Love, F.
P.S. Did I mention that I miss you?
At Christmastime he deliberately wore his dress uniform (blue jacket, gold buttons rising to the neck, white hat) to make the maximum impression on his mom and dad.
Unfortunately, his impressively costumed arrival was upset by a more somber event.
When Jason made his grand entrance, he found his father, mother, and sister all sitting at the dining-room table. Julie was leaning forward, her head in her hands. The cries of baby Samantha were audible from another room.
The elegant marine officer was, to say the least, disappointed when his father greeted him with a desultory glance and a “Hi, son, you’re just in time.”
He kissed his mother and as he sat down at the table asked, “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Charles and Julie are having a bit of trouble,” she replied.
“Trouble?” his father suddenly bellowed. “The son of a bitch has left her! He just upped and walked out. Abandoning your wife and one-year-old child is hardly what I call adult behavior.”
“Well, I never thought Charlie was much of an adult,” Jason commented. “What was his reason?”
“He said he doesn’t like being married,” Julie wailed. “He said he never wanted to get married.”
“I could have told you that and saved you a lot of grief,” Jason remarked. “You were both too young.”
“Stop being so holier-than-thou, Jason,” his father bristled.
“Okay, I’m sorry,” he answered softly. And added, “Hey, Julie, I’m really sorry that you got involved with that preppie idiot.”
She reacted to her brother’s expression of condolence with a fresh burst of tears.
“Well, I can see it’s hardly going to be a very merry Christmas,” Jason commented, getting up and starting to pace the floor.
Just then, Jenny the housekeeper entered the room and, spying the younger Gilbert, exclaimed, “Why, Mr. Jason, don’t you look snazzy!”
The holiday dinner was a pretty grim affair. By now the elder Gilbert had gotten over the initial shock of his daughter’s failure to live up to parental expectations, and had begun to concentrate on the traditional source of his pride.
“You mean to tell me you thought basic training was fun, Jason?” he marveled.
“In a way, but I’m afraid I overdid it. My C.O. wants me to stay on and be in charge of one of the fitness programs.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Well, I really don’t relish the prospect of another year and a half in Quantico. But still there’s a chance they’ll let me go to a few tennis tournaments. Anyway I’m a lot better off than Andrew who I hear is swabbing decks on a destroyer.”
“I’ll never understand why he didn’t become an officer,” Mr. Gilbert remarked.
“I can. The Eliots have always been big shots in the navy—admirals and stuff. He probably felt he had too much to live up to. That’s why, compared to him, I’m sort of at an advantage when it comes to my career.”
“How so?” inquired his father, who was now president of the second largest electronics corporation in the world.
“Because, unlike Andrew, who’s hanging from a precarious limb of the great family tree, we’re all just one generation out of the ghetto.”
“That’s a rather unattractive way of putting it,” his father remarked. To the best of Jason Gilbert, Sr.’s knowledge, this was the first time the word ghetto had ever been pronounced in their home. It made him uncomfortable and it seemed especially inappropriate at Christmas dinner.
He shifted to a more festive topic. “Have you heard from that Dutch girlfriend of yours recently?”
“Not as recently as I’d like,” Jason answered. “In fact, with your permission, Dad, I’d like to call her up after dinner.”
“By all means,” replied Jason Gilbert, Sr., relieved to be looking forward again, away from the not-sufficiently-distant past.
Jason was mustered early from the Marine Corps in August 1961 so that he could get up north in time to enter Harvard Law School.
He had spent his tour of duty first as an instructor in the Basic School, then, primarily because he looked so perfect in his uniform, as an O.S.O. (officer selection officer). His assignment had been to tour campuses and induce undergraduates to follow his own path to military glory by joining the Platoon Leaders Class—or, failing that, at least the marines.
Jason inwardly likened these recruitment expeditions to a fishing contest. And, competitive as always, he was determined to come home with the biggest catch. He was pleased, if not surprised, to learn from his commanding officer that he had won this challenge as well.
Still, he was relieved to be out of the military and eager to tackle the law.
He was also eager to see Fanny. For their correspondence had continued unabated throughout the nearly twenty-four months that they had not seen each other.
But the marines would not grant him a few extra weeks so he could visit the woman he was certain he wanted to marry. That reunion would have to stand the test of yet another academic year.
More letters. More phone calls. But a lot less patience.
There is an old saying about the experience of Harvard Law School: in the first year they scare you to death. In the second they work you to death. And in the third they bore you to death.
The two years of military service that separated Jason from most of his classmates helped him when it came to confronting the terrifying Law School professors. They were nowhere near as frightening as many drill sergeants. And if he was unable to give a magnificent answer in, say, contracts class, the teacher’s sneer was a lot more benign than having to do a hundred push-ups.
He also benefited from the fact that some of The Class of ’58 who had gotten student deferments were now seniors and more than willing to help their undergraduate hero.
“You should go in for trial law,” advised Gary McVeagh. “With your looks, you could snow the female jurors without opening your mouth. And they’d take care of the men. You’d never lose.”
