The Class

by Erich Segal

  The next morning, D.D. made no mention whatsoever of the trauma of the night before. In fact, he was exceptionally obnoxious, as if unconsciously informing Jason that what he had seen a few hours earlier was just a one-time aberration.

  Still Jason felt duty-bound to say something to the dorm proctor, who was nominally supposed to be responsible for their welfare. Besides, Dennis Linden was a medical student and might understand the whole phenomenon that Jason had witnessed.

  “Dennis,” cautioned Jason, “you’ve got to give me your word that this is strictly confidential.”

  “Absolutely,” the soon-to-be-M.D. replied. “I’m glad you called this thing to my attention.”

  “Seriously, I think D.D. will go bonkers if he doesn’t get all A’s. He’s got this wild obsession that he has to be first in The Class.”

  Linden puffed his Chesterfield, blew rings into the air, and answered casually, “But, Gilbert, we both know that’s an impossibility.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Jason inquired, puzzled.

  “Listen, let me tell you something in confidence. Your roommate wasn’t even number one in his own high school, which sent half-a-dozen guys here with much higher averages and board scores. In fact, the Admissions Office only rated him a little over 10.5.”

  “What?” Jason asked.

  “Look, as I said, this stuff is really classified. But Harvard calculates the future standing of each student they accept—.”

  “In advance?” Jason interrupted.

  The proctor nodded and continued. “And what’s more, they’re almost never wrong.”

  “You mean to tell me that you know what grades I’m going to get this January?” Jason asked with stupefaction.

  “Not only that,” the future doctor answered, “we know pretty much just where you’ll graduate.”

  “Why not tell me now, so I won’t bother studying too hard,” Jason said, only barely joking.

  “Now come on, Gilbert, what I said is absolutely off the record. And I only told you so you could be ready to support your roommate when he wakes up to discover that he isn’t Einstein.”

  Jason suddenly erupted with angry resentment.

  “Hey, listen, Dennis, I’m not fit to act as a psychiatrist. Can’t we do something to help this guy now?”

  The proctor took another puff and answered, “Jason, young Davidson—who, between the two of us, I find a little twerp—is here at Harvard precisely to learn his limitations. That is, if I may say so, one of the things that we do best. Let this ride till midterm. If the guy’s unable to deal with the fact that he’s not on top of the mountain, then maybe we’ll arrange for him to talk to someone in the Health Department. Anyway, I’m glad that you called this to my attention. Don’t hesitate to come again if he starts acting weird.”

  “He’s always acted weird,” Jason responded with a half-smile.

  “Gilbert,” said the proctor, “you’ve got no idea what whackos they accept at Harvard. D.D. is a damn Gibraltar compared to some of the nutcases I’ve seen.”

  ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

  October 17, 1954

  I never thought I was a good student and I didn’t mind getting C’s for all my hour exams. But I did think of myself as a pretty good soccer player. And that illusion’s just been dispelled.

  The damn freshman team is so packed with all kinds of international big gunners that I could barely get a chance to put my toe in.

  Still, there is a little solace in this truly Harvard lesson in humility. As I sit there on the bench awaiting my dispensation of three or four minutes’ play during the final moments (if we’re leading by enough), I can console myself with the reminder that the guy who plays ahead of me is no ordinary jock.

  Maybe his corner kicks are so lofty because he is descended from the Almighty.

  Still, if I have to be a second stringer it might as well be to the likes of Karim Aga Khan, who is, as Professor Finley put it, “the great, great, great, great, and ad infinitum grandson of God.”

  And he’s not the only dignitary who has relegated me to being practically a spectator. Our center forward is another divinity—a genuine Persian prince. And we’ve got ringers from places as exotic as South America, the Philippines—and even public high schools. All of whom have contributed to my sedentary status.

  But at least we’re undefeated. There’s some comfort to be found in that. And if I get to play another seven minutes, I’ll have earned my freshman numerals.

  As if the flower of my confidence has not been sufficiently wilted by the heat of these guys’ talent on the field, I grit my teeth as I report that Bruce Macdonald, the best player of them all, is perhaps the greatest genius in the whole damn Class.

