MASH 09 MASH goes to Vienna

by Richard Hooker+William Butterworth

  “After you, Doctor,” Boris said, bowing the physician-philosopher into the elevator.

  “After you, Maestro!” Dr. Yancey replied.

  Baby Brother walked into the elevator. Boris and Yancey followed him. As the door closed, Taylor P. Jambon heard the bearded man say, “I’ve brought some friends with me. The Baroness d’Iberville and Esmerelda Hoffenburg. I knew that unless I could show you their fantastic muscular control, you wouldn’t believe it!”

  The door closed, shutting off the rest of the conversation.

  Senator Fisch, whose face had taken on sort a vile green color, leaned against the wall beside the elevator.

  “God has spared me for the good of our beloved country!” he announced.

  “Shut up, Jaws,” Taylor P. Jambon said absently. Then, “Did you see that tiger?”

  “Certainly I saw it,” the senator replied. “What do you think made me wet my pants?”

  “We can use that cat,” Taylor P. Jambon said. “I can see it now.”

  “You don’t have to draw attention to it, Taylor P. It could have happened to anybody,” the senator replied, modestly crossing his hands over a dark area in the vicinity of the juncture of his trunk and legs.

  “Saintly Miss Patience Throckbottom Worthington,” Taylor P. Jambon said, “sitting in a rocking chair, like Whistler’s mother, her gentle, white hand stroking that tiger’s head, while she makes the APPLE pitch.” He looked at Senator Fisch. “You go change your pants, Jaws,” he said. “I’m going to find out who that tiger belongs to.”

  He walked over to the desk.

  “Say,” he said, “I’m Taylor P. Jambon, the famous gourmet and animal lover.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I wouldn’t say so if it wasn’t true,” Taylor P. went on. “Tell me, my good man, who was that who just got on the elevator?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know who you mean, sir,” the desk clerk replied. He had been briefed, of course, both by security officers from the Ministry of Culture and by the general manager of the hotel. The presence of Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov in the Bristol Hotel was not only a state secret but a secret which the hotel intended to guard with its very life. They knew full well what havoc the singer’s fans could cause in their frenzied attempts to gaze upon his face or touch his hand.

  “I mean the great big guy with the beard,” Taylor P. Jambon said. “That’s who I mean.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know who you mean, sir,” the desk clerk replied.

  “He had a tiger with him,” Taylor P. said. “A big black tiger that shook hands.”

  “You don’t say?” the desk clerk said.

  “And you didn’t see him?” Taylor P. pursued.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t notice, sir,” the desk clerk said. Taylor P. Jambon, somewhat confused, turned around for support. There was no one in the lobby at all. He turned back to the desk clerk.

  “You can’t get away with fooling Taylor P. Jambon,” he said. “I’ll get that cat on my APPLE appeals if it’s the last thing I do.”

  He strode to the elevator and gave his floor number. As soon as the elevator door closed, the front door of the hotel swung inward. Six robed Arabs strode quickly inside, swinging their submachine guns menacingly around the interior.

  When the elevator door finally closed all the way and the elevator began to rise, Taylor P. Jambon looked skyward.

  “God wasn’t saving you, Jaws,” he said fervently. “He was saving me.”

  The desk clerk pushed a button, ringing a bell in the general manager’s office. That luminary came rushing out. He rushed up to a seventh, rather portly Arab, who was accompanied by two women, bowed, clicked his heels and bowed again.

  “Your Royal Highness,” he said. “Ladies, welcome to the Bristol Hotel.”

  “Has the Maestro arrived safely?” Hassan asked.

  “He just a moment ago joined Dr. Yancey,” the desk clerk announced, clicking his heels and bowing. “They are in the doctor’s suite.”

  “If you will be good enough to show the baroness and Fraulein Hoffenburg up?” Prince Hassan said. “They are expected.”

  “With the greatest of pleasure, Your Royal Highness,” the desk clerk said.

  “There has been a slight change in our requirements,” Prince Hassan said.

  “You won’t be needing all the hotel, Your Royal Highness?” the manager asked, his face falling. Not only did His Royal Highness never question the bill, but he always paid, daily, with little bags of gold coins.

  “I believe my charge d’affaires asked you to prepare for the Maestro’s dog?”

  “And such a splendid animal,” the manager gushed. “It shook hands like a little gentleman.”

