“Let’s get right down to business,” Shur-lee Strydent said. “After all, we are here at the request of our Beloved Leader. I trust this singer who I have graciously permitted to share the billing with me is all packed and ready to go?”
“The lady, so to speak,” the senator explained, “is making reference, in her quaint patois and abominable diction, to Mr. Korsky-Rimsakov.”
“I have been unable to communicate with him,” the ambassador replied.
“Well, see to it instantly,” Shur-lee Strydent said. “A superstar like myself is not accustomed to waiting around for little people. And while you’re doing that, I wish to grace the Royal Abzugian Embassy with a visit.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” the ambassador said.
“You’re not actually telling me I can’t do something I want to do!”
“The area in the vicinity of the Royal Abzugian Embassy has been declared a disaster zone by the French government,” the ambassador said.
“You don’t seem to understand, little pudgy little man,” Shur-lee Strydent said, “that you are talking to the superstar’s superstar. What the French government says or does not say doesn’t matter in the least so far as Shur-lee Strydent is concerned. Now summon me a limousine!”
“I don’t have one,” the ambassador confessed. “At least one where there is a fair chance of you being able to get through the door. But I’ll tell you what I do have.”
“What’s that?”
“A slug for the telephone,” the ambassador said. “You can call the Abzugian Embassy and ask them to send their limousine for you. They have dozens of them, not like some embassies I know.”
“See to it, Wesley,” Ms. Strydent said. “Telephone there and speak with their ambassador, El Noil Snoil the Magnificent. Tell him that if he sends a limousine for me, and doesn’t tell Darling Seanikins that I’m coming, I’ll sing ‘Over the Rainbow’ for him alone.”
“I have to avail myself of telephonic communication myself,” Senator Kamikaze said. “Where might I find such a device intended for the use of the public?”
“Do you always talk like that, Senator?” the ambassador asked.
“If you mean do I customarily express my thoughts with conciseness and grammatical perfection, the reply to your interrogatory is in the affirmative.”
“You’re kidding!”
“That’s twice,” the senator replied.
“There’s a pay phone over there,” the ambassador said, pointing. Both Wesley St. James and the senator set out for the phone booth simultaneously. The senator not only reached it first, but, after straight-arming Mr. St. James, who seemed to be trying to use it first, was the first to drop his coin in the slot and put the device to work.
Meanwhile, traveling behind motorcycle escort, the Cadillac Seville bearing His Royal Highness Prince Hassan, Bobby-Sue/Brunhilde Roberts, and Trapper John McIntyre raced through the Place de 1’Opera, and skidded to a halt by the stage door to the Paris Opera itself. Trapper John’s suggestion that they stop by Harry’s Bar for a little snort to cut the dust had either not been understood or had been ignored by the chauffeur.
“What the hell,” he said. “There is probably something to drink in Boris’s dressing room.”
And so there was, it being a contractual provision of the maestro’s arrangement with the French National Opera that his dressing room be equipped, at all times, with chilled champagne, an extensive list of whiskey and brandy, and Fenstermacher’s finest Milwaukee pale pilsner on tap.
“Can I offer you something, Bobby-Sue?” Trapper John asked, as he drew a foaming glass of Fenstermacher’s from the tap.
“Ordinarily, no,” Bobby-Sue replied. “But under these circumstances, perhaps a little—no more than three fingers—of that Courvoisier.”
“Three fingers of Courvoisier?” Trapper John asked, surprised.
“I told you, Doctor, I know everything there is to know about Maestro Korsky-Rimsakov. If ‘Cher Boris,’ as I believe he is known in these parts, takes three fingers of Courvoisier to, as he so charmingly puts it, clear the pipes, it certainly behooves me to follow in his path.”
“Whatever you say,” Trapper John said, and poured cognac in a glass for her. His eyes widened as she drank it at a draught. Her face turned crimson, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she made loud gasping noises.
“Are you all right, Bobby-Sue?”
It took her a full minute to get her voice back, and then she replied.
