Erich Segal - The Class

Danny was speechless. He turned to the young man, whose eyes were still red with tears, and asked, “You really don’t want any credit?”

Leon smiled shyly. “It’s part of the business, Mr. Rossi. I’m sure you’d do the same for me.”

“They’re humming! Do you hear me, Danny? They’re humming !”

Edgar Waldorf was phoning from the manager’s office of the Shubert Theatre. It was the first intermission after Leon’s numbers had gone into the show. They had even added a reprise of “The Stars Are Not Enough,” which Theora Hamilton would now sing just before the curtain fell (Sir John Chalcott, who had threatened to resign if this change were effected, was at that moment on a flight back to London).

Danny had not been able to bring himself to go to the theater for fear of — he knew not what. Hearing the new songs fail? Or, worse perhaps, hearing them succeed?

“And, Danny,” Edgar continued to enthuse, “I smell success. We’ve got a winner! Trust Edgar Waldorf, we’ve got a smasheroo!”

Toward the midnight hour, there was a sensuous tap-tap-tapping at his hotel door.

It was the distinguished — and heretofore coolly distant — leading lady. Miss Theora Hamilton was carrying a bottle of showbiz soda water, otherwise known as champagne.

“Mr. Rossi,” she cooed, “I’ve come to toast a genius. That new ballad you wrote for me is a classic. I could see tears in their eyes as the curtain fell.”

Danny had never taken much heed of her opinions, but he had always entertained some interest in her breasts. He was pleased to see that she had not neglected to bring them along.

“Well, may I enter, or do we have to drink this in the hallway?”

“Madame,” said Danny with a gallant bow, “ je vous en prie .”

And so the legendary Theora wafted in. First bottle, then breasts, then the heart that lay passionately within, They all were his that night.

Yes, music hath charms. Even if it is by Leon Tashkenian.

On the night of the New York opening, Danny had his driver bring Maria from Philadelphia directly to the theater. While she went in to watch the performance, Danny and Edgar paced nervously in the empty lobby. Every time they perceived laughter or applause they exchanged glances and mumbled something like, “Do you think they liked it?”

During the ride to the party, Danny anxiously asked Maria what she thought.

“Well, frankly, the original version was a little more to my taste, But the audience seemed to like it and I guess that’s what’s important.”

“No, it’s only what the critics think that counts.”

“I looked everywhere,” she said, “but I didn’t see Stuart and Nina.”

“They were both too nervous,” Danny improvised. “In fact, I don’t think they’ll even come to the reception. They’ll probably just sit at home and watch the television critics.”

By eleven-thirty, almost all the important reviews were in. The networks had been unanimously favorable. All complimented Stuart Kingsley’s literate book (Edgar’s wife, who had stepped in when Neil Simon declined the rewriting task, went graciously unbilled). And all remarked on Danny Rossi’s “sinewy, melodic score” (CBS-TV). It now seemed a foregone conclusion that the Times would come through with a rave.

And it did. In fact, Edgar was on the bandstand at that very moment, tearfully reading the words that would make them all rich and famous forever.

“It’s a Valentine!” he shrieked, waving a yellow sheet of paper above his head, “an unadulterated Valentine! Listen to his goddamn headline — ‘Melody Makes a Mighty Return to Broadway.’ ”

The crowd of actors, investors, and Beautiful People broke into cheers, Edgar raised his hand to plead for silence. At last, they quieted down to hear more. Only the tinkle of glasses was audible, occasionally punctuated by melodramatic female sighs and appreciative whispers.

Meanwhile, Edgar read on from the sacred document.

“Tonight, at the Shubert Theatre, Daniel Rossi confirmed beyond doubt that he is master of every musical form. What better demonstration of the enormous range of a composer than the comparison of his complex, powerful, nearly atonal Savanarola ballet with the dulcet and unabashedly simple melodies from Manhattan Odyssey . Certain to become standards are gems like, ‘This Evening, Like All the Other Evenings,’ and, especially, ‘The Stars Are Not Enough.’

“Poet Stuart Kingsley has also shown that he has a magical gift for the theater.…”

Immediately after the definitive critic’s closing salvo (“I hope it runs forever”), the band broke into “The Stars Are Not Enough.” And everyone, young and old, drunk and sober, began to vocalize. Except Danny Rossi.

As the guests sang chorus after chorus, Maria leaned over and whispered in her husband’s ear.

“It’s really lovely, Danny.”

He kissed her on the cheek. Not to acknowledge what she had naively intended as a compliment, but because there were photographers watching.

The following March, at the Tony Award ceremonies, Manhattan Odyssey was chosen as Best Musical of the year. Not unexpectedly, Danny Rossi won for Best Score. Accepting the prize on behalf of Stuart Kingsley, who had won for Best Book, Edgar Waldorf gave a touching little speech about Stu’s teaching commitments making it impossible for him to attend.

In a frantic round of bidding, MGM carried away the screen rights for a record sum of nearly seven million dollars.

Not long thereafter, Danny Rossi’s picture appeared on the cover of Time .

For a long while Danny felt ashamed about the secret Manhattan Odyssey humiliation. Though only two other people in the world knew, he harbored an inner sense of failure.

Yet, the soul has remarkable powers of regeneration. As years passed, and the number of different recorded versions neared two hundred, Danny gradually began to believe that he actually had composed “The Stars Are Not Enough.”

And, what the hell, given half a chance, he probably could have.

Practically living as I do at the New York Harvard Club, I was probably the first guy outside of Cambridge to see a copy of the Decennial Report , which chronicles our class’s progress in the first ten years since graduation.

I note a tendency of the less successful guys to write longer histories than their more shining counterparts.

I mean, one character goes on for paragraphs in tedious detail about his uneventful army service, his choice of wife, what his kids both weighed at birth, and so forth. Also how challenging life is in Daddy’s shoe-manufacturing business (“We’ve had to move our operations from New England to Puerto Rico and are now exploring the possibility of relocating in the Far East”).

The only thing he doesn’t talk about at length is his divorce. That’s where I might have found something to empathize with. Anyway, it’s clear to see through the thick clouds of his verbosity that he’s trying to disguise a life of quiet desperation. He concludes with the philosophical observation, “If the shoe fits, you’ve got to wear it.”

In other words, he’s taken four whole pages to inform us that he’s on his way to being a successful failure.

On the other hand, Danny Rossi merely lists the dates of his marriage and his daughters’ births, the things he’s written, and the prizes he’s won. That’s all. He didn’t even offer a pithy conclusion like “I’ve been very lucky,” or “I owe it all to eating Wheaties,” or some such.

And yet who hasn’t seen his face in all the papers and read at least a half dozen stories that all but deify him?