“Cameron Wylie?” Ted asked, his elation dissipating.
“The very same,” Whitman answered. “And I can’t imagine his report will be less favorable than mine.”
I can, thought Ted as he hung up.
He spent the next week playing dawn-to-dusk tennis with any professor, undergraduate, or groundskeeper he could lay his hands on. He could not bear the tension.
And then a hand-addressed envelope with an Oxford postmark at last arrived. He dared not open it in the presence of the department secretary. Instead, he rushed to the men’s room, locked himself in one of the booths, and tore it open.
He read it several times and then began to howl at the top of his voice.
A few moments later, Robbie Walton, summoned by the secretary, arrived to see what was wrong.
“Rob,” cried Ted, still in the confines of his narrow kingdom, “I’m made in the shade. Cameron Wylie still thinks I’m a bastard, but he loves my Euripides book!”
“Hey,” said Rob with amusement, “if you’ll come out of there, I’ll buy you a drink.”
Danny Rossi began to grow tired. Not of music. And certainly not of the applause that seemed to surround him quadraphonically both on and off stage. Nor was he weary of the unending parade of women who presented themselves for his sexual signature.
No, what he felt was fatigue in its most literal sense. His forty-year-old body was weary. He found himself growing short of breath at the mildest physical activity.
Danny had never been an athlete, but several times when he was in Hollywood homes and invited to take a dip, he found that he could barely swim one length of the pool. If he were still at Harvard, he joked to himself, he would not be able to last the requisite fifty yards. And he increasingly found himself going to bed merely to sleep.
He finally decided to consult a noted internist in Beverly Hills.
After a full workup, during which every inch of him was probed and every bodily fluid analyzed, he sat down across the glass-and-chrome desk in Dr. Standish Whitney’s office.
“Give it to me, Stan.” Danny smiled uneasily. “Am I going to die?”
“Yes,” the doctor replied poker-faced. Then immediately added, “But not for at least another thirty or forty years.”
“Then why am I always so goddamn tired?” Danny asked. “For one thing, Danny, any guy with a love life as active as yours would be worn out. Although let me quickly say that no one ever died from too much sex. On the other hand, you do other things besides screw. You compose. You conduct. You play and—I presume—you must spend some time rehearsing. Also, if an airline pilot traveled as much as you, he’d be grounded. Are you reading me?”
“Yes, Stan.”
“You’re giving your system a lot of wear and tear. Do you think you could cut down on any of your activities?”
“No,” Danny answered candidly. “I not only want to do all the things I do, I have to do them. I know that may sound strange—”
“Not at all,” the doctor interrupted. “This is L.A.—paradise for the compulsives. You’re not the first patient I’ve seen who wants to die young and leave a beautiful corpse.”
“Correction,” Danny retorted. “I don’t want to die young. I just want to keep on living young. Isn’t there anything you prescribe for your other ‘compulsives’? I mean, I assume they don’t slow down either.”
“No,” Dr. Whitney answered, “but they come to me at least once a week for a little booster shot.”
“What’s in it?”
“Oh, megavitamins mostly. Plus a little of this and a little of that to lift you up and mellow you out. If you’d like, we could try a series and see if it helps.”
Danny felt like Ponce de León when he caught sight of the Fountain of Youth. “Any reason why we can’t start right now?”
“None at all,” Dr. Whitney said with a smile. And rose to go and mix his potion.
Danny was a born-again workaholic.
During the next month he felt like a teenager. He breezed through his frenetic schedule of work and play. He could once again go from conducting an evening concert to an amorous rendezvous. Then go back to his home in Bel-Air and practice the piano for several hours.
In fact, the only problem was that, on the few occasions when he actually wanted to sleep, he felt too stimulated. For this the good Dr. Whitney kindly prescribed some soothing phenothiazine.
