Erich Segal - The Class

“Oh, truthfully?”

“Even Dr. Pusey,” Andrew answered, hoping that the President of Harvard would not mind his invoking him in vain.

They spent an aeon in the textbook section. On the train, Brzezinski had helped George work out a schedule of courses that would suit someone with perfect Russian. Still, in addition to his class texts, he bought all sorts of English grammar books and dictionaries. Anything that would advance his crusade to conquer the language.

As they were lugging all their purchases back home to Eliot, George suddenly asked in an incongruous whisper, “We are alone now, Andrew, are we not?”

Dunster Street was empty, so the answer obviously was yes.

“Then we can speak the truth to one another?”

Andrew was totally confused. “I don’t understand you, George.”

“You can trust me to keep a secret, Andrew,” he continued, still half-whispering. “Are you the spy?”

“The what?”

“Please. I am not some naive newborn child. In every university the government has spies.”

“Not in America,” Andrew answered, trying to sound convincing. For, like someone in a Kafka story, he felt slightly guilty.

“George, do I look like a spy to you?”

“Of course not,” he said knowingly. “That is the biggest reason why I suspect you. Please — you won’t report this, yes?”

“Hey look,” Andrew protested, “I don’t report to anybody. I’m just a Harvard undergraduate.”

“Is your name really Andrew Eliot?”

“Of course. What do you find so strange in that?”

“Look here,” he reasoned, “the dwelling they assign me is called Eliot. You say that is your name also. Do you not find that curious coincidence?”

As patiently as possible, Andrew tried to explain how Harvard buildings got their names from notable alumni of a bygone age. And that his family had been pretty distinguished. Apparently that satisfied George for the moment. In fact, it seemed to lift, his mood.

“Then you are an aristocrat?”

“You might say so,” Andrew answered candidly. And was pleasantly surprised to find that for some unfathomable reason, this seemed to make George happy.

Then came the horror show.

They had left Eliot at about half past one. It was close to five when they returned.

Fortunately, Andrew was the first to walk into the suite. Something made him glance toward the bedroom, where he saw in panic what they’d interrupted.

The day’s events had made him totally forget! It took Andrew half a second to react. First he ordered George to wait in the hall, then he sprinted like a demon to the bedroom door and slammed it shut.

At last, he turned around to see the refugee staring at him, his suspicion now inflamed to paranoia.

“Eliot, what is happening?”

“Nothing, nothing, nothing. Some friends of mine have just been … borrowing the place.”

As Andrew stood there like a sentry at the bedroom door, both men could hear frantic shuffling inside.

“I don’t believe you,” George stated angrily, a quaver in his voice. “And I wish to speak to your superiors immediately.”

“Hey, wait a minute, Keller, let me explain this, huh?”

He glanced at his brand-new Timex watch and, like a military officer, replied, “Okay, I give you five minutes. Then I phone Brzezinski to get me out of here.” He sat down and folded his arms.

Andrew didn’t know how to begin. “Look, George, there are these two friends of mine who —” At a loss for words, he stood there making futile gestures in the air.

“So far, no good,” Keller said disapprovingly. Then he glanced at his watch again. “Four minutes twenty and I call Brzezinski.”

Suddenly he looked up and his expression changed completely. He jumped to his feet and, with a broad smile, said, “Greetings, honey, I am George. What’s your name?”

Andrew whirled around and saw that Sara had emerged, a little red-faced.

“I’m Sara Harrison,” she said with as much friendly composure as she could muster under the circumstances. “Welcome to Harvard.”

George held out his hand. They shook. Then Ted appeared and introduced himself. George was miraculously transformed.

“And so we all are living here?” he asked with newfound optimism.

“Uh — not really,” Andrew stammered. “It’s just that Ted and Sara have no place to, you know —”

“Please,” George said gallantly, “there is no need to explain. We have these housing problems also in Hungary.”

“Hey,” Ted whispered to Andrew apologetically, “I’m sorry for this little mess-up. But you didn’t give us any warning.”

“No, no, you guys. It’s all my fault. I should have called you when I learned what train he would be coming on.”

“No sweat,” Ted reassured him. “But look, it’s getting late. I’ve got to walk Sara back and go to work. Thanks, Eliot, it was great while it lasted.”

As Sara kissed Andrew on the cheek and started out, he called, “Hey, you know nothing has to change. I mean, you’re welcome to continue … visiting.”

Sara stuck her head back in. “We’ll see.” She smiled. “But I think you’ve got your hands full.”

The Eliot House dining hall was the one selected to stay open through the Christmas holidays. To offer nourishment — a flattering term for Central Kitchen fare — to the poor souls who had to stay in Cambridge during the vacation.

These were not the usual men of the house, but rather a potpourri of undergraduates from all over the campus. Many were seniors (of the Class of ’57) feverishly working on their honors dissertations. Some were freshmen who lived too far from home and didn’t have the wherewithal even for bus fare.

Still, a few were genuine Eliot men, each of whom had a special reason for remaining in arctic Cambridge over Christmas.

Danny Rossi was one of them. He welcomed the liberation from his classwork to plunge fully into composing Arcadia . The place was quiet. Not a single raucous shout rose from the snowy courtyard to destroy his concentration. For, wanting to impress Maria, he’d rashly promised that he’d have the whole score done by New Year’s Eve.

He worked demonically from dawn to late at night. One theme came magically — the plaintive love song of the shepherds. It was a melody born of his longing for Maria. The rest took sweat to write but gradually the staves were filled.

It was, he thought, the best stuff he had ever done.

This dedication was convenient for another reason. His mother’s recent letters had been urging him to come home for the holidays and make peace. Yet, his important first commission gave him a legitimate excuse to continue to avoid facing his father.

Danny spent his Yuletide locked up, psychologically as well as physically. For his obsession with this new ballet helped him to shut out all emotion: the natural desire to spend Christmas with his family, especially his mother. And those feelings for Maria. So lovely. So desirable, So completely unattainable.

Hell, he tried to rationalize, I’ll put the pain down on the music paper. Passion can inspire art. But, in this case, his attempt to sublimate passion merely inspired more passion.

George Keller had also chosen to remain in Cambridge. Though Andrew Eliot had kindly invited him to his home, George preferred to stay on monastically and make his rapidly improving English even better.

On Christmas Eve, the dining hail came up with something tasting almost like roast turkey. George Keller did not notice. He sat at the far end of a rectangular table, devouring a vocabulary book. At the other end, his classmate Danny Rossi was intently reading over what he had composed that day.