(*Gnädige (adjective) means "gracious." As a rough rule of thumb, it is applied to the better-looking Frauen and Fräuleins, or to any female which appears to be annoyed and/or about to lose her temper.)
“Why, young man, why do you persist on calling me by my first name?”
“What would you prefer that I call you?” Franzl said, a trifle roguishly.
“Try ‘Your Grace’ on for size, Dutch,” the dowager duchess said.
“A hundred thousand pardons, Your Grace,” Franzl said. “I kiss your hand.”
The dowager duchess extended her hand. The black Bengal tiger on the leash did something that convinced Franzl that whatever it was, it wasn’t a tiger. It barked at him. It wasn’t very much of a bark, but it was unmistakably a bark and not a meow.
“Fascinating animal,” Franzl said.
“We are all quite fond of Wee Baby Brother,” the dowager duchess said. “He thinks he’s a dog, don’t you know?”
“Indeed?”
“What did you say your name is?” the dowager duchess asked.
“A million pardons, Your Grace,” Franzl said. “I am Franz Schubert von und zu Gurkelhausen, deputy chief of protocol for the Foreign Office. I am here to welcome you officially to Vienna.”
“How do you do?” the dowager duchess said.
“And what is that?” Franzl asked, pointing at Wee Black Runt.
“That’s Wee Black Runt,” the dowager duchess explained. “He thinks Wee Baby Brother is his baby brother.”
“I see,” Franzl said. “Of course.”
“And they are both looking forward so very much to seeing the rest of the family. Do you happen to know, Mr. ... whatever it was you said ... whether Horsey is here yet?”
“I beg pardon, Your Grace?”
“Horsey telephoned to say that he, Hot Lips, Hawkeye and Trapper John were flying in. Do you know if they have arrived?”
The British, Franzl knew, more precisely the upperclass British, had the odd habit of addressing one another by strange nicknames. It was thus quite understandable that His Excellency mistook Her Grace’s comment. What she meant to say was that Wee Black Runt and Wee Baby Brother anticipated a reunion with their brothers and sisters, Duchess, Beauregard, Wolfie-Baby, Darling, and Alfred the dog. Plus, of course, the uncle, Wee Black Doggie. That family. Franzl got the idea that the dowager duchess was referring to her family. Indeed, whom but the most intimate members of her family would a dowager duchess refer to as “Horsey,” “Hot Lips,” “Hawkeye” and “Trapper John?”
“I don’t believe so, Your Grace,” Franzl said. “But rest assured. They shall be welcomed in a manner befitting their station, or my name is not Franz Schubert von und zu Gurkelhausen.”
“How sweet of you!” the dowager duchess said. “And is the duke here?”
“I don’t believe so, Your Grace,” Franzl said. “I feel sure that I would have been told had His Grace arrived.” He paused and bit the bullet. “Your Grace, might I presume to inquire when Unser Lieber Boris might be leaving the train.”
“I don’t really know,” the dowager duchess said. “He’s quite health conscious, you know, and at breakfast he said that he was going to have to exercise. The Baroness d’Iberville and Miss Hoffenburg ... the ballerina, don’t you know ... said they would exercise with him. Afterward, dear Boris always likes his little nap.”
“I see,” Franzl said. “Well, that will give me a minute or two to arrange for the arrival of the duke and the others.”
“Stop that!” the duchess said.
“I beg your pardon?” Franzl asked.
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” she said. “I was speaking to Wee Baby Brother. I sometimes wish he knew he was a cat, so he could take care of that sort of thing in a proper kitty-litter box.”
Franz Schubert von und zu Gurkelhausen followed Her Grace’s eyes. The conductor of the Vienna Police Force Trumpet, Tuba, Xylophone and Bass Drum Marching Band, his baton raised high, was looking down with mixed disbelief and horror. Wee Baby Brother, who had acquired his habits from his canine stepbrothers, was, his left rear leg cocked high, accomplishing, against the bandmaster’s gold-striped trousers, that act which is accomplished by the male of the species standing up.
“Wee Baby Brother,” the duchess said, “you are a bad, bad boy!”
