The Class

by Erich Segal

  Almost within hours he befriended an art student named Martine Pelletier, while she was admiring a Monet in the Jeu de Paume, and he was admiring her legs.

  As they strolled the boulevards together, Jason marveled at the Parisian way of life, and stopped to examine the multitude of posters plastered all over the street kiosks advertising cultural offerings. He was struck by one announcement in particular:

  Salle Pleyel.

  Pour la première fois en France

  la jeune sensation américaine

  DANIEL

  ROSSI

  pianiste

  “Hey,” he said proudly to Martine, “I know that guy. Shall we go and hear him?”

  “I would adore it.”

  And so by a harmonious cadence of fate, Jason Gilbert was present in the auditorium when Danny Rossi made his triumphant Paris debut.

  Backstage, Jason and Martine had to push their way through a stampede of reporters and assorted sycophants to get close enough to attract Danny’s attention. The star of the evening was delighted to see a classmate, and welcomed Jason’s attractive companion in swift, fluent, and courtly French.

  Jason proposed that they all go out for dinner, but Danny was committed to a private party to which, unfortunately, he was unable to invite them.

  Later that evening, as they were sharing thick onion soup in Les Halles, Martine asked Jason, “I thought this Danny Rossi was your friend.”

  “What makes you think he isn’t?”

  “Because he asked me to go to Castels tonight—without you.”

  “That cocky little runt, he thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”

  “No, Jason,” she smiled, “you are that. He is only God’s gift to music.”

  By late April 1959, Jason had had his fill of the memorabilia of things past and was burning to get back to the tennis courts. Regarding it as a kind of farewell tour, he had booked himself in as many international competitions as he could wangle.

  And yet even this aspect of his journey turned out to be educational. For he was learning how very far he was from being the best tennis player in the world. He could never get past a quarter final, and he began to reckon it a minor triumph if he won so much as a single set against a seeded player.

  At the Gstaad International Tennis Tournament in mid-July, he had the dubious honor of drawing as his first opponent Australia’s Rod Laver. Jason succumbed to the indomitable left-hander in straight sets, but was graceful in defeat.

  “Rod,” he commented as they shook hands afterward, “it was a real honor to be creamed by you.”

  “Thanks, Yank. Good on you.”

  Jason walked slowly off court shaking his head and wondering why he had been so slow that afternoon—or the ball so fast. A tall young woman with a chestnut ponytail approached him to offer friendly consolation.

  “You weren’t very lucky today, were you?” Her English had a strange, charming accent.

  “I wasn’t until now,” he replied. “Are you here to play?”

  “Yes, I am in the ladies’ singles tomorrow afternoon. I was just going to ask if you wanted to join up for the mixed doubles on Friday.”

  “Why? You’ve just seen how badly I play.”

  “I’m not that good either,” she answered candidly.

  “That means we’ll probably both be killed.”

  “But we could still have fun. Isn’t that what really counts?”

  “I was brought up to think that winning was all that mattered,” Jason said with lighthearted honesty. “But I’m revising my theories. So why not? It would be a pleasure to be defeated in your company. By the way, what’s your name?”

  “Fanny van der Post,” she replied, offering her hand. “I’m a university player from Holland.”

  “I’m Jason Gilbert, who, as you saw, is barely good enough to be a ball boy for Rod Laver. Can we discuss our court strategy over dinner tonight?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “I’m staying at the Boo Hotel in Saanen.”

  “What a coincidence,” Jason remarked. “So am I.”

  “I know. I saw you in the pub last night.”

  That evening, they drove in Jason’s rented VW Beetle to a three-hundred-year-old inn in Chloesterli.

  “My God,” said Jason, as they sat down, “this place is older than America.”

  “Jason,” Fanny smiled, “almost everything in the world is older than America. Haven’t you noticed that?”

  “Yeah,” he acknowledged, “this whole trip has been kind of a steamroller for my ego. I feel born yesterday and two feet tall.”

  “I tell you, Jason,” she said with a twinkle, “if you really want to learn what it’s like to be small, come to Holland. Once upon a time we were a big world power—we even owned Central Park. Now our only claim to fame is that we gave the world Rembrandt and the English word for ‘cookie.’ ”

  “Are all the Dutch so self-deprecating?”

  “Yes. It’s our sly way of being arrogant.”

  They talked nonstop for hours well into the early morning. By the time they said good night, he knew that this girl was very special.

  Fanny had been born on a farm near Groningen during the early years of the Second World War, and had lived through the terrible hunger that devastated her country as the conflict drew to a close. Despite the hardships of her childhood, she had a buoyant good humor and optimism that delighted him.

  And although Fanny had ambitions, they were not all-consuming. She was a medical student at Leiden, studying just enough to become a good doctor, and practicing just enough tennis to remain a decent player.

  Jason concluded on the basis of this single evening’s conversation that Fanny was the most balanced person he had ever met. She was neither an overly cerebral Radcliffe girl battling for a Med School professorship, nor a bubble-headed Long Island deb whose only goal in life was an engagement ring.

  Fanny had a talent he had not encountered in all the girls he’d dated in America. She was happy just being herself.

