The Class (46 page)

interpretations are all silly nonsense-and have no basis in the text."

As Wylie sat down with an approving smile, Ted recognized

a frizzy-haired girl in the back row, frantically waving her hand.

She rose and began to declaim. "I think we're all missing the point here. Like I mean, bow are the guys you've been discussing relevant to now? I mean, I haven't heard the word politics mentioned once. I mean like, what was these Greeks' position on free speech?"

The audience groaned. Ted heard an "Oh shit" from somewhere in the crowd.

Bill Foster motioned to him that he could ignore the question if he wished. But Ted was high on approbation, and chose to address -himself to the student's query.

"To begin with," he observed, "since every Greek drama was performed for the entire population of the polls, it was inherently political. The relevant issues of the day were so important to them that their comic poets spoke of nothing else. And there were no restrictions on what Aristophanes and company could say-that's the Greek notion of parrhesia. in a sense, their theater is an abiding testimony to the democracy they helped invent,"

The questioner was stunned. First by the fact that Ted had taken her seriously-for she had intended to stir up a little intellectual anarchy-and second by the quality of his answer.

"You're cool, Professor," she mumbled and sat down. Bill Foster stood, glowing with pleasure.

"On that stirring note," he announced, "I'd like to thank Professor Lambros for a marvelous talk which was both logical and philological."

Ted felt triumphant.

The reception in their honor was held at the Fosters'

house in the Berkeley Hills. Everyone who was anyone in academia in the Bay Area seemed to be there, not to mention a certain distinguished professor from Oxford.

The mood was festive and the talk was all of Ted.

"I hear your lecture was even more exciting than our last student riot," Sally Foster joked. "I'm sorry I had to miss it. But somebody had to stay here and prepare the goodies. And

Bill insisted that my tacos would entice you to come to

Berkeley."

"I'm already enticed," said Sara Lambros, smiling happily. Sensing that her casual remark had made Ted slightly uneasy, Sally quickly added, "Of course, I'm not supposed to say that sort of thing, am P 1 always put my foot in my mouth. Anyway, Ted, I'm under strict orders to see that you keep circulating among the various literary lights."

And there was indeed a high-voltage group of San Francisco intellectuals. Ted -noticed Sara in animated conversation with a character who looked amazingly like the beat poet Allen Ginsberg. And on second glance, it was Ginsberg.

Ted had to meet the author of Howl, the radical ululation

in verse that had generated so much literary controversy in

- his undergraduate days. As he approached, he heard

Ginsberg describing some personal apocalyptic experience.

"Looking through the window at the sky, suddenly it seemed that I saw into the depths of the universe. The sky suddenly seemed very ancient. And this was the very ancient place that Blake was talking about, the sweet golden clime. I suddenly realized that this existence was it! Do you dig me, Sara?"

"Hi, honey," Ted smiled, "hope I'm not interrupting."

"Not at all," she answered and then introduced her husband to the bearded bard.

"Say, I hear you guys may be moving west," said Ginsberg,

"I hope you do-the sense of prana's real strong out here." Just then they were interrupted by Bill Foster.

"Sorry to break in, Allen, but Dean Rothschniidt is desperate to have a few words with Ted before he goes."

"That's cool. I'll be glad to continue fascinating Ted's old lady."

The Dean of Humanities wanted to express his admiration of Ted's lecture and ask if he could drop by his office at ten the next morning.

As Ted was returning to Sara, Cameron Wylie cornered him.

"I must say, Professor Lambros, your lecture was

absolutely first-rate. I look forward to reading it in print. And I do hope we'll have the pleasure of hearing you at

Oxford sometime."

"That would be a great honor," Ted replied.

"Well, when you get your next sabbatical I'll be happy to make some arrangements. In any case, I do hope we'll stay in

touch." -

A bolt suddenly struck the lightning rod of Ted's

ambition. Two days earlier, Cameron Wylie had spoken highly of his

- Sophocles book. This evening he was admiring the talk he had just delivered. Might not a letter from the Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford, repeating those same sentiments, tip the precarious balance at Harvard in Ted's favor? -

In any case, he could lose nothing by seizing this most propitious moment.