“Nah,” contradicted Seymour Herscher, “he should go in for divorce law. They’ll all come flocking to him hoping to get Jason as part of the settlement.”
But Jason already had a game plan. He and his dad had discussed it for years.
First, if he could manage to keep up with these superbrains in the Law School, he would try to get a clerkship. From there it would be a few years of general practice with a prestigious New York or Washington firm. All of which would serve as a springboard for his ultimate ambition—politics.
“Jason,” the elder Gilbert had once jested, “I’m so sure you’ll succeed, I’d be willing to invest in a house in Washington right now.”
But these juvenile career fantasies were supplanted by a newer and better dream that sustained Jason through the grim series of practice exams in January, and the spring tension when the real finals were approaching.
It was the thought that, pass or fail, he would at last be reunited with that lovely Dutch girl whose picture smiled at him from his desk.
He had not lived like a total monk in the two-and-a-half-year interval since he had last seen Fanny. But the girls with whom he had casual dates only reminded him of how different his relationship with her was.
And though she never said anything in her letters, he somehow sensed that she too was merely marking time till they could be together again.
For this reason Jason welcomed the advent of exams with enthusiasm. While most of his classmates grew sicker and more panicked with every test, he regarded the filling of each bluebook as another leaf in the passport that would take him through the gates of the Law School. And into the arms of his beloved.
During the long flight to Amsterdam, Jason was nervous about seeing her again. It had been so long. Had he just embellished the wonder of their relationship in the desperate boredom of military routine? Would their meeting at Schiphol Airport be an anticlimax?
&
nbsp; He knew when he saw her just beyond the customs gate that it was not. When they kissed, he felt the same stirring.
They spent the first few days at her parents’ farm, where he savored the warmth and closeness of the van der Post family. Her brother, who was studying in The Hague, and her married sister—not to mention assorted cousins and aunts—came by to meet Fanny’s American friend.
The night before they left, he was standing in front of the fireplace in the main room of the farmhouse looking at the photographs on the mantelpiece.
“It’s amazing,” he exclaimed, “I’ve met all of these people in less than a week.”
And then he stopped in front of the snapshot of a dark-haired girl.
“Except her.”
“That’s Eva,” said Mrs. van der Post. “I suppose Fanny has told you about her.”
“Yes,” Jason replied.
“She’s a wonderful girl,” added Fanny’s father. “Always a little sad, but that’s understandable.”
Fanny took Jason to visit the Anne Frank house at Prinsengracht 263, in the shadow of the Westerkerk. To give him a graphic demonstration of what his co-religionists had experienced during the Second World War.
He stood there silently, glancing at the cramped garret where the young Dutch girl and her family hid from the occupying troops for more than a year before being dragged off to their deaths.
“All through this, she never lost her humanity,” Fanny remarked. “You should read her diary. Despite everything, she believed people were really basically good at heart. And they took such a person—an innocent little girl—to the gas chambers just because she was Jewish.”
The story was not totally new to Jason. For Anne Frank’s diary had been dramatized into a successful Broadway play, which he knew his parents had seen.
In retrospect, he wondered why they had not discussed it at any length with him and his sister. Could they have possibly believed that it had nothing to do with them?
And then they drove to Venice to resume their love affair where it had left off three years earlier.
“Fanny, do you think we’re the first couple to make love in a gondola?”
“No, my darling, we’re about a thousand years late.”
“Well, we’re the first to make great love.”
Their joy and passion had not changed. Fanny had the unique gift of making Jason see the laughter in the world. But now there was something more to their relationship.
Jason had known many women and had at times been captivated, even infatuated. But what he felt for Fanny was completely different. Never before had he wanted to give so much of himself. Not only sensuality but tenderness. He longed to shelter her, to take care of her.
And she, the strong independent doctor, could let herself become a child again and revel in the warmth of his protectiveness.
But when the amorous initiative was hers, she made him feel he could be vulnerable. And for the first time he experienced a woman’s love not merely fired by his strength.
Thus they were parent, child, lover, and friend to each other. A completeness too miraculous to lose.
Their holiday was all too brief and once again they were about to part.
“I’ll fly back as soon as my last exam is over in June,” he promised.
“What’ll I do until then?” she asked forlornly.
“Come on, it’s not that long. Our last separation was nearly three years.”
“Yes,” she replied wistfully. “But then I had no idea how much I loved you.”
Jason looked at her. “Fanny, I have a confession to make.”
“What?” she asked, slightly off balance.
“Yesterday afternoon when I wanted to go off by myself, there was a reason.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small velvet box. “If it fits any one of your fingers, then I think we should get married.”
“Jason,” she smiled, “if it fits one of my toes we will get married.”
The future bride and groom embraced.
Andrew met George Keller at the Trailways Bus Station in Bangor. They used the drive back to the Eliot retreat in Seal Harbor to get up to date.
“You look pale, George. Haven’t you been outside all summer?”
“I’m a graduate student, not a lifeguard, Andrew. And I must finish my dissertation by next spring.”
“What’s the urgency?”
“Because I want to get my degree next June.”
