MASH 08 MASH Goes to Hollywood Read online

  “You were saying that you were going to be spending some time with us?” Hawkeye said.

  “Yes,” Boris said. “I am.”

  “And to what do we owe this great honor?” Trapper asked.

  “Something happened to me recently,” Boris said, “the exact nature of which I’d rather not go into.”

  “I would love to go into it,” Trapper John said. “You mean something actually bothered you?”

  “Momentarily,” Boris said. “But what it actually did was make me think.”

  “It really must have been something spectacular!” Hawkeye said.

  “Stop interrupting me,” Boris said. “As I was saying, it made me think.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Trapper John said.

  “Here I am,” Boris went on, “I thought. Going from one major triumph to another. Universally acclaimed, adored, beloved. And then I asked myself, what does it all mean?”

  “I give up,” Trapper said. “What does it all mean?”

  “I mean, here I am, giving people all over the world thrills, beauty in their otherwise drab lives, and so on.”

  “So?”

  “And then I asked myself the basic question, the bottom line. What’s in it for me?”

  “How about the women?” Hawkeye asked.

  “And the money?” Trapper added.

  “And fame?” Hawkeye said.

  “Exactly,” Boris said. “I finally realized that there must be more to life than women, money, and fame.”

  “How about satisfaction?”

  “And satisfaction. I have that, of course, in my knowledge that I am the world’s greatest singer. But the bottom line, again, is the answer to the question, is it enough?”

  “I can’t think of anything else,” Trapper said.

  “I really didn’t expect that you would be able to,” Boris said, and then he put his fingers in his mouth and blew. A mighty whistle resulted.

  “What was that for?”

  “I told you the service is lousy in here,” Boris replied.

  “You don’t mean to tell me that you drank that whole jeroboam of champagne already?”

  “I told you I was thirsty,” Boris explained, patiently. He then raised his voice. “Bring the other bottle,” he boomed. “And put one more on ice!”

  “And what was the final result of this soul-searching of yours, Boris?” Hawkeye asked.

  “Well, as I said,” Boris went on. “There I was, on the stage of the Paris Opera . . . more precisely, at the moment, behind Brunhilde’s rock . . . when I realized that here I was, giving my all, enriching people’s lives, bringing beauty and light into dark corners, that there were thousands of people out there taking all this in. And what, I asked myself, were they doing for me?”

  “That brings us back to women, money, and fame,” Trapper John said.

  “That wasn’t, I realized ... it came as something of a revelation ... I felt something like Brigham Young must have felt... quite enough.”

  “What else is there?” Hawkeye asked.

  “I don’t really know,” Boris said. “But it occurred to me that if they were deprived, if only briefly, of my talent and genius, that they very likely could come up with something.”

  “And so you decided to visit us?” Trapper asked.

  “Exactly,” Boris said. “I thought it would be only fair of me to share, if only briefly, the drab, meaningless lives of people such as yourself.”

  “Gee, Boris, that’s nice of you!” Hawkeye said. “I don’t know what to say!”

  “I don’t suppose you considered visiting Prince Hassan’s homeland?” Trapper asked.

  “Or Hot Lips in New Orleans?” Hawkeye asked.

  “Or Frenchie de la Chevaux?” Trapper asked.

  “Or anybody else?” they said, in unison.

  “Of course, I did,” Boris said. “But they, like everyone else in the world, make such a fuss over me. I understand their awe, of course, but . . . and I would rather you didn’t tell them this ... it really is such a bore.”

  “Don’t faint, Boris,” Trapper said, “but you don’t awe me.”

  “I know I don’t, dear fellow,” Boris said. “And that’s why I’m here with you and Hawkeye. With you two I can be my simple, modest, self-effacing self.”

  “I see,” Hawkeye said. “And how long do you plan to stay?”

  “Not long,” Boris said. “No more than three months. It really wouldn’t be decent of me to deprive the world of my talent for longer than that.”

  “It’s going to be a little bit of a problem,” Hawkeye said. “At least at my house. My mother- and father-in- law are visiting us.”

