The Class (27 page)

represent him. He went as far as to promise Danny the chance to play with major orchestras as early as next year.

"But, Mr. Hurok, I'm a total unknown."

"Ah," the old man smiled, "but I am not. And most of all, the symphony directors I will contact trust their ears."

"You mean there were some in the audience tonight?"

"No," Hurok smiled, "but Maître Munch thought it might be useful if he had this evening's concert taped. With your permission, I could make very good use of those reels."

"Gosh-"

"Hi, Mr. Hurok," Arthur Rossi interposed. "I'm Danny's dad. If you would like, we could have breakfast in the morning."

Danny shot a withering glance at his father, and then

turned back to the impresario. "I'm very flattered, sir. If we could talk some other time-"

"Of course, of course," Hurok said with enthusiastic understanding. "We'll chat again when you're less busy." He then politely said good night and left with the director. Now there were only four of them. Danny, his parents, and Maria.

"Well," Arthur Rossi jested, smiling at Maria, "here we

are, just us Italians." He was avoiding Danny's gaze. For he knew that just a moment earlier he had overstepped the

newly redrawn boundaries of their father-son relationship. And he was afraid of Danny's anger. -

"With everyone's permission," said Gisela Rossi, "I would like very much to drink a toast to someone who was here tonight only in spirit." -

Danny nodded and they raised their glasses.

"To Frank Rossi-" his father began.

And then suddenly stopped himself as he heard his younger son whisper, with supreme self-control, "No, Dad, not tonight."

There was a silence. Then Mrs. Rossi murmured, "To the memory of Gustave Landau. Let us pray that God let Danny s music go to heaven tonight so such a fine man could take pride."

They drank somberly.

"That was Danny's teacher," she told Maria.

"I know," she answered softly. "Danny's told me all about how much he-loved him."

There was a sudden pause as no one knew what to say next. At last Maria spoke again. "1 don't want to spoil the

party, but it's kind of late. I think I'd better take a taxi home to Radcliffe."

"If you can wait a minute," Danny offered, "I'll be glad

to take you and then have the driver drop me back at Eliot."

"No, no," she protested. "I mean, the orchestra's given

you this terrific suite. It will be a lot more fun than just a metal bed in a Harvard house,"

Maria suddenly felt a tinge of embarrassment at the way

she had put her last remark. Would that give the elder Rossis the impression that she'd been in Danny's bedroom?

In any case, before she knew it, Arthur and Gisela had

said good night and headed for their own room farther down the corridor.

Danny and Maria stood side by side in the descending elevator, looking straight ahead.

As they were heading for the door, Danny stopped her gently. "Hey, Maria," he whispered, "let's not separate

tonight. I want to be with you. I mean, I want to share this special night with someone I really love."

"I'm tired, Danny, honestly I am," she answered softly.

"Maria, listen," Danny pleaded, "come upstairs with me. Let's share that room-and be a couple."

"Danny," she responded tenderly, "I know what all this

meant to you. But we really don't belong together. Especially after tonight."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw you change up there. I'm happy for your big

success, but you've just entered a whole new world where I

don't feel comfortable at all."

He tried not to be angry, but he couldn't help it.

"Is that just another excuse for saying you won't come to bed with me?"

"No," Maria whispered with emotion in her voice, "I saw tonight that there's no room for anybody in your life. The spotlight isn't big enough."

She turned and started walking through the darkened lobby

-toward the exit.

"Maria, wait!" he called. His voice echoed slightly in the marble hall.

She stopped and said, "Please, Danny, don't say any more.

I'll always have the fondest memories of you."

Then she said barely audibly, "Goodbye." And disappeared through the revolving door.

Danny Rossi stood in the deserted lobby on the night of

his greatest triumph, rent by feelings of elation and a sense of loss. But finally, there in the darkness, he convinced himself that this was the price he had to pay.

For fame.

T

ed and Sara were now totally inseparable. They took almost all the same courses, and their conversations- except when making love-were mainly about the classics.

They even chose congenial topics for their senior theses.

Sara got Professor Whitman to direct her essay on Hellenistic Portrayals of Eros-focusing on Apollonius of Rhodes. And Ted got Finley himself to supervise his dissertation, which compared Homer's two great antithetical female characterizations, Helen and Penelope.

Every afternoon they sat opposite each other in Widener Library grinding away, punctuating their assiduity by passing silly notes to each other in Latin or Greek.

At about four o'clock they would join the exodus of jocks

who were on their way to practice. Only - their field of play was in Andrew's new room.

And yet, since they had returned to Harvard for their senior year, they were both increasingly aware that their entire idyll, like the halcyon days of college, had

eventually to reach its conclusion. Or perhaps some sort of consummation.

