Erich Segal - The Class

“Weren’t we all at that age?” Rubinstein smiled.

Moments later he invited Danny to his dressing room, to hear his interpretation of the concerto.

Danny began hesitantly. But by the time he had reached the allegro of the third movement, he was too involved to be diffident. His fingers were flying. In fact, he stunned himself by the uncanny ease with which he played at such a frantic tempo.

At the end he looked up, breathless and sweating.

“Too fast, huh?”

The virtuoso nodded, but with admiration in his eyes. “Yes,” he acknowledged.

“But extremely good nonetheless.”

“Maybe I was just nervous, but this keyboard made it feel like I was rolling down a hill. It sort of sped me up.”

“Do you know why, my boy?” Rubinstein asked. “Since I am not gifted with great size, the Steinway people kindly manufactured this piano with the keys one-eighth smaller. Look again.”

Danny marveled at Artur Rubinstein’s personal piano. For on it he, who was also not “gifted with great size,” could stretch a full thirteenth with ease.

Then the master generously remarked, “Listen, we all know that I don’t need any pages turned. So why not stay here and play to your heart’s content?”

On another occasion, at an outdoor run-through of Mozart’s Overture to The Marriage of Figaro , Munch suddenly gave a histrionic sigh of weariness and said, “This Massachusetts weather is too hot and humid for a Frenchman. I need five minutes in the shade.”

He then motioned to Danny. “Come here, young man,” he said, extending his baton.

“I think you know the piece enough to wave this stick in front of these musicians. Take over for a minute and be sure they behave.”

With this he left Danny feeling very naked and alone on the podium before the entire Boston Symphony.

Of course the orchestra had several assistant conductors and répétiteurs precisely for occasions such as this. And they stood on the sidelines burning with a lot more than summer heat.

He was really high that night. And as soon as he got back to his boarding house, Danny phoned Dr. Landau.

“That’s wonderful,” the teacher commented with pride. “Your parents must be delighted.”

“Yeah,” Danny answered half-evasively. “I — uh — would you mind calling Mom and telling her about it?”

“Daniel,” Dr. Landau answered gravely, “this melodrama with your father has gone on too long. Look, this is a perfect opportunity to make a gesture of conciliation.”

“Dr. Landau, please try to understand. I just can’t bring myself to …” His voice trailed off.

Sex.

I had given it a lot of thought all summer as I sweated my guts out at the construction job my father had so considerately arranged to enhance my acquaintance with physical labor. While my roommates, Newall and Wig, were off cruising the better beaches in Europe, the only thing I got to lay all summer was a lot of bricks.

I returned to Harvard for junior year determined to succeed where I had never failed — because I’d never even had the guts to try.

I was going to lose my virginity.

Mike and Dick came home with these incredible tales of trysting the nights away with nymphs of every nationality and cup size.

And yet peer pressure prevented me from asking either of them for advice — or more specifically for a phone number. I’d become the laughingstock of the Porcellian — not to mention Eliot House, the crew and probably even the biddies who served in the dining hall.

In desperation I thought of trying the notorious bars around Scollay Square, but I couldn’t work up the courage to go on my own. And besides, the whole idea was kind of sordid.

Who could help me?

The answer became apocalyptically clear the first evening I returned to my library job. For there, grinding away at his usual table, was Ted Lambros.

This time it was Andrew who begged Ted to come to his room for an urgent conversation.

Ted was puzzled, since he had never seen his friend so agitated.

“What’s up, Eliot?”

“Uh. How was your vacation, Ted?”

“Not bad, except I only got to see Sara for a couple of weekends. Otherwise it was just business as usual at The Marathon. Anyway, what’s your problem?”

Andrew wondered how the hell he could broach it.

“Hey, Lambros, can you keep a secret?” he asked.

“Who’re you talking to, Eliot? We have a sacred tenant-landlord relationship.”

Andrew opened another beer and took a long swig.

“Uh — you know I’ve been going to boarding schools since I was eight. The only girls we ever got to see were the ones they trucked in for tea dances and stuff. You know, prissy little ice maidens …”

“Yeah,” Ted replied. “I know the type.”

“Your high school was coed?”

“Sure, that’s one advantage of not having bucks.”

“So you must have been pretty young when you — uh — started going out with girls?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he replied, treating the whole subject with an insouciant levity that suggested he was unaware of Andrew’s mounting anxiety.

“How old were you when you had your first — you know — experience?”

“Oh, about average,” Ted replied. “Maybe a little old, actually. I was almost sixteen.”

“Pro or amateur?”

“Oh, come on, Eliot, you don’t pay for that sort of thing. It was a hot pants little sophomore named Gloria. What about you?

“What about me?”

“How old were you when you lost it?”

“Ted,” Andrew muttered uneasily, “this may kind of shock you …”

“Don’t tell me, Eliot — you did it at eleven with your nanny!”

“I only wish. That’s what practically happened to Newall. No, what I wanted to tell you is — shit, this is so embarrassing — I still have it.”

The instant he confessed, Andrew was frightened that his friend might laugh. But instead, after a moment of reflection, Ted looked at him with genuine sympathy. “Hey, you got problems or something?”

“No — unless you call total fear a problem. I mean, I’ve had a lot of dates in the past few years, and I think some of them would have … cooperated. But I’ve been too scared to make the move. Because, frankly, Lambros, I’m not sure I have the technique. I mean, I’ve read all the books — Love Without Fear , The Ideal Marriage . But I’ve obsessed about it for so long that I’m scared of clutching at the crucial moment — if you know what I mean.”

Ted put a paternal hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “My boy, I think you need what the football team calls a ‘practice scrimmage.’ ”

“Yeah. But I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“Hey, no sweat, Andy. There are plenty of chicks from my high school still around Cambridge. They’d be tickled to go out with a Harvard man — especially a sophisticated guy from Eliot House.”

“But, Ted,” he responded with frenzy in his voice, “they can’t be utter pigs. I mean, I’ve gotta be seen with them. You know, in the dining room, or on some kind of date.”

“No, no. You don’t have to wine ’em and dine ’em. You just invite ’em to your room and let nature take its course. And don’t worry, the one I have in mind for you is really great-looking.”

“Hey, not too good-looking. I want to start my career sort of at the bottom and work up. If you know what I mean.”

Ted Lambros laughed.

“Andy, Andy, stop being a goddamn puritan. Everything in life doesn’t have to be done the hard way. Look, why not meet me in front of Brigham’s at twelve-fifteen tomorrow? The little blonde ice-cream scooper is a real firecracker.”