  Hassan looked at him oddly. “That wasn’t the Maestro’s dog,” he said. “That was the duchess’ tiger.”

  “How stupid of me!” the manager said.

  “Not at all,” Hassan said. “The tiger thinks he’s a dog. How were you to know?”

  “You are most gracious, Your Royal Highness. The Maestro’s dog won’t be coming?”

  “Just as soon as my men can get him out of the car,” Hassan said. “He’s sulking. His feelings were hurt when the Maestro locked him in the washroom while he was exercising.”

  “Then what seems to be the problem, Your Royal Highness?”

  “There will be ten dogs in all,” Hassan said. There was a noise at the door. Hassan turned. “Ah, here they are!” Her Grace the Duchess of Folkestone and Mr. Angus MacKenzie, V.C., strode through the door. Mr. MacKenzie had Babykins and Wee Black Runt on his leash. Her Grace had Prince and Wee Black Doggie XIV on hers.

  Babykins and Wee Black Runt sniffed the air. Their keen noses detected the peculiar odor of their adopted son and brother, Wee Baby Brother, from whom they had been separated at the railway station. Giving off happy yelps, they lowered their noses and followed the scent across the lobby. Mr. MacKenzie got a good grip on the leash, leaned back and braced himself. He looked something like a beginning water-skier as they dragged him across the lobby.

  The manager hurriedly climbed up on the marble counter by the desk, watching in horror as MacKenzie skied through the potted palms on his way to the elevator.

  “What’s the matter?” Hassan asked. “You do like dogs, don’t you?”

  “I just love dogs, Your Royal Highness,” the manager said. He smiled bravely. For this, he thought, he was certainly entitled to the Hotelier’s Medal of Honor for Valor in the Face of Insurmountable Difficulty.

  Suddenly, a shriek filled the lobby. All eyes snapped toward the elevator.

  Patience Throckbottom Worthington, her broken leg stuck straight out in front of her wheelchair, had set out to find dear Boris. Her elevator had deposited her in the lobby just in time for Babykins and Wee Black Runt to meet it.

  Senator Cacciatore had sent to Miss Worthington, as a token of the esteem he and Mrs. Cacciatore felt for America’s most beloved thespian, two dozen long-stemmed roses. (“Why not two dozen?” he had reasoned. “I’m sure the American people would not wish their chairman of the Senate Ad Hoc Committee to Investigate the Mistreatment of Kangaroos and Other Innocent Beasts to be niggardly with their money.”)

  “I knew that bleeping Jambon ignoramus couldn’t be trusted,” Miss Worthington screamed, swinging the roses like a club at Babykins and Wee Black Runt. “These bleeping carnivores think I’m their bleeping supper.”

  The dogs, in the mistaken belief that the nice lady with the funny white leg wanted to play with them, barked happily. This also served to drown out Miss Worthington’s comment. There was just time, as Babykins and Wee Black Runt backed up, preparatory to jumping, for Miss Worthington to throw the roses out of the elevator, grab her cane and push the elevator button. The door whooshed closed.

  Angus MacKenzie stood there while the dogs leaped happily at the door, with two dozen long-stemmed roses in his arms.

  “Angus,” the dowager duchess inquired icily, “do you know
that woman?”

  “No, Dumpling,” Mr. MacKenzie replied. “Never saw her before.”

  “Then why did she give you roses?” the duchess asked. “Angus, how could you?”

  Franz Schubert von und zu Gurkelhausen, who had been seeing to the luggage, entered the lobby of the hotel. He saw the manager standing on the marble counter by the desk.

  “Why are you standing on the counter?” he asked.

  The manager was saved from the dilemma of answering an unanswerable question by the ringing of the telephone. He grabbed it, listened a moment, and handed it to Franzl.

  “It is for you, Excellency,” he said. “It is the chief of customs at Schwechat Airfield.”

  “Franz Schubert von und zu Gurkelhausen,” he said to the telephone.

  “You are the Franz Schubert von und zu Gurkelhausen who is deputy chief of protocol?”

  “Of course I am,” Franzl replied. “How many Franz Schubert von und zu Gurkelhausens do you think there are?”

  “Excellency,” the man from Schwechat said, “a very strange airplane has just landed out here.”

  “What’s so strange about it?”

  “Well, there’s a lady dressed like an archbishop, and she has five black bears with her.”

