The Class

by Erich Segal

  “Hell,” Carla laughed in her lower register, “those little statues aren’t any good in bed. I think the two of us deserve a special award, don’t you?”

  “I’m glad you think so,” Danny answered candidly. “I just wish I could remember more about my evening with America’s greatest vocalist. Did we drink anything?”

  “Oh, a little bubbly downstairs. Then when we got up here I broke open a few amies.”

  “Amies?”

  “Yeah, honey. Amyl nitrite. You know, those little pills with the invigorating smell. Don’t tell me that was your first time?”

  “It was,” Danny confessed. “Why can’t I remember if I enjoyed it or not?”

  “Because, baby, you were higher than a rocket ship. I had to stuff you with downers or you would have danced on the ceiling. Are you interested in some breakfast?”

  “Yeah, now that you mention it,” Danny replied. “What about five or six eggs and bacon and toast—?”

  Carla Atkins smiled. “I get the picture,” she said and picked up the phone to room service and ordered breakfast for “a quintet.”

  “Quintet?” Danny asked after she had hung up.

  “Yeah, baby—those little fellahs over there.”

  And she pointed at the five Grammies shining in a row.

  The stewardess offered him champagne.

  “No, thank you,” Danny said politely.

  “But, Mr. Rossi, you should be celebrating your victories,” the flight attendant said, smiling invitingly. She was very pretty. “Well, call me if you change your mind—and congratulations.”

  After lingering for yet another awkward second in the hopes that Danny would ask for her phone number, she went reluctantly off to attend to some of the other stars who were also flying that afternoon in the first-class cabin from Los Angeles to New York.

  But Danny was deep in thought. He was racking his brain to reconstruct what had occurred after he had walked into Carla Atkins’s hotel room.

  Little by little it was coming back to him. First, the thrill of being with the undisputed star of the evening. Then the thrill of being intimate with her. And then the sensation of those pills she had brought out.

  Yes, he remembered he had felt a kind of wild exhilaration. His heart beat faster merely in retrospect. They had certainly made him feel … vigorous. But then the stuff she used to bring him “down” had really fogged his brain.

  And he had forgotten to ask her what they were.

  ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

  December 20, 1960

  I’m getting married tomorrow. It should be very interesting.

  Newall’s stuck in Hawaii with the navy and can’t make it. But otherwise all my buddies will be there—including Ted and Sara Lambros, and even that nutcase, George Keller.

  Kind of because I admire him so, I’ve asked Jason Gilbert to be my best man. He agreed, but refused to wear his marine uniform, even though it would add flash to the occasion.

  Our church ceremony will be followed by a champagne reception at the Beacon Hill Club. After which we’ll fly to Barbados for our honeymoon, and then return to New York, where I’ll be starting as a trainee with Downs, Winship, Investment Bankers.

  I’m sure it will be a joyous experience—especially if I can figure out how this all happened to me so quickly.

  From one standpoint, I could say it was parental pressure. Although in our family that doesn’t exist. My father merely suggests things.

  When I was mustered from the navy last summer in time to join everybody up in Maine, he casually remarked that he supposed I’d be getting married one of these days.

  To which I dutifully replied that I supposed so. And that sort of concluded the conversation, except for his observation that, “After all, a man shouldn’t wait until he’s over the hill.”

  Seeing as there were no more decks to swab or naval reports to file, I was, to tell the truth, at a loss for things to do. Also, spending so much time at sea had only sharpened my desire to get more involved with the female sex. And I suppose marriage is as involved as you can get.

  Up until this year I had the romantic notion that getting married had something to do with love. But then, of course, having been isolated—first by Harvard and then by the vast ocean—I had no real idea what life was all about.

  Matter of fact, love is one of the few subjects on which my father had such strong feelings that he actually expressed them in a four-letter word. We were out fishing on the lake a few days later and I mentioned how touched I had been at Ted and Sara’s wedding. And how they were my ideal of what a loving couple should be.

  Dad looked at me with eyebrow raised and said, “Andrew, don’t you know love is … bosh?”

  I can’t pretend that I didn’t hear stronger language in the navy, but never from my father’s lips. He then patiently explained that when he was a boy the best marriages were not made in heaven, but over lunch at the club. Pity that sort of thing was going out of style.

  For example, his classmate, Lyman Pierce, chairman of Boston Metropolitan, had “an absolutely smashing daughter,” to whom, in the good old days, he would have arranged a splendid betrothal for me.

  I allowed that I was in no way averse to meeting smashing women and would be glad to call this lady up as long as it was on a friendly basis—and without obligation.

  To which my father replied that I wouldn’t regret it. And returned to his fishing.

  I had no great expectations when I dialed Faith Pierce at the Wildlife Preservation Fund, where she was a full-time volunteer. I assumed she would be a vapid, overprivileged, snobbish Brahmin. Well, she may have been a lot of those things, but she wasn’t vapid. And what absolutely amazed me when we met was that she was so good-looking.

  I mean, she was one of the prettiest girls I’d ever seen. I thought she gave Marilyn Monroe a fair run for her money (except that she had more money).

