The Class

  I had to explain to him very tactfully that they would mind very much. George finally agreed to go and sit in the house library from four to six-thirty on the days Ted and Sara are in temporary residence.

  Now here’s a shocker. I have no idea what time he goes to bed. In fact, I have the sneaking suspicion that the guy doesn’t sleep at all! And I had this really weird experience late the other night.

  After a hard session of drinking at the Porc, nature obliged me to get up at around 2:00 A.M. As I was standing in the john taking care of my needs, I suddenly heard this ghostly voice emanating from the shower, saying things like, “begin-began-begun, bite-bit-bitten, sing-sang-sung.”

  I called out to George, but, instead of answering me directly, he simply went on rehearsing his verbs in that tile echo chamber.

  Then I pulled back the shower curtain. There he was, naked except for his new à la mode jockey shorts, holding an English grammar. He barely noticed me as he droned on, hammering new words into his head.

  I warned him that he’d drive himself to death. To which he replied, “Drive-drove-driven.”

  I went to the sink, picked up a glass of cold water, and poured it over his head. He shivered and looked at me with comatose astonishment, then ripped the curtain from my hand, slammed it closed, and continued his verbal gymnastics.

  “Show-showed-shown, speak-spoke-spoken.”

  Shit, I thought. He can kill himself for all I care.

  I shut the bathroom door behind me so that at least Newall could have some peace, staggered back to my bed, and went to sleep.

  Or, as George would have put it, sleep-slept-slept.

  “Hello, Dad. It’s Jason. I’ve got some great news.”

  “I can’t hear you, son. There’s a terrific racket going on behind you. Where are you calling from?”

  “Racket’s a good word for it. The whole squash team’s in my room. They just voted for next year’s varsity captain and for some stupid reason they chose me.”

  “Son,” the elder Gilbert said elatedly, “that’s just terrific news. I can’t wait to tell your mother. And you know what? I bet you’ll be tennis captain, too.”

  As Jason hung up, he felt a kind of vague, inexplicable sadness. For his dad’s last remark had unsettled him. After all, he had been calling to announce a great success. And though his father was obviously delighted, he had concluded with the pretty unsubtle expectation that his son would bring him still more glory. Where would it end?

  “Hey, Captain,” Newall interrupted giddily, “are you still sober?”

  “Yeah.” Jason laughed. “Couldn’t let my dad think we were all a bunch of drunken bums, which naturally we are.”

  His teammates roared appreciatively. There were a dozen of them crowded in his little room, plus several hangers-on including Ted and Sara. Andrew Eliot had brought them along to get a glimpse of the more athletic creatures in the Harvard bestiary.

  Originally Newall had intended these festivities to be a surprise. But then George Keller had refused to let them use their own room to hold the party. Newall had no alternative but to tell Jason in advance, so they could use his suite.

  “How is that dingbat?” Jason asked, while pouring out a Bud. “I bet he’s out memorizing the Encyclopedia Britannica by now.”

  “Don’t laugh,” cautioned Andrew. “Besides studying like a maniac for all his courses, he also reads every inch of The New York Times—including real estate and recipes—and writes down every word he doesn’t know.”

  “And that includes the Sunday edition,” Newall added, “when the goddamn paper’s practically as long as War and Peace.”

  “Well,” said Jason, “you gotta admire a guy like that.”

  “I’ll be happy to admire him,” Newall retorted, “if only someone else would room with him.”

  Suddenly the members of the squash team started clinking glasses and calling boozily for silence. It was time to toast their newly chosen captain. The most eloquent of them was Tod Anderson, former Andover captain, now number three on the varsity.

  Tod raised his glass and spoke a tribute appropriate for such a gathering of jocks. “To our beloved new leader, Jason Gilbert, ace racket-man and incomparable ass-man. May his shots in court drop as often as his shorts in bed.”

  Just after seven, the final partyers began to disperse, and the squash team, as prearranged, started strolling through the streets of Cambridge toward the Hasty Pudding Club. Thursday was steak night, the best buy in Cambridge for $1.75.