  “What do you mean?” Franzl spluttered. “A lady dressed like an archbishop?”

  The Dowager Duchess of Folkestone walked over to Franzl.

  “Dutch,” she said, “did I hear you say a lady dressed like an archbishop?”

  Franzl nodded dumbly.

  “That must be Reverend Mother,” the dowager duchess said. “Thank God she’s here!” She snatched the phone from Franzl. “Put the lady on,” she ordered. There was a pause. “What do you mean, who am I? I’m the dowager duchess of Folkestone, that’s who I am!” There was another pause, then : “Hot Lips? Florabelle. Oh, Hot Lips, I’m so glad you’re here. I need your counsel. Angus has been carrying on behind my back with a redheaded harridan in a wheelchair.” Pause. “Of course, I’m sure. She just gave him two dozen long-stemmed roses right before my very eyes.” Pause. “I’ll be waiting, Hot Lips,” she said and then hung up. She turned to Mr. MacKenzie: “You’d better think of a good story for Reverend Mother, you kilted Don Juan!” she said. “She’s on her way from the airport!”

  “Florabelle!” Angus said. “Dumpling!”

  “Don’t you ‘Dumpling’ me, you scoundrel!” the dowager duchess said. “And with Woody and Beverly due here any minute!”

  She snatched the leash holding Babykins and Wee Black Runt from his hands and, dragging them and Prince and Wee Black Doggie XIV after her, got on the elevator.

  “Shame on you!” she said, and then the elevator door closed.

  Angus MacKenzie turned to Franzl.

  “Dutch,” he said, “kin ye tell me what the hell happened?”

  “Vienna,” Franzl replied, “is the city of love. Sometimes it gets out of hand.” He winked at Mr. MacKenzie and jabbed him, one man-of-the-world to another, in the ribs.

  “Is there a bar in this place?” Mr. MacKenzie inquired.

  “Right through that door, sir,” the manager said.

  “If anybody should ask, which seems highly unlikely, that’s where I’ll be,” Mr. MacKenzie said.

  There was no one in the bar when Angus first climbed onto a stool and asked for a wee drop of Royal Highland Dew Straight Scots Whiskey. About five minutes later, however, another customer appeared. He, too, seemed a bit distraught. He ordered a triple bourbon, tossed it down at a gulp, and ordered another.

  “American, aren’t ye?” Angus said. “I kin tell by the funny accent ye have.”

  “You’re the first Austrian I’ve met who speaks English,” Taylor P. Jambon replied.

  “I’m not an Austrian, I’m a Scot!” Angus somewhat huffily corrected him.

  “No offense intended,” Taylor P. Jambon said with all the charm he could muster. Angus MacKenzie was a large man who looked quite capable of physical violence, and Taylor P. Jambon loathed violence. “Might I have the great privilege of buying you a drink?”

  “Ye may,” Angus replied. “MacKenzie’s the name.”

  “Jambon,” Mr. Jambon said, “Taylor P. Jambon.”

  The door suddenly flung open. The Reverend Mother Emeritus Margaret H. W. Wilson stepped inside. She flung her cape over her shoulder and pointed her shepherd’s crook at Angus.

  “Angus!” she said. “I’m shocked!”

  “There’s two sides to every story, Hot Lips,” Angus said.

  “And here you sit, drinking whiskey at eleven o’clock in the morning!”

  “That I am,” Angus said. “Would you like a little snort yerself, Hot Lips?”

  “Perhaps,” Reverend Mother, hoisting herself onto a stool, “just a drop to cut the dust, as Colonel Beauregard Beaucoupmots is wont to say.”

  “This gentleman is buying,” Angus said, nodding at Taylor P. Jambon. “Ain’t you?” He explained. “He’s making up for not recognizing me right off as a Scot.”

  “My pleasure,” Taylor P. Jambon said.

  “A teensy weensy little Scotch,” Hot Lips said to the bartender. She indicated the quantity she wished by holding her thumb and index finger just as far apart as they would go. “And go light on the water,” she added.

  “Madam,” Taylor P. Jambon replied, “might I ever so politely inquire what exactly it is that you’re dressed up for?”

  “As any fool can plainly see,” Angus MacKenzie said, “you are speaking with the Reverend Mother Emeritus of the God Is Love in All Forms Christian Church, Inc.”

