MASH 14 MASH goes to Moscow Read Free Page A

that’s it. So far as I’m concerned, you’ve done all that could be expected of someone with your rather limited mental ability. And, comrade, just between you and me, it will be a cold day in hell when someone who would say that about me will sing in one of my workers’ and peasants’ opera houses. He needs his mouth washed out with soap, that’s what should happen.”
    “I very much appreciate your understanding, Comrade Chairman,” the Commissar of Culture said. “Will there be anything else?”
    “Thanks for stopping in, Vladimir Vladimirovich ,” the Chairman said.
    “About the Mustang for my private personal executive secretary?” the Commissar of Culture said.
    “Don’t press your luck, comrade,” the Chairman said. “Auf Wiedersehen !”
    As soon as the Commissar of Culture had closed the door behind him, the Chairman flicked the switch on his intercom. Then he said a naughty word and walked to the door.
    “Katherine,” he said. “My little cabbage. Would you get my wife on the phone, please?”
    “ Poopsie ,” Comrade Katherine Popowski asked. “What did he say?”
    “You weren’t eavesdropping?” the Chairman asked.
    “I had to go down the hall a minute,” Katherine replied. “Anyway, the intercom’s not working.”
    “Speaking of which, what did the Commissar of Communications say about getting it fixed?”
    Comrade Popowski snapped her fingers, a gesture of frustration. “I just knew there was something I was supposed to do.”
    “Well, do it just as soon as you finish getting my wife on the line.”
    “You don’t have to snap at me, Poopsie ,” Comrade Katherine said. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
    “Eavesdrop when I talk to my wife,” the Chairman said.
    “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, poopsie ,” Katherine said.
    The Chairman walked back into his office and sat down at his desk, waiting for the telephone to ring. When it did, he grabbed it on the first ring.
    “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything, darling,” he cooed. There was a reply, and then he snapped, “This is your beloved Chairman of the Supreme Soviet, that’s who it is. Who the hell are you?”
    There was another pause.
    “Who was that man, Olga? And what’s he doing answering the telephone in my bedroom? All right, our bedroom. Who is he?”
    “ Anatol the Hairdresser,” Mrs. Chairman replied.
    “ Anatol the Hairdresser?”
    “ Anatol says that Cher Boris would just love me if I wore a traditional pompadour,” Mrs. Chairman said.
    “Cher Boris?” the Chairman asked. “Who the hell is Cher Boris?”
    “Oh, my God, Sergei, your ignorance is showing again! Cher Boris is what we opera lovers call Maestro Korsky-Rimsakov. I should think that even you would know that much.”
    “Of course I do. It just slipped my mind for the moment.”
    “I suppose you’re calling me to tell me there’s good news,” she said, somewhat coyly.
    “Well, the truth of the matter is, Olga,” the Chairman said, “I have just had a long talk with the Commissar of Culture.”
    “And?” Mrs. Chairman replied, suspicion and menace mingling in her voice.
    “There are, I’m afraid, certain problems I didn’t know about,” the Chairman said.
    “Sergei,” Mrs. Chairman said. “You are not trying to lead up to telling me that Cher Boris is not coming back?”
    “Olga,” the Chairman said. “My little cabbage.”
    “Don’t start with that little cabbage business, Sergei,” Mrs. Chairman said. “Just tell me when he’s coming so that Anatol will have all the time he needs to do my hair.”
    “There are some small problems, Olga, to tell you the truth.”
    “But you’re the Chairman, stupid,” Olga replied. “What kind of problems could there possibly be?”
    “Well, for one thing, the Bolshoi Theatre used to belong to his Uncle Sergei,” the Chairman said.
    “Cher Boris’s Uncle Sergei?”
    “Yes, my little cabbage. He was the Grand Duke Sergei Korsky-Rimsakov.”
    “Cher