MASH 10 MASH goes to Miami

by Richard Hooker+William Butterworth

“Horsey?” Dr. Yancey inquired. “Would that be Horsey de la Chevaux, by any chance?”

  “Why, yes. Has Boris spoken of him?”

  “Walter,” Dr. Yancey said. “Hang onto your teeth. Have I got news for you!” He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Two boilermakers shortly thereafter came sliding with precision down the bar.

  Chapter Eight

  About five minutes before the convoy bearing His Islamic Highness, Crown Prince Hassan ad Kayam, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary to the French Republic, and his companions raced up to the front of the Paris Opera, two other fans of opera generally and of Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov in particular entered the building.

  The two, a slight gentleman in his fifties and a tall, well-built gentleman in his middle thirties, entered the Opera through a door on the side of the building after emerging from the Place de l’Opera station of the Paris Metro (which is what they call the subway in Paris).

  Both wore black suits, black shoes, black hats, and black shirts topped with reversed white collars, the customary civilian dress, so to speak, of clerics of the Roman Catholic persuasion. They were, in fact, vacationing clergymen.

  They passed their tickets to one of the famous surly ticket-takers of the Paris Opera, were granted admission to the building, and made their way up several flights of narrow, poorly illuminated stairs to the third balcony, where they found seats that gave them a view of the stage and waited for the performance to begin.

  The younger of the two, truth to tell, was having thoughts bordering on the irreverent. While he was much aware of the vows of chastity, obedience, and poverty he had taken when he had decided to become a priest, and regarded modesty as one of the nicer virtues, he thought this was a bit much.

  He was the Very Reverend Monsignor Pancho de Malaga y de Villa, personal secretary to His Eminence the Archbishop of Swengchan, China. He was, in addition, very fond of the archbishop, whom he felt embodied all the characteristics of wisdom, piety, grace, modesty, and charm that all archbishops should but unfortunately do not always have.

  He understood, in other words, the archbishop’s reluctance to avail himself of the chauffeured limousine and cardinal’s box that had been offered to them by the Cardinal-Archbishop of Paris. It was obviously far more in keeping with the vow of poverty they had taken to come to the opera by Metro instead of by limousine, and to sit in the third balcony instead of a box.

  And he understood, he thought, His Eminence’s motives in keeping the hand bearing the telltale bishop’s ring jammed deep in his pocket, so that people would assume he was nothing more than a simple priest.

  “Nice seats, Pancho, aren’t they?” His Eminence said.

  “With all respect, sir, I feel as if I’m looking at the stage through binoculars held backwards,” Monsignor de Malaga y de Villa replied.

  “Boris’ voice will fill the house, Pancho.”

  “Might I suggest, Your Eminence, that if Maestro Korsky-Rimsakov knew that Your Eminence was in the house, it would give him great pleasure to see that we had better seats?”

  “Yes, I’m sure it would,” the Archbishop of Sweng-chan replied. “But I do so hate to disturb him before a performance.”

  “He might be exercising, you mean?”

  “Judge not, Pancho,” the archbishop replied, “lest ye be judged. Despite what you might have heard, we don’t know for certain, do we? In fact, these exercises we hear so much about might be nothing more than pushups and squat jumps.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” the monsignor agreed. He would have been more surprised to learn that the exercises were squat jumps and pushups than he would have been to hear that Boris had become a candidate for monastic orders, but, of course, he didn’t say this.

  Ten minutes later, the orchestra, which had been tuned up and ready to start for thirty minutes, began to play something that had nothing to do with the scheduled opera, Benvenuto Cellini. They began to play the trumpet fanfare from Aida.

  A hush fell over the house as some two thousand women sucked in their breath in anticipation. The trumpet fanfare from Aida always indicated a rare personal appearance by Cher Boris. A spotlight flashed on the center of the curtain. It was swept open and Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov stepped before the footlights.

  The two thousand women in the audience who had sucked in their breath now let it out, together, in a moan of appreciation and awe. A wave of tumultuous applause, whistles, shrieks, and stamping feet shook the chandeliers.

  Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov raised his hands above his head to acknowledge his reception and incidentally protect himself from the torrent of flowers, perfumed notes, hotel keys, and items of intimate feminine apparel that floated stageward from the audience, boxes, and balconies.

