Erich Segal - The Class

“Yesterday afternoon when I wanted to go off by myself, there was a reason.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small velvet box. “If it fits any one of your fingers, then I think we should get married.”

“Jason,” she smiled, “if it fits one of my toes we will get married.”

The future bride and groom embraced.

Andrew met George Keller at the Trailways Bus Station in Bangor. They used the drive back to the Eliot retreat in Seal Harbor to get up to date.

“You look pale, George. Haven’t you been outside all summer?”

“I’m a graduate student, not a lifeguard, Andrew. And I must finish my dissertation by next spring.”

“What’s the urgeucy?”

“Because I want to get my degree next June.”

“What’ll you do after that?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“So what’s the rush?”

“You wouldn’t understand. But I must keep to my schedule. Anyway, I’m grateful for your enticing me up for the weekend.”

“Weekend? I thought you were staying the whole week.”

“No no no. I must get back to my writing.”

“Okay,” Andrew capitulated. “But if I see you scribble so much as a postcard in the next two days, I’ll punch you out. Agreed?”

“Under protest.” The scholar smiled. “Anyway, old boy, how’s marriage?”

“Oh, let me tell you, Keller, it’s a fun thing. You ought to try it.”

“All in due time, Andrew. But first I must —”

“Don’t even say it,” his classmate interrupted. “I forbid you to mention your thesis all weekend. And — uh — if you could manage to keep the conversation general, it’d be nice for Faith. I mean, she’s a great kid, but academics is not her strong point.”

The lovely Mrs. Andrew Eliot waved to them from the edge of the dock as they approached. Even the otherwise preoccupied George Keller could not help noticing how good she looked in a bikini. And how it felt when she gave him a welcoming hug.

Faith then led both men to the terrace where a large pitcher of martinis awaited.

“I’ve been looking forward to having a real talk with you ever since we met at the wedding,” Faith remarked as she handed George a glass. “Andrew says you have a brilliant mind.”

“Andrew flatters me.”

“I know.” She giggled. “He flatters me, too. But I like it.”

George then presented her with a gift-wrapped package.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” she exclaimed as she tore it open. And then with slightly forced gaiety added, “Oh — a book. Look, Andrew, George brought me a book.”

“That’s great,” her husband remarked. And turning to their guest added, “Faith really likes books. What is it, dear?”

“It looks exciting,” she replied and held up the cover.

It was The Necessity of Choice , by Henry Kissinger.

“What’s it about, George?” she asked.

“The U.S-Soviet ‘missile gap.’ It is unquestionably the most important work on the subject to date.”

“It’s by one of George’s professors,” Andrew explained.

“A very great man,” George quickly added. “He’s my thesis adviser and, from the moment I arrived in America, he’s acted in loco parentis .”

“You mean kind of crazy?” Faith inquired.

The reply seemed like a non sequitur to George. And so he added, “He mentions me in the preface. May I read it to you?”

“Oh, this is exciting,” Faith gushed, as she handed him the tome. “I’ve never known anyone who was in a book before.”

George quickly found the page and read aloud, “ ‘Gratitude for the advice and insight of my student and friend George Keller cannot be adequately expressed.’ ”

“Gosh,” Andrew commented, “he actually calls you his friend. That’s terrific.”

“Yes. And he’s not only made me his head section man in Coy. 180, but he’s even arranged for me to have a piece in Foreign Affairs .”

“Oh, George.” Faith smiled. “That sounds very naughty.”

George was charmed by her delightful sense of humor.

“Eliot,” he smiled, “you’re a really lucky man.”

“Well, Faith,” Andrew asked when he returned from driving George to his bus, “what do you think of old George? A mad genius, huh?”

“He’s quite attractive,” she replied thoughtfully. “But something about him worries me. I mean, I can’t exactly put my finger on it. But I think it’s the way he talks. Have you noticed that he has no foreign accent at all?”

“Sure. That’s what’s so fantastic about him.”

“Andrew, don’t be naive. If a foreign person doesn’t have a foreign accent that means he’s trying to hide something. I think your ex-roommate just might be a spy.”

“A spy? Who the heck could he be spying for?”

“I don’t know. The enemy. Maybe even the Democrats.”

From the “Milestones” section of Time magazine, January 12, 1963:

MARRIED.

Daniel Rossi, 27, keyboard Wunderkind, and Maria Pastore, 25, his college sweetheart; both for the first time; in Cleveland, Ohio.

After a European honeymoon (during which Rossi will fulfill some of his long-standing concert engagements), the couple plans to settle in Philadelphia, where Rossi has just been appointed Associate Conductor of that city’s symphony orchestra.

The only prenuptial promise Maria had extracted from Danny was that he would drastically cut down his frenetic touring so that they could take roots somewhere and build a domestic existence.

Though at first he was reluctant to give up the polyglot murmurs of adulation that gave him such pleasure, the offer from Philadelphia had come as a kind of miraculous solution.

They bought a spacious Tudor home on an acre and a half in Bryn Mawr. It was large enough to transform the entire top floor into a studio for Danny. And a light airy room for Maria, where he insisted on installing a barre, but which she wanted to become a nursery as soon as possible.

They spent their wedding night in the downtown Cleveland Sheraton, where Gene Pastore had thrown a lavish reception.

Throughout the celebration, Danny was strangely subdued — although he tried not to show it. For he was preoccupied with the fact that, having earned the reputation of being an international Don Juan, he might not live up to it on the one occasion that really mattered.

Not unexpectedly, he was coerced by the wedding guests into playing the piano. To his mind, it proved an ominous harbinger. For though he delighted them with a complete rendition of Rossi on Broadway , he was perhaps the only person in the room who noticed he was not performing as well as usual.

Perhaps it was the champagne. He had been sipping a little all evening to calm his nerves, even though he knew it was not a good idea. As an ironclad rule, he never drank anything stronger than Coke before a concert. He might take a Miltown or a phenobarb if he was especially nervous. But it was too late for that.

Now that he was slightly boozy, he wondered if he hadn’t been sabotaging himself. For he would soon have to enter the bedroom of the sexiest girl he had ever known, who had waited all her life for this moment .

There were “his” and “hers” bathrooms in the bridal suite. As Danny brushed his teeth (long and slowly), he looked in the mirror and saw the face of a frightened adolescent.

Could he go through with it? Of course, he told himself. Come on, don’t make a big deal out of all this. Besides, she’s a virgin. Even if you’re not at your very best, how could she know?

Danny looked at himself again. And his own expression told him that he couldn’t walk into the bedroom and face Maria.