"Professor Wylie, I-uh--'-I was wondering if I could ask you a rather special favor...."

"Certainly," the don answered amiably.

"I-uh-I'll be coming up for tenure at Harvard next year, and I was wondering if you'd be willing to write on my behalf."

"Well, I've already composed rather a panegyric for the Berkeley people. I wouldn't mind saying the same sort of thing to Harvard. I won't ask why you would choose to endure

the cold Cambridge winters. In any case, it's past my bedtime and I must be off. Please say good night to Sara for me.

She's chatting with a rather hirsute character and I wouldn't want to catch his fleas."

He turned and marched off.

Ted smiled with elation. Within his chest the fires of aspiration burned brightly.

"You were fantastic, Ted. This was the proudest day of my life. You snowed everybody."

As they headed toward their room at the Faculty Club, Ted could hardly wait to tell her his good news. "Even old

Cameron Wylie seemed pretty impressed," he remarked casually.

-

"I know. I overheard him telling two or three people." - He closed the door behind them and leaned against it.

"Hey, Mrs. Lambros, what if I told you that we might not have to leave Cambridge?"

"I don't get it," Sara answered, a little off balance.

"Listen," Ted confided with intensity, "Wylie's going to write to Harvard for me. Don't you think a letter from him would boost me up into tenure heaven?"

Sara hesitated. She had been so elated this evening, so enchanted by the whole Berkeley experience, that this "good" news actually came as a disappointment. A double disappointment, in fact. Because in her heart she sensed that Harvard had already made up its mind and nothing could change it.

"Ted," she replied with difficulty, "I don't know how to say this without hurting your feelings. But all Wylie's letter can do is say you're a good scholar and a great teacher." -

"Well, Jesus, isn't that all there is to it? I mean, I

don't also have to run a four-minute mile, do I?"

Sara sighed. "Hey look, they don't need a letter from

Oxford to tell them what they already know. Face it, they're not just judging you as a scholar. They're voting to let you into their club for the next thirty-five years."

"Are you trying to suggest they don't like me?" -

"Oh, they like you all right. The question is, do they like you enough?"

"Shit," Ted said, half to himself, his euphoria suddenly tumbling into an abyss of desperation. "Now I don't know what the hell to do." -

Sara put her arms around him. "Ted, if it'll help any in this existential dilemma, I want you to know that you've always got tenure with me."

They kissed.

"Ted," Dean Rothschrnidt began the next morning,

"Berkeley's got a tenured slot in Greek Lit. and you're our unanimous first choice. We'd be willing to start you at ten thousand ayear." -

Ted wondered if Rothschmidt knew that he was offering him nearly three thousand more than he was currently earning at Harvard. On second thought, of course he did. And that was enough to buy a hell of a nice new car.

"And naturally we'd pay all your moving costs from the

East," Bill Foster quickly added.

"I-I'm very flattered," Ted replied.

The pitch was not over. Rothschmidt had further blandishment. "I don't know if Sara will recall, with all that madness at Bill's last night, but the gray-haired gentleman she spoke with briefly was Jed Roper, head of the U.C. Press. He's

prepared to offer her a junior editorship-salary to be negotiated."

"Gosh," Ted remarked, "she'll be thrilled." And then he added as casually as possible, "I assume I'll be getting a formal offer in writing."

"Naturally," the dean replied, "but it's just a bureaucratic formality. I can promise you this is a firm offer."

This time he took Whitman to lunch at the Faculty Club.

"Cedric, if there still is any enthusiasm for my being kept at Harvard, I think I've got some new ammunition." His mentor seemed pleased at what Ted reported~ "Well, I

think this strengthens your case considerably. I'll ask the chairman to call Wylie for his letter so we can bring up your tenure at the next departmental meeting."

My tenure, thought Ted. I actually heard him say my tenure.