“It will take some getting used to,” she admitted. “That was the first cognac that ever passed my lips. But I am willing to make whatever sacrifices are required so that I may sing, en duet, with Cher Boris!”
“You don’t know what you’re saying!” Trapper John said, shocked.
“Just remember who gave her the cognac, that’s all!” His Royal Highness said.
The pain having passed, Bobby-Sue was suddenly in a very good mood.
“Isn’t this a darling dressing room!” she said. “Not quite as luxurious as I would expect for Cher Boris, but not bad.” She sort of skipped around the room, which was furnished, except for a Japanese-manufactured high- fidelity system and an American-made chair into which the maestro was fond of slumping with his feet high in the air, entirely with furniture from the “Priceless Collection” of the Louvre. She paused momentarily to examine first one and then another of the etchings on the wall.
“I think I must be tiddly,” she said, giggling a little as she leaned on the wall for support.
“What makes you say that?” Trapper John asked.
“Not only am I just a little dizzy,” Bobby-Sue confessed, “but my eyes are playing tricks on me. If I didn’t know better, I would think that those etchings are absolutely obscene!”
“Perish the thought,” Trapper John said. “It’s the booze.”
“I would certainly hope so!” Bobby-Sue said. She sort of skipped into the other room, which was the maestro’s place of repose, as he thought of it.
“Oh, this is darling, too!” she said. “And isn’t that clever—a mirror on the ceiling over the bed! So that he can practice the death scene of le moro di Venezia, I know.”
“How clever of you to figure that out,” Trapper John said. “I’d hate to tell you why some people think he put it there.”
“I am so happy just being here,” Bobby-Sue said, hanging on to the bedpost for a little support, “that I must sing.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Trapper John said. “What are you going to sing for us?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Bobby-Sue said. “Something simple,” She paused thoughtfully. “Oh, I know. Violetta’s aria, ‘In core scolpiti ho quegli accenti’* the finale of Act One of La Traviata.” She took in a deep breath and started to do just that.
(* “Could It Be He Who Stirred My Heart.”)
Dr. J. F. X. McIntyre listened carefully, with a growing frown.
“Damn,” he said. “I knew it. She can sing!”
At that precise moment the telephone in the Louis XIV boite de chambre in the bedchamber of Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov began to ring.
The bed was occupied by four merry revelers, but not in the precise mixture of the genders those who knew the maestro would expect. They were all the same gender, thus were all fully clothed, and they were all laughing heartily between pulls at jeroboams of Piper Heidsieck ’69.
“Even the timing was perfect,” Boris said. “I got them with the bucket of dishwater before Abdullah hit them with the bag from the vacuum cleaner! That made it stick all over them!”
“I got mine,” Dr. T. Mullins Yancey said with quiet pride, “—the one with the beat-up hat—when he still had his mouth open!”
“There goes the goddamn phone,” His Royal Highness Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug said.
“I haven’t had so much fun since the time we turned the fire hose on the WCTU Men’s Auxiliary Convention on Bourbon Street,” Colonel Jean-Pierre de la Chevaux
said.
“There goes the goddamn phone,” His Royal Highness repeated.
“You have to give them credit for tenacity,” Boris said. “They just won’t take no for an answer. But I’ll tell you this, it’ll be a cold day in hell before I give in!”
“There goes the goddamn phone,” His Highness repeated again, and this time when it became apparent to him that none of the others were interested, he crawled off the bed, found the boit de chambre, and picked up the telephone.
“Up yours,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” asked a voice with impeccable diction.
“Your mother wears army shoes,” His Highness replied.
“May I speak with Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov, please?” the caller said. “Senator George H. Kamikaze speaking.”
“El Noil Snoil,” His Highness said, switching to English, “it’s for you.”
“I’m not taking any calls,” Boris announced. “Especially not now.” He looked toward the door. “Hi, girls,” he said. “How was the shower? Are you all fresh and ready?”
“Last one in’s an old maid!” Dr. T. Mullins Yancey cried out, sitting up and holding out his arms in a gesture of welcome.