  “Of course,” Taylor P. Jambon said. “I should have known that right away.”

  “This reverend lady united me and Florabelle in holy wedlock,” Angus said.

  “And now you have strayed, Angus, from the bonds of wedded bliss?” Hot Lips asked.

  “Hot Lips, I swear I have never seen that lady before in my life,” Angus said fervently. “I have been true to Florabelle!”

  “Then why did she give you two dozen roses?” Hot Lips said.

  “Well, Hot Lips,” Angus said, “you know how it is. We Scots have always had a certain attraction for the lasses.”

  “Angus,” Hot Lips said, downing her drink and signaling for a refill, “I know how it is!”

  “It’s not that I wouldn’t be interested, Hot Lips,” Angus said. “But I am, as ye well know, having tied the knot, so to speak, yerself, that I am a married man, with my oat-sowing far behind me.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Angus,” Hot Lips said, blushing prettily. “What I meant to say is that I know what it is to be nothing more than a sex symbol, to be pursued, to be the unwilling object of attention.”

  “Me, too,” Taylor P. Jambon said. “I’ll drink to that.”

  “Angus,” Hot Lips said, “I believe you. I know you wouldn’t lie to Reverend Mother.”

  “Absolutely not,” Angus said. “I’m as pure as the fallen snow.”

  “Don’t go overboard,” Reverend Mother said. “But I will go speak with Florabelle and tell her her fears are groundless.”

  “I’d be grateful to ye, Hot Lips,” Angus said.

  “Me, too, Hot Lips,” Taylor P. Jambon said.

  “Reverend Mother to you, Lardbelly,” Reverend Mother said. She tossed her drink down and picked up her shepherd’s crook. “I go now, to restore you to the bosom of your bride,” she said.

  “You’re a good woman, Hot Lips,” Angus said.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Taylor P. Jambon said.

  Hot Lips swept out of the bar. Angus turned to Taylor P. Jambon.

  “You don’t hold your liquor too well, do ye?” he said. “You really had one hell of a nerve calling Reverend Mother ‘Hot Lips.’ I suppose ye know that?”

  “No offense intended,” Taylor P. Jambon said. “I’ve had a trying day.” He signaled the bartender for another round.

  “Yer still buying, of course?” Angus asked.

  “Absolute
ly,” Mr. Jambon said. “Say, could I ask you a question?”

  “Since yer buying, why not?”

  “What would you say if I told you there was a guy in the hotel lobby a while back with a tame Bengal tiger?”

  “That’d be Wee Baby Brother,” Angus said.

  “Wee Baby Brother?”

  “He thinks he’s a dog, poor pussycat,” Angus explained.

  “You mean you know who owns this animal?” Taylor P. inquired, brightening considerably.

  “Me Florabelle owns him,” Angus said. “Me and Florabelle together.”

  “Your Florabelle,” Taylor P. Jambon inquired, by now willing to believe anything, “is a rather enormous bearded gentleman?”

  “I suppose that’s what you call American humor,” Angus said. “I dinna think yer drunk enough to be looking for a fight wi’ me.”

  “Perish the thought,” Taylor P. Jambon said. “I am obviously mistaken.”

  “What are ye so concerned about Wee Baby Brother for?”

  “Tell me, Mr. MacKenzie,” Taylor P. Jambon said. “Have you ever heard of APPLE?”

  “We eat apples in Scotland, just like everyplace else,” Angus said.

  “This is a different kind of apple. It stands for the Association of Pup and Pussy Lovers in Earnest.”

  “An organization of animal lovers?” Angus inquired.

  “Precisely,” Taylor P. Jambon said.

  “Ye dinna look the type,” Angus said. “But if yer helping pups and pussies, I’m on yer side.”

  “We go on television and ask other people to help us,” Taylor P. went on.

  “That seems to be a verra sensible thing to do,” Angus said.

  “And what I was thinking, Mr. MacKenzie, is that I would like to use your tiger in one of our commercials. America’s most beloved thespian, Miss Patience Throckbottom Worthington, has graciously agreed to help our noble cause. What I would like to do is show her petting your tiger while she talks. How does that strike you?”

  “If Hot Lips succeeds in fixing things with Florabelle, I’ll ask her,” Angus replied.

  “You’re a good man, Mr. MacKenzie.”

  “I know,” Angus said. “I’ve always had that same idea.”