Wee Baby Brother began to bark, not well, it is true, but bark and happily. Franzl turned to see what he was barking at. Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov was descending from the Wagon-Lits car.
“Silence, you schizophrenic feline,” he said. Wee Baby Brother sat down and wagged his tail from side to side.
“Welcome to Vienna, Maestro!” Franzl said.
“Who are you?”
“Franz Schubert von und zu Gurkelhausen,” Franzl said, clicking his heels together and making a little bow. “I am here on behalf of the Foreign Ministry.”
“Tell me, Fritz,” Boris said, “where is he?”
“Where is who, Maestro?”
“The great healer, the divine psychiatrist, that sage who has unlocked man’s mind.”
“I’m afraid, Maestro,” Franzl replied, “that he is dead.”
“Dead? What happened to him?” Boris looked stricken.
“I believe it was the complications of old age, Maestro.”
“Old age? He’s only forty-five years old. And when I talked to him on the phone yesterday, he was in the best of health.”
“You talked to Sigmund Freud on the telephone yesterday, Maestro?”
“I refer, you simpleton, to the sainted sage of Manhattan, Kansas, Dr. Theosophilus Mullins Yancey.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” Franzl confessed.
“Hassan!” Boris said. His Royal Highness appeared almost immediately.
“Yes, Maestro?”
“I thought you assured me, you overweight camel jockey, that Dr. Yancey would be taken care of. This character says he never heard of him.”
“The doctor awaits you in your hotel, Maestro,” Hassan said.
“Take me to the Hotel Sacher then, and quickly.”
“There has been a slight change of plans, Maestro,” Hassan said. “With everybody coming, the Sacher couldn’t take care of all of us.”
“So what did you do?”
“I rented the Bristol Hotel, Maestro. All except one floor, which is being used by some American politicians. Senators, I believe.”
“God, the minute I turn my back, you throw me together with scoundrels ...” Boris began. He stopped suddenly and gestured toward the station. “My God, here they come!” he went on. “I hold you,” he said, jabbing his finger at Franzl, “personally responsible for my safety!”
Down the platform, at a dead run, came an unruly mob of at least two-hundred women, of, as they say, all degrees and positions of life. Some were in the first blush of womanhood; others were as old as the dowager duchess. But they all bore looks of rapture realized on their faces as they saw their idol.
And even as Boris spoke, the first hotel key came soaring through the air to clatter at Boris’ feet.
The choice of the Vienna Police Force Trumpet, Tuba, Xylophone, and Bass Drum Marching Band to perform at the station had been anything but coincidental. The possibility that something like this would happen had been carefully planned for. The bandmaster dropped his baton, blew three times on his whistle, and took a hard hat from his music bag. The other musicians abandoned their instruments, grabbed nightsticks and formed a flying wedge around the singer.
“We have an armored car right over this way, Maestro,” the bandleader said.
“Just a minute! Just a minute!” Boris said. He looked around him. “There he is! Wee Baby Brother! Come along, you paranoid pussycat!” he said. Wee Baby Brother ran after him. When they reached the armored car, Wee Baby Brother jumped on top. Boris jumped inside. Franz Schubert von und zu Gurkelhausen jumped in after him and slammed the door.
“You’re safe now, Maestro,” he said. “They can�
��t get at you in here. We’ll have you safe and sound at the Bristol Hotel in no time at all.”
“You know, Fritz,” Boris said, thoughtfully, “for a moment there, I was afraid I had been away so long that I had been forgotten.”
“How could anyone forget you, Maestro?” Franzl said.
“How indeed?” Boris replied. “Wasn’t that foolish of me?”
The armored car moved off. Wee Baby Brother stood on the roof barking at all the crazy ladies who ran after it.
Chapter Sixteen
Despite the anguished protests of the American ambassador (who knew that hell hath no fury like a senator scorned) the management of the Bristol Hotel refused to rent either the Imperial Suite, or the Royal Suite, or even the Bridal Suite to the United States government to house the official U.S. Senate Ad Hoc Committee to Investigate the Mistreatment of Kangaroos and Other Innocent Beasts.