  “Mine, too,” Trapper John said. “And mine brought with them three uncles, two cousins, and a maiden aunt.”

  “That should pose no problem,” Boris said, thoughtfully. “Under the circumstances they will certainly be willing to live in a motel.”

  “After all, it’s not every day that Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov drops by for three months, is it?” Trapper John said.

  “Precisely,” Boris replied.

  “May I make a suggestion, Boris?” Hawkeye asked.

  “If you feel you have to,” Boris replied. “My mind is made up.”

  “I think your idea is good, even brilliant,” Hawkeye said.

  “Naturally,” Boris said. “I told you it was my idea.”

  “But I don’t think you’ve carried it far enough.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Yes, he does,” Trapper said. He had no idea where Hawkeye was leading, but he knew his only hope lay in going with him.

  “What, exactly, is it you’re trying to say?” Boris said.

  “Well, Boris,” Hawkeye said, “Trapper’s wife and my wife know who you are. Even without the beard, they’ll know you.”

  “So?”

  “And they’ll be fawning over you,* just like the others.”

  (* This was not exactly the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. The truth was that neither Mrs. Pierce nor Mrs. McIntyre was exactly a fan of Cher Boris. The last time Mrs. Pierce had spoken of him, she had described him as "that drunken ape,’’ and Mrs. McIntyre had described his singing as sounding like the sound made by a bull who had not quite succeeded in jumping over a barbed wire fence and was, in a sense, bemoaning his just-lost malehood.)

  “Well, you’ll just have to speak to them and tell them to control themselves,” Boris said. “We are, after all, dealing with my artistic life, and with that in mind, everybody should be prepared to make whatever sacrifices are indicated.”

  “What you need,” Hawkeye said, plunging ahead, “is to spend your time with someone who has no idea who you are.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Boris said. “Everyone knows who I am. My God, Hawkeye, try to remember that you’re talking with Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov!”

  “What would you say if I told you I knew of someone who had never heard of you?”

  “If you think I intend to spend the next three months of my already too brief life in the company of some illiterate moron, Hawkeye!”

  “Let me put it this way, Boris,” Hawkeye said. “Trapper John and I have recently met a fine chap named Steven Harris.”

  “Splendid fellow,” Trapper chimed in. “Nearly as big as you are.”

  “And he’s never heard of me? What is he, some kind of a hermit?”

  “Almost,” Hawkeye said. “He lives in the deep woods.”

  “And what does he do in the deep woods?”

  “He’s a cop,” Trapper said.

  “A cop? You mean, a policeman?

  “More like Renfrew of the Royal Mounted, actually,” Trapper said. “He’s a Maine state trooper, who brings the law to the people in the deep woods.”

  “Go on,” Boris said. “For some reason, this interests me.”

  “Far from television, of course,” Trapper said. “He lives in a log cabin on the shores of a remote lake.”
r />   “How fascinating,” Boris said. “He probably has to cool his champagne in a mountain stream.”

  “There would be one other advantage, Boris,” Trapper said. “You know full well that your fans, not to mention Hassan, Esmerelda, and the baroness, will soon be in pursuit of you, if they’re not already knocking at the door downstairs.”

  Boris looked somewhat nervously toward the door. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “They’ll pursue me to the ends of the world.”

  “The one place they wouldn’t look for you, Boris,” Hawkeye said, “would be in a log cabin on the shores of a small lake in the deep Maine woods.”

  “By God, you’re right,” Boris said. “But how would you explain me to him?”

  “Can you still cook, Boris?”

  “What an absurd question,” Boris said. “Of course, I can still cook.* You know very well that I enrich the lives of my fellow humans in many ways in addition to my superb voice.”

  (* Mr. Korsky-Rimsakov’s culinary expertise dates back to his experience as a short-order cook in the Dandy-DeLite Diner in Hackensack, New Jersey, in his youth. In the army, he had served as a cook until Sgt. J.-P. de la Chevaux had made him a Browning automatic rifleman because of his size. In his long years in France, he had returned to cooking as a hobby and had, in 1970, been admitted to the Grand Compagnie des Gourmets after revealing the secret (overnight marination in a bathtub of Old White Stagg Blended Kentucky Bourbon) of his famous delicacy, Standing Rib of Beef Korsky-Rimsakov, to the Grand Council of Chefs Française.)

