease and desist?”

  “Matthew!” Boris said in obvious delight, getting to his feet and tossing the jeroboam of champagne casually over his shoulder. “Little buddy! Goddamn, I’m glad to see you!”

  Arms spread wide, Boris advanced on Matthew Q. Framingham.

  “The emotion is reciprocal,” Matthew said. He jabbed the manager, who was again getting closer to him than he liked, with the point of his umbrella, and then permitted himself to be embraced by Boris. Boris kissed him wetly, in the Russian manner, on each cheek, and then, wrapping him in a bear hug, lifted him off the ground.

  “Goddamn, Matthew, I’m glad you’re here!”

  “For God’s sake, Boris,” Matthew Q. Framingham said, “put me down! Control your emotions!”

  Boris did as he was ordered. He next draped his arm around Matthew’s shoulder and led him to the table. Then he turned to the manager.

  “Stop standing there with your mouth open and bring my little buddy something to drink,” he ordered.

  The Arab bodyguard resumed their positions, smiling uneasily.

  “Where are the baroness and Esmerelda? And whatshisname, that Arab chap?” Matthew inquired. “The fat little fellow who flits around you like a bee pollinating?”

  “In San Francisco,” Boris said. “They left me alone and friendless. The perfidy of man never ceases to amaze me.”

  “How odd,” Matthew said. He turned to glance over his shoulder and addressed the assistant undermanager. “I suppose it would be too much to hope that you have a decent cigar?”

  “Immediately, M’sieu,” the assistant undermanager said.

  Prince, with a half-whine, a half-growl, and a nudge of his enormous head, made his presence known.

  “Well, little doggie,” Matthew said. “You remember me, do you?” He reached out and scratched Prince’s ears. The dog’s tail began to wag. With one graceful sweep of his tail, he wiped the adjacent table clean of two full dinners, two wine coolers, and a twelve-candle candelabra. Matthew turned to see the source of the noise, and then picked up a crown of lamb from the floor and put it in the dog’s mouth. The tail wagged again and there was the chilling sound of lamb bones crunching in Prince’s enormous jaws.

  “Dogs,” Boris announced solemnly, “are fine judges of character. The last man who tried to feed Prince is still in the hospital.”

  “But he knows that I like him,” Matthew said. “And I’m sure he remembers our first meeting. He took a playful nip at me, and I bit him back. Dogs remember things like that.”

  “I have just returned from Moscow,” Boris said. “My triumphal return, however, has been marred by the callous desertion of my so-called friends.”

  “I know. It was on the front page of Le Figaro,” Matthew replied. “You say that whatshisname, the Arab chap, and the ladies are in San Francisco?”

  “They left me stranded, alone, and friendless in Moscow,” Boris said.

  “What an odd, unfortunate circumstance,” Matthew said.

  “How’s that?”

  “I came here from San Francisco specifically to take advantage of your offer,” Matthew said.

  “What offer was that? What were you doing in San Francisco? Did you see Baby Sister when you were there?”

  “I will reply to your interrogatories in reverse order,” Matthew said. “I did indeed see your charming sibling while in the City on the Bay. I shared a rather delightful repast with her and her husband—perhaps her consort would be the more apt word—at their home.”

  “And how is that little four-eyed jerk treating my baby sister?” Boris asked.

  “They have found, it would appear, bliss in their marital union,” Matthew said. “I confess I was quite touched by the sight of Radar* sitting on Kristina’s lap, tenderly holding her left hand as she ran the fingers of her right hand lovingly through what little remains of his hair.”

  (* While serving as corporal and company clerk of the 4077th MASH during the Korean Unpleasantness, Mr. J. Robespierre O’Reilly became known as “Radar” after it became known that he was telepathic on occasion and could sometimes read minds.)

  “My baby sister is a saint,” Boris said, emotionally. “What she sees in that little twerp is beyond me.”

  “The second part of your multiple inquiry, if memory serves,” Matthew Q. Framingham went on, “was to inquire what I was doing in San Francisco.”

