MASH 14 MASH goes to Moscow Read Free Page B

Boris,” Mrs. Chairman said, rather dreamily, “does have a certain aristocratic air about him, now that I think about it.”
    “And he wants it back,” the Chairman said.
    “Who wants what back?”
    “This singer wants the Bolshoi Theatre back. He says it was stolen from his family during the revolution, and now he wants it back.”
    “Well, give it to him,” she said. “It’s little enough to ask, seems to me.”
    “Olga, how would it look if it got out that the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet, guardian of the property of the workers and peasants, had given away the Bolshoi Theatre?”
    “Keep it quiet,” she said. “Who has to know?”
    “It’s not only that,” the Chairman said. “He wants fifty years’ back rent, with interest.”
    “That sounds fair,” Olga said.
    “It’s absolutely out of the question,” the Chairman said. “I can’t do it.”
    “I’ve given you the best years of my life, Sergei,” Olga said. “God alone knows what I’ve put up with you. And when I ask for one little teensy-weensy thing, all I get is excuses.”
    “Olga, what do you expect me to do?” the Chairman asked, desperately. “You wouldn’t believe what this singer of yours told the Commissar of Culture to tell me.”
    “I’d love to know!” Olga said, and the Chairman was momentarily so angry and frustrated that he told her.
    Mrs. Chairman giggled. “Oh, isn’t that naughty!” she said. “I’ll bet that’s the first time anyone ever said that to you, isn’t it, Sergei?”
    “The first and the last time,” the Chairman said firmly.
    “Let me put it this way, Sergei,” Mrs. Chairman said. “You’re always telling me how important you are, that you’re Numero Uno around here. This is your chance to prove it.”
    “Olga, there is no way I can give him the Bolshoi Theatre and fifty years’ back rent!”
    “I’m sure you’ll think of something else, then,” Mrs. Chairman said. “I’ve got my heart set on this, Sergei, and you know what that means!”
    The telephone went dead in his ear. The Chairman said another naughty word and was somewhat startled when there was a reply.
    “Excuse me, Comrade Chairman?” said a rather plump gentleman in a gray suit, bearing seven identical medals, each in the shape of a red star.
    “Who the hell are you?”
    “Comrade Alexis Alexovich Posnopowitz , Comrade Chairman.”
    “And what the hell do you mean, busting into my office?”
    “I am here to fix the intercom, Comrade Chairman.”
    “To hell with that,” the Chairman said. “Get me the Paris Opera on the phone.”
    “The Paris Opera? The Paris in France—that opera?”
    “You got it, comrade, now get it.”
    “Excuse me, Comrade Chairman, but you need permission to make an international long-distance call.”
    “Permission? From whom do I need permission?”
    “From your supervisor.”
    “I don’t have a supervisor, you moron, I’m the Chairman.”
    “Well, I guess you don’t get to call Paris, then, Comrade Chairman. Rules is rules.”
    “Katherine!” the Chairman bellowed. He had to bellow it three times before Comrade Popowski appeared, visibly sulking, in the doorway.
    “Something for you, comrade?” she asked coldly, disinterestedly.
    “Something the matter, my little cabbage?” the Chairman, confused, asked.
    “It’s Comrade Popowski to you, comrade,” she said. “And that isn’t all that’s changed in the last couple of minutes, if you get my meaning, I’ve got my heart set on Cher Boris, too. And you know what that means!”
    “Let’s not be hasty, Katherine,” the Chairman said. “What I called you for was to give you permission to put in a call to this Korsky-Rimsakov character in Paris.”
    “ Maestro Korsky-Rimsakov to someone like you, tubby,” Comrade Popowski said. “Cher Boris to his devoted fans.”
    “Whatever,” the Chairman said. “You have my permission to get him on the phone.”
    “Why don’t you get him on the phone yourself?”