The Class

by Erich Segal

  “Think of it, Nina,” he enthused, “I might actually get my picture taken with Danny Rossi.”

  But then to his chagrin, Stuart learned that there was no Pulitzer award ceremony. That phone call and your picture in The New York Times was it.

  “What the hell,” Nina said to dispel her husband’s disappointment. “I’ll throw you the biggest damn party you’ve ever seen. Taylor’s New York State champagne will flow like seltzer.”

  He hugged her. “Thanks, I’d like that. I don’t think I’ve ever really been the subject of a party.”

  “Listen honey, if you want to meet Danny Rossi so badly, I’ll gladly invite him.”

  “Yeah,” he replied with a sardonic smile, “I’m sure he’d love to come.”

  Nina grabbed him by the shoulders. “Now you listen to me, kid. I haven’t seen this Savanarola ballet Rossi’s won for, but I’m sure it didn’t hurt that it was choreographed by George Balanchine. Anyway, it would have to be damn good to be on a level with your Collected Poems. So if you don’t mind my saying it, the honor would be his.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Nina. In New York it isn’t so much talent that matters as image. And Danny’s got so much charisma.…”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Stu, that’s just hype from a press agent’s office. Frankly, the only thing Rossi’s got over you is a few locks of flashy red hair.”

  “Yeah,” Stu smiled, “and a few million bucks. I’m telling you the guy’s a real star.”

  Nina looked at him with indulgent affection. “You know why I love you so much, Stu? Because you’re the only genius I know who suffers from the opposite of megalomania.”

  “Thanks, honey,” he replied, gathering up his notes and stuffing them into his briefcase. “But you’d better cut this ego-boosting short, or I’ll be late for my four-o’clock seminar. See you around seven. We can throw a party just for us.”

  When he returned, she had a surprise for him.

  “Really, Nina? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, my dearest. You are actually having lunch with your ‘charismatic’ classmate at one tomorrow in the Russian Tea Room. By the way, you may be stunned to learn he’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  “How did you reach him?”

  “Oh, I just had an apocalyptic notion. I left a message with the Hurok office and about ten minutes later he called back.”

  “Nina, you’re terrific. It will be some occasion.”

  “Yes, Stuart,” she said lovingly. “For him.”

  The Russian Tea Room, on Fifty-seventh Street, scarcely an octave’s distance from Carnegie Hall, is a favorite New York haunt of the international music and literary set. Until this afternoon, Stuart Kingsley had known it only by reputation. Now he stood nervously at the entrance, scanning the tables to catch sight of Danny Rossi.

  At one point he nodded to what he thought was an old friend. The balding, bespectacled chap gave him the most tenuous of acknowledgments and then turned away. It took another second for Stuart to realize that he had mistakenly greeted Woody Allen.

  He did not commit the same gaffe when he perceived Rudolf Nureyev holding forth to a table of worshipful balletomanes. He merely smiled inwardly at the prospect of being so close to such living legends.

  At last he spied his classmate. When their glances met, Danny waved him over to a corner booth, its table covered with yards of music paper.

  “I see you don’t like to waste even a second,” Stuart remarked jovially as they shook hands.

  “No, you’re right. I have an unfortunate tendency to overcommit myself. And you can’t deliver a ‘July Fourth Suite’ on Christmas Eve, can you?”

  After Danny ordered blinis for them both, they ran the gamut of do-you-know, and discovered they had many friends in common among the artistic community of The Class.

  “Do you get up from Philadelphia very often?” Stuart asked.

  “At least once a week, unfortunately. It’s gotten so that I’ve had to rent a studio in the Carnegie Hall Apartments.”

  “Must be kind of hard on your wife,” Stuart offered, unable to imagine having to spend a single day away from his beloved Nina.

  “Yeah,” Danny replied, “but Maria’s pretty involved with the kids.” He then quickly changed the subject. “You know, I was almost as happy for your prize as I was for mine. I’ve always admired your stuff.”

  “You’ve read my poetry?”

  “Stuart,” Danny answered with a smile, “you publish regularly in the New Yorker. That’s my favorite airplane reading. So I don’t think I’ve ever missed a poem you’ve had in there.”

  “My wife’s not going to believe this,” Stuart murmured half under his breath. And then aloud, “What are you writing at the moment, Danny? I mean besides what we’re using for a tablecloth.”

  “That’s just it, Stuart. I’m starting to feel somewhat hemmed in on the composition front. That’s why this whole meeting with you is a kind of kismet. Have you ever thought of writing lyrics for a musical?”

  “Do you want to know something?” Stuart confessed. “It’s not only been my secret dream, I’ve actually been playing around with a specific idea for a couple of years. It’s based on a kind of highbrow book, though.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Danny responded warmly. “I wouldn’t be interested in doing another Hello, Dolly! What masterpiece of world literature do you have in mind?”

  “Would you believe James Joyce’s Ulysses?”

  “Wow, that’s a sensational idea. But do you think it’s really do-able?”

  “Listen,” Stu answered, his creative juices now really flowing, “I’m so steeped in that damn book that if you had the time I could lay the libretto right out on this table. But I suppose you’ve got a fiendishly busy schedule.”

  Danny stood up in the middle of Stu’s apology and said casually, “Order us some more coffee while I go reorchestrate my agenda.”

  All afternoon Danny listened spellbound as his classmate cascaded with ideas. Naturally, they couldn’t cram Joyce’s whole epic novel into two hours of stage time. But they could concentrate on the “Nighttown” episode, when the protagonist, Leopold Bloom, wanders through various exotic parts of the city.

  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 thi
ng 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-u-lous, 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.”

  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-lous. 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.