  He graduated number one at Exeter, was captain and high scorer of their soccer team, ditto for lacrosse in springtime. And just to keep him busy in the evenings, he’s so terrific with a violin that, as a freshman, he’s been chosen concertmaster of the Harvard-Radcliffe Orchestra!

  Thank God I arrived here with a well-developed feeling of inferiority. Because if I had come as cocky as most guys were on the first day we were kicking soccer balls, I would have thrown myself into the Charles.

  The rabbi stood at the podium and announced:

  “After the concluding hymn, the congregation is cordially invited to the Vestry Room for wine, fruit, and honeycake. Now let us turn to page one hundred two and join in the singing of ‘Adon Olam, Lord of the Universe.’ ”

  In the organ loft above, Danny Rossi picked up his cue and struck the opening chords with a gusto that delighted the worshippers.

  Lord of the Universe, who reigned

  Ere earth and heaven’s fashioning,

  When to create a world he deigned

  Then was his name proclaimed King.

  After the rabbi’s benediction, they filed out as Danny played the recessional. The moment he finished, he grabbed his jacket and hurried downstairs.

  He entered the Vestry Room unobtrusively and headed for the abundantly laden tables. As he was filling a paper plate with slices of cake, he heard the rabbi’s voice.

  “How good of you to stay on, Danny. It’s certainly beyond the call of duty. I know how terribly busy you are.”

  “Oh, I enjoy being involved in everything, Rabbi,” he replied. “I mean, it’s all very interesting for me.”

  Danny was being quite sincere. Although he did not mention that what he most appreciated about the Jewish festivals was the plentiful food, which usually enabled him to skip lunch.

  This particular Saturday would be especially hectic for him, since the youth group of the Congregational church in Quincy, which he also served, was holding its Fall Hop. And he had persuaded the minister to hire “his” trio (quickly calling the Union for a young drummer and bassist). It would be tiring, but that fifty-buck fee would be a great consolation.

  It seemed pointless to go all the way back to Cambridge to pass the time between sacred and secular gigs, especially since Harvard would be caught up in Saturday football mania and it would be too noisy to work anyway. So Danny took the MTA to Copley Square and spent the afternoon studying in the Boston Public Library.

  There was a plumpish brunette sitting at the end of his table, with several notebooks emblazoned BOSTON UNIVERSITY. This gave the timid Casanova a clue of how to engage her in conversation.

  “Do you go to B.U.?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I go to Harvard myself.”

  “That figures,” she said dismissively.

  With a sigh of anticipated defeat, Danny returned to Hindemith’s Craft of Musical Composition.

  When he emerged, a chilly darkness had descended upon the city. As he strolled through Boston’s version of Venice’s Piazza San Marco, he pondered a vital theological dilemma.

  Would the Congregationalists serve food?

  Better not take too big a leap of faith, he told himself. Hedge your bets. So he grabbed a quick tuna on rye before beginning the journey
south to Quincy.

  The best part of the dance was that the drummer and the bass player turned out to be young college students like himself. The worst part was that he had to spend the entire evening at the piano, trying not to ogle the well-developed high school girls in their tight sweaters gyrating to the beat his hungry fingers produced on the keyboard.

  When the last couples finally straggled off the floor, an exhausted Danny looked at his watch. God, he thought, eleven-thirty and it’ll take me at least an hour to get back to Harvard. And I’ve got to be back here before nine.

  For an instant he was tempted to sleep upstairs on an isolated pew. No, don’t risk your job. Better haul yourself back home.

  When he finally entered Harvard Yard, nearly every window was dark. Yet, as he approached Holworthy, he was stunned to find his roommate, Kingman Wu, perched on the stone steps.

  “Hi, Danny.”

  “King, what the hell are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

  “Bernie bounced me,” his friend replied forlornly. “He’s practicing his fencing and claims he’s got to be alone to concentrate.”

  “At this hour? The guy’s a maniac.”