“What’ll you do after that?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“So what’s the rush?”
“You wouldn’t understand. But I must keep to my schedule. Anyway, I’m grateful for your enticing me up for the weekend.”
“Weekend? I thought you were staying the whole week.”
“No no no. I must get back to my writing.”
“Okay,” Andrew capitulated. “But if I see you scribble so much as a postcard in the next two days, I’ll punch you out. Agreed?”
“Under protest.” The scholar smiled. “Anyway, old boy, how’s marriage?”
“Oh, let me tell you, Keller, it’s a fun thing. You ought to try it.”
“All in due time, Andrew. But first I must—”
“Don’t even say it,” his classmate interrupted. “I forbid you to mention your thesis all weekend. And—uh—if you could manage to keep the conversation general, it’d be nice for Faith. I mean, she’s a great kid, but academics is not her strong point.”
The lovely Mrs. Andrew Eliot waved to them from the edge of the dock as they approached. Even the otherwise preoccupied George Keller could not help noticing how good she looked in a bikini. And how it felt when she gave him a welcoming hug.
Faith then led both men to the terrace where a large pitcher of martinis awaited.
“I’ve been looking forward to having a real talk with you ever since we met at the wedding,” Faith remarked as she handed George a glass. “Andrew says you have a brilliant mind.”
“Andrew flatters me.”
“I know.” She giggled. “He flatters me, too. But I like it.”
George then presented her with a gift-wrapped package.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” she exclaimed as she tore it open. And then with slightly forced gaiety added, “Oh—a book. Look, Andrew, George brought me a book.”
“That’s great,” her husband remarked. And turning to their guest added, “Faith really likes books. What is it, dear?”
“It looks exciting,” she replied and held up the cover.
It was The Necessity of Choice, by Henry Kissinger. “What’s it about, George?” she asked.
“The U.S.-Soviet ‘missile gap.’ It is unquestionably the most important work on the subject to date.”
“It’s by one of George’s professors,” Andrew explained.
“A very great man,” George quickly added. “He’s my thesis adviser and, from the moment I arrived in America, he’s acted in loco parentis.”
“You mean kind of crazy?” Faith inquired.
The reply seemed like a non sequitur to George. And so he added, “He mentions me in the preface. May I read it to you?”
“Oh, this is exciting,” Faith gushed, as she handed him the tome. “I’ve never known anyone who was in a book before.”
George quickly found the page and read aloud, “ ‘Gratitude for the advice and insight of my student and friend George Keller cannot be adequately expressed.’ ”
“Gosh,” Andrew commented, “he actually calls you his friend. That’s terrific.”
“Yes. And he’s not only made me his head section man in Gov. 180, but he’s even arranged for me to have a piece in Foreign Affairs.”
“Oh, George.” Faith smiled. “That sounds very naughty.”
George was charmed by her delightful sense of humor.
“Eliot,” he smiled, “you’re a really lucky man.”
“Well, Faith,” Andrew asked when he returned from driving George to his bus, “what do you thi
nk of old George? A mad genius, huh?”
“He’s quite attractive,” she replied thoughtfully. “But something about him worries me. I mean, I can’t exactly put my finger on it. But I think it’s the way he talks. Have you noticed that he has no foreign accent at all?”
“Sure. That’s what’s so fantastic about him.”
“Andrew, don’t be naive. If a foreign person doesn’t have a foreign accent that means he’s trying to hide something. I think your ex-roommate just might be a spy.”
“A spy? Who the heck could he be spying for?”
“I don’t know. The enemy. Maybe even the Democrats.”
From the “Milestones” section of Time magazine, January 12, 1963:
MARRIED.
Daniel Rossi, 27, keyboard Wunderkind, and Maria Pastore, 25, his college sweetheart; both for the first time; in Cleveland, Ohio.
After a European honeymoon (during which Rossi will fulfill some of his long-standing concert engagements), the couple plans to settle in Philadelphia, where Rossi has just been appointed Associate Conductor of that city’s symphony orchestra.
The only prenuptial promise Maria had extracted from Danny was that he would drastically cut down his frenetic touring so that they could take roots somewhere and build a domestic existence.
Though at first he was reluctant to give up the polyglot murmurs of adulation that gave him such pleasure, the offer from Philadelphia had come as a kind of miraculous solution.
They bought a spacious Tudor home on an acre and a half in Bryn Mawr. It was large enough to transform the entire top floor into a studio for Danny. And a light airy room for Maria, where he insisted on installing a barre, but which she wanted to become a nursery as soon as possible.
They spent their wedding night in the downtown Cleveland Sheraton, where Gene Pastore had thrown a lavish reception.
Throughout the celebration, Danny was strangely subdued—although he tried not to show it. For he was preoccupied with the fact that, having earned the reputation of being an international Don Juan, he might not live up to it on the one occasion that really mattered.
Not unexpectedly, he was coerced by the wedding guests into playing the piano. To his mind, it proved an ominous harbinger. For though he delighted them with a complete rendition of Rossi on Broadway, he was perhaps the only person in the room who noticed he was not performing as well as usual.