  As they trooped down Mount Auburn toward Holyoke Street, the knights of the Harvard Squash Varsity broke into a euphoric variant of the college’s most popular fight song:

  With Gilbert in triumph flashing

  Mid the strains of victory

  Poor Eli’s brains we are smashing

  Into blue obscurity …

  They grew only slightly more sedate as they shuffled up the wooden steps of the clubhouse, at number 12, and mounted the stairs, past two centuries of theatrical posters, to the dining room where Newall had reserved a large table for the entire group.

  Naturally they put Jason at the head, which cheered him immensely, because his prominent position drew the attention of every other Pudding member’s date. To these ordinary mortals’ discomfiture, their female guests kept smiling at the man of the hour. And he smiled disarmingly back at them.

  At about ten o’clock Jason, Andrew, and Dickie Newall were weaving their way back to Eliot House when something occurred to the captain-elect.

  “Hey,” he remarked, “I didn’t see Anderson at dinner. Did he duck the party or something?”

  “C’mon, Jason,” Newall responded with liquid lightheartedness, “you know Tod’s not a member of the Pudding.”

  “How come?” asked Jason, surprised that such a popular athlete should not be in the eating society that took almost a third of all upperclassmen.

  “Haven’t you noticed that Anderson’s a Negro?” Newall chided.

  “So what?” said Jason.

  “Come on, Gilbert,” Dickie continued, “the Pudding’s not that liberal. I mean, we’ve still got to keep somebody out.”

  Thus, even on the night of such personal triumph, Jason Gilbert was once again reminded that although all Harvard undergraduates are equal, some are more equal than others.

  Professor Samuel Eliot Morison was among the most eminent members of the Harvard faculty, and by far the most prolific. Renowned for his many volumes of naval history and his chronicles of Harvard, this distinguished gentleman was also, as his middle name suggests, vaguely related to the Eliot in The Class of ’58.

  Andrew had been gliding along for almost three years now, flitting like a bee from major to major (English, American studies, even Ec. for a few silly weeks). But now his senior tutor sent him an ultimatum: he had to choose a subject and stick to it. Knowing that he had to graduate from Harvard with a degree in something, he was panicked into seeking professional advice.

  Gathering his courage, he wrote Professor Morison a note. And was agreeably surprised to receive an immediate invitation to visit the great man in his map-lined office deep in the stacks of Widener.

  “What a real pleasure,” he remarked as they shook hands. “I see before me living proof that old John Eliot’s line is vibrant still. I knew your father when he was an undergraduate and tried to get him to help me a bit with my colonial history. But I guess the banking branch seduced him.”

  “Yes,” Andrew averred politely, “Dad is sort of fond of money.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” said Morison, “especially since so much Eliot philanthropy has helped to build this college. My own namesake, Samuel Eliot, endowed the first professorship of Greek back in 1814. Tell me, Andrew, what’s your major?”

  “That’s just it, sir. I’m a junior and I still haven’t made up my mind.”

  “What do you think you’ll be doing after college?”

  “Well, naturally, I’ll have to do some military s
ervice—”

  “The Eliots have long served with honor in the navy,” he commented.

  “Yes, sir, Admiral Morison,” Andrew replied. But did not tell him that that was why he was thinking of the army.

  “And after that?”

  “I guess Dad expects me to be some sort of banker.” After all, he thought, I’m coming into so much dough in four years I’ll at least have to visit where the bonds are kept. That’s sort of banking, isn’t it?

  “Well, then,” said Morison, “you’ll have a fine vocation. Now you ought to choose a major that will give you some enriching avocation. Have you ever thought about the history of your own family?”

  “Dad never lets me forget it,” Andrew responded with honesty and some discomfort. “I mean, while I was still in diapers he was already lecturing me about our noble Heritage. To be frank sir, it’s a bit off-putting. I mean, over pablum I was hearing about John Eliot, the Apostle to the Indians, and great-granddad Charles, the famous Harvard President. I was practically smothered by the foliage on our family tree.”