“Boris,” Colonel de la Chevaux said, “you better answer it. It’s the really private number.”
“Another insidious conspiracy to deprive me of my simple pleasure!” Boris said, plaintively, but took the telephone from His Royal Highness. “Whoever this is, I wish you would call back in, say, half an hour. Something’s come up.”
“This is Senator George H. Kamikaze,” the senator said.
“You’re kidding!”
“That’s once,” the senator said. “You possibly remember me, sir, and I would hazard the guess that you are now experiencing some pangs of curiosity vis-à-vis how I came to have in my possession your unlisted telephone number.”
“That thought did run through my mind,” Boris replied. “And the only reason I am being patient with you is that I recall you are acquainted with my beloved baby sister.”
“Your memory serves you precisely,” the senator said. “And it was from that gracious and charming lady that I acquired your telephone number.”
“No problem,” Boris said. “I’ll have a word with her and have the number changed.”
“I have a personal communication from your sibling, sir,” the senator said, “which I would like to deliver as quickly as possible and in person.”
“You’re kidding!”
“That’s twice,” the senator said. “It is my intention, sir, to deliver the aforementioned message in person and as soon as this can possibly be arranged.”
“You’ve got a personal message from my baby sister?” Boris asked.
“That is the essence of what I have previously stated.” The other telephone in the room began to ring.
“There goes the goddamn phone,” His Royal Highness announced.
“Answer that, Horsey, will you? I’ve got Senator Kamikaze on the line.”
“You’re kidding!” Horsey replied.
“I heard that!” the senator said. “But since you didn’t say it, that only makes two and a half!”
“Answer the goddamn phone, Horsey,” Boris said.
“Not me!” Horsey said, horror in his voice. “Let Doc Yancey answer it. If anybody saw him with it in his hand, he could say it was an anatomical specimen.”
“Doc, please answer the phone!” Boris said.
“Oh, isn’t that darling!” Monique said.
“Maestro, may I presume to call upon you at your apartment, bearing the aforesaid message from your sibling?” the senator asked.
“This is my turn with Boris,” Angelique said, dropping her towel. “1 won’t need that thing!”
“Senator,” Boris said, “it would be a little inconvenient, frankly, to receive you here just now.”
“Hey, Boris, it’s for you,” Dr. Yancey replied. “Some guy with a voice like a goosed canary wants to talk to El Noil Snoil the Magnificent.”
“See what he wants, Doc,” Boris said. “I’m still talking to the senator.”
“Frankly, Maestro,” the senator said, “your sister was cognizant of the possibility that you would possibly find a visit inconvenient. She said I was to tell you you had to see me.”
“Oh, I’d love to see you, Senator,” Boris said. “It’s just that your coming here right now would be a little inconvenient.”
“Well, where can we meet?” the senator asked.
“How about the bar in the Dorchester Hotel in London a week from Monday?” Boris replied.
“Today, Maestro,” the senator said. “I think I should make you aware that I am empowered by your sister, in the event you cannot find time in your busy schedule to meet with me, to give an eight-by-ten glossy photograph of you to Opera News.”
“They already have hundreds, thousands of my photographs,” Boris replied.
“Not of you laying naked on a polar bear rug playing with a rubber duck, they don’t,” the senator replied.
“Oh, my God,” Boris said. “She wouldn’t. You wouldn’t!”
“She did and I would,” the senator replied.
“I’ll meet you immediately at my dressing suite at the Paris Opera,” Boris said. “Just don’t let that photograph get out of your hands!”
He slammed the telephone in its cradle. “Put the towel back on, Angelique,” he said. “I must now go and make one more sacrifice to preserve the good name of grand opera generally and Korsky-Rimsakov specifically. Perhaps later!”
“Oh, Maestro!” Angelique said. “It’s my turn. Monique, Jeanine, and Jacqueline have had their turn!”
“So the ball bounces,” Boris solemnly intoned. “If Lady Luck had so willed, you would have gotten first crack at me when you drew lots. Don’t be a sore loser. I simply cannot abide sore losers.”
