“That’s borscht, Mr. President.”
“What did he say?” the President replied, sotto voce.
“Borscht,” a voice from beneath the desk said. “It’s sort of beet soup.”
“No fooling?”
“Yeah, they eat it all the time. It’s what you call ethnic.”
“Got it,” Jim-Boy said. He leaned forward and pushed a button on his intercom.
“Yes, Daddy?” a faint voice replied.
“Be a darling, darling, and tell your mommy to make up a doggie bag full of grits and chitlings right away. We’re going to send it to Russia.”
“Yes, Daddy,” the voice replied.
“You were telling me you were pleased with the singers we sent you,” Jim-Boy said.
“I said with ‘minor little exceptions,’ ” the ambassador replied.
“Such as, for example?”
“Well, the Chairman didn’t like it one little bit when that Japanese fellow in the funny hat came on stage during intermission and started talking about free enterprise,” the ambassador said.
“Well, all those Republicans are like that,” Jim-Boy said. “Always saying things nobody wants to hear. Your audience should have understood that and not gotten mad.”
“Oh, they weren’t mad,” the ambassador said. “They whistled and cheered and stamped their feet, they liked it so much. That’s what made the Chairman mad.”
“Well, you just tell him I said he must have people in his government that he can’t control either,” Jim-Boy said.
“Oh, he does, he does!” the ambassador said.
“He does?” a surprised voice came from beneath the desk.
“That’s what I said, he does. And that’s one of the things I’d like to talk about, Mr. President.”
“Shoot,” Jim-Boy said.
“The Chairman said to tell you that he likes a practical joke as well as the next man,” the ambassador said. “And he also said he’s sure you would understand how they sometimes get out of hand.”
“I don’t follow you,” Jim-Boy said.
“Shur-lee Strydent,” the ambassador said.
“What about her?”
“Well, the Chairman said to tell you that he laughed just as hard as anybody when Air Force One arrived in Moscow and that ugly woman got off and announced that you had sent her and that she was the world’s greatest singer.”
“He thought that was funny, did he?” Jim-Boy said coldly.
“He certainly did,” the ambassador said. “He ‘laughed till he cried’ is the way he put it. But you remember what I said about jokes, even great jokes, sometimes getting out of hand?”
“Yeah, I remember you said that,” Jim-Boy said coldly.
“Well, you won’t believe this, Mr. President, but the Comrade Chairman of the Secret Police didn’t think it was funny.”
“He didn’t?”
“No, he didn’t. You may find this hard to believe, Mr. President, but he said she was the best singer he ever heard.”
“And you, Mr. Ambassador,” Jim-Boy said, “may find this hard to believe, but I agree with him!”
“I beg your pardon? Are you pulling my leg?”
“No, I’m not pulling your leg,” Jim-Boy said. “And the next time somebody pulls on my leg, I’m going to step on both his hands!”
“Well, then, watch what you’re saying!” the voice from beneath the desk said.
“I keep hearing voices,” the ambassador said.
“It’s your imagination, that’s all,” Jim-Boy said. “We were talking about Shur-lee Strydent, I believe.”
“The Comrade Chairman of the Secret Police wants to make a little deal with you,” the ambassador said.
“Let’s hear it.”
“You let him keep Shur-lee Strydent, and he’ll give you his personal word of honor that you can have Wesley St. James back.”
“Back? Back from where?”
“Siberia.”
“What’s he doing in Siberia?”
“That’s where the court sent him.”
“For what?”
“For defiling the Soviet airwaves with sadism, perversion, and obscenity, that’s what!”
“How did he do that?”
“He smuggled a tape in, that’s how he did it. And bribed a previously reliable employee of Radio Moscow to play it.”
“A dirty tape?”
“You wouldn’t believe it. Something called ‘Life’s Little Agonies, Part II.’ ”
“They’ve got us cold, Jim-Boy,” the voice from beneath the desk said.
“Yeah, I know,” Jim-Boy said. “The little woman watches it every day.”
“Well, Mr. President?”
“How does Ms. Strydent feel about staying?” Jim-Boy asked.
“She’s all for it,” the ambassador said. “At least until she finds somebody called Darling Seanikins.”
“Who?”
“All I know about him is that she thinks he’s hiding somewhere in my beloved motherland.”
“And is he?”
“Just between you, me, and whomever it is under the desk, no. He left Leningrad with the others.”
“Well, then,” Jim-Boy said, “what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, will it?”
“You’re a pleasure to do business with, Mr. President.”
“And just to prove my heart’s in the right place, Mr. Ambassador, you can keep Wesley St. James,” Jim-Boy said.
“You can’t do that!” the voice under the desk said.
“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do!” Jim-Boy said.
“There’s just one more thing, Mr. President,” the ambassador said. He laid a bill on the President’s desk.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a bill.”
“A bill for what?”
“A bill for the super deluxe, bound in genuine simulated leather, fully illustrated edition of the complete works of Karl Marx. In your somewhat devalued currency, it comes to $908.72, plus tax, of course.”
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“Why, your two closest personal friends told the Chairman himself you’d like nothing in the world more, that it was something they figured you’d always wanted.”
“What two personal friends was that?”
“The ones called Hawkeye and Trapper John,” the ambassador said. “I’d be happy to take either your personal check or your American Express, whichever is more convenient.”
“Well, you can’t say Kamikaze didn’t warn you about those two,” the voice from under the desk said.
Jim-Boy brought out his checkbook, a special deluxe version, the checks of which offered a neat little sketch of downtown Plains, Georgia, at high noon, and made one out.
“And now I’ve got a little present for you,” he said, as the ambassador put the check in his pocket.
“My cup runneth over,” the ambassador replied.
“Amy, Miss Lillian!” he called. “You can come in now and sing for this Russian fellow.”
MASH 14 MASH goes to Moscow Page 19