The formal vote took place twenty-four days later. The department had for their consideration Ted's bibliography

(four articles, five reviews), his book on Sophocles (and the critiques of it, which ranged from "solid" to "monumental"), and various letters of recommendation, some from experts in the field whose names Ted would never know. But one certainly from the Regius Professor at Oxford.

Ted and Sara waited nervously in the Huron Avenue

apartment. It was nail-biting time. They knew the meeting had begun at four, and yet by five-thirty there was still no

word.

"What do you think?" Ted asked. "Is it a good sign or a bad sign?"

"For the last time, Lambros," Sara said firmly, "I don't know what the hell is going on. But you have my fervent

conviction both as wife and classicist that you truly deserve tenure at Harvard."

"If the gods are just," he quickly added.

"Right." She nodded. "But remember, in academia there are no gods-just professors. Quirky, flawed, capricious human beings."

The phone rang. Ted grabbed it.

It was Whitman. His voice betrayed nothing.

"Cedric, please, put me out of my misery. How did they vote?"

"I can't go into details, Ted, but I can tell you it was very, very close. I'm sorry, you didn't make it."

Ted Lambros lost the carefully polished Harvard veneer he had worked a decade to acquire, and repeated aloud what he had said ten years earlier when the college had denied him a full scholarship.

"Shit."

Sara was immediately at her husband's side, her arms around him consolingly.

He would not hang up till he asked one final burning question. - -

"Cedric," he said as calmly as possible, "may I just know

the pretext-.-uh-I mean the grounds-I mean, in general terms, what lost it for me?"

"It's hard to pinpoint, but there was some talk about

'waiting for a second Big Book.'"

"Oh," Ted responded, thinking bitterly, there are one or two tenured guys who still haven't written their first big book. But he said nothing more.

"Ted," Whitman continued with compassion in his voice,

"Anne and I want you to come to dinner tonight. It's not the end of the world. It's not the end of anything, really. So will you come?"

"Dinner tonight?" Ted repeated distractedly. Sara was strenuously nodding her head.

"Uh, thanks Cedric. What time would you like us?"

It was a warm spring night and Sara insisted that they walk the mile or so to the Whitmans' house. She knew Ted needed time to gain some equilibrium.

"Ted," Sara said as he shuffled dejectedly, "I know there are at least a dozen four-letter words going around in your head, and I think for the sake of sanity you ought to shout them right out here in the street. God knows, I want to scream too. I mean, you got screwed."

"No. I got royally screwed. I mean, a bunch of uptight bastards just played lions and Christians with my career. I feel like kicking in - their goddamn mahogany doors and beating the shit out of all of them."

Sara smiled. "Not their wives too, I hope."

"No, of course not," he snapped~

And then, realizing the childishness of his outburst, he began to laugh.

They both giggled for a block until suddenly Ted's laughter turned into sobs. He buried his head on Sara's shoulder as she tried to comfort him.

"Oh God, Sara," he wept, "I feel so stupid. But I wanted it so bad. So goddamn bad."

"I know," she whispered tenderly. "I know."

F

or Stuart and Nina it was the greatest summer of their

lives. -Every morning he would get on his bike and pedal over to the Rossi house, often passing Maria and her two girls in the station wagon on their way to enjoy Edgar Waldorf's stretch of private beach with Nina and the boys.

Stu would return in the early evening, at once exhausted

and overstimulated, grab Nina by the hand, and take her for a long walk by the sea.

"How's the great classical composer at writing show tunes?"

- she asked during one of their promenades.

"Oh, the guy's so fantastically versatile he could write a rondo with his left hand and ragtime with his right. But he doesn't pander." -

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he doesn't underestimate the intelligence of his audience. Some of his melodies are-you know-pretty complex." -

"I thought the secret of success on Broadway was simplicity," Nina remarked.

"Don't worry, hon. he isn't writing Wozzeck."

"This is exciting. I mean, I know your words are terrific. But I'd really like to hear what Danny's done with them. Apparently, Maria tells me, he hasn't even played anything for her."

"Well, every artist's temperament is different, I guess,"