She moved closer to him and whispered in a devil-like ear. “I think I know how to make the cold war a little warmer…”
He turned his homely face to her, not sure of her meaning.
So she explained by kissing him on the lips. Softly. Sweetly.
When their lips parted, she could see, even in the pale moonlight, that his cheeks were flushed. The effect she had on men never failed to amaze her. Or amuse her.
After an awkward silence, a flustered Nikita asked with forced gruffness, “And what is so great about teacup?”
Marilyn eyed him curiously. “What do you mean?”
Nikita gestured around him dismissively, as if it hadn’t been his own childish interest that had brought them to this attraction. “What is so wonderful about sitting in teacup that would make people pay money?”
“Well, you don’t just sit… you spin.”
He frowned in confusion. “Spin?”
She twirled one finger in the air. “You know, in a circle? But the ride has to be turned on. Needs power.”
He gave her half a smile. “Power is my specialty.”
She laughed. “Maybe not this kind.”
“You mean, electricity?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But I know electricity,” he exclaimed, puffing himself up, “is like brother, like sister.”
“Really?”
“Who do you think built Moscow subway?”
Nikita scooted on the seat around the circular wheel, and stepped out of the little opening of the cup onto the wooden platform.
Tugging down her knotted shirt, Marilyn did the same.
“You’d have to get the cover off of that,” she said, standing on the edge of the platform, pointing to a metal box on a short pole next to the ride. “And it looks locked.”
“What if I have key?”
“Key?”
Nikita stepped down off the ride and again Marilyn followed. The Russian removed one of his heavy brown shoes and gave the box a tremendous whack!
And the cover fell off its hinges.
Marilyn gasped a laugh, then said, “But that’s private property!”
“I have… how is it called? Diplomatic immunity!”
Inside the box were two buttons, one red, the other green. Marilyn, at Nikita’s side, said, “In our country, red means ‘stop’ and green ‘go.’ ”
“In our country,” Nikita said, eyes twinkling like a mischievous elf, “ ‘red’ has other meaning. But, please — instruct me.”
“Okay,” she said, and pushed the green button. Behind them the ride began to creak and groan.
“Oh, it’s starting!” Marilyn said excitedly.
Nikita was frowning, though. “Do we attract attention?”
“No — we’re a million miles away from the real world. Come on… don’t be a ’fraidy cat.”
She grasped his hand, and they hopped up onto the moving platform, which was increasing in speed, and jumped into the first twirling cup that came by.
At first Nikita’s eyes were huge and he seemed terrified. But then Marilyn giggled at him and grabbed onto the steering wheel and gave it a twist, making the cup whirl.
Soon a grinning Nikita Khrushchev was gleefully crying, “Wheeeeeee!”
And the sight of the premier of Russia, behaving like a kid, made Marilyn Monroe break out in gales of uncontrollable laughter.
“This,” he yelled, “is special teacup!”
“Oh yes!” she shouted back. “But how are we going to stop it? I’m getting… getting dizzy!”
After another minute or so, sensing Marilyn was on the verge of seasickness, Nikita said in her ear, “For you I will stop this special cup!”
Struggling out of the spinning thing, Nikita made his way across the wooden platform floor, weaving like a Cossack who couldn’t hold his vodka, then hopped off the edge of the ride, and disappeared.
After a moment Marilyn felt the teacups begin to slow, finally coming to a stop.
A breathless Marilyn staggered over to join Nikita on the ground beside the now-still teacup ride.
“That was what I call fun,” she exclaimed, pushing her tousled blonde hair back in place.
“Yes, is what we call fun, also,” Nikita admitted. “What box can we break now?”
Marilyn laughed, but shook her head. “We really shouldn’t, you know…”
Nikita gave her a surprised look. “Why not? I was promised Disneyland. Is only fair.”
“Well…” She eyed him as if he were a precocious child. No one was around for miles — they were alone in the huge park… what was the harm? “All right,” she said. “But just to preserve world peace.”
“Is noble goal.” Nikita thrust a thick finger, pointing across the midway to where colorful flags flapped in the gentle breeze over a faux-brick front. “What is this ride?”
She laughed. “Mr. Toad’s Ride… his Wild Ride, to be exact.”
He seemed skeptical. “And who is this Mr. Toad?”
“Well… a toad is sort of a frog. You know what that is, don’t you?”
He made a face. “Bah — frogs and mice… Why is everything in Disney’s land small forest creatures?”
She shrugged. “Because they’re cute.”
Nikita grunted. “Frogs are to be eaten and mice killed.”
“Come along,” Marilyn said, looping her arm in his, “and I’ll tell you about Mr. Toad. It’s a good story.”
“I doubt this. Most good stories are by Russians.”
Mrs. Arthur Miller ignored this, and, as they walked toward the ride, she began, “Mr. Toad was very rich, but he was an irresponsible fellow…”
“I have known such a man,” Nikita interrupted. “But he was snake named Stalin. He would not want to take Wild Ride, believe me. He would hide under table.”
She kept walking him along. “…and one day Mr. Toad got his hands on an automobile. Only Froggy didn’t know how to drive, at least not very well.”
Marilyn continued the fable as she and Nikita approached the ride’s dark entrance, unaware that someone else had already slipped inside.
Someone who, like them, was an uninvited guest at the Magic Kingdom.
Chapter Twelve
Apartment on Main Street
Walt Disney was depressed. This was not one of those suicidal bouts of depression the fifty-nine-year-old movie mogul had suffered in the early days, back when the weight of his growing studio had been so crushing. It seemed, ever since his friend and employee Ward Kimball had got him interested in scale-model railroading, he’d no longer had to fight that sort of battle with himself.
The railroad at Disneyland was an offshoot of the scale-model railroad he’d had constructed around his home in Holmby Hills, much to his wife Lillian’s consternation (cutting through her beloved gardens as it did). Between this hobby, and his in-house masseuse at the office (and the occasional belt of booze), Walt had managed to avoid the specter of another nervous breakdown.
Nonetheless, these last few years, he’d been sparring with melancholia, if not outright depression, despising growing older, a process emphasized in the mirror each day (“Mirror, mirror…”) by his thinning, graying-on-the-sides hair, his increasingly droopy eyelids, his jowly cheeks, and his spreading paunch. The public might like the image of “Uncle Walt,” but in his mind, Walt Disney viewed himself as the same vital young animator who had built on meager drawing talents and abundant entrepreneurial instincts to create a Hollywood kingdom.
Having the State Department yank the rug out from under the planned festivities for Premier Khrushchev had really hacked Walt off royal. Would he be reimbursed for the expense and trouble he’d been put to? No! Would he look a fool in the press, after he’d courted so much attention for the Russian visit? Yes!