  As he sat in the grandstand watching her play that next afternoon, his admiration grew. Not only had she stayed up late the night before a match, but they had shared quite a bit of wine. He was certain that the Florida girl she was facing had been in bed by nine, after drinking a glass of warm milk.

  But Fanny was still good enough to make her opponent work for the victory. Her service was strong and accurate and was never broken until the second set, when the gritty American teenager began to wear her down. Fanny lost 5–7, 6–3, 6–1. Jason met her at the gate to the court with a towel and a glass of orange juice.

  “Thanks,” Fanny puffed, “but I’d really like a nice cold beer. Aggressive little devil, wasn’t she?”

  “Yeah,” replied Jason, “I bet her father would have spanked her if she lost. God, didn’t his shouting drive you crazy?”

  “No, I never hear anything when I’m playing. Anyway, I enjoyed myself.”

  They began to walk toward the changing rooms.

  “Hey,” said Jason, “you could be really great if you worked at it.”

  “Don’t be silly, tennis is a game. If I actually worked at it, it would become a job. Now, where would you like to have dinner tonight?”

  “I don’t know. Any suggestions?”

  “How about going to Rougemont for a fondue? It’s my turn to invite you anyway.”

  That evening they briefly discussed strategy for their doubles game. Since Fanny was shorter (though not by much), she would play net.

  “I’m counting on you to keep all the balls from even reaching me in the back court,” Jason joked.

  “Please don’t get your hopes up. I think somewhere in that competitive American brain of yours you imagine we actually have a chance of winning tomorrow.”

  “Well,” Jason conceded, “I confess it was on my mind. The two turkeys we’re playing may be worse than we are.”

  “Nobody in this tournament is worse than we are.”

  “Gosh, what a part
ner you are. You’re destroying my confidence.”

  “Nothing could destroy your confidence, Jason.” She smiled meaningfully.

  They almost won.

  Neither of the Spanish couple they were facing was a power hitter, and they actually took the first set with ease. Then gradually their opponents began placing their long, slow shots with greater accuracy, getting them past Fanny and making Jason run himself into exhaustion.

  After a marathon battle, he was sweaty and breathless from the sun and the thin Swiss air.

  Too tired even to go change, he simply sat on a bench and contemplated his fatigue. Fanny arrived with two paper cups of mineral water and sat down beside him.

  “Thank God we lost,” she said, wiping his face with a towel. “I don’t fancy the idea of another long afternoon like this. But I’ll tell you something, Jason. I think we played pretty well together for the first time. Next year we might even lose by a closer score.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t make it next year. I’ve got another engagement.”

  “Engagement?” she asked, misunderstanding. “You are engaged to someone?”

  “Yeah,” he replied, protracting the ambiguity. “My fiancée’s name is the United States Marines. I owe them my body for two years starting in September.”

  “What a waste of a nice body.” She smiled. “When are you going back?”

  “Oh, I’ve got another three weeks or so yet,” he answered. And then looked her in the eye. “Which I’d like to spend with you—and I don’t mean playing tennis.”

  “I think that could be arranged,” she replied.

  “I’ve got my VW,” he said. “Where would you like to go?”

  “Well, I’ve always wanted to see Venice.”

  “Why?” Jason asked.

  “Because it’s got canals like Amsterdam.”

  “I can’t think of a better reason,” he replied.

  They took their time, driving first through the mountain roads of Switzerland. Then down into Italy, spending a few days on the banks of Lake Como. And all the time they talked.

  Jason soon felt that he knew all her friends intimately and could practically list them by name. And Fanny discovered that her new boyfriend was a lot more complex than the handsome blond tennis player she had first admired across a crowded lobby.

  “What kind of American are you?” she asked, as they were picnicking by the lakeside.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, unless you are a red Indian, your family must have come from somewhere. Is Gilbert an English name?”

  “No, it’s just made up. When my grandparents came to Ellis Island, they were called Gruenwald.”

  “German?”

  “No. Russian. Russian Jewish, actually.”

  “Ah, then you are Jewish,” she said with apparent interest. “Well, only vaguely.”

  “How can one be only vaguely Jewish? It would be like being only vaguely pregnant, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, America’s a free country. And my father decided that since the religion didn’t mean anything to him, he might as well, as he put it, join the mainstream.”

  “But that’s impossible. A Jew cannot be anything but a Jew.”

  “Why not? You’re a Protestant, but couldn’t you become Catholic if you wanted to?”

  A look of incredulity crossed her face.

  “For an intelligent person you make such a naive argument, Jason. Do you think Hitler would have spared you and your family because you denied your faith?”

  He began to grow irritated. What was she driving at?

  “Why does everybody invoke Hitler in trying to convince me that I’m Jewish?” he asked.

  “My God, Jason,” she replied, “don’t you realize what the Atlantic Ocean spared you in your childhood? I grew up in the shadow of the Nazis. I saw them take our neighbors away. My family even hid a Jewish girl during the whole war.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “Eva Goudsmit. We grew up like sisters. Her parents owned a china factory and were—so they thought—pillars of the Dutch community. But that didn’t impress the soldiers who took them off.”

