Erich Segal - The Class

Marika turned her face away.

“Shall we go in now?” Dr. Rozsa asked.

George nodded. For his vocal cords were paralyzed. He stood for a moment after they entered the room, looking at the frail, white-clad form on a pile of pillows.

The old man sensed his presence and rasped out, Is that you, Gyuri?” The question was punctuated with a racking cough.

“It’s me,” said George, still motionless.

“Come closer to the bed. Don’t be afraid. Death is not catching.”

George started forward nervously.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” said Dr. Rozsa, making his retreat.

“Sit down,” the patriarch commanded, motioning his bony finger at a wooden chair placed near the bed.

George silently obeyed.

He had not yet dared to look his father in the face. He had somehow managed to avoid making visual contact. But now their gazes met and locked.

Istvan Kolozsdi still had the same stern visage, albeit emaciated and extremely pale. George stared at him and thought, This is the demon I’ve been afraid of all my life. Look at him. So small and frail.

He listened as his father breathed with difficulty.

“Gyuri, do you have children?” he asked.

“No, Father.”

“Then who will come and comfort you when you’re lying as I am?”

“I guess I’ll get married one of these days,” George replied. And wondered, Is that why he wants to see me — to make sure I find a wife?

There was an uneasy silence.

“How are you feeling, Father?”

“Not as good as I will when it’s all over,” answered the old man, and gave a laugh that made him wince with pain. “Listen, Gyuri,” he continued, “I’m glad to have this chance to talk. Because there is something I want to tell you.…”

He paused to draw strength and breath.

“On second thought,” he contradicted, “I don’t have to tell you. Just open that drawer.” He pointed to the gray bedside table. “Open it, Gyuri.”

George leaned over to obey his father’s order.

Inside he found a tangled mass of newspaper clippings in several languages. Some were yellowing, some torn.

“Look. Look at them,” the old man prompted. There were articles from the world press about him. About George. There was even — God knows how it had gotten there — a profile published last year in the International Herald Tribune . He was dumbfounded.

“What do you see?” asked the patriarch.

“I see a lot of old rubbish, Father,” George answered, trying to make light of it. “What do you see?”

Making a supreme effort, the old man lifted himself onto his elbows and leaned toward George. “I see you , Gyuri. I see your face in every paper in the world. Do you know what you have done to me?”

George had painfully anticipated this question.

“Father, I — I —”

“No,” the old man interrupted. “You don’t understand at all. You’re a big shot in the world.”

“On the wrong side,” George said deprecatingly.

“My boy, in politics there’s no wrong side. There is only the winning side. You have the makings of a master politician, Gynri. Kissinger will eventually stumble and — you’ll become the Secretary of State!”

“That’s wishful thinking.” George smiled, trying to retain his composure. He could hardly believe that for the first time in his life Istvan Kolozsdi had praised him.

“You’re twice as smart as Kissinger,” the old man insisted. “And what’s more, you aren’t a Jew. I’m sorry I won’t be around to see the rest.”

George felt tears welling in his eyes. He tried to fight them back by attempting lighthearted banter.

“I thought you were a dedicated Socialist,” he said with a smile.

The old man emitted a sandpaper laugh.

“Ah, Gyuri, there’s only one philosophy that rules the world — success.”

He took a long lingering look at George and said, beaming, “Welcome home, my son.”

Twenty minutes later, George Keller left his father’s room, gently closing the door. Marika was still seated there, impassive. He sat down next to her.

“Look, you have every right to be angry with me,” he said nervously. “There’s so much to explain. All this time I should have written —”

“You should have done a lot of things,” she said mechanically.

“I know. I know.”

“Do you, Gyuri? Did you ever think what you were doing when you abandoned us? Did you ever even try to find out how father was? Or me? Or even Aniko?”

He suddenly grew cold. As frozen as he had been that wintry day so many years ago. All this time, whenever he had thought about those moments — or whenever dreams compelled him to remember — he’d felt a piercing shame. The only consolation had been that it was his private secret. But now he realized that other people knew. How?

“I tried to find her,” George protested helplessly.

“You left her! You left her bleeding there to die.”

“Where — where is she buried?”

“In a shabby municipal flat.”

George was stunned and incredulous. “Are you saying she’s alive?”

“Barely, Gyuri. Just barely.”

“What does she do?”

“She sits,” Marika answered. “That is all she is able to do.”

“How can I find her?”

“No, Gyuri, you’ve caused her enough pain. And I won’t let you hurt her anymore.”

“Please, Marika, I have to see her. I have to. I want to help her.”

She shook her head and quietly concluded the conversation. “You should have done that eighteen years ago.”

She turned her back and would not speak to him again.

The next morning when he arrived at the hospital, George Keller was informed that his father had died peacefully in his sleep during the night.

He took the first flight back to Paris. He had never felt more lonely in his life.

The moment he cleared customs at Washington’s Dulles Airport, George picked up the phone and called Catherine Fitzgerald at the Nader office.

“Hi, how was the trip? The papers said you did well in Moscow.”

“It’s a long story,” he replied. “Right now I need an urgent favor from you.”

“The sound of that worries me, Dr. Keller. You never do anything without an ulterior motive. What exactly is it you’re after?”

“A wife,” George replied.

There was sudden silence at the other end of the wire.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“You know I have no sense of humor. Now, will you marry me?”

“I won’t say yes unless you name a specific time and place.”

“How’s Friday noon at the clerk’s office at the Municipal Center on E Street?”

“If you’re even one minute late,” she warned playfully, “I promise you I’ll walk.”

“And if you’re late,” he retorted, “I promise you I’ll wait. Now do we have a deal?”

“Let’s say we’ve had a successful negotiation,” she replied. And before hanging up, added with sudden tenderness, “George, I do love you.”

After the wedding, Cathy permitted her parents to give them a small reception at the family home in McLean, Virginia. There were several of Cathy’s old friends from school, a few Nader’s Raiders, some of her father’s law partners and their wives. George invited only one couple — Henry and Nancy Kissinger.

The Secretary of State proposed a witty toast that utterly disarmed and enchanted the bride, who had spent the preceding night dreading the thought of seeing her old nemesis.

“I hope we can be friends now,” Henry smiled as he kissed Cathy.

“Dammit,” she replied happily, “it’s true what they say about you, Henry. Your charm is irresistible.”

“I hope you hear that, Nancy,” quipped the Secretary to his new bride.