  What’s more, I liked her. She was that rare creature among the so-called bluebloods—a real enthusiast. Every activity to her was “a fun thing.” Whether it was tossing a football on the banks of the Charles, having a gourmet meal at Maître Jacques, or sex before marriage. Moreover, all her previous life could be subsumed under that same description.

  Her mummy and daddy hadn’t gotten along too well. But when they divorced and she was sent to boarding school at the age of six, it turned out to be “a fun thing.” Likewise the finishing school in Switzerland, where she picked up a terrific French accent—and one or two words to say with it.

  Skiing, sailing, riding, and sex (previously mentioned, I guess) also came under that category.

  And she’s a terrific gardener.

  I would describe our courtship as whirlwind—and I have no doubt how she would term it. In any case, we seemed to know so many people in common that I feared the only thing that would keep us from marrying would be some kind of incest by association.

  For the record, I’m not marrying Faith simply because our mutual fathers and mothers are fairly berserk about the whole idea.

  Knowing his deeply held views, I would never admit it to my dad, but secretly—I’m still a romantic.

  And I’m marrying Faith Pierce because she said something that no one has ever said to me in my entire life.

  Just before I proposed, she whispered, “I think I love you, Andrew.”

  One morning in late spring of ’62, Danny Rossi woke up alone. Not merely alone in bed, but feeling a pervasive emptiness in his entire life.

  How could this be? he asked himself. Here I am in my new Fifth Avenue duplex overlooking Central Park. In a minute a butler is going to walk through that door with my breakfast on a silver tray. He’ll also be bringing this morning’s mail, which will contain invitations to at least a dozen parties all over the world. And I suddenly feel unhappy.

  Unhappy? What a ridiculous thought. I’m the critics’ darling. I think if I sneezed during a concert they’d write it up as an exciting new interpretation of whatever I was play
ing. I can’t even walk from here to Hurok’s office without people calling out friendly greetings or asking for autographs.

  Unhappy? There isn’t an orchestra in the world that wouldn’t die to have me as a soloist. And now the commissions for symphonic compositions are starting to come in. Everybody seems to want me for my talent, as well as my personality—not to mention the innumerable lovelies who want me for my body.

  So why, with the platinum winter sun streaming brightly through the windows of my fantastic apartment, do I feel worse than I ever did when I was stuck in that lousy little practice room in my parents’ cellar?

  This was not, in fact, the first time he had had such thoughts. But now they seemed to be coming more frequently.

  What made matters worse, he had no official engagements for the day. No concerts, no rehearsals, not even an appointment with his hair stylist.

  This, of course, had been on his own insistence. Because he wanted to devote the day to composing the orchestral suite commissioned by the St. Louis Symphony. And yet now the prospect of being alone with sheafs of empty music paper depressed him.

  What could possibly be causing this melancholy?

  After breakfast he put on jeans and a Beethoven sweatshirt (the gift of an adoring fan) and climbed to his studio on the upper floor. There on his piano, where he had left it late the previous night, was his unfinished composition. And on an easy chair nearby, a magazine he had leafed through to relax and let his sleeping pill take effect.

  Perhaps just to avoid sitting down to work, he ambled over and picked it up again. It was the Harvard Alumni Bulletin that he had left open the previous evening at the Class Notes section.

  Why is it, he asked himself, only the boring guys write in their “achievements”? And what the hell makes them think that their marriages or even the birth of a kid would be of any possible interest to anybody else?

  Yet, despite his indifference, he sank once again into the chair and reread the list of new matrimonies and parenthoods that had been so somniferous the night before.

  Then, alone in his magnificent penthouse studio, almost involuntarily he made a confession to himself. This isn’t boring, really. It’s an account of all the joys in life that I’ve been missing. I mean, applause is heady stuff. But how long does it last? Five, ten minutes at the most. When everything is over I still come home and no one’s here except the staff. Sure it’s fun when I bring a woman back. But after all the physical excitement we don’t talk. I mean, it sometimes makes me feel more lonely.

  I want a wife, I think.

  I know I want a wife. But someone genuine I can share my life with—and my thoughts. And most of all—if this is possible—a woman who might like me for myself and not that phony PR image my publicity machine has manufactured.

  Come to think of it, who in my life has ever loved me for myself?

  Only … Maria.

  God, he had been stupid, letting his one real chance for a relationship slip through his fingers. And for the worst possible reason: because Maria did not act like every other woman and offer her body to the altar of his ego.

  How long had it been since he’d last seen her? Two years? Three years? By now she’d graduated from Radcliffe, probably married some nice Catholic guy, and was raising kids. Yeah, someone that fantastic doesn’t sit around and wait for Danny Rossi to call back. No, she’s got too much sense.

  Now he knew exactly why he was depressed. And also that there was nothing he could do about it.

  Or was there?

  Maria would be, say, twenty-three or twenty-four at most. Not every woman’s married by that age. Maybe she went to graduate school. Who the hell knows—maybe she even became a nun.

  Funny, he had always kept her Cleveland phone number. A semiconscious reminder that he had never surrendered hope.

  He took a deep breath and dialed.

  Her mother answered.

  “May I speak to Maria Pastore, please?” he asked nervously.