  “What happened to them?” Jason asked quietly.

  “The same thing that happened to millions of Jews all over Europe. After the war, Eva searched and searched. She went to all kinds of agencies, but they could find nothing. All they traced was a distant cousin living in Palestine. So when she finished school she went off to join him. We still keep in touch. In fact, every few summers I go and visit her kibbutz in the Galilee.”

  That conversation and several others like it in the weeks they spent together crystallized in Jason’s mind a firm desire to learn about his heritage. And ironically, he owed this resolution not to another Jew but to a Christian Dutch girl of whom he was growing fonder each day.

  He had wanted to drive her all the way back to Amsterdam and take the plane from there. But they both fell so in love with Venice that they lingered till it was nearly time for Jason to report for duty.

  Their parting at the airport disconcerted him. After they’d kissed and embraced dozens of times, Jason swore fervently that he would write her at least once a week.

  “Please don’t feel you have to say these things, Jason. It’s been very lovely and I’ll always think of you with affection. But we’d both be very silly to think that we’ll sit pining for each other for two years.”

  “Speak for yourself, Fanny,” he protested. “I mean, if you felt as strongly for me as I do for you—”

  “Jason, you’re the nicest man I’ve ever met. And I’ve never felt as close to anyone. Why don’t we just see what happens—as long as we have no false illusions.”

  “Have you read the Odyssey, Fanny?”

  “Yes, of course. The couple were separated for twenty years.”

  “So what’s twenty-four months compared to that?”

  “The Odyssey, my love, is a fairy tale.”

  “Okay, my cynical little Dutch girl,” Jason replied, affecting a John Wayne posture to impress her, “you just promise to answer every letter I write and we’ll see what happens.”

  “I promise.”

  They embraced a final time. He walked off toward his flight. As he reached the door of the plane he looked at the observation gate and saw her standing there.

  Even at that distance he could see tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Danny Rossi woke up slightly confused at finding himself in a strange, if lavish, hotel room. Because of his packed concert schedule he was used to changing bedrooms as often as pajamas. But he had always been sure of exactly where he was. What country. What city. What orchestra. What hotel.

  As he tried to clear the cobwebs from his mind, he perceived five glittering gold statuettes on the dresser just beyond the bed. Then it slowly began to come back to him.

  Last night had been the annual Grammy Awards ceremony, honoring the best achievements in the record industry. It had been held at a festive gala in the grand ballroom of the Century Plaza Hotel in Los Angeles. He had flown in just in time to register at the Beverly Wilshire, change into a tux, and hurry down to the limo where two PR toadies were waiting to escort him to the ceremony.

  Danny’s victory as best classical soloist was not unexpected. After all, the awards are as much for playing the media as playing an instrument. And he had become a master of both.

  While it was arguable that his interpretation of the complete Beethoven piano concerti was the best thing put on disk during the previous twelve months, it was indisputable that his publicity campaign was nonpareil.

  But what had created the stir last evening was the fact that he had won a second Grammy for best solo jazz album. This was the culmination of a pleasant little irony that had begun the night of his debut with the New York Philharmonic, when he had improvised all those show tunes at the party.

  The gentleman who had requested an audience did indeed contact him the following day. He turned out to be Edward Kaise
r, president of Columbia Records, and he was absolutely certain that there was a vast “crossover audience” that would lap up Danny’s musical trifles like cotton candy.

  At first Rossi on Broadway had a slow but steady sale based mainly on Danny’s gradually growing popularity. But his appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show launched him higher than astronaut John Glenn. It accelerated sales from three thousand to seventy-five thousand “units” per week.

  The Sullivan broadcast also came at an especially fortuitous time. For the evening it was aired, the Grammy ballots were in the mail to the voters. Earlier, smart money would have picked Count Basie as a surefire winner. But after Ed’s monotonal but hyperbolic introduction (“America’s great new musical genius”), it was a totally different ball game.

  Thus it was that Danny wrote another page of musical history—winning Grammies in both the classical and jazz categories in a single day. Indeed, as Count Basie himself was overheard to remark, he was “a lucky little pecker.”

  Who knows how many units per week they’d be selling after this!

  As Danny put the mosaic of his mind into place, he still could not account for the presence of all the gold statuettes glittering there in dawn’s early light.

  Where the hell had the others come from?

  But that, of course, might be explained once the mystery of why he was in this strange hotel room had been solved.

  He heard the sound of water running in the bathroom. Someone was performing morning ablutions. He had clearly shared the room and—from the look of it—the bed with someone the night before. Why was his normally razor-sharp memory in such a haze?

  Just then the crystal tones of a female voice sang out, “Good morning, honey.”

  And making an impeccably coiffed and diaphanously clad entrance from the bathroom, triple Grammy Award winner Carla Atkins appeared.

  “Hey, Carla,” Danny enthused, “you certainly were a hit last night.”

  “You weren’t too bad yourself, baby,” she cooed, creeping under the covers next to him.

  “I take it you’re not talking about the Grammies?” Danny asked with a smile.