Bombshell Max Collins (best ereader for textbooks .txt) 📖

grasped that small smooth hand with both of his, which were rough and callused and big.

A hush fell—no one breathed … even Hank Fonda had craned around to look.

In perfect Russian, Marilyn welcomed Nikita Khrushchev to the United States and to Hollywood, saying, “Even a cat and dog can live together in harmony, and our two nations must strive to do so, as well.” He had nodded appreciatively when she paused; then she went on: “Meeting you is an honor I will never forget, Premier Khrushchev.”

The premier beamed—in part, she would bet, because she had correctly pronounced his last name, Crew-shove—and two gold teeth winked at her as that infectious grin again split his face, which to Marilyn was a glorious face, at once homely and beautiful.

Then Khrushchev spoke to her in his native tongue, and Marilyn nodded at what he was saying. But she really didn’t know what he was talking about, not exactly.

Oh, she knew some of the words; she and her former speech coach had often spoken the language—Natasha Lytess was famously Russian (even though really a German Jew), and they had been together for many years.

But they had since parted ways, and it was a current friend of Marilyn’s, the great director and teacher Michael Chekhov—a student at the Stanislavski Moscow Art Theatre prior to his defection—who had helped her write, and then translated and taught her the little speech she’d just given, which she had practiced for hours on end.

Impulsively—for this part had not been planned— Marilyn leaned forward and kissed Khrushchev on one of his chubby cheeks.

the crowd hooted, and laughed, and burst into applause that rang through the commissary like gunfire.

the premier blushed, his smile disappearing …

… but Marilyn knew Nikita Khrushchev was pleased by her affectionate gesture. His eyes had twinkled at her, even when the grin was gone. And, anyway, he was a man, wasn’t he?

Chair legs screeched as everyone began to take their seats at the tables. Khrushchev was escorted to the center of the long banquet table, placed between Erick Johnston, President of the Motion Pictures Association, and the head of Fox Studios, Marilyn’s champion Spyros Skouras.

A quietly affable, heavy-set woman, two attractive girls, and a boy (the spitting image of Khrushchev) had trailed in after the premier; now they were shown seats at the end of the long table.

Marilyn overheard them being introduced as the premier’s wife and family to those around them at the head table; from her catbird’s seat, Marilyn could hear much of what was said there, even conversationally.

Mrs. Khrushchev, the pleasant-looking peasant-ish woman, reminded the star of her adored, now long gone, Aunt Ana Lower, who had saved Marilyn from the orphan’s home and practically raised her.

Marilyn smiled at Mrs. Khrushchev—hoping that kiss she’d bestowed the woman’s husband hadn’t been a breach of etiquette—and, thankfully, the woman smiled shyly back. After a brief welcome by the mayor of Los Angeles—Khrushchev again scowling … the enmity between the two men obvious—the luncheon was served: chicken Kiev, corn, and red roasted potatoes. Hardly Parisian cuisine—so much for the “Cafe de Paris.” But when Marilyn looked up at Khrushchev, he seemed to be heartily enjoying the meal.

Above the clatter and chatter of the crowd at lunch, Marilyn could hear the Greek-born Spyros talking to Khrushchev, telling him—through an interpreter seated on the other side of Spyros— that he, too, had once been a poor shepherd boy, but had risen to great power under capitalism.

Khrushchev trained his bullet eyes on the president of Fox Studios, and spoke tersely in Russian. Said the interpreter to Spyros, “And I have risen to great power under communism!”

Marilyn found that a sharp reply, witty even, and she covered her smile with her napkin.

Spyros dropped the conversation.

A few moments slid by, and then an aide of Khrushchev’s rushed up behind the premier, and handed him a note.

Careful not to stare, Marilyn nonetheless watched as Khrushchev accepted the piece of paper, put on a pair of wire-framed glasses, and read it. His face turned white, then crimson … with obvious fury. He pushed back his chair, nearly toppling it over as he stood, fists balled, body shaking, and he slammed those fists on the table, spilling drinks, making the china jump.

Everybody froze.

Another hush had fallen, but a different one, a deadly one.

Marilyn’s gasp caught in her throat. Something dreadful must have happened!

As the interpreter translated, Khrushchev addressed those assembled in a quavering but strong voice, making no use of the dais microphone.

“I have come to this town where lives the cream of American art. And just imagine, I, a premier, a Soviet representative…” He paused, shaking his head, his features tightening into a troll mask. “Just now I was told I could not go to Disneyland.”

The room remained hushed, and yet a nervous undercurrent wondered: Is the premier joking? Is this Russian humor?

“Your government has said I cannot go,” Khrushchev (and his translator) continued. “I ask, Why not? Do you have rocket-launching pads there? I do not know. Is there an epidemic of cholera there or something? Have gangsters taken hold of the place that can destroy me? Then what must I do? Commit suicide? This situation is inconceivable … I cannot find words to explain this to my people…”

The premier bent down, removed one of his brown shoes, and, to the astonishment of everyone, proceeded to bang it on the table.

Making a hammer of the shoe, he emphasized each word: “I … want … to … go … to … Dis … ney … land!”

The room fell deadly silent, the guests looking on with amazement—unsure whether to laugh or cry or run screaming from the room into the nearest bomb shelter.

Studio chief Spyros—his expression consisting of equal parts embarrassment and apprehension—stood, bowing his head in a respectful, dignified manner.

“Mr. Khrushchev,” he said solemnly, working hard to minimize his accent, “our first concern is your safety.”

Khrushchev scowled.

“And,” the studio head continued, placatingly, “the Secret Service could not guarantee that safety at Disneyland. Even your