“You want to take this, Boris?” Dr. Yancey said, extending the rather oddly shaped telephone to him.
“God, I’d hate to tell you what you look like with that thing in your hand,” Boris said. “No, I don’t want to take it. It would look as if I were narcissistic. You just hold it to my ear.”
Dr. Yancey did as he was told. Colonel de la Chevaux laughed.
“What’s so funny, you overstuffed Cajun?” Boris snarled.
“Take a look in the mirror,” Horsey said. Boris did.
“Oh, God!” he moaned.
“You can put it in my ear if you want to,” Angelique said.
“You’re just like those lousy Russians,” Boris snapped. “You won’t take no for an answer!” He covered his eyes with his hands so that he wouldn’t have to see his reflection in the mirror. “El Noil Snoil the Magnificent speaking,” he said in Abzugian, a tongue consisting in the main of grunts, groans, and sneezes, with a belchlike sound for emphasis.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Wesley St. James chirped. “What the hell was that?”
“That was Abzugian, you couthless oaf. Who are you and what do you want?”
“This is Wesley St. James, the well-known—one might even say world-famous—King of Daytime Drama. I am calling on behalf of Ms. Shur-lee Strydent.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Boris replied.
“Am I speaking with El Noil Snoil the Magnificent, Defender of the Faithful, and under whose diplomatic immunity is Sean O’Casey O’Mulligan?”
“Yes, you are,” Boris said. “But make it quick—I’ve got to get out of here.”
“I’m calling to inform you, sir, that Ms. Shur-lee Strydent has graciously decided to honor your embassy with her presence. And Ms. Strydent would be most grateful if her visit came as a surprise to Mr. O’Mulligan.”
Boris said something naughty and pushed the telephone away from his head.
“I wonder why people get so upset when you say that to them, Boris,” Dr. Yancey said. “You don’t have to be a sex expert such as myself to know that it’s physiologically and anatomically impossible.”
�
�That was for you, O’Mulligan,” Boris said. “That ugly lady friend of yours is on her way over here.”
“Shur-lee Strydent? On her way here?”
“Indeed. And if you were anything but an ill-mannered Irish house guest, you’d give her what she wants and get her off my back.” He jumped out of bed and started to dress.
“That’s an awful thing to even suggest!” Dr. Yancey said. “Shame on you, Boris!”
Sean O’Casey O’Mulligan began to weep.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop that!” Boris said. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a full-grown Irishman crying!”
“Then take me with you!” Sean O’Casey O’Mulligan said. “I beg you, Boris, in the name of decency, don’t leave me here to face that thing alone!”
“That would be beastly of me, wouldn’t it?” Boris said thoughtfully. “Very well, put your pants on and be quick about it!”
“What about us?” Monique, Angelique, Jeanine, and Jacqueline asked all at once.
“You’ll just have to make do with Doctor Yancey and Abdullah,” Boris said. He turned to his liaison officer, Lieutenant Antoine de la Foret of the Gendarmerie Na- tionale. “Call up the Armored Personnel Carrier,” he said. “Mr. O’Mulligan, Horsey, and I are off to the opera!”
“Your every wish, Maestro,” the lieutenant said, is my command!”
“I know,” Boris said. “Get going!”
Chapter Fifteen
As the M-113 armored personnel carrier of the VIP Protection Detachment of the Gendarmerie Nationale clanked up in a cloud of blue smoke under the balcony of Maestro Korsky-Rimsakov’s apartment, so the singer and his party could descend by knotted rope to enter it, the little convoy bearing His Eminence Archbishop John Joseph Mulcahy, Monsignor Pancho de Malaga y de Villa, the Reverend Born-Again Bob Roberts, and Dr. Benjamin Franklin “Hawkeye” Pierce came racing down the Boulevard de la Grande Armee, blue lights flashing, whoopers whooping, and, most importantly, with the silk embroidered flag of the Sheikhdom of Hussid flapping briskly on the right front fender of the Cadillac Seville.
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