  “Silence, my children!” Boris said, his voice, as the archbishop had said it would, quite filling the house. The house, save for the moans of a dozen or so women who had entered a semihysterical state at the sound of Cher Boris’ voice, was immediately hushed.

  “There are those among you,” Maestro Korsky-Rimsakov said, “who will leave here tonight convinced that tonight I have sung even more superbly than I do normally. And you will be right. Tonight I am deeply motivated.”

  He paused, grandly acknowledging the cheers and applause.

  “Most of you, I know, are aware of my distinguished military record,” Boris went on, “and of what the president of the United States, in my Distinguished Service Cross citation, referred to as ‘the grievous wounds’ I suffered while carrying a wounded comrade through a murderous hail of small arms, machine gun, mortar, and artillery fire.” *

  (* This is. oddly enough, perfectly true. The fact that PFC Alexander was motivated by that fact Sergeant Chevaux alone knew the location of the platoon’s cache of White Lightning and that his loss on the field of battle would have meant the loss of the White Lightning may be germane but, it cannot detract from the fact that PFC Alexander did in fact carry his platoon sergeant four miles through the hail of fire, suffering eleven wounds while doing so.)

  There was applause and cheering, and the trumpet section of the opera’s orchestra played eight bars of “The Stars and Stripes Forever” before Cher Boris hushed them with a wave of his hand.

  “I was, of course, hospitalized after my ordeal. The world very nearly lost the greatest voice since Caruso But I was saved, ladies and gentlemen, by the finest collection of practitioners of the Hippocratic art since the Greek himself, banded together in what the army for reasons I don’t pretend to comprehend, called the 4077th MASH. It possibly may have had something to do with the fact that the chief surgeon, the beloved Dr. Hawkeye Pierce, operated a rather splendid still in his tent, but that’s neither here nor there.

  “What is important, my friends, is that one of that collection of noble healers, one of that band of sainted Samaritans, one of those medical geniuses who saved me for you and the rest of the world, is here tonight in the Paris Opera.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I sing tonight for Dr. Walter Waldowski and for his charming wife and daughter.” He gestured toward the Diamond Circle of boxes, then bowed low and with becoming modesty. Still bent over, he raised his eyes and saw that something had gone awry.

  “Turn the spotlight on, you bumbling idiot!” he shouted. The light finally came on, swept across the Diamond Circle, and came to rest on the Presidential (formerly the Imperial) Box.

  “I see that Dr. Waldowski is not there,” Boris said. “He has obviously been called away to come to the aid of someone in need. Greater love hath no man than to give up one of my performances to help his fellow man. Stand up, Mrs. Waldowski, and take a bow!”

  “Oh, my,” the Archbishop of Swengchan said to Monsignor de Malaga y de Villa. “Isn’t that a pleasant coincidence! I’ve thought of Dr. Waldowski so often over the years.”

  “I’ll bet,” the monsignor replied.

  “Captain Waldowski was one of ours, Pancho,” the archbishop said.* “As a matter
of fact, he was the only one who was. We had Baptists and Episcopalians, Lutherans, Methodists, Jews, and even an Existential Buddhist. But only two Catholics—Dr. Waldowski and me.”

  (* At an early stage in his ecclesiastical career, the Archbishop of Swenghan, His Eminence John Patrick Mulcahy, served as Captain, Chaplain’s Corps, U.S. Army Reserve. He was attached for eighteen months to the 4077th MASH, Eighth United States Army, then located near Chorwon, Korea.)

  “You left out our sister in the God Is Love in All Forms Christian Church, Your Eminence,” the monsignor said.

  “Oh, that was long before Hot Lips . . . excuse me —Reverend Mother Wilson—found religion,” the archbishop said. “In those days, she was just a nurse. A very good nurse, but just a nurse. I don’t think she even went to church much in those days.”

  Monsignor de Malaga y de Villa waited until the house lights dimmed and the curtain opened on act one of Benvenuto Cellini. Then he excused himself.

  “I’ll be right back, Your Eminence,” he said.

