Erich Segal - The Class

Their glass of sherry together on Friday afternoons had now become a weekly ritual. They would go over various crises and indulge in fantasies of what they could do if only they had a bigger budget.

“I feel I have the right to say this,” Terry continued, “because now you’re not some neophyte. And to put it bluntly, I feel Danny’s being unfaithful. To Philadelphia, I mean — and us. Look, I can understand why he’d want to film his first series at KCET in L.A. He directs the Philharmonic there, and there’s a huge pool of TV talent in Tinseltown. But why the hell did he have to do his history of the symphony in New York?”

“Terry, you can’t imagine the pressure they put on him at WNET. Besides, I think Lenny Bernstein was working behind the scenes.”

Moran slammed his desk. “But dammit, man for man, our orchestra’s as good as theirs, if not better. That series earned a fortune for the supplying station, and we could really use the dough. Most of all, I feel Danny should show some allegiance to the city that first made him a conductor. Don’t you agree?”

“Terry, this isn’t fair. You’re putting me on the spot.”

“Maria, you’ve known me long enough to realize I play fair and square. I’m not talking to Danny Rossi’s wife, I’m complaining to my business partner. Objectively speaking, don’t you think he should do his next TV project here?”

“Objectively speaking, yes. But I —” She grew self-conscious and could not continue her sentence. Though in the past months she had received more genuine warmth and support from Terry, she still felt an atavistic loyalty to the man who was legally her husband.

“I mean, from all those interviews I read in the papers, you and he make those big career decisions together.” Moran hesitated and then added, “Or shouldn’t I believe what I read?”

Maria grew reticent and wondered what else he had been reading in the press.

Actually, there had been times, after a long session in the cutting room, when she had almost felt brave enough to speak to Terry of her domestic unhappiness. After all, he had already confided in her. She knew about his divorce, which had shaken his staunchly Catholic parents. And how badly he missed his children.

These long conversations had made her realize that they were both reluctant to leave because neither had any real home to go to.

Still, she had been too shy to initiate the conversation, assuming — perhaps hoping — that sooner or later Terry would broach the subject.

And now here they were perilously close to trespassing on the most intimate details of her personal life.

“Why so silent?” he inquired amicably. “Or are you thinking of the best approach to catch Mr. Rossi in our butterfly net?”

“I’ll be frank,” Maria began. “I’m a bit reluctant to broach this with Danny because it kind of blurs the lines of demarcation between our separate work and our… marriage.”

She hesitated. And then suddenly added, “Hey look, on second thought, I agree about his loyalty to Philadelphia. I’ll bring up the idea of his doing a series for us, if we can come up with a concept.”

“Well, Maria, you’ve got the creative brain. What do you think Danny Rossi should do for a television encore?”

Instinctively she knew. “Well, if I can say so, he is one of the best pianists of his generation —”

“The very best,” Moran interrupted.

“Anyway, I would think he’d be the perfect person to do the history of keyboard music.”

“Something like ‘from harpsichord to synthesizer,’ ” Terry replied, kindled by the notion. “I think that’s absolutely fantastic. If you snare him, I’ll squeeze every penny from our budget to give him the lushest deal this station ever offered.”

Maria nodded and stood up. “Of course, he’ll probably say no,” she said quietly.

“Well, if he does, I’ll love you all the same.”

To her surprise, the idea excited Danny. “I’d have only two ironclad conditions,” he said. “First, the tapings have got to be tailored to fit the days I’m already committed to being in Philly.”

“Obviously,” she agreed.

“And second, I want you to be the producer.”

“Why me?” she asked, somewhat taken aback. “Wouldn’t that be uncomfortable?”

“Hey listen,” he replied, “if we’re going to match the level of the other series, I’ve got to have the best possible studio team. And you are without question the savviest producer they have.”

“Have you been reading my clippings?”

“No, I’ve been running some of your videotapes late at night. I think your work’s terrific.”

“All right, Rossi,” she replied, unable to mask her delight. “But I warn you — you play temperamental artist with me and I’ll shoot the whole damn thing from your bad side.”

“Okay, boss.” He smiled. And then added, “Hey, we could tout this thing as coming ‘from the team that brought you Arcadia .’ ”

Maria lay awake that night wondering what was on Danny’s mind. She hadn’t thought her argument was that persuasive. To be honest, however good their studio facilities now were, they were still no match for New York or L.A. And was that quip about Arcadia anything but a casual joke?

They had been so happy in those Harvard clays, their collaboration animated by their passion.

“How does he do it?” an astounded Terry Moran exclaimed, as they sat side by side in the control booth.

“Well,” Maria answered proudly, “he knows the keyboard repertoire backwards and forwards. And, as you can see, he loves to drive himself.”

Even she had not been able to persuade Danny to devote a fill day for taping each of the thirteen episodes. To the amazement of the crew, who bad never seen such prodigious energy, he insisted on doing three hour-long programs in a single day — and night — session.

“God, where does he get the strength?” wondered the engineer. “I mean, I sit here at the end of the day with my face melting on the control board. And he’s out there talking and playing like some virtuoso Peter Pan.”

“Yes,” Maria agreed thoughtfully, “there is a bit of the Peter Pan in him.”

But there was more than that. There was Dr. Whitney’s cocktail, too. In fact, Danny could no longer fly on merely one weekly injection. So the doctor had provided him with capsules that included, among other things, Methadrine to tide him over.

The second program of that session, an hour on Chopin, was musically and verbally flawless. With typical Rossi bravado, he’d left the hardest segment for the very end: an introduction to that keyboard acrobat, Franz Liszt.

Danny was munching a sandwich in his dressing room when Maria poked her head in.

“Mr. Rossi,” she said, “I don’t think you could possibly top that one. Why don’t we wrap and do Liszt next time?”

“No way, Madame Producer. I want to finish this taping with a tour de force.”

“Aren’t you tired at all?”

“A bit,” he confessed. “But when I see camera one light up, it’ll turn me right on.”

“I bet you wish Liszt were still alive, Danny.” She smiled. “I somehow think you’d like to see his face when you outdo him at his own cadenzas.”

He rose, walked over, and kissed her on the cheek. “See you on the floor in fifteen.”

Danny showered, changed clothes, redid his makeup, and walked down to appear punctually at 8:30 P.M. for his third and final taping of the day.

The first half-hour went with metronomic perfection. Danny sketched Liszt’s childhood in Hungary; his father’s early pressure on the boy; his debut at the age of nine; his lessons with, among others, Salieri — Mozart’s nemesis — and Czerny — Beethoven’s greatest pupil — who so admired the young boy’s talent that he refused any fee for his lessons.