  “But you’ve just leapfrogged several centuries,” the admiral remarked. “What about the Revolutionary War? Do you know where all the Eliots were during ‘the times that tried men’s souls’?”

  “No, sir. I just assumed they were shooting off their muskets around Bunker Hill.”

  Now the professor smiled. “Then I think I have some enlightenment for you. The eighteenth century Eliots were splendid diarists. And we have records in their very words of what they saw and did during the Revolution.

  “Andrew, I can think of nothing more exciting, especially for an Eliot, than studying what Harvard graduates were up to at that time. It could be a splendid topic for a senior thesis.”

  At this point Andrew had to confess. “Sir, I think I should tell you that my grades are not exactly at the honors level. They’d never let me write a dissertation.”

  The great historian smiled.

  “Then you can have the essence of true education, Andrew. I’ll arrange for you to have tutorial with me, and well go through the Eliot diaries together. Grades won’t enter into it. Just reading them will be their own reward.”

  Andrew left Morison’s office almost breathless with elation. Now there was a chance that in addition to receiving a diploma, he might even get an education.

  Danny Rossi was torn.

  At times he desperately wanted the rehearsals of Arcadia to end, so the damn ballet would be performed and close. Then he would never have to see Maria again.

  At other times he wished the preparations would go on forever. Six afternoons a week in February and March he had to sit for several hours at the keyboard as Maria put the ballet on its feet. Drilling the dancers, demonstrating the movements, and often coming over to lean on the piano and ask the composer’s advice.

  It was that damn blue leotard of hers. No, how could he blame the garment when what was driving him crazy was the body it so tantalizingly accentuated.

  Perhaps the worst part of all was when they would go out for a bite afterward to discuss how the ballet was going. She was so warm and friendly, and their conversations would go on for hours. Agonizingly, these evenings grew more and more to seem like dates. Yet Danny knew they weren’t.

  Once, when she had Asian flu, he went to visit her in the Infirmary and brought a flower. He sat down by her bed and tried to cheer her up with silly anecdotes. She laughed a lot and, when he rose to leave, said, “Thanks for coming, Danny. You’re a pal.”

  That’s all he was, goddammit, just a lousy pal. And yet how could it be otherwise? She was beautiful and confident—and tall. And he was none of these.

  And worst of all, what pretext could he possibly invent to see her once the performances had ended?

  Opening night finally arrived. All the self-styled Harvard cognoscenti assembled in Radcliffe’s Agassiz Theater to sit in judgment on Maria Pastore’s choreography and Daniel Rossi’s score.

  Danny was too involved conducting to notice how it was going, although at several points the audience burst into applause. Was it for the music or the dance?

  • • •

  Since most of the performers were abstemious, the party was held in an adjacent rehearsal room, where brackish Kool-Aid punch was served and a few daring souls drank beer.

  Harvard theatrical premieres are just like those on Broadway in one respect. The performers all sit up waiting for the reviews. The only difference is that in Cambridge they merely keep vigil for the verdict of the Crimson.

  At about eleven, someone sprinted in with Sonya Levin’s comments for tomorrow’s Crime. For a journal by implicit policy supercilious, the review began with some pretty enthusiastic remarks about Maria’s choreography, which was deemed “dynamic and imaginative, with touches of lighthearted invention.”

  Then Miss Levin turned her attention to Danny Rossi. Or rather her guns. In her opinion,

  the music, though ambitious and energetic, was, to say the least, derivative. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but Stravinsky and Aaron Copland could justifiably ask Rossi to pay royalties.

  To Danny’s consternation, this was all being read aloud by the stage manager, who was growing steadily uneasier as he recited.

  Danny was stung. Why was this sarcastic Crimson smartass trying to make herself look good at his expense? Did she have any idea how this would hurt?

  He felt a sudden urge to run out of the room. Just as he stood, there was a hand on his shoulder. It was Maria.