During the past year or so, his relationship with Maria had gradually evolved from silent antagonism to a kind of entente cordiale. Whenever he was in Philadelphia they play-acted happy couple for the outside world and loving parents for their daughters. What went on his Hollywood Hills “bachelor pad” was, of course, never discussed.
Now that the girls were at school, Maria resolved to build a life for herself. To find something real to do behind the facade of their cardboard marriage.
For a thirty-eight-year-old former dance teacher, the schoolhouse doors were bolted shut. There was no way to pick up where she had left off. And she was painfully aware that although she had brains and a good education, she had no particular skill to offer the job market. Some of her suburban friends worked for various charities. But that seemed to Maria to have too much of a social aspect to be genuinely satisfying.
She did agree to help out with the annual auction to raise money for the local PBS television station. After all, having spent so much time in studios with Danny, she felt she had absorbed some knowledge of how television worked. At least she might be able to contribute a suggestion or two.
Being the wife of the city’s symphony conductor, Maria was something of a minor celebrity. And the officials at the station tried to persuade her to appear on camera to attract contributions from viewers.
She was coaxed by Terence Moran, the charming, prematurely white-haired president of the station.
“I can’t,” she protested. “I’d be a nervous wreck.”
“Please, Mrs. Rossi,” he insisted. “All you’d have to do is stand in front of one of the tables and say a few words about the objects on it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Moran. My voice would freeze. You’d either have to superimpose the dialogue or do a voice-over yourself.”
The youthful executive smiled. “I’ll accept that compromise,” he said.
“You will?” said Maria, slightly taken aback.
“Sure. You just stand there and point to the items and I’ll describe them from off-camera. Is it a deal?”
“No, not yet,” Maria replied anxiously. “I’d have to know your director’s shooting plans.”
“Mrs. Rossi,” Moran responded affably, “I’m so keen to get you on even for a split second that I’ll let you literally call the shots.”
“Okay,” she relented. “I guess I can’t get out of it now. If you must show me, let it be in a wide establishing shot in front of the table. But I want your word of honor that the minute you begin to describe the merchandise, you’ll zoom in close and get me out of frame.”
“It’s a deal,” Moran replied. “And I’m very impressed.”
“With what? My stubbornness?”
“No. You seem to have more camera expertise than my directors.”
“You don’t have to keep flattering me, Mr. Moran. I’ve already said I’d do it. Anyway, I’ve spent about a million hours with Danny in TV studios. To keep from overdosing on coffee and doughnuts, I locked myself in the control booth and sort of picked up what all those buttons meant by osmosis.”
“Well,” he quipped, “as Plato said, ‘Osmosis is the best teacher.’ Or was it Aristotle?”
“I think it was Terry Moran,” smiled Maria Rossi.
“You looked wonderful even in the millisecond-long shot, Mrs. Rossi. And we got good prices for everything on your table,” the station president commented as they drank sugary tea from paper cups in the Green Room.
“I’m still glad it’s over,” she said, sighing. “I absolutely loathe being on camera.”
“But you do enjoy the control bo
ard, don’t you?”
“Oh, that’s always fun. I love to look at the bank of monitors and try to imagine which camera I’d use if I were the director. It’s nice and safe when it’s only a game.”
“Have you ever thought of actually doing it?”
“Oh, I daydream sometimes. But then I also fantasize about doing a pas de deux with Nureyev. Anyway, thanks for accommodating my idiosyncrasies.”
She rose to put on her coat, but Moran motioned her to sit down. “Mrs. Rossi, I’m sorry I can’t speak for Rudolf—who I’m sure would be delighted to know you’re interested—but I can speak for this station. Would you like a job?”
“You mean, a real job?”
“That’s the only kind we have around here. I mean—nothing high-powered to start with. But we can always use an extra assistant director. And you already have enough know-how for that.”
Maria was tempted, but diffident. “I’m not in the union,” she protested meekly.
“Neither is this station.” Moran smiled. “Now, are you interested?”
“You’re doing this just because I’m Danny Rossi’s wife.”
