The Class

by Erich Segal

  “Dad, what are you doing here?”

  “Come on, son, let’s go to Durgin Park and have one of their super steaks.”

  In a sense, the choice of restaurant said everything. For the world-famous chophouse near the abattoirs of Boston had no booths or private corners. With its inverted snobbery, it placed bankers and busmen at the same long tables with red checkered cloths. A kind of forced democracy of the carnivorous.

  Perhaps the elder Gilbert was sincerely unaware that intimate communication was impossible in such a setting. Perhaps he chose it merely out of an atavistic feeling of protectiveness. He’d feed his boy to somehow compensate for all the hurt he felt.

  In any case, amid the clatter of heavy china plates and shouting from the open kitchen, all that Jason came away with was the fact that Dad was there to back him up. And he’d always be. Life was full of disappointments. The only way to deal with minor setbacks was to fight back harder still.

  “Someday, Jason,” he had said, “when you’re a senator, the boys who turned you down now will be mighty sorry. And believe me, son, this painful incident—and hey, I really hurt with you—won’t mean a thing.”

  Jason accompanied his father to South Station for the midnight train. Before he climbed aboard, the elder Gilbert patted Jason on the shoulder and remarked, “Son, there’s no one in the world I love more than you. Always remember that.”

  Jason walked back toward the subway feeling strangely empty.

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No!”

  Sara Harrison sat bolt upright, her face flushed.

  “Come on, Ted. How many times in your life have you refused to make love to a girl?”

  “I take the Fifth Amendment,” he protested.

  “Ted, it’s dark here and you still look embarrassed as hell. I don’t care how many girls you’ve slept with before me. I just wish you’d let me join the club.”

  “No, Sara. It just doesn’t seem right in the back of a Chevrolet.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Well, I do, dammit. I mean, I want our first time to be somewhere a little more romantic. You know, like the banks of the Charles.”

  “Are you crazy, Ted? It’s freezing! What about the Kirkland Motel? I’ve heard their policy is pretty lax.”

  Ted sat up and shook his head. “No go,” he sighed despondently. “The guy that owns it is a family friend.”

  “Which brings us back to this lovely Chevrolet.”

  “Please, Sara, I want this to be different. Look—next Saturday we can drive to New Hampshire.”

  “New Hampshire? Have you lost your mind? You mean from now on we’ll have to drive a hundred miles every time we want to make love?”

  “No no no,” he protested. “Just till I can find a decent place. God, if ever I wished I lived in a House, it’s now. At least those guys can have women in their rooms in the afternoons.”

  “Well, you don’t, and I’m stuck in a Radcliffe dorm that only lets men visit once in a blue moon.…”

  “Well, when’s the next blue moon?”

  “Not till the last Sunday of next month.”

  “Okay. We’ll wait till then.”

  “And what are we supposed to do in the meantime—take cold showers?”

  “I don’t see why you’re in such a hurry, Sara.”

  “I don’t see why you’re not.”

  In truth Ted could not explain the qualms he felt about the prospect of “going all the way” with her. He had grown up with the notion that love and sex were for two completely different kinds of women. While he and his buddies took swaggering pride in their exploits with girls who “went down,” none of them would ever have dreamed of marrying anyone who was not a virgin.

  And though he dared not admit it even to himself, something subconscious in him wondered why a “nice” girl like Sara Harrison was so eager to make love. And so he welcomed the delay till Visitors’ Sunday at her dorm. It would give him more time to reconcile the antitheses of sensuality and love.

  Still there was a nagging question in the back of his mind and he searched for ways to broach it delicately.

  Sara sensed that he was anxious about something.

  “Hey, what’s eating you?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just—I wish I’d been the first.”

  “But you are, Ted. You’re the first man I’ve ever really loved.”

  “Andrew—are you busy tonight?” Ted asked nervously. “I mean, could you spare me five minutes after the library closes?”

  “Sure, Lambros. Want to go downstairs to the Grill for a couple of cheeseburgers?”