  “Hey, Danny—”

  “Don’t bother,” he muttered bitterly. He could not turn around and face her. And forgetting he had left his parka folded on a backstage chair, he started slowly out of the room.

  As soon as he reached the stairway he quickened his pace. He had to get the hell out of there. To escape all those pitying glances.

  When he reached the ground floor he noticed the sign pointing toward the public telephone and remembered his promise to call Dr. Landau as soon as the performance was over.

  Oh, shit, no. How can I repeat those crushing things that bitch reviewer said? In fact, how could he ever call his teacher now? He was a failure. A conspicuous and public failure. Like that long-ago day on the high school track.

  He pushed open the glass door and walked out into the cold March night, insensitive to the harsh wind hitting his face. He was too preoccupied with the thought that this unexpected turn of events would deprive him of his beloved teacher’s respect.

  Danny always knew he would be Landau’s last pupil. And he wanted to be his best.

  He could go no farther. He sat down on the stone steps and put his head in his hands.

  “Hey, Rossi, what are you doing there? You’ll catch pneumonia.”

  Maria was standing above him, just outside the door.

  “Go away, Pastore. You shouldn’t hang around with second-raters.”

  Ignoring his words, she came down and sat a step below him.

  “Listen, Danny, I don’t care what Sonya says. I think your music’s brilliant.”

  “Everybody in the college’s gonna read that tomorrow morning. That’ll give those bastards in Eliot House a few laughs.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she replied. “Most of those preppies can’t read anyway.” And then added gently, “I only wish you’d believe that I hurt just as much as you.”

  “Why? You got good reviews.”

  “Because I love you.”

  “You can’t,” he answered as an unwilling reflex. “You’re much too tall.”

  She could not help laughing at this absurd reaction.

  Then he began to laugh as well. And reached down and drew her toward him. They kissed.

  After a moment Maria gazed at him and smiled. “Now it’s your turn.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, is this a one-way thing or not?”

  “No,” he answered softly. “I love you too, Maria.”

  They did not feel the chill wind blow
as they continued to embrace.

  Harvard spring vacations can mean many things to many people.

  Seniors stay in place to finish off their dissertations, which are due the day that classes recommence. The more affluent undergraduates fly off to Bermuda for that fabled rite known as College Week. The program includes sunning, sailing, waterskiing, calypso dancing, and—at least hypothetically—seducing the girls who flock there for most of the same reasons.

  Spring normally visits Cambridge in name only. And athletic muscles need the vernal warmth to tone them for the crucial competitions yet to come.

  The track team gets to fly to Puerto Rico. Which sounds more exotic than it is. Because, unlike the tourists on the beaches of Bermuda, the harriers get up at 5:00 A.M., go ten miles before breakfast, and then sleep all day until it’s time to run again that afternoon. Few have the energy, or even the desire, to seek out se[unclear]oritas in the evening.

  Tennis, golf, and baseball tour the southern states to limber up, competing against some of the local universities. These teams live less ascetically than the runners, and thus have reservoirs of energy for nighttime entertainment. After dinner they strut through the richly landscaped campuses wearing an irresistible lodestone for the lovely southern coeds: sweaters with that noble H.

  After a hard-earned victory against the University of North Carolina, Jason Gilbert and his teammates were preparing to go out and captivate the female population of Chapel Hill. As they dressed and showered, Dain Oliver, the coach, was offering constructive criticism to his men—including Jason, who, although he’d won, had looked a little sluggish on the court.

  “Because I’m tired, coach,” he was protesting. “All this traveling and practicing and playing matches isn’t really what you’d call a picnic.”

  “Come on, Gilbert,” Dain reprimanded with good humor, “you’ve been putting too much effort into postgame partying. May I remind you this is not supposed to be a holiday?”

  “Hey, coach, you do remember that I won today, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but you were sleeping on your feet. So shape up, or I’ll slap a curfew on you. Do you read me, Gilbert?”