attempt at impressing this lovely creature.
Of course he’d fail, as usual. But then he tried to tell himself that the law of averages might be on his side.
“Uh, Sukie, would you like to hear me play?”
“I’d love to,” she replied enthusiastically, and took Danny by the hand as they went out to find a practice room.
He played a Bach partita and a lightning-fast Rachmaninoff. Inspired by the feminine proximity, his technique was even more impressive than before, but he didn’t glance at her for fear of losing concentration.
And yet he sensed her presence. Oh, how he sensed her presence.
At last he looked up. She was leaning over the piano, her low-necked blouse offering a view of great aesthetic interest.
“Was I any good?” he asked, slightly breathless.
A broad smile crossed her face.
“Let me tell you something, Rossi,” she began, moving close enough to place her hands on his shoulders. “You are without doubt the most fantastic guy I’ve ever had the pleasure of being in a room with.”
“Oh,” said Danny Rossi, looking up at her, nervous raindrops forming on his brow. “Say — uh — would you like to have a cup of coffee sometime?”
She laughed.
“Danny, would you like to make love right now?”
“Right here?”
She began to unbutton his shirt.
Danny had always hoped that women ultimately would discover that his brilliant execution of a keyboard passage could be just as stimulating as the execution of a gridiron pass. At last it had happened.
And football players never get to play encores.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
March 6, 1955
What makes Harvard — and, I have to admit, Yale — different from every other university in America is its so-called college system.
Around 1909, Cambridge was turning from a village into a real city, and though some students lived in dorms, Harvard men were scattered everywhere across town. The poorer guys rented cheap hovels along Mass. Avenue, while the overprivileged ones (like my father) lived in really posh apartments in the area then called the Gold Coast (near Mt. Auburn Street). This dispersion was symptomatic of a rigid social separation that perpetuated lots of prejudice.
President Lowell thought that it was wrong for undergraduates to live in these hermetic cliques. So he championed the idea of copying Oxford and dividing the university into smaller colleges that would be a mixture of all types.
The process works like this. First they admit all of us freshmen into dormitories in the Yard so that — in principle — we get to meet the different kinds of guys that make up one whole class. After a year of this enlightening experience we’re supposed to have found our new diverse and fascinating friends. At which point we’ll be ready to spend our next three years down by the river in those exciting little colleges that Harvard snobbishly calls simply “houses.”
Actually, for some guys this arrangement has some educational value. Jocks from Alabama find themselves applying to a house along with pre-med types, philosophers, and would-be novelists. And when it does work, this setup really can enrich a person’s life as much as any academic course.
But this is far less true where preppies are concerned. Variety is not the spice of our lives. We’re like bacteria (though slightly brighter). We flourish in our own special environment. So I’m sure the university was not surprised when Newall, Wigglesworth, and I decided to perpetuate our roommatehood for three more years.
Originally, we had wanted to have Jason Gilbert join with us as a foursome. He’s a really good guy and would help to keep things lively. Also, Newall figured we might profit from the surplus of his feminine admirers. But that was secondary.
Dick asked him on the bus back from the squash match against Yale (which we won). But Jason was reluctant. He had had such unbelievable bad luck with roommates that he’d made up his mind to apply to live alone next year. Though sophomores rarely get this privilege, Gilbert’s proctor promised to write a letter of support for him. And Jason suggested that we all select the same house as our first choice so that we could have our meals together and he’d be nearby for our multitudinous impromptu parties.
Now our only problem was where to apply.
Though there are seven houses, only three of them are really socially acceptable. For despite this bull about democracy, most of the masters want to give their house a distinctive tone, and thus try to select a preponderance of certain types, who reciprocally gravitate toward them.
A lot of guys choose Adams House (named after good old Johnny, Class of 1755, the second U.S. President), perhaps because it had once been Gold Coast apartments. Also, not inconsequentially, it has a chef who once worked in a fancy New York restaurant (a factor not to be ignored when you consider three full years of breakfast, lunch, and dinner).
Then there’s Lowell House, a Georgian masterpiece, convenient to the Final Clubs, whose master is more English than the queen. Withal, a very tweedy place.
But Harvard’s undisputed preppie paradise is … Eliot House. Needless to say, both. Wig and Newall want to make it their first choice. But I’m a bit uneasy at the prospect of inhabiting this rather awesome red-brick monument to my great-grandfather (his statue’s even in the courtyard).
Still, Wig and Newall were really hot to go where most of our friends already are ensconced. We had the makings of a real dilemma, till an unexpected visitor surprised us fairly late one evening.
Fortunately, no one was too drunk to hear the knocking at the door.
Newall stood up unsteadily to greet our nocturnal guest. I suddenly heard him cry out, “Jesus Christ!” and hurried to the door to hear our visitor reply, “Not quite, young man, I’m just His humble servant.”
It was none other than Professor Finley. I mean the man himself — in our own dorm!
He happened to be passing by on his late evening promenade, and thought he’d take the liberty of popping in to ask where we’d be applying for next year. And especially if Eliot was “privileged” to be among our choices.
We quickly assured him that it was, although he sensed that I myself had qualms about being Andrew Eliot in Eliot House, whose master was the Eliot Professor of Greek.
In fact, he’d come to reassure me.
He did not expect me to translate the Bible for the Indians, or become the President of Harvard. And yet he was certain that in my own way I’d make my mark somehow.
I don’t know if I was more stunned or just moved. I mean, this great professor thought that I might actually develop into — I don’t know — something.
The next morning I was still not really sure that John H. Finley actually had come in person to our room.
But, even if it was a dream, the three of us are going to go to Eliot. Because even the ghost of Finley — if it
