M*A*S*H Goes to Paris by Richard Hooker

Author:Richard Hooker [Hooker, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Humorous, Fiction, War & Military
ISBN: 9780671784911
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 1975-01-02T04:30:51+00:00

Three hours later, in Suite 319 of the Hotel Continental, 3, Rue de Castiglione, Jean-Pierre de la Chevaux, chairman of the board of the Chevaux Petroleum Corporation, leaned on the tiled wall of the bathroom and read aloud to Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce, F.A.C.S., from the noon edition of Le Figaro, Paris’ largest newspaper.

“It say,” Horsey said, translating the story into English, “that Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov, well-known opera singer, was … how you say? … overcome wit’ emotion at the sight of his sister.”

Hawkeye snickered. “That’s one way to put it, I suppose,” he said. He took the flexible shower, a spray nozzle on a flexible rubber hose connected to the bathtub’s faucets, in his hand, pressed the trigger, and squirted it, in a swinging up-and-down motion, over the occupant of the bathtub.

“I feel as if I’m basting a whale,” Hawkeye said.

The occupant of the bathtub, feeling the cold water on his skin, groaned.

“It sound dat way, too,” Horsey said.

“What did your guys give him to drink, anyway?” Hawkeye asked.

“They say,” Horsey said, “the cafe run out of biere et vin and they run out of cognac, so what they drink is white lightning.”

“Where’d they get white lightning?” Hawkeye asked. “I thought the Archbishop took all the booze off your plane?”

“Local white lightning,” Horsey said. “They call it Calvados.”

“What else does the story say?” Hawkeye asked. He gave the occupant of the bathtub another spray, which was followed by an even more agonized groaning.

“It say that Boris was treated on the spot by you and Trapper John, and then rushed off in the limousine of H.R.H… what’s ‘H.R.H.’ mean, Hawkeye?”

“His Royal Highness,” Hawkeye explained.

“H.R.H. Prince Hassan ad Kayam to an undisclosed location,” Horsey said. “That little fat guy is really a prince, huh, like in the Arabian Nights?”

“Complete to flying carpet, I would say,” Hawkeye said. “Does it say anything about that Congresswoman?”

“Just that she was on the plane,” Horsey said. He leaned over the bathtub. “He showing any signs of life?”

“He groans from time to time,” Hawkeye said. He looked at Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov and artfully drew a figure-eight on his abdomen and chest with the stream of water. This time the groan was both agonizing and long, rising and descending in tone, and finally culminating in an agonized plea, “Oh, God!”

“Hey, he talks English,” Horsey said.

“You weren’t there when he had his little chat with Congresswoman Clumpp, then, were you?” Hawkeye asked.

“What he say to her?”

“After he threw the Air Force guards at the Garde Républicaine,” Hawkeye explained, “and got on the plane, he sort of staggered into her in the aisle. She said, ‘Watch it, you big ox!’ and he said, ‘Listen, Lardbottom, I’m drunk, but not drunk enough to touch something like you on purpose.’ “

“Is that when she hit him?”

“She didn’t hit him,” Hawkeye said. “She lowered her head and butted him in the stomach. That’s what took him out.”

Another piteous groan came from the large white bathtub. Hawkeye and Horsey peered into it.

“My God, I am dead!” Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov said loudly, in shocked surprise.

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