Erich Segal - The Class

“That ought to be his decision — when the time comes. Anyway, you’ve still got quite a few years to give him a good sales pitch,”

They were both silent for a moment.

“You said you had other reasons for wanting to stay.”

“Well, I’ve been offered a classics tutorship at Somerville College.”

“Professional congratulations and personal objections,” he responded.

“Since when do you have the right to object to anything I do?” she asked, more bemused than angry.

He paused and then continued with great difficulty. “What I mean is — I miss you. I miss being married to you, and I was wondering if… if maybe you had any vestigial feelings of regret.”

“Of course I have regrets, Ted. The day our divorce became final was the bleakest of my life.”

“Then do you think there’s a chance that we might — you know — give it another try?”

She looked at him with sadness, and simply shook her head.

Perhaps he should have suspected that there was someone in her life when she offered to let him stay with young Ted in Addison Crescent for the month of July while she was on vacation. Especially since she was so vague about her plans.

All she would vouchsafe was that she was going to Greece to “visit the places I’ve been writing about.”

“Who with?” he had bravely asked.

“Oh,” she had replied evasively, “several million Greeks.”

But it did not take Ted long to discover who his ex-wife’s traveling companion was. For his son’s conversations were liberally sprinkled with references to “Francis.” And unless he was alluding to the famous talking mule from the movies of Ted’s childhood, it had to be Francis James, classics tutor at Balliol.

“I’d like to meet that guy someday,” Ted said, at the nth mention of his name.

“Oh, you’d really like him,” his son replied. “He’s an absolutely smashing chap.”

My God, he thought, my son really is an Englishman.

That July, Ted tried to be a father. He sat through countless cricket matches. Got a lot of theater tickets. And made numerous attempts at conversation over dinner.

But a gap as wide as the Atlantic separated them.

The young man was polite, good-natured, and friendly. Yet, the only thing they could discuss was distant plans for higher education. Ted tried to sell his son on Harvard.

“Teddie, there’s something I’ve gotta explain to you. Going to Harvard is an experience that changes your life. I mean, it certainly did mine.”

The young man looked at his father and said, “Frankly, I rather like my life the way it is.”

Ted Lambros had spent the month with someone who bore his name but in all other ways was someone else’s child.

At the end of July, a tanned Sara returned from Greece with an equally bronzed Francis James and announced that they had decided to get married.

To Ted’s chagrin, the first congratulation came in the form of a spontaneous “Super!” from his son, who rushed to throw his arms around the tall, bespectacled classics tutor.

Trying to mask his chagrin, Ted offered his hand and his congratulations to Francis.

“Thank you,” the Englishman responded. And added with warm sincerity, “I’ve always been one of your great admirers. If those articles you’ve been publishing are anything to go by, your Euripides book is going to be magnificent. How close are you to finishing?”

“I sent off the manuscript to Harvard last week,” said Ted, feeling strangely hollow at announcing the accomplishment.

“Mummy says it’s absolutely brilliant,” young Ted interjected.

Ah, his father thought, at least the kid still respects me.

And then his son concluded, “I’m dying to hear what you think of it, Francis.”

Ted now realized that there was nothing to keep him in Oxford. He took the next morning’s plane to Boston and went up to Canterbury to await the verdict of the Harvard University Press.

It did not take long. In fact, that very weekend Cedric Whitman called him, bursting with enthusiasm. He had been designated First Reader for the Press and he could neither maintain his anonymity nor restrain his admiration.

“Cedric,” Ted inquired tactfully, “while we’re exchanging confidences, may I ask you who the other reader is?”

“Someone who admires you almost as much as I do — the newly emeritus Professor of Greek at Oxford.”

“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.”