The entire hotel, the ambassador was informed, had been reserved by the Hussidian ambassador to the Republic of France and the Court of St. James’s, who was in town for the Perfomance Magnifique at the opera, and it was only through the graciousness of His Royal Highness that the politicians and their entourage were getting any rooms at all.
“His Royal Highness,” the managing director sniffed, “for reasons which quite escape me, is friendly toward you Americans, and when I explained the situation to him, he said that I might let you Americans have rooms he doesn’t need, providing you agree to using the rear entrance, the service elevator, and to stay out of sight as much as possible.”
The ambassador’s instructions, from the State Department’s Bureau of Senatorial Relations, had been explicit. Senator Christopher Columbus Cacciatore and his party wished to be accommodated in the “first-class hotel nearest the opera.” What proximity to the opera had to do with mistreated kangaroos was not quite clear to the ambassador, but his, he knew, was not to reason why, but solely to get out there and keep the senators happy.
Two first-class hotels are close to the opera, the Sacher and the Bristol. When he approached the Sacher about senatorial accommodations, they laughed at him. The Sacher had lost far too many valued American guests when the word had leaked out that politicians were in the house; they wanted no more.
The Bristol, which sits on the corner of the Ring across Kärntnerstrasse from the State Opera, was his only choice. Rising to the challenge, the ambassador had a large sign hastily painted, reading “OFFICIAL SENATORIAL ENTRANCE,” which, when erected, neatly covered the sign reading “SERVICE AND EMPLOYEE ENTRANCE.”
On his arrival, Senator Cacciatore had been pleased with the senatorial entrance. The ambassador was then free to see about tickets for the opera. That was going to be an even greater problem. Performances Magnifique were scheduled, and tickets for those were as hard to find (he was a little shamed at the metaphor which came to mind) as honest politicians.
Senator J. Ellwood “Jaws” Fisch (Moralist-Liberal, Calif.) looked out the window of his suite of the Bristol Hotel with fascination. His suite was located in the rear of the building, and its windows opened on the alley behind the hotel, the rear entrance of the opera, and the front door of the Hotel Sacher.
There was a good deal of activity in front of the Hotel Sacher. Police barricades had been erected, and fifty of Vienna’s finest were waging a barely successful war against approximately three-hundred-fifty females of various descriptions, who (although Senator Fisch did not, of course, know this) were attempting to get inside where they believed, erroneously, Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov was resting his beautiful head.
Senator Fisch was fascinated. While most of the ladies were a bit past their prime, here and there amongst them were younger beauties. Certainly, the senator reasoned, the odds were that among them would be at least one or two, or perhaps three of four, who would be impressed with the machismo of a United States senator.
As he watched the flashing limbs, as the ladies literally tried to crawl over one another, the solemn vow the senator had taken after the unfortunate nibbling incident in L.A. of absolute marital fidelity henceforth and forever-more, vanished instantly.
He was just about to leave the room for a breath of fresh air, and perhaps a bite to eat, when something else caught his eye.
Something else had appeared on the street, something which caused the distinguished solon to open his mouth even wider than it normally hung.
“Taylor P.,” he called, “you wouldn’t believe what I just saw out there.”
“Just cool it, Jaws,” Taylor P. Jambon said. The famous gourmet and animal lover was in the rest facility of their suite, washing a bunch of grapes in an item of plumbing that seemed to be designed for just that purpose. There was sort of a little shelf inside, and when you turned the water on, it sprayed upward, bathing the grapes.
“Come look,” the senator repeated. “I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it with my own eyes.”
“You start biting these Austrian broads, Jaws,” Taylor P. Jambon said, “and Senator Cacciatore hears about it, you’ll blow the whole bit.”
Mr. Jambon, however, picked up his bunch of grapes from the grape-washer and walked to the window. He was, after all, he told himself, a connoisseur of all things, including the female of the species, and whatever else one could (and did) say about the senator from California, he did have an eye for the broads.
“Look at that, Taylor,” Senator Fisch said, “on top of the armored car.”
“What the hell is it?”
“It’s a black Bengal tiger, that’s what it is,” the senator replied. “It must be some kind of a circus.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jaws,” Taylor P. Jambon replied. “What would a circus be doing backing up the official U.S. Senatorial Entrance to this hotel? It must be some other member of the Senate Ad Hoc Committee, free-loading.”