  “Picture this,” Trapper said. “You rise at dawn and walk to the water’s edge, casting your line into the azure blue depths. Then you take the freshly caught trout and prepare them for breakfast, on a wood stove, for which you had the previous evening chopped the wood.”

  “Almondine, of course,” Boris said. “Or perhaps, in beurre noir.” His imagination had been fired. “With I side order of pommes de terre Alsatienne.”

  “Right,” Hawkeye said.

  “By God, Renfrew of the Royal Mounted will know he’s had a meal,” Boris said.

  “And think of all the time you’ll have to think,” Hawk eye said.

  “Where no one would possibly think to look for you.”

  “When can I leave?” Boris asked.

  “I’ll have to make a couple of telephone calls,” Hawkeye said. “To see if he’ll have you.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if he’ll have me’? Who would refuse ... I see what you mean, Hawkeye,” Boris said.

  “I’ll do my best,” Hawkeye said. “I’ll ask him to take you on as his cook as a personal favor to me.”

  “You might mention the penalties for unlicensed surgery,” Trapper offered.

  “That thought had crossed my mind,” Hawkeye said. “I’ll go call. You stay here and get Boris something to drink.” He paused. “Something stronger than bubbly, I suggest, is indicated.”

  “Gotcha,” Trapper said.

  “First the good news, Steve,” Hawkeye said, when he got State Trooper Steven Harris, “and then a double dose of bad news.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have just learned that the Framingham Foundation is going to award you a scholarship to medical school.” There was no reply.

  “I don’t hear you jumping up and down in joy,” Hawkeye finally said.

  “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or anything, Dr. Pierce,” Harris replied, “but I promised myself that I’d pay for the whole thing myself. That way, if I flunk out, I won’t be a disappointment to anybody.”

  “I see,” Hawkeye said. “Well, that was the bad news.”

  “I thought you were going to give me the good news first.”

  “The first thing you’re going to have to learn if you’re going to be a successful doctor, Steven,” Hawkeye said, firmly, “is never to argue with an older doctor. We’re always right.”

  “Sorry,” Steve said, chastened.

  “The good news is that I have come up with a way for you to earn a little money.”

  “Great!” Steven replied. “Presuming it’s honest.”

  “How good are you at handling crazy drunks?” Hawkeye asked.

  “You have to ask? You know how long I’ve been working in the woods with the loggers.”

  “That’s why I recommended you for this job.”

  “What job?”

  “Tragic case,” Hawkeye said. “Looks almost normal, but a real looney, especially when he’s drinking.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Well, he belongs on a funny farm,” Hawkeye said, “but he’s always so sad when they lock him up that the family has asked me if there wasn’t another solution. Fortunately, they’re loaded.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He thinks he’s the world’s greatest opera singer and cook,” Hawkeye said.

  “Real schizophrenic, huh?”

  “Plus dementia praecox,” Hawkeye said. “He poses no problem unless he suspects that people don’t believe he’s the world’s greatest opera singer and cook, in which case he goes wild.”

  “I could humor him,” Harris said, thoughtfully.

  “He can, oddly enough, cook pretty good.”

  “Gee, that would be nice. I’m a lousy cook and so sick of canned food I could scream.”

  “If you can keep him sober,” Hawkeye qualified. '

  “If it’s a question of him doing my cooking or boozing it up, I’ll keep him as sober as a judge.”

  “If that’s the best you can do, it’ll have to do,” Hawkeye said. “I was thinking of flying him up there today. Could you handle it?”

  “Sure,” Harris said. “Is he drinking now?”

  “Uh-huh,” Hawkeye said.

  “I can handle it,” Harris said. “How long will he be here?”

  “Couple of weeks, anyway. The family will pay you one-hundred-twenty-five dollars a day.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “If that isn’t enough, I’m empowered to go to two-hundred dollars,” Hawkeye said.