  “Well?”

  “I was there on Framingham Foundation* business,” Mr. Framingham replied.

  (* Mr. Framingham here referred to the Matthew Q. Framingham Theosophical Foundation of Cambridge, Mass., which was founded in 1863 for the furtherance of philosophy, science, and theology, and of which he was executive secretary.)

  “Oh?”

  “You are doubtless aware that it will shortly be time once again for the annual seminar on the dance,” Mr. Framingham said.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Boris said immediately.

  “When you get right down to it, my dear friend, parts one and two of your interrogatory are interrelated,” Matthew said. “Specifically, I went to San Francisco to engage a particular performer for the annual seminar on the dance, one Ms. Betsy Boobs.”

  “She’s the one you told me about? The blonde with the fantastic jugs?”

  “I wouldn’t phrase it, being a Harvard man, in quite those terms, old bean, but her mammiform development is, in essence, the foundation of her appeal.”

  “And?”

  “She has disappeared,” Matthew Q. Framingham said.

  “So what?” Boris asked. “What’s one stripper, more or less, missing from the annual seminar on the dance? Last year we had eighteen, didn’t we? Including the triplets?”

  “Joan, Jeanne, and Josephine,” Matthew recalled. “Six times the pleasure, six times the fun. They will be back, of course.”

  “Then what’s so special about Betsy Boobs?” Boris asked.

  “To get right to the crux of the matter, old chap, I am rather infatuated with the lady.”

  “Not again, Matthew!” Boris said. “I’ve told you and told you, don’t become infatuated with strippers!”

  “I can’t help myself,” Matthew said. “It is the cross I must bear on my path through life.”

  “You know what happened the last time,” Boris said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That brewer’s daughter with the strange name …”

  “Monica P. Fenstermacher, you mean?”

  “She broke off her engagement to you because you were hung up on some stripper.”

  “That was time before last,” Matthew said. “Last time ... I’d rather not talk about last time.”

  “You should have learned your lesson by now,” Boris said righteously.

  “You’re a fine one to talk, you with your Esmerelda,” Matthew said.

  “Esmerelda is a hoofer,”* Boris said. “There’s a difference.”

  (* The reference here is to Esmerelda Hoffenberg, the ballerina. By “hoofer,” Boris meant that she danced on the legitimate stage rather than in strip joints.)

  “Esmerelda prances around on a stage in very little clothing,” Matthew said. “The only significant difference I can see between your Esmerelda and my Betsy Boobs is that the music is different.”
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br />   “Maybe you have a point,” Boris said. “How did you meet this one?”

  “I was out in San Francisco about a year ago,” Matthew said. “And I just happened to drop in to this little place for a bite to eat and a moment’s quiet reflection.”

  “What little place?”

  “Sadie Shapiro’s Strip Joint,” Matthew said. “To be precise.”

  “And she was there?”

  “She was there,” Matthew said. “I fought it, Boris. You have to believe that. I told myself that sort of thing was all behind me, that it was a thing from my past, that if I ever hoped to regain Miss Monica P. Fenstermacher as my fiancée, I would have to put all the thoughts I was having from my mind.”

  “And?”

  “It didn’t work,” Matthew said. “When I got back to Cambridge, I just couldn’t put her from my mind. I began to send her little tokens of my esteem.”

  “Such as?”

  “Flowers, candy, that sort of thing. Little trinkets.”

  “How often?”

  “I didn’t sign my name. I just had them include a card saying ‘From an admirer.’ ”

  “How often, Matthew?”

  “Once a day,” Matthew said.

  “You sent her flowers, or a box of candy, or a little trinket every single day?”

  “Flowers and candy and a little trinket every day,” Matthew said. “But I didn’t sign my name. I didn’t want to overwhelm her, to frighten the little dove away.”

  “And?”

  “Finally, I couldn’t live with it any longer. I told myself that all I was doing was getting one more performer for the annual seminar on the dance, but in my heart of hearts, I knew that it was more than that, that I would declare myself as soon as I saw her again.”