“Well, look for yourself,” Jaws replied. “That’s just what they’re doing.”
Then he shrieked.
“My God!” Taylor P. Jambon said.
What has caused the senator to scream and the animal lover to exclaim was what had happened. The armored car’s rear door had opened. A squad of policemen had jumped out, ready to do battle. A very large man had then run quickly from the armored car into the hotel. Then the black Bengal tiger had made a flying leap off the roof of the armored car into the hotel. It was clear to both men that the beast was attacking whoever had just entered the hotel.
“The poor man!” Senator Fisch said. “He’ll be torn in tiny pieces and eaten alive.”
“We can only hope he is a Republican,” Taylor P. Jambon said. “Did you recognize him?”
“He moved too quickly,” Jaws said. He started for the door.
“Where are you going?” Taylor P. Jambon said.
“There will be television cameras,” the senator said. “I want to be among the first to express my profound shock at the tragic loss to our country of the distinguished senator whoever that was.”
“You have a point,” Taylor P. Jambon said. “With a little luck, I can get on camera and say the only reason that tiger ate him is because he was starving.”
Carrying his bunch of grapes in his hand, Taylor P. Jambon followed Senator Fisch out of the suite, down the corridor, and to the elevator. They pushed the button.
Almost immediately, the door opened. There was one passenger aboard, a tall, well-built, freckle-faced man in a purple turtleneck sweater, a plaid sports coat, yellow trousers and light-brown Earth shoes.
“This elevator is commandeered in the name of the United States Senate,” Senator Fisch said. “Take us to the scene of the tragic occurrence.”
“Was hat er gesagt? What did he say?” the elevator operator asked.
“Das ist ein United States Senator,” the passenger replied. “Alle sind ein bisserl weirdo.” (Roughly: “They are all a bit strange.”)
“Wirklich?” (“Really?”)
“Really. Believe it or not, this is one of the more normal on
es.” The passenger switched to English and addressed the senator. “Get on, Senator. I was going down anyway.”
“It is always a great pleasure and honor to greet one of my fine constituents,” Senator Fisch said, showing his choppers and putting out his hand. The passenger recoiled in horror.
Senator Fisch and Mr. Jambon got in the elevator. The door closed, and the elevator descended to the lobby.
When the door opened, Taylor P. Jambon threw himself into Senator Fisch’s arms. Standing in front of the elevator was an enormous bearded man. Sitting beside him, his tail swishing from side to side, was the black Bengal tiger.
“Theosophilus?” the bearded man said in English. “I may call you Theosophilus?” He spread his arms wide open.
“Boris Alexandrovich?” the passenger said. He spread his arms.
“At long last we meet!” Boris said.
“I have looked forward to finally meeting you, Maestro,* more than you can possibly imagine!”
(*The press of his professional duties having kept Dr. T. M. Yancey from acquiring a taste for opera, his appelation of “Maestro” had nothing to do with the singer's musical talents.)
The passenger, who was, of course, Dr. Theosophilus Mullins Yancey, M.D., Ph.D., D.D. and D.V.M. stepped from the elevator. He was swept up in Boris’ arms and raised off the ground. Suddenly Boris stiffened. “Those two with you, Doc?” he asked suspiciously, having seen the senator and Mr. Jambon.
“My God, no!” the doctor replied.
“I was afraid for a minute. ... I won’t even say what I thought,” Boris said. He set the doctor down. “Doc, I want you to meet the craziest cat in the world. Shake hands with the doc, Baby Brother.”
Baby Brother obediently raised a paw. Dr. Yancey shook it.
“What a splendid animal!” he said. He scratched Baby Brother’s ears. Baby Brother rose up on his hind paws. He draped himself on the doctor’s shoulders. His tongue came out and licked Dr. Yancey.
“I knew he’d like you,” Boris said. He looked into the elevator, where the senator and Mr. Jambon were still clinging to each other. “I don’t care what your kind does in private,” he said, “but I can’t stand your vulgar exhibitionism in public. Get out of my elevator.”
MASH 09 MASH goes to Vienna Page 18
