Erich Segal - The Class

“I can’t go into details, Ted, but I can tell you it was very, very close. I’m sorry, you didn’t make it.”

Ted Lambros lost the carefully polished Harvard veneer he had worked a decade to acquire, and repeated aloud what he had said ten years earlier when the college had denied him a full scholarship.

“Shit.”

Sara was immediately at her husband’s side, her arms around him consolingly.

He would not hang up till he asked one final burning question.

“Cedric,” he said as calmly as possible, “may I just know the pretext — uh — I mean the grounds — I mean, in general terms, what lost it for me?”

“It’s hard to pinpoint, but there was some talk about ‘waiting for a second Big Book.’ ”

“Oh,” Ted responded, thinking bitterly, there are one or two tenured guys who still haven’t written their first big book. But he said nothing more.

“Ted,” Whitman continued with compassion in his voice, “Anne and I want you to come to dinner tonight. It’s not the end of the world. It’s not the end of anything, really. So will you come?”

“Dinner tonight?” Ted repeated distractedly.

Sara was strenuously nodding her head.

“Uh, thanks Cedric. What time would you like us?”

It was a warm spring night and Sara insisted that they walk the mile or so to the Whitmans’ house. She knew Ted needed time to gain some equilibrium.

“Ted,” Sara said as he shuffled dejectedly, “I know there are at least a dozen four-letter words going around in your head, and I think for the sake of sanity you ought to shout them right out here in the street. God knows, I want to scream too. I mean, you got screwed.”

“No. I got royally screwed. I mean, a bunch of uptight bastards just played lions and Christians with my career. I feel like kicking in their goddamn mahogany doors and beating the shit out of all of them.”

Sara smiled. “Not their wives too, I hope.”

“No, of course not,” he snapped.

And then, realizing the childishness of his outburst, he began to laugh.

They both giggled for a block until suddenly Ted’s laughter turned into sobs. He buried his head on Sara’s shoulder as she tried to comfort him.

“Oh God, Sara,” he wept, “I feel so stupid. But I wanted it so bad. So goddamn bad.”

“I know,” she whispered tenderly. “I know.”

For Stuart and Nina it was the greatest summer of their lives.

Every morning he would get on his bike and pedal over to the Rossi house, often passing Maria and her two girls in the station wagon on their way to enjoy Edgar Waldorf’s stretch of private beach with Nina and the boys.

Stu would return in the early evening, at once exhausted and overstimulated, grab Nina by the hand, and take her for a long walk by the sea.

“How’s the great classical composer at writing show tunes?” she asked during one of their promenades.

“Oh, the guy’s so fantastically versatile he could write a rondo with his left hand and ragtime with his right. But he doesn’t pander.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he doesn’t underestimate the intelligence of his audience. Some of his melodies are — you know — pretty complex.”

“I thought the secret of success on Broadway was simplicity,” Nina remarked.

“Don’t worry, hon, he isn’t writing Wozzeck .”

“This is exciting. I mean, I know your words are terrific. But I’d really like to hear what Danny’s done with them. Apparently, Maria tells me, he hasn’t even played anything for her.”

“Well, every artist’s temperament is different, I guess,” said Stuart, picking up a bit of driftwood and hurling it out across the water.

“And every marriage, too,” Nina added. “Do you think they’re happy?”

“Hey, honey,” Stuart cautioned, “I’m his lyricist, not his shrink. I just know he’s a good working partner.”

On Labor Day weekend, Edgar Waldorf flew in with Harvey Madison to hear the fruits of his young geniuses’ summer toil.

Ever munificent, he arrived laden with presents for the Kingsley sons, the Rossi daughters, and the authors’ wives. As far as “the boys” were concerned, they would have to have something for him .

After a huge Italian dinner, the two visitors, the artists, and their wives repaired to the living room for the first hearing of the score to Manhattan Odyssey .

As Danny sat at the piano, Stuart narrated, here and there injecting a bit of dialogue to show how deftly he had made Joyce theatrically viable. And then he would introduce the songs. His lyrics were ingeniously set. The music was muscular, the rhythms bold.

After the lively octet in Bella Cohen’s fabled brothel, the privileged little audience broke into applause. Then Danny proudly commented, “You don’t hear many Broadway scores with songs written in five.”

“What’s five?” asked Edgar Waldorf.

“It’s a kind of tricky rhythm, five-four. Never mind what it is — as long as you like what you hear.”

“Like it?” Edgar exclaimed. “I love it, I love it. Maybe five symbolizes the number of years we’re going to run SRO.”

“Why stop at five? Why not six or seven?” interposed Harvey Madison, unable to resist the agent’s impulse to up the ante.

The authors together sang the final duet between Bloom and Stephen, his surrogate son. Then they looked to their families and arbiters for judgment.

At first there was reverential silence.

“Well, Nina?” Stuart asked his wife impatiently. “Would you buy a ticket to this thing?”

“I think I’d go every night,” she responded, exultant at the ingenuity of her husband’s work.

“Did it get my wife’s approval?” Danny asked.

“Not that I’m a professional critic,” Maria began shyly, “but I honestly think that’s the best musical score I’ve ever heard — by anybody.”

Edgar Waldorf rose to his feet to make an announcement.

“Ladies and gentlemen — and geniuses — it has been my humble honor to listen to the first playing of what is undoubtedly the most fabulous musical ever to sweep Broadway off its feet.”

He then turned to the authors. “My only question is — what are you guys going to do with the ten million bucks this is going to earn you?”

“Nine,” Harvey Madison quickly corrected, professional even in jest.

Now it was the men’s turn to walk the beach.

Edgar had to complete the financing. He hoped the tape he was bringing back to New York would do the trick. But they still needed to discuss the director and the stars.

Having so admired Jerome Robbins’s work on West Side Story , Danny wanted him to direct and choreograph their show.

Stuart enthusiastically agreed.

But Edgar, obsessed with the British origins of the Times critic, plumped for Sir John Chalcott, whose recent work at the Old Vic had been so well received.

“After all,” the producer reasoned, “we are dealing with one of the great classics of the English language. Why not put it in the hands of someone who is accustomed to dealing with the immortals?”

“ ‘Immortal’ can be a synonym for ‘dead,’ ” Danny Rossi commented.

“Please, Daniel,” Edgar retorted, “I’ve got a gut feeling on this. I think Sir John’s name would add even more class value.”

After another quarter of a mile, he succeeded in twisting their arms.

Then the talk got around to principals. They started with passionate unanimity. Not only did they all agree on Zero Mostel, but the star himself had already consented merely on the basis of the novel.

Casting the female lead proved more difficult. Danny had what he thought was a sensational idea. He had written the role of Molly — who is a professional singer even in Joyce’s book — for someone with real vocal ability. So he proposed what was to his mind the supreme voice of their time: Joan Sutherland.