Erich Segal - The Class

The producer then proceeded to elicit schedules from the authors, so that he could plan rehearsals, arrange a tour, and book a theater. Hearing that the boys could complete the work this summer if they could be isolated on Martha’s Vineyard, he magnanimously offered Stuart the use of his own unhumble abode on that island.

“Oh, I couldn’t, Mr. Waldorf.”

“Please, Mr. Kingsley, I insist. Besides, that will help me write the place off for taxes.”

Then, without having read a word or heard a note, he went straight to the heart of the matter.

“Who’re we going to get to star?”

“I think Zero Mostel would be great as Bloom,” Danny offered.

“Not great,” replied Waldorf. “Fab-u-bous. His agent’s a ballbreaker, but I’ll get to work on that monster this afternoon. Oh God, will Zero bring in the theater parties!”

In the midst of his own self-induced rapture, he suddenly chastised himself, “But —”

“But what?” Harvey Madison asked anxiously.

“Zero is great for the party crowd. But we need another name that will draw the out-of-towners. Someone with broader appeal. Is there a woman’s part in this thing?”

“Haven’t you read it, Mr. Waldorf?” Stuart Kingsley inquired.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, a college girl in my office did me a kind of summary.”

“Then you might remember that Bloom’s wife, Molly, is a rather important role,” said Danny Rossi, muzzling his impatience.

“Of course, of course, a great role,” the producer agreed enthusiastically. “So what about Theora Hamilton?”

“Unbelievable,” Harvey ejaculated. “That’s a genius idea, Edgar. But do you think she’d share the marquee with Zero?”

“You leave that to me,” boasted the producer, snapping his fingers. “The First Lady of the American musical theater owes Edgar Waldorf a favor or two, and I’m going to call in my marker.”

“Isn’t that great, boys?” Harvey bubbled to the authors. “Mostel and Hamilton. Or maybe it’ll have to be Hamilton and Mostel. Anyway, they’ll be lining up for tickets from here to Hoboken.”

“To be honest,” Stuart confessed shyly, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her.”

“You’d remember if you had,” Danny remarked. “She’s got tits like the Goodyear zeppelin. Unfortunately, her talent does not extend as far as her mammaries.”

Edgar Waldorf turned ingenuously to Danny Rossi and inquired, “Am I to infer that you do not respect the vocal gifts of Miss Theora Hamilton?”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Danny replied quietly. “She doesn’t have any. Look, Mr. Waldorf, Stuart and I want to write a good show, a classy show, and, yes, a commercial show. But if you have so little faith in our ability to attract an audience without giving them — please excuse my pun — gross titillation, then I think we’d better find another producer.”

Harvey Madison coughed uneasily.

But Edgar Waldorf shifted gears as smoothly as a Rolls-Royce.

“Please, Mr. Rossi, let us forget the female lead for the moment and concentrate on what really matters in this enterprise — your two genius talents.”

And then he raised his hand in benediction.

“Go, boys. Go off to Martha’s Vineyard and create exquisiteness that will dazzle Broadway and that limey bastard from The New York Times . Write your masterpiece. Mr. Madison and I will work out the vulgar details.”

As he backed off from the table, Edgar bent in what almost seemed like a curtsy and said, “You boys are giving me the honor of my life.”

He then turned and exited to the flourish of invisible trumpets.

Soon thereafter, Harvey Madison departed, leaving the two authors to revel in their success.

“Hey,” said Stu, “I’ve gotta call Nina. Can you wait and we’ll walk uptown together?”

“Sorry,” Danny replied. “I’ve got an important matinee in twenty minutes.”

“I didn’t know you were performing today.”

Danny grinned.

“Strictly chamber music, Stu. See the cover of this month’s Vogue ?”

“Not my style of magazine,” he replied, still not tuned in to his partner’s wavelength.

“Well, check it out at your local newsstand, my friend. She’s the guest of honor at my studio this afternoon.”

“Oh,” said Stuart Kingsley.

Except for the occasional cocktail parties, the junior and senior members of the Harvard Classics Department almost never socialized. It was not merely a question of age differences, but the almost Calvinistic distinction between those who had tenure and those who did not.

Assistant Professor Ted Lambros was therefore surprised when Cedric Whitman invited him to lunch at the Faculty Club, even though, as both he and Sara agreed, he was the most humane humanist they had ever known.

After they ordered, the senior professor cleared his throat and said, “Ted, I got a phone call from Bill Foster, the new chairman at Berkeley. His department very much admires your book and wonders if you’d be interested in their tenure opening in Greek literature?”

Ted did not know how to respond. For he could not sense precisely what lay behind the question. Was it an intimation that he was not going to be granted tenure at Harvard?

“I — uh — I guess I should be very flattered.”

“I should say,” Whitman replied. “Berkeley’s got one of the best departments in the world. They’ve certainly got some very distinguished scholars. Pragmatically speaking, their salaries are extremely generous. I took the liberty of telling Bill to write you directly. That’ll mean at least a nice invitation to go to California and lecture.”

Ted felt like Aeschylus’ famous description of Agamemnon “struck deep with a mortal blow.” But he summoned the courage to ask.

“Cedric, is this Harvard’s way of saying they won’t renew my contract? Please be frank, I can take it.”

“Ted,” said Whitman without hesitation, “I can’t speak for the whole department. You know that John and I admire you enormously. And naturally, we’d like to keep you here. But this will ultimately come down to a vote, and heaven knows how the historians and archaeologists and people who are less familiar with your work might stand. If you got a formal offer from Berkeley, it might stimulate the uncommitted into feeling more possessive.”

“So you think I should at least go out there?”

“Take it from a veteran,” his mentor smiled, “an academic never gives up a free trip to anywhere halfway decent. And to California, well, res ipsa loquitur .”

Sara was delighted to see him.

“What a nice surprise,” she said as she skipped down the stone steps of the University Press and saw her husband. He kissed her perfunctorily but could suppress his fears no longer.

“Cedric had some pretty gloomy words at lunch.”

“They’re not renewing you?”

“That’s the bitch of it,” he answered with frustration. “He evaded the whole Harvard issue. All he said was that Berkeley wants me for a tenure job.”

“Berkeley’s got a fantastic classics department,” she replied. Ted’s heart stopped. This was not what he had hoped to hear.

“So you think it’s the ax, huh?” he asked mournfully. When she did not reply, he added, “I really thought I had a shot at tenure here.”

“Hell, so did I,” she answered honestly. “But you know how their system works. They almost never bring up someone through the ranks. They sort of send them off and see what kind of a reputation they build up. And if they grow, they pluck them back.”

“But it’s in California,” Ted complained.

“So what? Can’t we survive three thousand miles away from Harvard?”