Erich Segal - The Class

“I don’t think that would apply in your case, Mr. Rossi. I’ve looked very carefully at the list of drugs you gave me.”

“But I lied, Dr. Weisman. I omitted a few. I mean, with my schedule I’ve come to rely on all sorts of stimulants to get me up for performances. Can they have caused this?

“Conceivably. Is there anything else that you ye neglected to mention?”

Danny now let out a feral roar. “Jesus — I’m going to murder that fucking Dr. Whitney!”

“Not the notorious Beverly Hills ‘Dr. Feelgood’?”

“You mean you know him?” Danny asked.

“Only from the damage I’ve seen in the patients his ‘cocktails’ have brought to my office. Tell me, did his ‘vitamins’ make it difficult for you to sleep?”

“Yes. But he prescribed —”

“Phenothiazine?”

Danny nodded mutely.

“And how long has this been going on?”

“Two-three years. Could that have —”

The neurologist shook his head in frustration. “That man should really have had his license revoked. But I’m afraid he’s got too many powerful patients protecting him.”

“Why did he do this to me?” Danny shouted again in frantic despair.

Dr. Weisman’s answer was somewhat sterner than his previous remarks.

“In honesty, I don’t think you can blame it all on the wretched Dr. Whitney. In my experience, his clients have been at least marginally aware of what they were getting into. And you are a highly intelligent man.”

Daniel Rossi walked the twenty blocks to the Hurok office in a kind of trance. He had not learned anything he hadn’t already known subconsciously. For long before he’d heard the dread pronouncement he had sensed the catastrophe the doctor had confirmed.

But at this moment he was shocked beyond feeling. And he would take advantage of this temporary numbness to perform the painful act the doctor’s diagnosis now required.

His abdication from the keyboard.

As soon as they were alone Danny told Hurok that he’d done an agonizing reappraisal of his life, his lifestyle, and what he had accomplished. In balance, he’d decided that he should be spending more time on composition.

After all, he reasoned, who remembers Mozart as a pianist — or even Liszt? But what they wrote abides forever.

“Also, I think I owe it to Maria and the girls to spend more time at home. I mean, before I know it they’ll be grown up and gone. And I won’t ever have enjoyed them.”

Hurok listened patiently and did not interrupt his virtuoso. Perhaps he was consoling himself with the thought that many great performers in the past had opted for a premature retirement. And then, after a few years’ absence from the intoxication of applause, had returned and concertized more actively than ever.

“Danny, I respect your decision,” he began. “I won’t try to disguise the fact that I’m distressed — because you have so many wonderful years ahead of you. All I’ll ask is that you finish out the two or three commitments left on this year’s program. Is that reasonable?”

Danny hesitated for a minute. After all Hurok’s kindness to him, the impresario at least deserved the truth.

And yet Danny could not bring himself to tell it.

“I’m really sorry,” he said softly. “But I have to stop immediately. Of course, I’ll write to all the orchestras concerned and give them my apologies. You might —” He hesitated. “You might invent a kind of sickness for me. Hepatitis maybe.”

“I wouldn’t like to do that,” Hurok answered. “All my life I’ve tried to be above board in my dealings, and it’s much too late for me to change. I’ll just look through my schedules and see if I can fill your dates with artists of your caliber.”

With an undisguised look of sadness on his face, he began to shuffle through his papers. Suddenly he gave a wistful little chuckle.

“What is it?” asked Danny.

“I’ve already found one pianist whom I can substitute for you in Amsterdam — young Artur Rubinstein, age eighty-eight!”

Fearing he would be unable to retain his composure much longer, Danny stood up to leave.

“Thanks, Mr. Hurok. Thank you for everything.”

“Look, Danny, I hope we’ll stay in touch. In any case, I’ll be at the premiere of your first symphony.”

“Thanks.”

He turned to go. The old man then called out to him as an afterthought, “Danny, if it’s facing audiences that’s the prob tern, you could still record. Look at Glenn Gould and Horowitz. There are so many brilliant performances still locked up inside you.”

Danny simply nodded and walked out. He could not say to Mr. Hurok that the pianists he had named still had the use of both their hands.

At 2:00 A.M. Danny was sitting at home in the near-total darkness of his third-floor studio. A gentle voice interrupted his solitary anguish. It was like a small candle at the end of a long shadowy cave.

“What’s wrong, Danny?” Maria asked. She was in her nightgown and bathrobe.

“What makes you think there’s anything wrong?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re sitting in the dark, so you’re obviously not writing. For another, I haven’t heard any real music for hours. I mean, that’s unless you consider a million repetitions of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ real music.”

“Mozart wrote a whole series of variations on that tune,” he replied without conviction.

“Yes, I know. It’s a favorite encore of yours. But I don’t hear any variations, Danny. That’s why I’ve come up. You know I’ve never interrupted you before.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate it if you stuck to that policy.”

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. Just leave me alone, please.”

He was inwardly glad that she disobeyed him and came over to kneel by his chair.

But when she reached out to take his hands, he withdrew them quickly.

“Danny, for the love of God, I can see you’re going through hell. I know you need me now, darling, and I’m here. I want to help.”

“You can’t help me, Maria,” he answered bitterly. “Nobody can.”

For the moment he could say no more.

“It’s your left hand, isn’t it? Look, I’ve known something was wrong since that evening in the studio. I’ve passed your bedroom late at night and seen you sitting by the lamp, just staring at it with a kind of panic.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my left hand,” he answered coldly.

“I’ve seen it tremble at dinner, Danny. And I’ve watched you try to hide it. Don’t you think you should see a doctor?

“I have.”

“And?”

He did not respond verbally. Instead he began to weep.

She put her arms around him.

“Oh, Maria,” he sobbed, “I can’t play the piano anymore.”

And then he told her everything. His tragic journey that had begun at Dr. Whitney’s and ended with Dr. Weisman.

When he’d finished the story, for a long time they did nothing but cry in each other’s arms.

Finally she dried her own tears and grabbed him firmly by the shoulders.

“Now you listen to me, Daniel Rossi. As terrible as this thing is, it isn’t fatal. You’ll still have a career. You’ll still be involved in music. And most important, you’ll still be alive to be with your family. And most especially with me.

“I didn’t marry you because you could outplay Liszt. I didn’t marry you because you were a star. I married you because I loved you and I believed you when you once said that you needed me. Danny, darling, we can get through this together.” Maria kept holding him as he leaned on her shoulder, sobbing softly.

And, unlike all those audiences that clap and then go home, she would always be there.