Erich Segal - The Class

There were infinite possibilities for musical invention. Only one significant change was needed. In Stuart’s words, “Our only concession to commercialism.”

All they would have to do was translate the locale from Joyce’s Dublin to New York. Stuart even had exciting ideas for specific scenes and songs. But it was growing late and they’d have to put this off for a second meeting.

“I think we’re already a little pregnant, Stuart,” he commented. “If you’re free tomorrow, I’ll be glad to stay over in New York so we can keep going.”

“I’ve got no classes. What time do you want to start?” Stuart responded eagerly.

“Well, if you can make it to my studio as early as, say, eight, I’ll provide lots of cups of disgusting but strong Nescafé.”

“You’re on,” said Stu as he stood up. He glanced at his watch. “Gosh, it’s nearly five o’clock. Nina’ll think I’ve been hit by a bus. I’d better call and tell her I’m okay.”

“Is it really that late?” asked Danny. “I’d better scramble, or I’ll have one hell of an angry guest waiting outside my apartment.”

After their second meeting the two were ecstatic.

They had worked through the day, even chatting as they munched the sandwiches Danny ordered from the Carnegie Deli.

After eight hours of feverish symbiotic creativity, they had not only a broad outline of both acts, but at least half-a-dozen song suggestions and a place pinpointed for a ballet sequence.

Most of all, they shared the common euphoria that when the curtain fell on Bloom parting with young Stephen Dedalus, there would not be a dry eye in the house. Or a single prize they wouldn’t win.

Danny suggested that if they spent a lot of concentrated time together, they could finish the whole thing very quickly. He proposed they rent adjacent houses on Martha’s Vineyard for the summer. Then they could bring their families along and — if they could snare a producer — have the show ready to go into rehearsal just after Christmas.

There was only one difficulty. And Stuart approached it with some diffidence.

“Uh, Dan, a house on the Vineyard is — uh — a little out of my budget.”

“No sweat. With what we’ve got already, I’m sure we can find a producer willing to give us a healthy advance. But first we’ve got to get somebody to represent the property. Do you have an agent?”

“Poets don’t have agents, Danny. I’m just lucky to have a wife who’s not afraid to talk on the phone.”

“Then why don’t I ask around and see who’s supposed to be the best for Broadway. That okay with you?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Hey — I’ve got to really sprint. As the Mad Hatter put it, ‘I’m late for a very important date.’ ”

It was the White Rabbit , thought Stuart Kingsley. But he didn’t dare contradict his senior partner.

The next evening, as Stuart and Nina were conscientiously studying an LP of Danny’s Savanarola ballet, the phone rang. It was the composer himself.

“Hey, Stuart,” he said, slightly out of breath, “I’m rushing to catch a plane, so I’ve got to talk quickly. Ever heard of Harvey Madison?”

“No. Who’s he?”

“My informants tell me he’s the best theatrical agent in New York I mean, a guy in Hurok’s office said he isn’t even ten percent of a human being.”

“That’s good?” Stu responded with astonishment.

“Good? It’s incredible. What you need to negotiate for you is an absolutely heartless shit. And this guy Madison makes Attila the Hun look like Saint Francis of Assisi. What do you think?”

“Well,” the poet confessed, “I’ve always had a soft spot for Saint Francis. But you’re the guy that knows the business.”

“Great,” Danny said, quickly signing off. “I’ll call Harvey at his house right now so he can start beating the drums. See you, Stu.”

Summer on Martha’s Vineyard is always glorious. But if you are the author of a show in progress that is destined for Broadway, it becomes the Island of the Blessed.

Stuart and Nina were invited to numerous star-studded barbecues, celebrity clambakes, and glittering soirées.

Of course, had he been merely a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, he might not have merited inclusion on the “A-List.” But he was also living in one of the most luxurious houses in Vineyard Haven, a sure sign that his balance sheet scanned as well as his verses.

Actually, he had Harvey Madison to thank for his good fortune. For it was their new agent who had set up the fateful meeting with Edgar Waldorf, undisputed king of Broadway producers. It had taken place at the only possible venue for such an encounter — over lunch at ‘21’.

Stuart, Harvey, and Danny had been waiting for twenty minutes when the rotund, flamboyantly clad producer made his grand entrance. Before he even sat down, he looked at the composer and lyricist and stated emphatically, “I love it.”

Stuart was somewhat confused. “But, Mr. Waldorf, we haven’t said a word yet. I mean —”

His polite response was strangled in mid-sentence by the strong under-the-table grip of Harvey Madison, who then interposed, “What Edgar means is he adores the concept.”

“No, what I adore is the chemistry of the authors. When Harvey called me about this, I literally frissoned right there in my office. The thought of two Harvard Pulitzer Prize winners writing for Broadway is absolutely fab-u-lous, By the way, have you thought of a title yet?”

Edgar had diplomatically used the plural but was really directing his question to Danny, whom he knew to be worth a lot of candle power on the marquee.

“Well,” the composer replied, “as you know, we’ve based it on Joyce’s Ulysses, just changing the locale to New York —”

“I love it. I love it,” Edgar murmured like a countermelody.

“Now, the novel is, in turn, based on Homer’s Odyssey ,” Danny continued. “And since the essence of our piece is the hero’s trip around the city, we thought we’d call it Manhattan Odyssey .”

Edgar pondered for a moment, and popped a shrimp into his mouth before replying.

“It’s good, it’s good. My only question is — is it too good?”

“How can anything possibly be too good?” Stuart naively inquired.

“I mean relatively speaking,” Edgar responded, deftly backtracking. “After all, your average Broadway audience didn’t go to Harvard. I don’t think I could fill the theater with enough people who know what the word Odyssey means.”

“Please, Mr. Waldorf,” Danny disagreed, “it’s a common term in the English language.”

At which point Harvey Madison felt it opportune to refocus the conversation.

“Hey, guys, Edgar’s got a sensational idea for a title. Just wait till you hear it.”

The spherical producer waited until the spotlights of all gazes shone upon him. And then uttered, “Rejoice!”

“What?” asked Danny Rossi.

“Don’t you get it? The author’s name is James Joyce. We are bringing his property back. So it’s re -Joyce. Of course, we’ll add an exclamation point after it. And that’s it. Fab-ubus, huh?”

Danny and Stuart exchanged incredulous glances.

“I think it’s absolutely brilliant,” offered Harvey Madison, instinctively accustomed to praising anything uttered by a potential source of income. “What do you boys think?”

“You might as well call it Hello, Molly! ” Danny Rossi commented sardonically.

“I like Manhattan Odyssey ,” Stuart said quietly.

“But you just heard Edgar Waldorf —” Harvey Madison interrupted.

“I like Manhattan Odyssey , too,” Danny echoed.

Then, from an unexpected quarter, came the rather surprising panegyric, “I think Manhattan Odyssey is absolutely fabulous. And I, Edgar Waldorf, will be honored to present it.”