  “Uh? Well, actually, I’d prefer someplace a little more private.”

  “We could take the food up to my room.”

  “That would be great. I’ve got something special to drink.”

  “Ah, Lambros, that sounds really interesting.”

  At a quarter past midnight, Andrew Eliot placed two cheeseburgers on the coffee table in his suite, and Ted produced a bottle from his bookbag.

  “Have you ever tasted retsina?” he asked. “It’s the Greek national drink. I’ve brought you some as a kind of gift.”

  “What for?”

  Ted lowered his head and mumbled, “Actually, it’s sort of a bribe. I need a favor from you, Andy, a really big favor.”

  From the embarrassed look on his friend’s face, Andrew was sure he was about to be hit for a loan.

  “I really don’t know how to say this,” Ted began, as Andrew poured the retsina. “But whether you say yes or no, swear you’ll never tell a soul about this.”

  “Sure sure, of course. Now spill—you’re giving me a heart attack from the tension.”

  “Andy,” Ted started shyly, “I’m in love.…”

  He stopped again.

  “Uh, congratulations,” Andrew responded, uncertain of what else to say.

  “Thanks, but you see, that’s the problem.”

  “I don’t get it, Lambros. What’s the problem?”

  “Promise you won’t make any moral judgments?”

  “Frankly, I don’t think I have any morals that I know of.”

  Ted looked at Andrew with relief and suddenly blurted, “Listen, could I borrow your room a couple of afternoons a week?”

  “That’s it? That’s what’s giving you a brain hemorrhage? When do you need it?”

  “Well,” he replied, “house parietal rules let you have girls in the room between four and seven. Do you and your roommates need this place in the afternoons?”

  “No sweat. Wigglesworth’s got crew and then eats at the Varsity Club. Ditto for Newall with tennis. I work out in the IAB. So that leaves you a clear field for whatever you’ve got in mind.”

  Ted was suddenly beaming.

  “God, Eliot, how can I ever thank you?”

  “Well, the occasional bottle of retsina isn’t a bad idea. There’s only one thing—I’ll have to know this girl’s name so I can sign her in as my guest. It’ll be a little tricky at first, but the super’s a good guy.”

  They established a system that would enable Ted and his inamorata (“an absolute goddess” named Sara Harrison) to enjoy the hospitality of Eliot House. All he had to do was give Andrew a few hours’ warning.

  Ted was effusive with gratitude and floated out of the room as if on a cloud.

  Andrew was left wondering, as that clever Yalie Cole Porter put it, “What is this thing called love?”

  He sure as hell didn’t know.

  The spring belonged to Jason Gilbert.

  He finished his initial season of varsity squash undefeated. And went straight on to unseat the current captain for the number-one singles slot on the tennis team. Here, too, he did not lose a match. He then crowned his sophomore achievements by winning both the IC4A and Eastern College titles.

  These ultimate exploits made him the first member of The Class to have his picture on the sports page of the more widely circulated version of the Cri
mson, i.e., The New York Times.

  If he had suffered any psychic damage from the unhappy experience with the Final Clubs, it was in no way apparent—at least to his athletic opponents.

  In every American college there is always a figure known as the BMOC—“Big Man on Campus.” Harvard prided itself on not recognizing this as a valid designation.

  Semantics notwithstanding, at this moment in the drama of undergraduate life, the undisputed hero—or in Shakespeare’s words “the observed of all observers”—was indisputably Jason Gilbert, Jr.

  Danny Rossi’s esteem in the tiny music community could not counteract the chagrin he felt after the humiliating destruction of his piano. He hated Eliot House, and even at times began to resent Master Finley for bringing him to this den of obnoxious pseudo-sophisticates.

  His disdain was reciprocated by most of the house members. And he ate almost every meal alone—except when Andrew Eliot would catch sight of him, sit down, and try to cheer him up.

