The Class

shot in front of the table. But I want your word of honor that the minute you begin to describe the merchandise, you’ll zoom in close and get me out of frame.”

“It’s a deal,” Moran replied. “And I’m very impressed.”

“With what? My stubbornness?”

“No. You seem to have more camera expertise than my directors.”

“You don’t have to keep flattering me, Mr. Moran. I’ve already said I’d do it. Anyway, I’ve spent about a million hours with Danny in TV studios. To keep from overdosing on coffee and doughnuts, I locked myself in the control booth and sort of picked up what all those buttons meant by osmosis.”

“Well,” he quipped, “as Plato said, ‘Osmosis is the best teacher.’ Or was it Aristotle?”

“I think it was Terry Moran,” smiled Maria Rossi.

“You looked wonderful even in the millisecond-long shot, Mrs. Rossi. And we got good prices for everything on your table,” the station president commented as they drank sugary tea from paper cups in the Green Room.

“I’m still glad it’s over,” she said, sighing. “I absolutely loathe being on camera.”

“But you do enjoy the control board, don’t you?”

“Oh, that’s always fun. I love to look at the bank of monitors and try to imagine which camera I’d use if I were the director. It’s nice and safe when it’s only a game.”

“Have you ever thought of actually doing it?”

“Oh, I daydream sometimes. But then I also fantasize about doing a pas de deux with Nureyev. Anyway, thanks for accommodating my idiosyncrasies.”

She rose to put on her coat, but Moran motioned her to sit down. “Mrs. Rossi, I’m sorry I can’t speak for Rudolf — who I’m sure would be delighted to know you’re interested — but I can speak for this station. Would you like a job?”

“You mean, a real job?”

“That’s the only kind we have around here. I mean — nothing high-powered to start with. But we can always use an extra assistant director. And you already have enough know-how for that.”

Maria was tempted, but diffident. “I’m not in the union,” she protested meekly.

“Neither is this station.” Moran smiled. “Now, are you interested?”

“You’re doing this just because I’m Danny Rossi’s wife.”

“Frankly, that’s your only liability. Because if things don’t work out I’ll have to fire you. And then I’ll be in trouble, won’t I?”

“No,” Maria answered cheerfully. “But if I can get home in time to have dinner with the girls, I’ll give it a try.”

“No problem,” he replied. “Oh — I haven’t told you the bad news, though. The salary is pretty laughable.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Moran. I could use some laughs.”

***

Ted was awakened late one night by a call from Walter Hewlett, professor at Texas and best-informed gossip in the world of classics.

“Lambros, I’ve just heard something sensational and I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Oh God, Walt, what could possibly be so important at two in the morning?”

“It’s Dieter Hartshorn —”

“What about that pedantic German?”

“Then you know—?”

“Yeah. The guy Harvard just hired for the Greek chair.”

“Then you don’t know — listen. Rudi Richter just called from Munich. Hartshorn’s been killed in a crash on the Autobahn. I mean, this news hasn’t even reached the papers yet, baby.”

“Christ, Walt, you’re gloating like a ghoul.”

“Hey, Lambros, do I have to spell it out for you? Harvard now has no Eliot Professor of Greek. And the chances are — if you drive carefully — the job’s going to be yours. Sleep on that, amigo.”

As Ted hung up, he could not help but think, This is not good news at all.

It’s fantastic news.

A decent interval after the tragic death of Dieter Hartshorn, the Harvard Classics Department circulated a small announcement to the effect that applications were being solicited for the Eliot Professorship of Greek.

In earlier days they would simply have made a few phone calls, perhaps written some letters, and then sat down and voted a successor. But now federal legislation required all universities to advertise their available positions, offering Equal Opportunity for advancement to men and women of all races and creeds.

Naturally, with such a prestigious chair, the public notice was merely a formality to comply with the dictates of Washington. In practice, the system still worked in its time-honored way. The department met and made a short list of the most eminent Greek scholars in the world. And, since his book was causing a stir even in manuscript, Theodore Lambros’s name was among the leaders.

Again in compliance with the Equal-Opportunity directives, he would, like all other candidates, be required to visit Harvard and deliver a lecture.

“I know this is silly,” Cedric Whitman apologized on the phone. “After all, we’ve known you for years and heard you speak. But to follow the new rules an pied de la lettre you’ll have to give that obligatory ‘tryout’ talk.”

“That’s okay,” he responded, already mentally packing his bags for the triumphal return to Cambridge.

They then set a date for the lecture. Officially it would be an audition, but, at least in Ted’s mind, it would be his inaugural address.

--*--

“Among the many publications of tonight’s speaker, two stand out in particular: Tiemosyne, a brilliant study of the Sophoclean tragic hero, and The Poet of Paradox, his forthcoming analysis of Euripidean drama, which I have had the great pleasure of reading in manuscript.

“Tonight he will unravel the complexities of Euripides’ final play, Iphigenia at Aulis. It gives me enormous pleasure to present Professor Theodore Lambros.”

Ted rose, shook Whitman’s hand, and placed his notes on the lectern. As he adjusted the microphone, he glanced out at the spectators. And could not help thinking that he had never seen Boylston Hall so full.

Had his scholarly reputation preceded him? Or was it common knowledge that tonight’s audience would be getting a sneak preview of the next Eliot Professor of Greek?

He felt extraordinarily relaxed under what should have been extremely trying circumstances. For he had rehearsed this moment so many times in dreams it was already second nature.

The more he spoke, the less he had recourse to his notes. He began to look out into the audience, skillfully making eye contact with the more important people present, who included no less a dignitary than Derek Bok, the President of Harvard University.

He had just begun to discuss the bold visual symbolism in Clytemnestra’s entrance carrying the infant Orestes, when he suddenly lost his breath.

Perhaps the audience, enraptured by his dramatic presentation, did not notice. But Ted himself had seen a vision that shook him.

Could it be possible — or was he merely imagining that his former wife, Sara, was standing at the back, leaning against a post?

Though inwardly panicked, his powerful sense of survival enabled him to find his place in the manuscript and — albeit in a somewhat subdued voice — continue reading his lecture.

But he was keenly aware that his sudden shift of style and tone had broken the enchanted