  “You should have thought of that before the opera started, Pancho,” the archbishop said. “Now you’ll miss Boris’ singing.”

  The monsignor did not reply.

  He went down three flights of stairs to the door marked DIAMOND CIRCLE—ADMISSION BY TICKET ONLY. He was going to the Presidential Box to tell this old friend of the archbishop’s that the archbishop was here. He knew it would make his superior and his friend happy, and he knew that unless he went after the man himself, the archbishop would do nothing— he wouldn’t want to intrude.

  The monsignor made it two steps inside the door before he was suddenly brought to a halt by a hamsized hand extended in front of his face.

  “You have a ticket, Father?” the usher demanded suspiciously.

  “I wish to go to the Presidential Box,” the monsignor replied.

  “Everybody wishes to go to the Presidential Box,” the usher replied. “The question I asked you, Father, was whether or not you have a ticket permitting you to be in the Diamond Circle?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the monsignor said. “But—”

  “Shame on you!” the usher said. “A man of the cloth trying to sneak in where he’s not allowed. That’s really disgraceful behavior for a priest. You are a priest, aren’t you?”

  “Actually,” Pancho said, “I’m a monsignor.”

  “That’s even worse!” the usher said.

  “Listen, this is important. I have to see the doctor in the Presidential Box.”

  “That’s a likely story!”

  “I’m a monsignor. Would I lie?”

  “That depends on whether or not you’re really a monsignor,” the usher said with calm logic. “And if you really are a monsignor, whether or not you work at it.”

  “I tell you I’m a monsignor!”

  “Did I hear the title ‘monsignor’?” an American voice inquired. The monsignor looked up and saw a bishop in ecclesiastical garb—a black smock-like affair around the ample waist of which was a bishop’s purple sash—sweeping up to him. “It’s probably someone looking for me.”

  “Your Excellency,” the usher said politely, “this person, who says he is a monsignor, is trying to sneak into the Diamond Circle.”

  “Are you a monsignor?” the bishop asked.

  “Monsignor Pancho de Malaga y de Villa at your service,” Pancho said.

  “And are you looking for me?”

  “Forgive me, I don’t know who you are,” Pancho said.

  “I am the Bishop of Greater Miami and the Florida Keys,” the man said.

  “Your Excellency,” Pancho said, “I have the honor to be personal secretary to His Eminence John Patrick Mulcahy, Archbishop of Swengchan.”

  “That’s a funny name for a Chinese archbishop,” the bishop mused. “But no matter. How may I be of service to the archbishop?”

  “Your Excellency,” Pancho said, “I wish to tell a doctor now in the Presidential Box that His Eminence, an old friend, is in the house.”

  “You look a little young to be a monsignor,” the bishop said. “But things aren’t the way they used to be in the Church. And if you were an impostor, why would you say you’re only a lowly monsignor? If you’re a fake, it would be just as easy to say you’re bishop.”

  “I don’t wish to stay in the Diamond Circle, You Excellency,” Pancho said. “I just wish to deliver the message and then leave.”

  “Nonsense,” the Bishop of Greater Miami and the Florida Keys said. “His Eminence the Cardinal Archbishop of Paris has let me use his box. I offer it to your archbishop. I mean, after all, if we don’t scratch each other’s backs, where are we?”

  “That’s one way of putting it, Your Excellency,” Pancho replied.

  “I place myself at the service of your archbishop, the bishop said. “We will go to the Presidential Box.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Bishop,” the usher said. “This guy don’t look like a monsignor to me.”

  “Trust me,” the bishop said. “Show me the way to the Presidential Box.”

  With the bishop and Pancho marching along behind him, the usher led the way to the Presidential Box. The usher threw the curtain back and bowed them in.

  There were three people in the box—two female sitting in a sort of trance staring glassy-eyed at the stage (where Cher Boris was singing), and a short plump, Arabian gentleman snoring gently in his chair, his mouth agape.

  The bishop coughed, and then coughed again much louder. Mrs. Waldowski finally turned around. In Hamtramck, when her parish priest managed to get her name right, she basked in the sense of clerical approval for weeks. But this wasn’t Hamtramck.

  “Sssshhh!” she hissed ferociously. “Can’t you hear Cher Boris is singing!”