  “I know,” said Kingman miserably. “But he’s got a sword, so what the heck could I do?”

  Perhaps the state beyond exhaustion dissipates all fear, for Danny felt strangely brave enough to deal with this emergency.

  “Come on, King, maybe the two of us can bring him to his senses.”

  As they headed in, Wu muttered, “You’re a real pal, Danny I only wish you were six feet tall.”

  “So do I,” Danny said wistfully.

  Fortunately, the mad musketeer had gone to sleep. And a weary Danny Rossi followed almost instantly thereafter.

  “God, there’s this Jewboy going out for squash was unbelievable.”

  Dickie Newall was giving his roommates a detailed account of tryouts for the sport at which he’d excelled from the moment he was old enough to hold a racket.

  “Is he going to beat you out for number one?” asked Wig.

  “Are you kidding?” Newall groaned. “He could cream half the varsity. His drop shots are absolutely uncanny. And what really gets my goat is that the guy’s real neat. I mean, not just for a Jew—for a person.”

  At which point Andrew inquired, “What makes you think Jews aren’t people?”

  “Aw, come on, Eliot, you know what I mean. They’re usually these dark, brainy, aggressive guys. But this one doesn’t even wear glasses.”

  “You know,” Andrew commented, “my father always had a special admiration for the Jews. In fact, they’re the only doctors he’ll see for anything.”

  “But how many of them does he see socially?” Newall volleyed back.

  “That’s different. But I don’t think he avoids them as a policy. It’s just the circles that we move in.”

  “You mean it’s mere coincidence that none of these great physicians get put up for any of his clubs?”

  “All right,” Andrew conceded. “But I’ve never heard him make a racial slur of any sort. Even about Catholics.”

  “But he doesn’t mix with those guys either, does he? Not even our new mackerel-snapping senator from Massachusetts.”

  “Well, he has done some business deals with Old Joe Kennedy.”

  “Not over dinner at the Founders’ Club, I’ll bet,” Wig interposed.

  “Hey, look,” Andrew replied, “I didn’t say my dad’s a saint. But at least he taught me not to use the kind of language Newall enjoys so much.”

  “But, Andy, you put up with my colorful epithets for years.”

  “Yeah,” Wig agreed. “What’s suddenly made you such a Goody Two-Shoes?”

  “Listen, guys,” Andrew responded. “In prep school we had no Jews or Negroes at all. So who cared if you went on about the ‘lower orders.’ But Harvard’s full of all types, so I think we should learn to live with them.”

  His roommates glanced at one another quizzically.

  And then Newall complained, “Knock off this preaching, huh? I mean, if I’d said this guy was short or fat, you wouldn’t have given me any heat. When I refer to someone as a Hebie or a coon, it’s just a friendly way of typing him, a sort of shorthand adjective. I mean, for your information, I’ve invited this guy Jason Gilbert to our blast after the football game on Saturday.”

  Then he looked at Andrew with mischief in his eyes and added, “That’s if you don’t mind actually mixing with a Jewboy.”

  Although it was only the first week of November, the air at six o’clock was glacial and as dark as any winter evening. As Jason was dressing after squash practice, he discovered, to his annoyance, that he’d forgotten to bring a tie. He’d now have to return to Straus to get one. Otherwise, that Irish Cerberus who stood checking necks at the Union doorway would gleefully bounce him. Damn. Damn.

  He trudged back across the chilly, leafless Yard, climbed the stairs to A-32, and fumbled for his key.

  The moment that he pushed the door ajar, Jason noticed something odd. The place was dark. He glanced at D.D.’s room. No light from there either. Maybe he was sick. Jason rapped softly and inquired, “Davidson, are you okay?”

  There was no reply.

  Then, breaking the ironclad house rules, Jason opened the door. First he noticed the ceiling, where the electric wires had been torn out. Then he glanced quickly at the floor. Where he saw his roommate in a heap, motionless—a belt around his neck.

  Jason was vertiginous with fear.

