Erich Segal - The Class

He stood up and yawned. “Listen, it’s getting real late and I’ve got a nine o’clock. See you tomorrow.”

Andrew Eliot sat there shell-shocked. He had not expected things to move so fast. There were a million questions he still wanted to ask.

Outside Brigham’s the next day, he greeted Ted with annoyance.

“What the hell kept you? I’ve been waiting for hours.”

“Hey, I’m right on time. I had a class till noon. What’s the matter with you? C’mon, let’s get the show on the road.”

“Wait, wait, wait, Lambros. I’ve got to know what to do.”

Ted answered softly, “Listen, Eliot, just walk inside with me, order a cone, and when no one else is around I’ll introduce you to Lorraine.”

“Who’s Lorraine?”

“She’s your passport to paradise, baby. She’s a really good kid and just loves Harvard guys.”

“But, Ted, what exactly do I say?”

“Just give her one of your charming smiles and ask if she’d like to have a drink this afternoon. And Lorraine being Lorraine, she’ll say yes.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because she’s never said ‘no’ to anything in her life.”

She came over the moment they reached the counter. Ted had not been lying — the girl was a real looker. As they chatted amicably, she leaned forward and Andrew could not keep from gazing down her carelessly unbuttoned uniform.

Wow, he thought, can this really be happening to me? God, I wish I’d spent more time rereading those manuals last night.

“So, what house are you in?” Lorraine inquired. “Uh — Eliot,” he replied without elaboration. Then he felt Ted’s elbow in his ribs and added, “Uh — would you like to come over this afternoon?”

“Sure,” she replied. “Parietals start at four, don’t they? I’ll just meet you at the gate. ’Scuse me now, I got customers getting impatient.”

“Well?” asked Ted when they were outside again. “Are you all set now?”

Set? He was about to pass out.

“Lambros,” he pleaded, “couldn’t you give me just a few tips? I mean about making the first move.”

Ted stopped as they were both in the middle of Harvard Square in a sea of noontime students.

“Andy,” he said indulgently, “say something casual like, ‘Lorraine, why don’t we go to the bedroom and fool around?’ ”

“Isn’t that a little crude?”

“Jesus, Eliot, she’s not Doris Day! I mean, she really loves to make it with Harvard guys.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly,” he repeated. And then as a final gesture he reached into his pocket and put something into Andrew’s hand.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a cultural first,” he replied, smiling. “You just got a Trojan from a Greek.”

Had a really terrific day.

I’ll never forget Ted Lambros for the favor he did me.

As a matter of fact, I’ll never forget Lorraine, either.

Danny Rossi returned to Cambridge in September with a revised view of the world — and himself. Artur Rubinstein had praised his pianistic skills. He’d conducted a real symphony — if only for a minute.

Though he had hardly become a Casanova, his few brief encounters (two, to be precise) had led him to discover a new erogenous zone: the keyboard. He would now not be intimidated even by Brigitte Bardot — as long as there was a Steinway in the room.

To become a triple threat musician, all that remained was for him to start composing seriously. As promised, Walter Piston took him in his seminar and Danny began to write in earnest.

But he was growing ever more impatient to be free of all the trappings of “studenthood.” He had had enough of being known as some famous person’s pupil, protégé, or favorite. He now bridled at such distinctions. He was prepared to be a great man on his own.

The Composition Seminar disappointed him. For it seemed to consist only of exercises in the style of various past masters. When Danny complained of his frustration at the “limiting” assignments, Professor Piston tried to clarify the logic of the method.

“All great writers, whether they make prose or music, start by imitation. That’s what gives a man a sense of style. And only after that can he begin to forge his own. Be patient, Danny. After all, young Mozart wrote at first like pseudo-Haydn, and even Beethoven began by imitating Mozart. Don’t be so impulsive, you’re in august company.”

Danny heard the cautionary words but really didn’t listen. Events at Tanglewood that summer had turned his head. While dutifully fulfilling all of Piston’s course demands, he started to seek outlets for expressing his own musical personality.

And then the opportunity found him. His phone rang late one afternoon as he was finishing an essay at his desk.

“Is this Danny Rossi?” asked a slightly nervous female voice.

“Yes.”

“I’m Maria Pastore, president of the Radcliffe Dance Club. And — I hope you don’t think this is presumptuous — the group would like to put on an original ballet this spring. Naturally your name was the first one we all thought of. Please tell me if this is imposing and I won’t go on …”

“No, no,” Danny encouraged, “I’m very interested.”

“You are?” Maria said delightedly.

Sure,” Danny answered. “Who would be the choreographer?”

“Uh, well,” Maria responded shyly, “sort of me. I mean, I’m not a total neophyte. I’ve studied with Martha Graham and —”

“Please,” Danny said with exaggerated magnanimity, “we’re all just undergraduates. Why don’t we have dinner at Eliot and talk it over?”

“Gee, that would be terrific. Should I meet you near the superintendent’s office at, say, five-thirty or so?”

“No,” Danny answered. “Why not come around five? We can talk things over in my room before we eat.”

And inwardly he thought, If this Maria turns out to be a dog, I just won’t take her to the dining hall.

“Your room?” Her voice was slightly nervous once again. “Uh — yes,” he answered suavely. “I mean, I’ve got a piano here and everything. If not, we can meet sometime in Paine Hall. But I should definitely be near a keyboard.”

“Oh no, that’s okay,” Maria Pastore quickly responded, her tone belying her words, “your room would be fine. So I’ll see you Wednesday at five. I’m really excited about this. Thanks.”

She hung up. And Danny thought, I wonder how excited I’ll be.

At precisely 5:00 P.M. on Wednesday, November 14, there was a knock on Danny Rossi’s door.

“Come in,” he called out as he straightened his tie and then — took a sniff. He had somewhat overdone it with the shaving lotion. The room fairly reeked of Old Spice.

He rushed to the window and raised it a few inches. Then he opened the door.

“Hello,” said Maria Pastore.

She was so tall that at first Danny did not even see her face. But what he did perceive was interesting enough for his gaze to linger before moving upward.

She was extremely pretty, too. Long black hair framed her wide, soulful Mediterranean eyes. No question about it, they’d be eating dinner at Eliot that night. And many jaws would drop in admiration.

“Thanks for giving me a chance to talk to you,” Maria bubbled with enthusiasm.

“It’s my pleasure,” Danny Rossi replied gallantly. “Your idea interests me.”

“I haven’t actually explained it to you yet,” she answered shyly.

“Oh,” said Danny Rossi. “I mean, the notion of composing a ballet is really attractive. Uh — could I take your coat?”

“No, thanks,” Maria responded diffidently, “it’s kind of cold in here.”