Erich Segal - The Class

“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 Léon 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 board, 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.