“Frankly, that’s your only liability. Because if things don’t work out I’ll have to fire you. And then I’ll be in trouble, won’t I?”
“No,” Maria answered cheerfully. “But if I can get home in time to have dinner with the girls, I’ll give it a try.”
“No problem,” he replied. “Oh—I haven’t told you the bad news, though. The salary is pretty laughable.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Moran. I could use some laughs.”
Ted was awakened late one night by a call from Walter Hewlett, professor at Texas and best-informed gossip in the world of classics.
“Lambros, I’ve just heard something sensational and I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“Oh God, Walt, what could possibly be so important at two in the morning?”
“It’s Dieter Hartshorn—”
“What about that pedantic German?”
“Then you know—?”
“Yeah. The guy Harvard just hired for the Greek chair.”
“Then you don’t know—listen. Rudi Richter just called from Munich. Hartshorn’s been killed in a crash on the Autobahn. I mean, this news hasn’t even reached the papers yet, baby.”
“Christ, Walt, you’re gloating like a ghoul.”
“Hey, Lambros, do I have to spell it out for you? Harvard now has no Eliot Professor of Greek. And the chances are—if you drive carefully—the job’s going to be yours. Sleep on that, amigo.”
As Ted hung up, he could not help but think, This is not good news at all.
It’s fantastic news.
A decent interval after the tragic death of Dieter Hartshorn, the Harvard Classics Department circulated a small announcement to the effect that applications were being solicited for the Eliot Professorship of Greek.
In earlier days they would simply have made a few phone calls, perhaps written some letters, and then sat down and voted a successor. But now federal legislation required all universities to advertise their available positions, offering Equal Opportunity for advancement to men and women of all races and creeds.
Naturally, with such a prestigious chair, the public notice was merely a formality to comply with the dictates of Washington.
In practice, the system still worked in its time-honored way. The department met and made a short list of the most eminent Greek scholars in the world. And, since his book was causing a stir even in manuscript, Theodore Lambros’s name was among the leaders.
Again in compliance with the Equal-Opportunity directives, he would, like all other candidates, be required to visit Harvard and deliver a lecture.
“I know this is silly,” Cedric Whitman apologized on the phone. “After all, we’ve known you for years and heard you speak. But to follow the new rules au pied de la lettre you’ll have to give that obligatory ‘tryout’ talk.”
“That’s okay,” he responded, already mentally packing his bags for the triumphal return to Cambridge.
They then set a date for the lecture. Officially it would be an audition, but, at least in Ted’s mind, it would be his inaugural address.
“Among the many publications of tonight’s speaker, two stand out in particular: Tlemosyne, a brilliant study of the Sophoclean tragic hero, and The Poet of Paradox, his forthcoming analysis of Euripidean drama, which I have had the great pleasure of reading in manuscript.
“Tonight he will unravel the complexities of Euripides’ final play, Iphigenia at Aulis. It gives me enormous pleasure to present Professor Theodore Lambros.”
Ted rose, shook Whitman’s hand, and placed his notes on the lectern. As he adjusted the microphone, he glanced out at the spectators. And could not help thinking that he had never seen Boylston Hall so full.
Had his scholarly reputation preceded him? Or was it common knowledge that tonight’s audience would be getting a sneak preview of the next Eliot Professor of Greek?
He felt extraordinarily relaxed under what should have been extremely trying circumstances. For he had rehearsed this moment so many times in dreams it was already second nature.
The more he spoke, the less he had recourse to his notes. He began to look out into the audience, skillfully making eye contact with the more important people present, who included no less a dignitary than Derek Bok, the President of Harvard University.
He had just begun to discuss the bold visual symbolism in Clytemnestra’s entrance carrying the infant Orestes, when he suddenly lost his breath.
Perhaps the audience, enraptured by his dramatic presentation, did not notice. But Ted himself had seen a vision that shook him.
Could it be possible—or was he merely imagining that his former wife, Sara, was standing at the back, leaning against a post?