Ted had applied to Harvard Graduate School in Classics,

and Sara was toying with doing the same, although her parents had indicated that they might be willing to subsidize a year of European study. -

This was by no means an expression of disapproval of her relationship with Ted. For they had never met him and knew little, if anything, about him. -

Sara, on the other hand, had become a regular weekly guest

at the Lambros's Sunday dinners and felt almost a part of the family-which was what Mama Lambros prayed each week she would become.

They were not ambivalent about the future, these

passionate lovers of the classics and each other. They never discussed marriage. Not because either of them doubted the other's will to wed, but simply because they both took it for granted that their commitment to each other was for life. The ceremony would be just a formality.

They both knew that the Greek words for man and woman

- also meant husband and wife. And thus semantically, as well as spiritually, they were already married.

George

returned to Eliot House for his senior year feeling as much or more American and Harvardian

than his classmates.

Since his need for study was so great, he had amicably separated from his preppie roommates and moved into a single.

"Now you can keep yourself up all night," Newall had jested.

George felt like an artillery officer. He had spent his junior year at Harvard getting his bearings. He had passed

the summer taking aim-selecting an ideal senior thesis. After all, who was better suited to write on "The Hungarian Revolution as Portrayed by the Soviet Press"? As Dr. K. strongly hinted, it could be publishable.

He was now ready to use his newly acquired ammunition to eliminate all barriers in his path to political triumph. But what, in fact, was he after? This was the question

Kissinger asked him the afternoon the seminar ended, as they sat in his air-conditioned office sharing congratulatory glasses of iced tea.

"You could be a professor at Harvard," Henry assured him.

"I know." George smiled. "But is that where your ambitions stop, Henry?"

With the tables turned, his mentor laughed uneasily and tried to answer with deflecting jocularity.

"Well," he laughed, "I of course would not mind becoming the emperor. Would you?"

"I would not even mind being President," George smiled,

"but even you are ineligible for that. There, Henry, we must share similar disappointments. We are fated both of us never to reach the top." - -"I beg your pardon, Mr. Keller," Kissinger said, his index finger raised. "You seem to be under the mistaken illusion that the men in the White House actually run the country. Let me quickly disabuse you. They are mostly quarterbacks who rely heavily on their coach's advice. You and I, George, are both in a position to become indispensable advisers. That would be exciting, don't you think?" -

"You mean what attracts you is sort of the power behind the throne?" -

"Not exactly. What interests me is what one can achieve with power. Splendid things, believe me."

George nodded, with a grin. He raised his glass and toasted, "More power to you, Henry."

J

ason Gilbert returned to Cambridge from a summer of Marine

Corps training tanned and fit. More muscular than ever. As soon as he arrived, he headed over to see Eliot and Newall in their new double, free from the mad Hungarian.

There was ice-cold - beer and tales of love and war to tell. Newall, in the naval ROTC program, had spent the summer touring the Pacific on an aircraft carrier. Before returning home he went, as he put it, "totally berserk" for a week in Honolulu. Which he gleefully recounted in minute detail. Jason's summer in the blazing southern sun bad been a

little different. First there was the drill sergeant who really had it in for all the Ivy League boys. At one point, for some petty infraction, the guy had made him jog around the base in combat boots and full pack for a whole hour in the blazing sun.

"That must have killed you," Eliot remarked while opening a second beer.

"It wasn't all that bad," Jason said casually. "I was in shape, remember. But, of course, I acted like I was about to have a heart attack."

"Good ploy," said Newall. "I hear those Marine types can be sadists anyway."

"I actually felt sorry for the guy," Jason said unexpectedly.

~'How come?" Newall asked.

"I kind of understand why he was riding us so hard in

camp," he explained, somewhat subdued, "'cause off the base, life in Virginia isn't all that great if you're not white.

"One Saturday when we were off, the guys went into town to gorge ourselves on ice cream. We were sitting there in Howard Johnson's when this sergeant happened to pass by. And,

asshole that I am, I waved to him to come and join us."

"What's wrong with that?" asked Andrew.

~"You won't believe this, but he just stood out there and gave us all the finger. And on Monday we were doing so damn many push-ups we were almost living on the ground."

"I don't get it," Andrew said. "1 mean, you guys were only being friendly, weren't you?"

"Of course, but naive Jason Gilbert hadn't clicked that

off the base, the town of Quantico is segregated like before the Civil War. Can you believe this member of the U.S. military was not allowed to have an ice cream in that place with us? That's why he was so pissed off. He thought that we were mocking him."

"No shit," said Newall. "That's amazing in this day and

age. Christ, Gilbert, - bet that made you happy that you're only Jewish."

Jason, staring at his teammate and supposed friend, deflected the unwitting insult like a skillful boxer.

"Newall, I'll forgive that last remark because I know you're congenitally stupid."

The eternal mediator, Andrew Eliot, deftly changed the subject. "Hey, listen, guys, I've got the latest Freshman Register. Why don't we check out the new crop and get our bids in early, huh?"

"Sounds good to me," said Newall, happy to move back to neutral ground. "What do you say, old Gilbert? Shall we cast