Erich Segal - The Class

Early that first spring, he interviewed a young graduate of Georgetown for a job in the Latin American section. She had excellent qualifications: an honors degree in Spanish and Portuguese, as well as several letters from Republican party officials reminding the White House boys how important a Washington lawyer her father was.

George was nonetheless determined to grill her severely. He felt too strong a loyalty to Kissinger to allow party politics to impinge upon the important work they were doing. If this girl turned out to be some flighty social type, they would farm her out to some senator’s office.

The fact that Catherine Fitzgerald was blond and attractive confirmed his prejudgment that an empty-headed debutante was being foisted on them. But then she genuinely confounded him. Not merely with her credentials and obvious intelligence, but with her experience as well. She had spent two years with the Peace Corps in Latin America, and had worked three summers during college for a bank in São Paulo to perfect her Portuguese.

George’s evaluation was positive, and Catherine Fitzgerald was hired to work for the National Security Council.

After that, he passed her occasionally in the corridors while following up something for Henry with people in the EOB. But otherwise he gave her no thought. He was too immersed with helping Kissinger solve the jigsaw puzzle called world politics.

That is, until late one icy winter evening, when he left the West Wing of the White House and was heading for the gate. He glanced over to check whose office lights were still on in the EOB and caught sight of her emerging from the entrance.

“Miss Fitzgerald,” he said jokingly, “don’t tell me that you’re going home so early?”

“Oh hi, Dr. Keller.” She sighed wearily. “You know that actually isn’t a joke. This is the first time I’ve left the office before midnight.”

“I’ll be sure to tell the boss,” said George.

“Don’t bother. I’m not bucking for promotion,” she replied. “I only wish he’d hire one or two more aides for my department. Some people around here think South America is just a suburb of Mexico.”

George smiled. “Is your car parked over by the Monument?”

She nodded.

“So’s mine. I’ll walk you over. We can protect each other from the muggers.”

Crossing Constitution Avenue, George looked at Cathy and a surprising thought occurred to him.

This person is a girl. She’s not bad-looking. No, in fact, she’s fairly pretty. And I haven’t even had a social conversation since I’ve been in Washington. With so many hours of hard work behind him, his conscience allowed him to ask if she would like to have a drink.

“Fine,” she replied, “but only if it’s coffee.”

George then suggested several spots in fashionable Georgetown that he’d heard of and wanted to check out.

“Oh no,” she answered pleasantly, “I don’t feel up to facing the jeunesse dorée of Washington. Why don’t we just drive to my place and have coffee there?”

“Okay,” George replied. “You lead and I’ll follow.”

She lived alone on South Royal Street in Old Town Alexandria — an attractive three-room walk-up.

As she fussed with an espresso machine, George studied the posters on her wall. They were mostly colorful souvenirs from her Latin American travels. Except for one, which piqued his curiosity.

“Say, Cathy,” he asked, pointing to the large white-and-blue placard that had pride of place over her sofa, “is that some kind of joke?”

“Oh, you mean my antinuclear artwork?” she responded blithely. “No, I was actually pretty active in the antiwar movement in college. I was even in a couple of big marches.”

“Then I don’t understand —”

“What? How I got the NSC job? Or why I wanted it?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Well,” she said, sitting down beside him and handing him a cup, “to begin with, this is a free country and I’m not ashamed to say I think we’re wrong to be in Vietnam. On the other hand, I obviously don’t advocate the violent overthrow of the government, or I wouldn’t have gotten security clearance. Ergo, you might say I’m an idealist who wants to work for change within the system.”

“Very noble,” George responded. “Are there many others like you in the NSC corridor?”

“One or two.” She smiled. “But I’m certainly not going to name any names to ‘Kissinger’s shadow.’ ”

She stopped herself, suddenly embarrassed.

“Is that what they call me — ‘Kissinger’s shadow’?”

“Well, you two are pretty inseparable. I suppose it’s just a little jealousy on the part of those of us who work across the tracks. I mean, somebody mentioned that you were probably the youngest guy with an actual office in the White House.”

“What else do they say?” George coaxed.

“You’re putting me on the spot. Can’t we change the subject?”

“Yes, but only if you let me guess what the other staffers think of me. My intuition says they consider me conceited, arrogant, and ruthless.”

He looked at her for a response.

“No comment,” she pleaded.

“You don’t have to, because it’s true. I am all of those things.”

“I don’t believe you.” Cathy smiled. “I think that somewhere underneath that stuffed shirt of yours there beats the heart of Santa Claus.”

Thanks for the leap of faith,” said George.

“Actually, I think the boss is that way too. Henry just likes to make tough noises. That’s why you two get on so well. It’s probably your European backgrounds.”

“What do you know about my background?”

“What everybody knows, I guess. I mean, we’re sworn to secrecy about government affairs, so what else can we use for gossip if not our colleagues’ private lives?”

“But I don’t have a private life,” George retorted.

“Too bad. You could probably make some girl extremely happy.”

“I doubt it. I’m the least romantic person in Washington.”

“But you’re probably the most brilliant. I’ve read your articles in Foreign Affairs and — though I disagree with most of your conclusions — they’re amazingly astute.”

“I’m flattered.” He touched her on the shoulder lightly and inquired, “Have you got anyone to make you happy?”

“Not at this moment. No.”

“May I apply for the position?”

“You may,” she smiled. “But then I’ll have to interview you.”

“How about dinner Friday night?”

She nodded. “That’s great. I’ll try to finish by nine. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine,” said George. “It’s somewhat early for me, but I’m really looking forward to it.”

“Kala Christouyina!”

“Merry Christmas!”

The Lambros clan had much to celebrate in December of 1968 as they all crowded around the festive table at the family home in Cambridge.

One week earlier Ted had received the official word of his promotion to tenure — effective July first of next year. Unbelievably, the departmental vote had been unanimous.

Indeed, Ted had been so conspicuously successful in his teaching that enrollments for his courses in the winter term were immense. And if this trend continued, the deanery might vote another junior slot so that the department could expand.

Little Ted seemed totally adjusted to the change of schools and even started to excel at peewee hockey. To top it off, Sara had convinced Evelyn Ungar, Director of the Harvard University Press, to let her do some freelance classics editing by mail.

Alumni contributions had reached new heights, due in no small part to the magnificent achievements of Canterbury’s undefeated football team. In the season finale, they crushed Dartmouth, their traditional rival, 33-0, Chris Jastrow was named first-string Ivy quarterback and looked likely to be drafted by the pros. Even Tony Thatcher was elevated to Dean of the College. So Ted had friends in high places.