  Oh God, he thought, the bastard’s killed himself. He knelt and turned D.D. over. This gesture elicited the faintest semblance of a groan. Quick, Jason, he urged himself, fighting to keep his wits, call the cops. No. They might not come in time.

  He swiftly removed the leather belt from his roommate’s lacerated throat. He then heaved him up onto his shoulders like a fireman, and rushed as quickly as he could to Harvard Square, where he commandeered a taxi, ordering the driver to tear-ass to the infirmary.

  “He’ll be all right,” the on-duty physician assured Jason. “I don’t think Harvard sockets are wired well enough for suicide. Although, God knows, there are some kids who actually succeed in their ingenious ways. Why do you think he did it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jason, still somewhat deadened from the shock.

  “The young man had a bit too much invested in his grades,” Dennis Linden pronounced. He had arrived on the scene in time to offer a professional analysis of the young freshman’s desperate action.

  “Did his behavior give you any hints that this was coming?” asked the Health Service doctor.

  Jason shot a glance at Linden, who continued to pontificate, “Not really. You can never figure out which egg is going to crack. I mean, the freshman year’s so fraught with pressure.”

  As the two doctors continued chatting, Jason fixed his gaze on his shoes.

  Ten minutes later, Jason and the proctor walked together out of the infirmary. It was only then that he realized that he had no coat. Or gloves. Or anything. Panic had inured him to the cold. Now he was shivering.

  “You need a lift, Jason?” Linden asked.

  “No, thanks,” he answered sullenly.

  “Come on, Gilbert, you’ll freeze to death walking back like that.”

  “Okay,” he relented.

  During the short ride up Mount Auburn Street, the proctor tried to justify himself.

  “Look,” he rationalized, “this is what Harvard’s all about—it’s sink or swim.”

  “Yeah,” Jason mumbled half-aloud, “but you’re supposed to be the lifeguard.”

  At the next red light he climbed out of Linden’s car and slammed the door.

  His anger again made him oblivious to the bitter cold.

  He walked on toward the Square. At Elsie’s he consumed two Roast-Beef Specials to replace the dinner he had missed, then went over to Cronin’s, cruising by the wooden booths to find a friendly face so he could sit down and get drunk.

>   Jason was awakened rudely the next morning by a rapping on the door that made his headache even worse. It was only when he started groggily toward it that he noticed he was still in last night’s clothing. Anyway, his soul felt wrinkled. So they matched.

  He opened the door.

  A stocky, middle-aged woman, wearing a green floppy hat, was planted solidly outside.

  “What did you do to him?” she demanded.

  “Oh,” Jason said quietly, “you must be David’s mother.”

  “A real genius you are,” she muttered. “I’m here to get his clothes.”

  “Please,” Jason said, immediately ushering her in.

  “It’s freezing on that landing, if you didn’t notice,” she remarked while entering the suite and glancing hawk-eyed into every corner.

  “Foo, it’s a real pigsty. Who cleans up this place?”

  “A student porter vacuums once a week and swabs the john,” said Jason.

  “Well, no wonder my poor boy’s ill. Whose filthy clothes are these all over everywhere? They carry germs, you know.”

  “They’re David’s,” Jason answered softly.

  “So how come you threw my David’s clothes all over everywhere? Is that your rich boy’s idea of a little fun?”

  “Mrs. Davidson,” Jason said patiently, “he dropped them there himself.” After which he quickly added, “Would you like to sit down? You must be very tired.”

  “Tired? I’m exhausted. Do you know what that night train is like—especially for a woman my age? Anyway, I’ll stand while you explain why it’s not your fault.”

  Jason sighed. “Look, Mrs. Davidson, I don’t know what they’ve told you down at the infirmary.”

  “They said that he was very sick and has to be transferred to some god-awful … hospital,” she paused, and then she gasped, “a mental hospital.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Jason answered gently, “but the pressure here can be ferocious. To get grades, I mean.”

  “My David always got good grades. He studied day and night. Now suddenly he leaves my house and comes to live with you and he collapses like he had no yeast. Why did you disturb him?”