There are exceptions. Those who can survive this senior crucible are usually the ones most likely to bring glory to The Class.
Not the least of them made his debut as piano soloist with the Boston Symphony on October 12, 1957.
Yet, the Danny Rossi who walked nervously to the keyboard in the crowded, venerable auditorium was different physically from the bespectacled young man who had left Eliot House the previous spring.
He was no longer wearing glasses.
Not that his vision had improved — although his appearance most dramatically had.
He owed his metamorphosis to the suggestion of an amorous admirer from last summer’s Tanglewood Festival staff. Seeing his face under circumstances when he did not need glasses to function, she remarked on the appeal of his piercing gray-green eyes — and what a pity it was that his spectacles hid them from the audience’s view, The next day he went out and was fitted for contact lenses.
The minute he appeared on stage of Symphony Hal! Danny could sense how right his inamorata’s advice had been. Amid the polite, friendly applause, he could perceive remarks like, “Oh, he’s cute.”
His performance was almost flawless. He was always passionate. And in the final movement some of his front locks fell across his forehead.
A standing ovation.
He had no notion of how long the public adoration lasted. In fact, Danny was swept up in its tidal wave and had lost all sense of time. He would have stayed on stage forever had not Munch, a friendly arm around his shoulder, led him to the wings.
Shortly after he got to his dressing room, his parents appeared. And, hard upon their heels, new planets that began to spin around the sun of Danny Rossi — journalists.
First the flashbulbs popping at him shaking hands with Munch. Then several with his mom and dad. And then a series with dignitaries of the music world, many of whom had come up from New York.
Finally, even Danny had had enough.
“Hey, guys,” he pleaded, “I’ve just started to feel very tired. As you can imagine, I didn’t get too much sleep last night. So can I ask you to pack up and go? I mean, if you’ve got all you want.”
Most of the press was satisfied and started to retreat. But one of the photographers realized that a single commercial picture yet remained untaken.
“Danny,” he cried out, “how about one with you kissing your girlfriend?”
Danny glanced toward the corner where Maria, dressed sedately, had been all but hiding. (It had taken weeks of persuasion to get her to go to the concert just as a “friend.”) He motioned to her to come forward. But she shook her head.
“No, Danny, please. I don’t want to be photographed. Besides, this is your night. I’m just here as a member of the audience.”
Doubly disappointed, for he would have liked the world to see him with a really sexy girl, Danny acquiesced and told the journalists, “She isn’t used to this.
Another time, okay?”
Reluctantly, the Fourth Estate departed. And the Rossis and Maria headed toward the limousine to drive down to The Ritz, where a suite had been reserved by the Symphony management.
Danny rode to the hotel half in a dream. Cocooned within the leather plushness of the chauffeured car, he inwardly repeated to himself,
Never having imagined he would be feeling such euphoria, Danny had deliberately requested that his parents keep the party small. For he thought that after the performance he would be consumed with sadness at the absence of the man who was responsible for bringing him so far. But the night’s ovation had been so intoxicating that for the moment he could think of no one but himself.
Munch and the concertmaster dropped by for a single glass of champagne and quickly left. They had a matinee the next afternoon and needed to get home to rest. The managing director of the B.S.O. had brought along a most distinguished gentleman who absolutely would not wait even a day to talk to Danny.
The unexpected guest was none other than S. Hurok, the world’s most famous concert manager. He told the young pianist not only how much he admired his performance, but that he hoped Danny would consider allowing his office to represent him. He went as far as to promise Danny the chance to play with major orchestras as early as next year.
“But, Mr. Hurok, I’m a total unknown.”
“Ah,” the old man smiled, “but I am not. And most of all, the symphony directors I will contact trust their ears.”
“You mean there were some in the audience tonight?”
“No,” Hurok smiled, “but Maitre Munch thought it might be useful if he had this evening’s concert taped. With your permission, I could make very good use of those reels.”
“Gosh —”
“Hi, Mr. Hurok,” Arthur Rossi interposed. “I’m Danny’s dad. If you would like, we could have breakfast in the morning.”
Danny shot a withering glance at his father, and then turned back to the impresario. “I’m very flattered, sir. If we could talk some other time —”
“Of course, of course,” Hurok said with enthusiastic understanding. “We’ll chat again when you’re less busy.”
He then politely said good night and left with the director. Now there were only four of them. Danny, his parents, and Maria.
“Well,” Arthur Rossi jested, smiling at Maria, “here we are, just us Italians.”
He was avoiding Danny’s gaze. For he knew that just a moment earlier he had overstepped the newly redrawn boundaries of their father-son relationship. And he was afraid of Danny’s anger.
“With everyone’s permission,” said Gisela Rossi, “I would like very much to drink a toast to someone who was here tonight only in spirit.”
Danny nodded and they raised their glasses.
“To Frank Rossi —” his father began.
And then suddenly stopped himself as he heard his younger son whisper, with supreme self-control, “No, Dad,
There was a silence. Then Mrs. Rossi murmured, “To the memory of Gustave Landau. Let us pray that God let Danny’s music go to heaven tonight so such a fine man could take pride.”
They drank somberly.
“That was Danny’s teacher,” she told Maria.
“I know,” she answered softly. “Danny’s told me all about how much he — loved him.”
There was a sudden pause as no one knew what to say next.
At last Maria spoke again. “I don’t want to spoil the party, but it’s kind of late. I think I’d better take a taxi home to Radcliffe.”
“If you can wait a minute,” Danny offered, “I’ll be glad to take you and then have the driver drop me back at Eliot.”
“No, no,” she protested. “I mean, the orchestra’s given you this terrific suite. It will be a lot more fun than just a metal bed in a Harvard house,”
Maria suddenly felt a tinge of embarrassment at the way she had put her last remark. Would that give the elder Rossis the impression that she’d been in Danny’s bedroom?
In any case, before she knew it, Arthur and Gisela had said good night and headed for their own room farther down the corridor.
Danny and Maria stood side by side in the descending elevator, looking straight ahead.
As they were heading for the door, Danny stopped her gently. “Hey, Maria,” he whispered, “let’s not separate tonight. I want to be with you. I mean, I want to share this special night with someone I really love.”
“I’m tired, Danny, honestly I am,” she answered softly.
“Maria, listen,” Danny pleaded, “come upstairs with me. Let’s share that room — and be a couple.”