  Ted Lambros’s growing involvement with Sara demonstrated the validity of the platonic notion that love draws the mind to higher planes. He got straight A’s in all his classics courses. Moreover, he no longer felt himself a total alien from campus life. Perhaps because he was spending so many afternoons a week at Eliot House.

  Andrew could only sit on the sidelines and marvel at how his classmates were developing. Petals were opening, blossoms emerging. Sophomore year was a glorious awakening for the entire Class.

  It had been a time of hope. Of confidence. Of boundless optimism. Almost every member of The Class left Cambridge thinking, We’ve only half-begun.

  When, in truth, it was half-over.

  Danny Rossi’s second summer at Tanglewood had been even more memorable than his first. Whereas in 1955 his most exalted task was, as he himself put it with self-deprecating humor, “polishing Maestro Munch’s baton,” in 1956 he actually got to wave it in front of the orchestra.

  The white-haired Frenchman had developed a grandfatherly affection for the eager little Californian. And, to the consternation of the other students at the Festival School, gave Danny every opportunity to make “real” music.

  When Artur Rubinstein came up to play the Emperor Concerto, for example, Munch volunteered Danny to turn the virtuoso’s pages during rehearsal.

  At the first break, Rubinstein, legendary for his prodigious musical memory, bemusedly demanded to know why the conductor had stuck so familiar a score in front of his face. To which Munch replied with a sly grin that it was for the page turner’s benefit. So that Danny Rossi could study the master up close. “The boy is on fire,” he added.

  “Weren’t we all at that age?” Rubinstein smiled.

  Moments later he invited Danny to his dressing room, to hear his interpretation of the concerto.

  Danny began hesitantly. But by the time he had reached the allegro of the third movement, he was too involved to be diffident. His fingers were flying. In fact, he stunned himself by the uncanny ease with which he played at such a frantic tempo.

  At the end he looked up, breathless and sweating.

  “Too fast, huh?”

  The virtuoso nodded, but with admiration in his eyes. “Yes,” he acknowledged. “But extremely good nonetheless.”

  “Maybe I was just nervous, but this keyboard made it feel like I was rolling down a hill. It sort of sped me up.”

  “Do you know why, my boy?” Rubinstein asked. “Since I am not gifted with great size, the Steinway people kindly manufactured this piano with the keys one-eighth smaller. Look again.”

  Danny marveled at Artur Rubinstein’s personal piano. For on it he, who was also not “gifted with great size,” could stretch a full thirteenth with ease.

  Then the master generously remarked, “Listen, we all know that I don’t need any pages turned. So why not stay here and play to your heart’s content?”

  On another occasion, at an outdoor run-through of Mozart’s Overture to The Marriage of Figaro, Munch suddenly gave a histrionic sigh of weariness and said, “This Massachusetts weather is too hot and humid for a Frenchman. I need five minutes in the shade.”

  He then motioned to Danny. “Come here, young man,” he said, extending his baton. “I think you know the piece enough to wave this stick in front of these musicians. Take over for a minute and be sure they behave.”

  With this he left Danny feeling very naked and alone on the podium before the entire Boston Symphony.

  Of course the orchestra had several assistant conductors and répétiteurs precisely for occasions such as this. And they stood on the sidelines burning with a lot more than summer heat.

  He was really high that night. And as soon as he got back to his boarding house, Danny phoned Dr. Landau.

  “That’s wonderful,” the teacher commented with pride. “Your parents must be delighted.”

  “Yeah,” Danny answered half-evasively. “I—uh—would you mind calling Mom and telling her about it?”

  “Daniel,” Dr. Landau answered gravely, “this melodrama with your father has gone on too long. Look, this is a perfect opportunity to make a gesture of conciliation.”

  “Dr. Landau, please try to understand. I just can’t bring myself to …” His voice trailed off.

  ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

  September 29, 1956

  Sex.

  I had given it a lot of thought all summer as I sweated my guts out at the construction job my father had so considerately arranged to enhance my acquaintance with physical labor. While my roommates, Newall and Wig, were off cruising the better beaches in Europe, the only thing I got to lay all summer was a lot of bricks.

