Erich Segal - The Class

I mean, I personally found it impossible even to think of where I might be twenty-five years from now. I’m still confused from one day to the next about what I want to do with my life.

No one knew where they were honeymooning. Except me, of course. For, despite their protestations, I had insisted that the newlyweds take advantage of our family’s empty summer house up in Maine. It gave me pleasure to know the place would be used for such a worthwhile purpose.

It would be misleading to assume that I’m always on the giving end with Lambros.

In fact, when Sara’s bouquet was caught by her cousin Kit from Chicago, she called out to me to take care of her.

I got the message, and happily entertained her for the next few days. And nights.

Weddings do that sort of thing to you.

Danny Rossi could never have imagined that his childhood bouts of asthma would ultimately serve a useful purpose in his musical career.

For while most of his Harvard classmates who did not have student deferments were marching and saluting in fulfillment of their military obligations, he had been declared 4-F. And was therefore free to roam the world and be saluted as a rising star.

At a first glance it might have appeared that Hurok had merely booked his young discovery indiscriminately — one might almost say promiscuously — with any orchestra he could. But the veteran concert manager had a very well-thought-out master plan.

He wanted to expose Danny to demanding conductors, sophisticated audiences. To become inured to harsh, critical scrutiny. In short, polish his musical techniques while hardening his psyche.

What the old man didn’t realize was that Danny was also a virtuoso with reporters. His press was uniformly favorable.

He captured London playing Brahms with Beecham and the Royal Philharmonic, then flew on to Amsterdam for Mozart with Haitink and the Concertgebouw.

Paris was next, with a solo concert at the Salle Pleyel (Bach, Chopin, plus Couperin and Debussy to please the locals). In Le Figaro ’s opinion Rossi was “ Un nouveau Liszt en miniature ”; Le Monde had a similar opinion if a different metaphor: “ pas seulement un géant pour son âge mais an gêant de son âge .”

On the evening after Danny’s last appearance in Berlin, von Karajan arranged a midnight supper at the Kempinski with the director-general of Deutsche Grammophon Records. The next morning Danny had a five-album contract.

“Well,” said the young pianist as he sat proudly in Hurok’s portrait-laden office, observing the impresario leaf through his folder of reviews. “What do you think?”

The old man raised his glance and smiled. “What I think, my boy, is that you have just done New Haven.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are you not familiar with the theatrical expression? Whenever a producer wants to open a show in New York, he always tries it out first in a small place like New Haven.”

“Are you suggesting that London, Amsterdam, and Paris are ‘try-out towns’?”

“I am indeed,” Hurok said without blinking. “For New York, every other city on earth is New Haven. When you make it here you’ve really made it.”

When do you think I’ll finally be ready for the ‘Big Time’?”

“I’ll be glad to let you know exactly,” the concert manager answered, casually reaching for a document that lay upon his antique desk. “February 15, 1961, with Lenny and the Philharmonic. He suggests you play one of the Beethovens.”

“That’s another whole year. What do I do till then — besides bite all my nails oft?”

“Danny,” the impresario said paternally, “am I a booking agent or a nursemaid? You will go out and do more New Havens.”

Such was the success of the pre-concert propaganda campaign that the audience filling Carnegie Hall on the night of Danny’s New York debut was more predisposed to worship than to judge.

During the lengthy standing ovation at the end of the concert, Bernstein pulled Danny onto the podium and held his hand aloft like a victorious boxer’s. Danny was indeed a new world champion. He had won where it counted most.

The reception was held in the sumptuous penthouse of one of the Philharmonic’s trustees. Although Danny was now indisputably a major star, by no stretch of his own imagination (or ego) was he the greatest luminary present.

There were famous actors who, just a few years earlier, he would have shyly asked for an autograph. There were other world-renowned musicians, as well as important political figures. Cover girls were as abundant as the uniformed waitresses serving caviar.

And yet, incredibly, they all were flocking around wanting to meet him .

Not unexpectedly, he was asked to play. A Steinway grand was wheeled into the center of the living room and its lid propped open.

Danny had anticipated that at this hour of the night, after so arduous an effort, he would not be at his best in some classical piece. He had therefore prepared a little jeu d’esprit .

Before sitting down, he made a short speech.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “my thank yous could go on forever. So forgive me if I mention just two people in particular. First Mr. Hurok for having such faith and supporting me all this time —”

“Excuse me, my dear boy,” the impresario joked, “it’s you who have been supporting me.”

“And if Lenny doesn’t mind, I’d like to express my gratitude to him at the keyboard.”

Danny began with a fortissimo rendition of the piano entrance to the concerto he had played that night. He then quickly switched to a jazz medley of the tunes from Bernstein’s West Side Story .

The audience was enchanted and would not let him leave the piano.

“What now?” Danny asked ingenuously. “I’m running out of material.”

Bernstein smiled and suggested, “Why not do unto others what you just did unto me?”

Danny nodded, sat down again and for nearly half an hour poured forth jazz versions of My Fair L ady as well as standards by Cole Porter, Rodgers and Hart, and Irving Berlin. Finally he pleaded exhaustion.

Later in the evening, a dapper executive type waved a business card in front of him and murmured something about doing an album along the lines of that night’s improvisations.

Just as the man retreated, an extremely elegant brunette approached Danny and said in dulcet tones, “Mr. Rossi, I very much enjoyed your performance this evening. I hope Jack and I can entice you to come and play for a small group at the White House sometime.”

Battle weary and a little high, Danny had at first merely nodded politely and said, “That’s very nice. Thanks a lot.”

Only after she had gracefully turned and walked off did he realize that he had been talking to the wife of the President of the United States.

After graduating I expected to find myself metaphorically, but not literally, at sea.

Yet here I am crossing the Atlantic on a ship of the U.S. Navy. Knowing of my family’s distinguished record in this branch of the services, I had been determined not to follow where I might stumble in their footsteps.

But when the ninety-day notice suddenly came from the army, I panicked and thought, I don’t want to spend the next two years of my life marching around some bog. So I signed up for the navy. I mean, how bad can things be on a ship?

At least there’s nowhere to hike.

I found out otherwise, however. A sailor’s existence can be hell. While my old roomie Newall is an ensign stationed out in San-Francisco waiting for a ship full of guys to whom he can bark orders as they cruise the tropics, I thought I’d give myself a real dose of what life without privilege is like. So I’m seeing the navy as a simple white-hat, an enlisted man.