  “I don’t want to take advantage of anyone like that.”

  “My final offer is two-hundred-and-fifty dollars,” Hawkeye said. In his mind he did the arithmetic. He had $5,000 of Horsey’s money. At $250 a day, that came out to twenty days. That would give Steve the $5,000, and in twenty days, he was sure, Boris would no longer be able to punish the world by withholding his talents from it.

  “I accept,” Harris said, quickly.

  “Good. I’ll have him up there this afternoon. And if you run into something you can’t handle by calm reason, compassion, or brute strength, Steve, you just get on the phone.”

  “I can handle it,” Steve said.

  “I’m sure you can,” Hawkeye said. “I’ll be in touch, Steve.”

  Hawkeye banged the phone until he had attracted the operator’s attention again. “Operator,” he said. “Person-to-person to the Right Honorable Wrong Way Napolitano, at Spruce Harbor International Airport.”

  Mr. Napolitano, who was sometimes known as the Lindbergh of Maine, was proprietor of the Spruce Harbor Flying Service, whose fleet of aircraft consisted of a J-4 Piper Cub and a DeHavilland Beaver mounted on floats. Normally, he was beside himself with joy when someone sought his professional services, but when he came on the phone today, he was reluctant to make himself available.

  “I already got a charter flight, Hawkeye,” he said.

  “I need you, Wrong Way,” Hawkeye replied, “Make the others wait.”

  “Gee, Hawkeye,” Wrong Way said, “I’d like to help you out. . .”

  “Good,” Hawkeye said. “Leave for Boston Harbor right away with the Beaver seaplane.”

  “I got a charter,” Wrong Way repeated.

  “So you said,” Hawkeye replied.

  “Couple of nuts from the city,” he said. “You know my brother Angelo, the lawyer?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, things have been a little slow in
the law racket, and he needs the money.”

  “What money?”

  “He’s gonna put on boots and a mackinaw and one of them funny furry hats and be a deep woods guide. He’s getting a hundred dollars a day.”

  “Wrong Way, Angelo can’t make it from the jail to the police court without a guide. How’s he going to guide somebody around the deep woods?”

  “He don’t have to. I just drop them off at the lake and pick them up five days later. If Angelo remembers not to get out of sight of the lake, everything’ll be just fine.”

  “You can just carry my passenger with yours, Wrong Way,” Hawkeye said. “All you have to do is drop him off at Lake Kelly, where Trooper Harris has his log cabin.”

  “I just can’t do it, Hawkeye,” Wrong Way said.

  “I know it wouldn’t do any good to appeal to your warm humanity, Wrong Way,” Hawkeye said, “or to your well-known compassion for people in trouble. So I’ll put it this way. Unless I see that beat-up airplane of yours descending to Boston Harbor in two hours, Madame Napolitano, your better half, gets to see the pictures of you and Angelo the police took coming out of the Dew Drop Inn, Motel, and Cat House. The ones with the ladies all wrapped, in the name of modesty, in blankets. Angelo can probably get off saying he was there professionally, but what are you going to say?”

  “Spruce Harbor Flying Service announces the immediate departure of Flight Six to Boston,” Wrong Way replied. “You drive a hard bargain, Hawkeye.”

  “It’s a warming experience to know that your friends are always willing to do you a favor when you need one,” Hawkeye replied.

  When he returned to the sitting room, Boris and Trapper were gone. He knew immediately where they would be, and there he found them.

  “I hate to be stuffy about this,” Hawkeye said, “but Trapper John is only a special guest, and not allowed in here.”

  “I thought this was a special circumstance,” Trapper said.

  “Shame on you!” Boris said to him. “You just get out of here. Miss Bazoom is about to perform.”

  “I’ll go with him, to make sure he doesn’t sneak in again,” Hawkeye said. “You got enough to drink, Boris, to last through the performance?”

  “I don’t know,” Boris replied, holding up a half gallon bottle of Old White Stagg in each hand. “But if I run dry, I’ll yell for more.”