Erich Segal - The Class

Later that evening, as they were sharing thick onion soup in Les Halles, Martine asked Jason, “I thought this Danny Rossi was your friend.”

“What makes you think he isn’t?”

“Because he asked me to go to Castels tonight — without you.”

“That cocky little runt, he thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”

“No, Jason,” she smiled, “you are that. He is only Cod’s gift to music.”

By late April 1959, Jason had had his fill of the memorabilia of things past and was burning to get back to the tennis courts. Regarding it as a kind of farewell tour, he had booked himself in as many international competitions as he could wangle.

And yet even this aspect of his journey turned out to be educational. For he was learning how very far he was from being the best tennis player in the world. He could never get past a quarter final, and he began to reckon it a minor triumph if he won so much as a single set against a seeded player.

At the Gstaad International Tennis Tournament in mid-July, he had the dubious honor of drawing as his first opponent Australia’s Rod Layer. Jason succumbed to the indomitable left-hander in straight sets, but was graceful in defeat.

“Rod,” he commented as they shook hands afterward, “it was a real honor to be creamed by you.”

“Thanks, Yank. Good on you.”

Jason walked slowly off court shaking his head and wondering why he had been so slow that afternoon — or the ball so fast. A tall young woman with a chestnut ponytail approached him to offer friendly consolation.

“You weren’t very lucky today, were you?” Her English had a strange, charming accent.

“I wasn’t until now,” he replied, “Are you here to play?”

“Yes, I am in the ladies’ singles tomorrow afternoon. I was just going to ask if you wanted to join up for the mixed doubles on Friday.”

“Why? You’ve just seen how badly I play.”

“I’m not that good either,” she answered candidly.

“That means we’ll probably both be killed.”

“But we could still have fun. Isn’t that what really counts?”

“I was brought up to think that winning was all that mattered,” Jason said with lighthearted honesty. “But I’m revising my theories. So why not? It would be a pleasure to be defeated in your company. By the way, what’s your name?”

“Fanny van der Post,” she replied, offering her hand. “I’m a university player from Holland.”

“I’m Jason Gilbert, who, as you saw, is barely good enough to be a ball boy for Rod Layer. Can we discuss our court strategy over dinner tonight?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I’m staying at the Boo Hotel in Saanen.”

“What a coincidence,” Jason remarked. “So am I.”

“I know. I saw you in the pub last night.”

That evening, they drove in Jason’s rented VW Beetle to a three-hundred-year-old inn in Chloesterli.

“My God,” said Jason, as they sat down, “this place is older than America.”

“Jason,” Fanny smiled, “almost everything in the world is older than America. Haven’t you noticed that?”

“Yeah,” he acknowledged, “this whole trip has been kind of a steamroller for my ego. I feel born yesterday and two feet tall.”

“I tell you, Jason,” she said with a twinkle, “if you really want to learn what it’s like to be small, come to Holland. Once upon a time we were a big world power — we even owned Central Park. Now our only claim to fame is that we gave the world Rembrandt and the English word for ‘cookie.’ ”

“Are all the Dutch so self-deprecating?”

“Yes. It’s our sly way of being arrogant.”

They talked nonstop for hours well into the early morning. By the time they said good night, he knew that this girl was very special.

Fanny had been born on a farm near Croningen during the early years of the Second World War, and had lived through the terrible hunger that devastated her country as the conflict drew to a close. Despite the hardships of her childhood, she had a buoyant good humor and optimism that delighted him.

And although Fanny had ambitions, they were not all-consuming. She was a medical student at Leiden, studying just enough to become a good doctor, and practicing just enough tennis to remain a decent player.

Jason concluded on the basis of this single evening’s conversation that Fanny was the most balanced person he had ever met. She was neither an overly cerebral Radcliffe girl battling for a Med School professorship, nor a bubble-headed Long Island deb whose only goal in life was an engagement ring.

Fanny had a talent he had not encountered in all the girls he’d dated in America. She was happy just being herself.

As he sat in the grandstand watching her play that next afternoon, his admiration grew. Not only had she stayed up late the night before a match, but they had shared quite a bit of wine. He was certain that the Florida girl she was facing had been in bed by nine, after drinking a glass of warm milk.

But Fanny was still good enough to make her opponent work for the victory. Her service was strong and accurate and was never broken until the second set, when the gritty American teenager began to wear her down. Fanny lost 5–7, 6–3, 6–1. Jason met her at the gate to the court with a towel and a glass of orange juice.

“Thanks,” Fanny puffed, “but I’d really like a nice cold beer. Aggressive little devil, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah,” replied Jason, “I bet her father would have spanked her if she lost. God, didn’t his shouting drive you crazy?”

“No, I never hear anything when I’m playing. Anyway, I enjoyed myself.”

They began to walk toward the changing rooms.

“Hey,” said Jason, “you could be really great if you worked at it.”

“Don’t be silly, tennis is a game. If I actually worked at it, it would become a job. Now, where would you like to have dinner tonight?”

“I don’t know. Any suggestions?”

“How about going to Rougemont for a fondue? It’s my turn to invite you anyway.”

That evening they briefly discussed strategy for their doubles game. Since Fanny was shorter (though not by much), she would play net.

“I’m counting on you to keep all the balls from even reaching me in the back court,” Jason joked.

“Please don’t get your hopes up. I think somewhere in that competitive American brain of yours you imagine we actually have a chance of winning tomorrow.”

“Well,” Jason conceded, “I confess it was on my mind. The two turkeys we’re playing may be worse than we are.”

“Nobody in this tournament is worse than we are.”

“Gosh, what a partner you are. You’re destroying my confidence.”

“Nothing could destroy your confidence, Jason.” She smiled meaningfully.

They almost won.

Neither of the Spanish couple they were facing was a power hitter, and they actually took the first set with ease. Then gradually their opponents began placing their long, slow shots with greater accuracy, getting them past Fanny and making Jason run himself into exhaustion.

After a marathon battle, he was sweaty and breathless from the sun and the thin Swiss air.

Too tired even to go change, he simply sat on a bench and contemplated his fatigue. Fanny arrived with two paper cups of mineral water and sat down beside him.

“Thank Cod we lost,” she said, wiping his face with a towel. “I don’t fancy the idea of another long afternoon like this. But I’ll tell you something, Jason. I think we played pretty well together for the first time. Next year we might even lose by a closer score.”

“Yeah, but I can’t make it next year. I’ve got another engagement.”

“Engagement?” she asked, misunderstanding. “You are engaged to someone?”