The Class (47 page)

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 witk 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 P"

"'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.

"An opera singer in a Broadway show?" Edgar Waldorf cringed. "Besides, she'd never do it."

"First of all," said Danny, "I got to know her when I conducted Lucia at La Scala. She's a terrific lady. And she's got the courage to take on new challenges."

"Look," reasoned the ever-reasonable Edgar Waldorf, "I

would be the last person to knock - Miss Sutherland's talent, but opera and Broadway don't seem to mix."

"What about Ezio Pinza in South Pacific?" asked Stuart.

"A fluke, a fluke," said Waldorf. "Besides, what made t-hat show was Mary Martin. And anyway we can't afford

Sutherland. No, I say we've got to go with someone used to doing

eight shows a week. Someone who's a proven draw-magnetic, vibrant, exciting-" -

"And also big tits, maybe?" Danny asked facetiously.

"That wouldn't hurt either," said the producer, trying to act ingenuous.

Danny Rossi stopped walking, put his hands on his hips, and stood like a small colossus in the sand of Martha's Vineyard.

"Listen, Edgar, I would rather die than have Theora

Hamilton in a show of mine. I have my principles."

"That goes for me as welt," Stuart added.

"Easy, boys, easy. Nobody's going to compromise anybody's principles here," mediated Harvey Madison. "There are a million talented ladies in the American theater and I'm sure we can come up with someone who meets everyone's specifications. Now, why don't we all start back? It's already a half-hour past cocktail time."

When the quartet returned, Maria Rossi, busy lighting a charcoal fire with Nina Kingsley, looked up and asked, "Well, gentlemen, did you settle all your problems?"

"Absolutely," said Harvey Madison. "The great minds are all in sync." -

And there in the growing twilight on that lonely beach,

Edgar Waldorf proclaimed, "It gives me great pleasure to tell

you that Manhattan Odyssey, under the direction of Sir

John Chalcott, will begin rehearsals on December

twenty-sixth. And commence its pre-Broadway engagement at the

Schubert Theater in Boston on February seventh.

"By the time it opens in New York on March twenty-fourth,

it will undoubtedly be sold out for a year. Since not only is it geniusly written, but it will also have the incredible

one-two punch of Mr. Zero Mostel'-" He paused for effect.

"And Miss Theora Hamilton."

The authors' wives shot startled glances at their husbands, whose expressions were strangely resigned.

Chitchat continued during the barbecue. Then they all left

the beach quickly to sit silently in front of the television. And admire the pitching virtuosity of Sandy Koufax keeping

the ball away from every single batter of the San Francisco

Giants.

"How did he convince you?" Maria asked as they were driving home.

"I'm not sure myself," Danny confessed. "I mean, he used

so much sophistry that my head is still spinning. I felt like General Custer. Every time I fended - off one of Edgar's attacks, he was behind me with another tomahawk."

"But, Danny," Maria insisted, "you're the artists. Surely

-you and Stuart should have the last word."

- "I did have the last word." He smiled sardonically. -

"it's just that Edgar had a few thousand arguments after my last word. All of a sudden Zero wasn't enough to sell tickets to anybody. He was a ham. The audience had enough of him

after Fiddler. His arguments were endless. -

"According to Edgar, the only thing that could possibly

save us would be the mammiferous presence of the untalented Theora Hamilton. Look, I'll just cut down her role so she won't be an utter embarrassment to us."

"But couldn't you have agreed on anybody else?"

Danny looked at her sheepishly and confessed, "Edgar seems to be finding resistance to James Joyce among his investors. And it would be hard to find another female star whose husband is willing to put up half a million bucks if we give his wife the role."

"Aha," said Maria, with a mixture of surprise and disap

pointment. "Well, they say that Broadway plays always rise like Venus from a sea of compromises."

"Yeah," said Danny, now unable to hide his frustration,

"but this is the last compromise. The very last."

W

ithin mere hours of Ted Lambros's rejection for tenure at Harvard, communications began to pour in from every important university center of the United States, Some were simply to express condolences. Others to inquire if it were really

true. The subtext being that if Lambros had been shot down, there might be a possibility for them at Harvard. But perhaps the most astounding calls were from those who presumed to

know the secrets of that fateful afternoon's proceedings. When Ted and Sara returned from the Whitmans', he had

passed- beyond depression into a kind of postmortem euphoria. A paradoxical feeling of being "high" on disappointment.

Walt Hewlett from- the University of Texas called to

convey the inside dope. "Teddie, I know the guys who screwed you were the 'garbologists.' "This was Walt's term for archaeologists, whom he viewed as mere rummagers in the trash cans of ancient civilizations.

"What makes you so sure, Walt?" -

"Listen, those guys have an incredible animosity for anything written in a book. They only trust pornographic graffiti scrawled on Roman urinals. So I guess you'll be going to Berkeley, huh?"

Ted was stupefied. He had no idea that everybody in the world of classics knew everything.

"I'm not sure," he answered cagily. For today's experience had taught him a great lesson in the laws of the academic jungle. "Hey, Walter old friend, I'm really touched that you

called. But it's past midnight. And just because I don't have tenure doesn't mean I can skip my nine-o'clock class tomorrow."

He hung up and looked at Sara, who, by now, was also giggly. "This is a farce, Ted. We should take the receiver

off the hook and go to bed."

That instant the telephone rang yet again. It was Bill Foster from Berkeley.

This was not a voice Ted had hoped to hear after midnight, when he was tired and semi-sloshed. But mercifully Bill did all the talking.

"Listen, Ted, I know it's late back there, so I'll make it short. We really -want you here and look forward to getting your written acceptance so we can list you on our prospectus."

"Thanks, Bill," Ted answered, trying to sound both sober and sincere. And having difficulty doing either.

The next day was the most painful of Ted's life. Not only because he had a terrible hangover. But because somehow he had to muster the courage to walk into Boylston Hall. To go to - the Classics office. To say good morning to the secretary, as if nothing were different.

And, still worse, to have to confront the senior

professors and exchange bland cordialities, suppressing all the curiosity- and violent anger-he felt inside.

As he entered the Yard and passed John Harvard's statue,

he was even anxious about running into John Finley, fearing that his idol might resent him now that he was a "failure." But he realized that he had to go through the motions of normalcy. He could not sulk like Achilles in his tent. Certainly not, especially since he was no longer a great hero-at least in Harvard's eyes. He had been blackballed. Rejected from the club.

From nine to ten he walked like a somnambulist through Elementary Greek. And then deliberately tried to preserve the numbness he felt as he went to pick up his mail in the department office. - -

Mercifully, no one else was- there, so all he had to do

was exchange perfunctory salutations with the secretary. Ted could not help but marvel at her ability to camouflage her awareness-for she really did know everything-of yesterday's events. It was, he joked inwardly, a quality that departmental secretaries probably shared with undertakers. They had to keep an affable demeanor in the midst of catastrophe. -

But on the way to his eleven-o'clock lecture, the