Erich Segal - The Class

Skiing, sailing, riding, and sex (previously mentioned, I guess) also came under that category.

And she’s a terrific gardener.

I would describe our courtship as whirlwind — and I have no doubt how she would term it. In any case, we seemed to know so many people in common that I feared the only thing that would keep us from marrying would be some kind of incest by association.

For the record, I’m not marrying Faith simply because our mutual fathers and mothers are fairly berserk about the whole idea.

Knowing his deeply held views, I would never admit it to my dad, but secretly — I’m still a romantic.

And I’m marrying Faith Pierce because she said something that no one has ever said to me in my entire life.

Just before I proposed, she whispered, “I think I love you, Andrew.”

One morning in late spring of ’62, Danny Rossi woke up alone. Not merely alone in bed, but feeling a pervasive emptiness in his entire life.

How could this be? he asked himself. Here I am in my new Fifth Avenue duplex overlooking Central Park. In a minute a butler is going to walk through that door with my breakfast on a silver tray. He’ll also be bringing this morning’s mail, which will contain invitations to at least a dozen parties all over the world. And I suddenly feel unhappy.

Unhappy? What a ridiculous thought. I’m the critics’ darling. I think if I sneezed during a concert they’d write it up as an exciting new interpretation of whatever I was playing. I can’t even walk from here to Hurok’s office without people calling out friendly greetings or asking for autographs.

Unhappy? There isn’t an orchestra in the world that wouldn’t die to have me as a soloist. And now the commissions for symphonic compositions are starting to come in. Everybody seems to want me for my talent, as well as my personality — not to mention the innumerable lovelies who want me for my body.

So why, with the platinum winter sun streaming brightly through the windows of my fantastic apartment, do I feel worse than I ever did when I was stuck in that lousy little practice room in my parents’ cellar?

This was not, in fact, the first time he had had such thoughts. But now they seemed to be coming more frequently.

What made matters worse, he had no official engagements for the day. No concerts, no rehearsals, not even an appointment with his hair stylist.

This, of course, had been on his own insistence. Because he wanted to devote the day to composing the orchestral suite commissioned by the St. Louis Symphony. And yet now the prospect of being alone with sheafs of empty music paper depressed him.

What could possibly be causing this melancholy?

After breakfast he put on jeans and a Beethoven sweatshirt (the gift of an adoring fan) and climbed to his studio on the upper floor. There on his piano, where he had left it late the previous night, was his unfinished composition. And on an easy chair nearby, a magazine he had leafed through to relax and let his sleeping pill take effect.

Perhaps just to avoid sitting down to work, he ambled over and picked it up again. It was the Harvard Alumni Bulletin that he had left open the previous evening at the Class Notes section.

Why is it, he asked himself, only the boring guys write in their “achievements”? And what the hell makes them think that their marriages or even the birth of a kid would be of any possible interest to anybody else?

Yet, despite his indifference, he sank once again into the chair and reread the list of new matrimonies and parenthoods that had been so somniferous the night before.

Then, alone in his magnificent penthouse studio, almost involuntarily he made a confession to himself. This isn’t boring, really. It’s an account of all the joys in life that I’ve been missing. I mean, applause is heady stuff. But how long does it last? Five, ten minutes at the most. When everything is over I still come home and no one’s here except the staff. Sure it’s fun when I bring a woman back. But after all the physical excitement we don’t talk. I mean, it sometimes makes me feel more lonely.

I want a wife, I think.

I know I want a wife. But someone genuine I can share my life with — and my thoughts. And most of all — if this is possible — a woman who might like me for myself and not that phony PR image my publicity machine has manufactured.

Come to think of it, who in my life has ever loved me for myself?

Only… Maria.

God, he had been stupid, letting his one real chance for a relationship slip through his fingers. And for the worst possible reason: because Maria did not act like every other woman and offer her body to the altar of his ego.

How long had it been since he’d last seen her? Two years? Three years? By now she’d graduated from Radcliffe, probably married some nice Catholic guy, and was raising kids. Yeah, someone that fantastic doesn’t sit around and wait for Danny Rossi to call back. No, she’s got too much sense.

Now he knew exactly why he was depressed. And also that there was nothing he could do about it.

Or was there?

Maria would be, say, twenty-three or twenty-four at most. Not every woman’s married by that age. Maybe she went to graduate school. Who the hell knows — maybe she even became a nun.

Funny, he had always kept her Cleveland phone number. A semiconscious reminder that he had never surrendered hope.

He took a deep breath and dialed. Her mother answered.

“May I speak to Maria Pastore, please~” he asked nervously.

“Oh, she doesn’t live at home anymore —”

Danny’s heart sank. He was, as he had feared, too late.

“— But I could give you the number of her apartment. May I ask who’s calling?”

“Uh — it’s, uh —it’s Daniel Rossi.”

“Oh my,” she responded. “I knew the voice was familiar. We’ve been following your career with enormous admiration.”

“Thanks. Uh — is Maria well?”

“Yes. She’s teaching dance at a girls’ school and enjoys it very much. She’s there now.”

“Could you give me the address?” Danny interrupted.

“Certainly,” Mrs. Pastore replied, “but I’d be glad to pass on a message.”

“No, please. In fact, I’d be grateful if you didn’t say I called. I’d sort of like to … surprise her.”

“One-two-three-plié. Now fourth position, girls. Tuck in at the back, please.”

Maria was leading a ballet class of a dozen or so ten-year-olds at the Sherwood School for Girls. She was so involved that she barely perceived the studio door opening behind her. Yet something made her gaze into the mirror and see the reflection of a once-familiar figure.

She was astonished. Incredulous. But before turning around she had, enough presence to tell her charges, “Keep repeating those movements, girls. Laurie, you count the beats.”

She then about-faced and walked to greet her visitor.

“Hello, Danny.”

“Hello, Maria.”

They were both distinctly uneasy.

“Uh — are you in town for a concert? I must have missed it in the papers.”

“No, Maria, I flew out especially to see you.”

That stopped the conversation cold.

For several moments they stared at each other mutely while behind them ten-year-old Laurie counted cadence for the little dancers.

“Did you hear me, Maria?” Danny said softly.

“Yes. It’s just that I don’t know what to think. I mean, why after all this time — ?”

Rather than answer her question, Danny asked the more urgent one that had been burning in his brain during the entire flight to Cleveland.

“Has some lucky guy nabbed you yet, Maria?”

“Well, I’ve been sort of going with this architect …”