Erich Segal - The Class

They were too engrossed to notice each other. Or the fact that each of them was lonely.

Close to midnight, the subconscious child in Danny Rossi reemerged. He put away his score and for some atavistic reason began to improvise Christmas carols on the keyboard.

Since his window had been slightly open, the music floated gently out across the darkened courtyard where it could be heard by George Keller, who was, of course, still madly studying.

The refugee leaned back and closed his eyes. Even in Hungary, he had always been affected by the melody of “Silent Night.” Now, a million miles away, he harkened to it echoing faintly in the icy Cambridge air.

And for a moment he remembered things that he had hoped had been suppressed forever.

This George Keller is driving me insane. Maybe it’s the immigrant mentality. In fact, I’m working up a theory that Americans are driven by ambition in direct proportion to how recently they’ve set foot on these shores.

I mean, I once thought Lambros had a bullet up his ass. But he was born here. It was his father’s generation that came over on the boat. But nothing, absolutely nothing, tops the frenzied drive of this Hungarian, barely two months in America. I mean, if he were a locomotive he’d explode, he’s stoking his fire so hot.

When I wake up at what for me is the ungodly hour of 8:00 A.M., he’s already hard at work, having long since eaten breakfast. Almost every day he tells me with a kind of gleeful pride that he was first man in the dining hail. (Compare this to Newall, who revels in the distinction of never once having gotten up for breakfast in his entire Harvard career.)

George borrowed fifty bucks from me (which he’ll pay back as soon as his scholarship money comes through), and bought a portable recorder he takes to every class.

Now in the afternoons he plays back the lectures — and sometimes not just once — till he practically knows them by heart. Lots are in Russian. Which may be great for him, but makes me feel like I’m suddenly living in the Kremlin. Needless to say, George has the suite pretty much to himself during the days.

We did have a little problem about Ted and Sara. While George was very understanding of their need for a place to be alone, he insisted that he wouldn’t mind if they used my bedroom as long as he could keep studying in the living room.

I had to explain to him very tactfully that they would mind very much. George finally agreed to go and sit in the house library from four to six-thirty on the days Ted and Sara are in temporary residence.

Now here’s a shocker. I have no idea what time he goes to bed. In fact, I have the sneaking suspicion that the guy doesn’t sleep at all! And I had this really weird experience late the other night.

After a hard session of drinking at the Pore, nature obliged me to get up at around 2:00 A.M. As I was standing in the john taking care of my needs, I suddenly heard this ghostly voice emanating from the shower, saying things like, “begin-began-begun, bite-bit-bitten, sing-sang-sung.”

I called out to George, but, instead Of answering me directly, he simply went on rehearsing his verbs in that tile echo chamber.

Then I pulled back the shower curtain. There he was, naked except for his new a la mode jockey shorts, holding an English grammar. He barely noticed me as he droned on, hammering new words into his head.

I warned him that he’d drive himself to death. To which he replied, “Drive-drove-driven.”

I went to the sink, picked up a glass of cold water, and poured it over his head. He shivered and looked at me with comatose astonishment, then ripped the curtain from my hand, slammed it closed, and continued his verbal gymnastics.

“Show-showed-shown, speak-spoke-spoken.”

Shit, I thought. He can kill himself for all I care.

I shut the bathroom door behind me so that at least Newall could have some peace, staggered back to my bed, and went to sleep.

Or, as George would have put it, sleep-slept-slept.

“Hello, Dad. It’s Jason. I’ve got some great news.”

“I can’t hear you, son. There’s a terrific racket going on behind you. Where are you calling from?”

“Racket’s a good word for it. The whole squash team’s in my room. They just voted for next year’s varsity captain and for some stupid reason they chose me.”

“Son,” the elder Gilbert said elatedly, “that’s just terrific news. I can’t wait to tell your mother. And you know what? I bet you’ll be tennis captain, too.”

As Jason hung up, he felt a kind of vague, inexplicable sadness. For his dad’s last remark had unsettled him. After all, he had been calling to announce a great success. And though his father was obviously delighted, he had concluded with the pretty unsubtle expectation that his son would bring him still more glory. Where would it end?

“Hey, Captain,” Newall interrupted giddily, “are you still sober?”

“Yeah.” Jason laughed. “Couldn’t let my dad think we were all a bunch of drunken bums, which naturally we are.”

His teammates roared appreciatively. There were a dozen of them crowded in his little room, plus several hangers-on including Ted and Sara. Andrew Eliot had brought them along to get a glimpse of the more athletic creatures in the Harvard bestiary.

Originally Newall had intended these festivities to be a surprise. But then George Keller had refused to let them use their own room to hold the party. Newall had no alternative but to tell Jason in advance, so they could use his suite.

“How is that dingbat?” Jason asked, while pouring out a Bud. “I bet he’s out memorizing the Encyclopedia Britannica by now.”

“Don’t laugh,” cautioned Andrew. “Besides studying like a maniac for all his courses, he also reads every inch of The New York Times — including real estate and recipes — and writes down every word he doesn’t know.”

“And that includes the Sunday edition,” Newall added, “when the goddamn paper’s practically as long as War and Peace .”

“Well,” said Jason, “you gotta admire a guy like that.”

“I’ll be happy to admire him,” Newall retorted, “if only someone else would room with him.”

Suddenly the members of the squash team started clinking glasses and calling boozily for silence. It was time to toast their newly chosen captain. The most eloquent of them was Tod Anderson, former Andover captain, now number three on the varsity.

Tod raised his glass and spoke a tribute appropriate for such a gathering of jocks. “To our beloved new leader, Jason Gilbert, ace racket-man and incomparable ass-man. May his shots in court drop as often as his shorts in bed.”

Just after seven, the final partyers began to disperse, and the squash team, as prearranged, started strolling through the streets of Cambridge toward the Hasty Pudding Club. Thursday was steak night, the best buy in Cambridge for $1.75.

As they trooped down Mount Auburn toward Holyoke Street, the knights of the Harvard Squash Varsity broke into a euphoric variant of the college’s most popular fight song:

They grew only slightly more sedate as they shuffled up the wooden steps of the clubhouse, at number 12, and mounted the stairs, past two centuries of theatrical posters, to the dining room where Newall had reserved a large table for the entire group.

Naturally they put Jason at the head, which cheered him immensely, because his prominent position drew the attention of every other Pudding member’s date. To these ordinary mortals’ discomfiture, their female guests kept smiling at the man of the hour. And he smiled disarmingly back at them.