  I returned to Harvard for junior year determined to succeed where I had never failed—because I’d never even had the guts to try.

  I was going to lose my virginity.

  Mike and Dick came home with these incredible tales of trysting the nights away with nymphs of every nationality and cup size.

  And yet peer pressure prevented me from asking either of them for advice—or more specifically for a phone number. I’d become the laughingstock of the Porcellian—not to mention Eliot House, the crew and probably even the biddies who served in the dining hall.

  In desperation I thought of trying the notorious bars around Scollay Square, but I couldn’t work up the courage to go on my own. And besides, the whole idea was kind of sordid.

  Who could help me?

  The answer became apocalyptically clear the first evening I returned to my library job. For there, grinding away at his usual table, was Ted Lambros.

  This time it was Andrew who begged Ted to come to his room for an urgent conversation.

  Ted was puzzled, since he had never seen his friend so agitated.

  “What’s up, Eliot?”

  “Uh. How was your vacation, Ted?”

  “Not bad, except I only got to see Sara for a couple of weekends. Otherwise it was just business as usual at The Marathon. Anyway, what’s your problem?”

  Andrew wondered how the hell he could broach it.

  “Hey, Lambros, can you keep a secret?” he asked.

  “Who’re you talking to, Eliot? We have a sacred tenant-landlord relationship.”

  Andrew opened another beer and took a long swig.

  “Uh—you know I’ve been going to boarding schools since I was eight. The only girls we ever got to see were the ones they trucked in for tea dances and stuff. You know, prissy little ice maidens.…”

  “Yeah,” Ted replied. “I know the type.”

  “Your high school was coed?”

  “Sure, that’s one advantage of not having bucks.”

  “So you must have been pretty young when you—uh—started going out with girls?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” he replied, treating the whole subject with an insouciant levity that suggested he was unaware of Andrew’s mounting anxiety.

  “How old were you when you had your first—you know—experience?”

  “Oh, about averag
e,” Ted replied. “Maybe a little old, actually. I was almost sixteen.”

  “Pro or amateur?”

  “Oh, come on, Eliot, you don’t pay for that sort of thing. It was a hot pants little sophomore named Gloria. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “How old were you when you lost it?”

  “Ted,” Andrew muttered uneasily, “this may kind of shock you.…”

  “Don’t tell me, Eliot—you did it at eleven with your nanny!”

  “I only wish. That’s what practically happened to Newall. No, what I wanted to tell you is—shit, this is so embarrassing—I still have it.”

  The instant he confessed, Andrew was frightened that his friend might laugh. But instead, after a moment of reflection, Ted looked at him with genuine sympathy. “Hey, you got problems or something?”

  “No—unless you call total fear a problem. I mean, I’ve had a lot of dates in the past few years, and I think some of them would have … cooperated. But I’ve been too scared to make the move. Because, frankly, Lambros, I’m not sure I have the technique. I mean, I’ve read all the books—Love Without Fear, The Ideal Marriage. But I’ve obsessed about it for so long that I’m scared of clutching at the crucial moment—if you know what I mean.”

  Ted put a paternal hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “My boy, I think you need what the football team calls a ‘practice scrimmage.’ ”

  “Yeah. But I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “Hey, no sweat, Andy. There are plenty of chicks from my high school still around Cambridge. They’d be tickled to go out with a Harvard man—especially a sophisticated guy from Eliot House.”

  “But, Ted,” he responded with frenzy in his voice, “they can’t be utter pigs. I mean, I’ve gotta be seen with them. You know, in the dining room, or on some kind of date.”

  “No, no. You don’t have to wine ’em and dine ’em. You just invite ’em to your room and let nature take its course. And don’t worry, the one I have in mind for you is really great-looking.”

  “Hey, not too good-looking. I want to start my career sort of at the bottom and work up. If you know what I mean.”