  Monsignor de Malaga y de Villa walked to the short plump, Arabian gentleman and shook him. His Roy Highness Crown Prince Hassan ad Kayam closed his mouth and opened his eyes.

  “Hey, Pancho!” he said. “How are you?”

  “Sssshhh!” Mrs. Wilma Waldowski said.

  “Sssshhh! Ssshhh! For heaven’s sake!” Miss Wanda Waldowski hissed.

  “Where’s Dr. Waldowski?” Pancho whispered.

  “Probably in Harry’s New York Bar with T. Mullins Yancey,” His Highness whispered back. “They were both a little plastered the last time I saw them. You here by yourself, or with Dago Red?”

  Monsignor de Malaga y de Villa, perhaps understandably—Mrs. and Miss Waldowski were hissing at him like a pair of infuriated pythons—forgot himself.

  “With Dago Red,” he said.

  “Who, might I inquire,” the bishop somewhat haughtily inquired, “is ‘Dago Red’?”

  “Forgive me, Your Excellency,” Pancho said. “Sometimes ... I don’t approve, of course, and I am ashamed, but sometimes they call His Eminence that.”

  “You stand there, with your face hanging out, and try to tell me that anyone would dare call an archbishop, a high-ranking prelate of the Church, ‘Dago Red’?”

  “I’m afraid so, Your Excellency,” Pancho admitted.

  “You, sir,” the Bishop of Greater Miami and the Florida Keys said, drawing himself up to his full five feet six and one half inches and placing his hands on his purple sash, “couldn’t possibly be a monsignor. Monsignori do not refer to archbishops as ‘Dago Red.’ You, you scalawag, have conned a bishop! God will get you for that!”

  And with that, he turned and marched out of the box.

  The usher looked at the bishop.

  “Is it or isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Is it or isn’t it what?’’ His Highness replied.

  “Sssssssshhhhhh!” Mrs. Waldowski said.

  “Is it a monsignor or isn’t it?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Pancho said, emerging from the Presidential Box, “I’m leaving.” He was a little sick at heart. It would have been a good thing for His Eminence to get together with an old friend, for His Eminence was in Paris on a vacation ordered by the Highest Auth
ority. But this Waldowski was obvious no better than the others with whom His Eminence had served in the army. The monsignor had met many of them, and, to a man (and, in the case of former Major Margaret “Hot-Lips” Houlihan, woman), they exhibited what the monsignor regarded as an excessive fondness for the grape. The one thing the archbishop didn’t need on his vacation was association with a bunch of booze hounds.

  He went back up the three flights of narrow, badly lighted stairs and resumed his seat beside the arch bishop.

  “I was afraid you had become lost, Pancho,” the archbishop said.

  “Not quite, Your Eminence,” the monsignor replied.

  When the final curtain fell on Benvenuto Cellini it took His Eminence and the monsignor far longer to get out of the Opera than it had taken them to get in, because those the management thought of as the riffraff in the upper balconies were not permitted to leave until all those in the orchestra and the two lower tiers of balconies had marched down the mail staircase and been ushered into their limousines.

  It came to pass, then, as it says in the Good Book that, by coincidence, the archbishop and the monsignor left the side door of the Opera only moments before the convoy bearing the star of the performance was ready to drive away from said star’s private entrance.

  Crown Prince Hassan’s limousine contained Boris Mrs. and Miss Waldowski, and the crown prince. A hastily summoned Hertz limousine, in line behind the prince’s car, now carried the Baroness d’Iberville and Esmeralda Hoffenburg, the ballerina, who were members of the entourage.

  (Sometimes the maestro liked to exercise after a performance as well as before it, not to mention during the intermission, and ladies had learned to hold themselves in readiness for the privilege of contributing to the world of art. There had been some initial confusion at first when the baroness had understandably come to think that Mrs. and Miss Waldowski had, so to speak, moved in on the maestro, but His Royal Highness had explained the situation to her and smoothed the matter over.)

  Mrs. Waldowski, who was still somewhat dazed, accepted without question the maestro’s announcement that Dr. Waldowski had gone with Dr. Yancey at his specific request to Harry’s New York Bar to make sure the beer was at the proper temperature.