  “Oh, she doesn’t live at home anymore—”

  Danny’s heart sank. He was, as he had feared, too late.

  “—But I could give you the number of her apartment. May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Uh—it’s, uh—it’s Daniel Rossi.”

  “Oh my,” she responded. “I knew the voice was familiar. We’ve been following your career with enormous admiration.”

  “Thanks. Uh—is Maria well?”

  “Yes. She’s teaching dance at a girls’ school and enjoys it very much. She’s there now.”

  “Could you give me the address?” Danny interrupted.

  “Certainly,” Mrs. Pastore replied, “but I’d be glad to pass on a message.”

  “No, please. In fact, I’d be grateful if you didn’t say I called. I’d sort of like to … surprise her.”

  “One-two-three-plié. Now fourth position, girls. Tuck in at the back, please.”

  Maria was leading a ballet class of a dozen or so ten-year-olds at the Sherwood School for Girls. She was so involved that she barely perceived the studio door opening behind her. Yet something made her gaze into the mirror and see the reflection of a once-familiar figure.

  She was astonished. Incredulous. But before turning around she had enough presence to tell her charges, “Keep repeating those movements, girls. Laurie, you count the beats.”

  She then about-faced and walked to greet her visitor.

  “Hello, Danny.”

  “Hello, Maria.”

  They were both distinctly uneasy.

  “Uh—are you in town for a concert? I must have missed it in the papers.”

  “No, Maria, I flew out especially to see you.”

  That stopped the conversation cold.

  For several moments they stared at each other mutely while behind them ten-year-old Laurie counted cadence for the little dancers.

  “Did you hear me, Maria?” Danny said softly.

  “Yes. It’s just that I don’t know what to think. I mean, why after all this time—?”

  Rather than answer her question, Danny asked the more urgent one that had been burning in his brain during the entire flight to Cleveland.

  “Has some lucky guy nabbed you yet, Maria?”

  “Well, I’ve been sort of going with this architect.…”

  “Is it serious?”

  “Well, he wants to marry me.”

  “Do you ever think about me anymore?”

  She paused and then replied, “Yes.”

  “Well, that makes two of us. You’ve been on my mind.”

  “When do you have the time, Danny?” she asked with gentle sarcasm. “Your love affairs are so public I can read about them at supermarket checkout counters without even buying the paper.”

  “That’s somebody else. The real Danny Rossi is still in love with you. All he wants is a wife named Maria and lots of kids. Maybe half-a-dozen cute little dancers like those girls over there.”

  She looked at him quizzically.

  “Why me?”

  “Maria, it would take a hell of a long time to explain.”

  “Could you give me a brief outline in twenty-five words or less?”

  Danny knew that if he could not sway her now, he would never have another chance.

  “Maria,” he said earnestly, “I know the last time you saw me I was drunk with applause. I won’t lie to you and say that I don’t like it anymore. But I’ve realized it isn’t enough. My concerts may be packed, but my life is incredibly empty. Am I making any sense?”

  “You still haven’t answered my original question. Why me?”

  “This is kind of hard to explain, but since I’ve become—I guess famous is the word—everybody I meet says they love me. And I don’t believe a goddamn word of it. The only person I ever came close to trusting was you. I know you understand that I put on my cocky little show because deep down I don’t think that anybody could really care.”

  He paused and looked at her.

  “That’s slightly more th
an twenty-five words,” she replied softly.

  “How much do you believe?”

  Her answer was barely audible because she was on the verge of tears.

  “Everything,” she said.

  Though he never told a soul, it was the only educational experience that Jason ever enjoyed more than Harvard. The twenty-one-week course at the Marine Basic School in Quantico, Virginia, offered instruction in such unacademic subjects as leadership, techniques of military instruction, map reading, infantry tactics, and weapons, as well as the history and traditions of the corps. In addition, there was first aid, combat intelligence, vertical development operations, tank and amphibious operations, and, his favorite of all, physical training and conditioning.

  While the majority of the other college graduates were either fainting or groaning, or praying for it to end, Jason grew more elated with every pull-up, push-up, sit-up—and every mile he ran. He actually loved the obstacle course and spent some of his rare free moments trying to perfect his technique in negotiating it. His rifle became even more familiar to him than a tennis racket.

  Though he had been far from an outstanding student in college, he was determined to finish number one in this class.

  In the final week they took written examinations in military knowledge and skills, as well as practical tests in land navigation and techniques of military instruction. While Jason scored well in these, he was counting on the more sportslike contests to win him a gold medal.

  He qualified with extremely high scores in rifle and pistol marksmanship, but was still outshot by half-a-dozen country boys who’d used firearms all their lives. Still, he led everyone in the physical-fitness tests. And that was some consolation for his overall finish in fifth place.

  Second Lieutenant Jason Gilbert, USMC, took advantage of his first leave to write a long letter to Fanny explaining the reason for his silence. She answered briefly but warmly.

  I was really surprised to hear from you. Maybe the Odyssey is not such a fairy tale after all.

  Now it’s my turn to plead for your patience as I have my qualifying exams to study for. Afterward, when I’m working in a clinic, I’ll have time to write.