Though inwardly panicked, his powerful sense of survival enabled him to find his place in the manuscript and—albeit in a somewhat subdued voice—continue reading his lecture.
But he was keenly aware that his sudden shift of style and tone had broken the enchanted atmosphere.
And now he could not control a desperate urge to get the damn talk over with.
Maybe, he thought, if I reassure myself she isn’t really there, I can get back in gear. So, as he turned to his final page, he glanced beyond the farthest row.
Sara was right there. And looking more beautiful than ever.
But why? Why the hell is my ex-wife, who ought to be in Oxford, here in Boylston Hall?
And then with thoughts swifter than light, he exhorted himself like a Homeric hero. Get loose, goddammit, Lambros. Pull yourself together. This is your last chance to get everything you want in life.
And heroically, he did. He took a breath, slowed himself, ignored the final written paragraphs, and raised his head to paraphrase them. His concluding words were greeted with admiring applause.
Before they left, the President and deans came over to shake his hand. Then, while the senior members of the Classics Department waited discreetly in the back of the room, Sara approached the podium to greet her former husband.
“That was great, Ted,” she said warmly. “You’ve done a lot of terrific work on that last chapter.”
“Hey, I don’t get it,” he responded, trying to seem nonchalant. “Shouldn’t you be in England teaching?”
“Yes,” she answered. And then added with a curious admixture of timidity and pride, “But Harvard’s invited me to apply for the chair. I’m giving a seminar on Hellenistic poetry tomorrow morning.”
He was incredulous. “They’ve asked you to apply for the Eliot Professorship?”
She nodded. “I know it’s silly. Clearly it’ll go to you. I mean, just on your publications.”
“They flew you all the way over just on the basis of three articles?”
“Four, actually. And my book.”
“Book?”
“Yes, Oxford liked my thesis and the Press is bringing it out this sp
ring. Apparently the Harvard Search Committee’s seen a copy.”
“Oh,” said Ted, the wind knocked from his sails, “congratulations.”
“You’d better go now,” she said gently. “All the bigwigs want to wine and dine you.”
“Yeah,” he said distractedly. “Uh—nice seeing you.”
The post-lecture reception for Ted was in a private room at the Faculty Club. He knew that it was a social gauntlet he had to run, both to remind his old friends and to convince those who had once rejected him that he was charming, learned, and collegial. That year at Oxford seemed to have enhanced his status—and improved his dinner conversation.
At a late point in the evening Norris Carpenter, the leading Latinist, thought he’d enjoy a bit of Schadenfreude at the candidate’s expense.
“Tell me, Professor Lambros,” he inquired with a Cheshire grin, “what do you think of Dr. James’s book?”
“You mean F.K. James on Propertius?”
“No, no. I mean the former Mrs. Lambros on Callimachus.”
“Well, I haven’t seen it yet, Professor Carpenter. I mean it’s just in galleys, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes,” the Latinist continued mischievously. “But such a penetrating work must have taken years of research. She must have, as it were, begun it under your principate. In any case, she sheds some fascinating new light on the relationship between Hellenistic Greek and early Latin poetry.”
“I’m looking forward to reading it,” Ted said politely, as he twisted inwardly from Carpenter’s sadistic verbal stilettos.
He spent the next day wandering aimlessly around Cambridge. The Square itself had been concreted beyond recognition since his college days. But the Yard had the same magical aura.
At four o’clock Cedric called him at the family home. He got to the point without delay.
“They’ve offered it to Sara.”
“Oh,” Ted gasped, as his blood ran cold. “Is her book really that good?”
“Yes,” Cedric acknowledged, “it’s a tremendous piece of work. But just as important, she was the right person at the right time.”
“You mean she’s a woman.”
“Look, Ted,” the senior professor explained, “I’ll grant that the Dean’s office is anxious to comply with the Fair-Employment legislation. But, frankly, it came down to weighing the merits of two equally gifted people—”