The Class

friend George Keller cannot be adequately expressed.’ ”

“Gosh,” Andrew commented, “he actually calls you his friend. That’s terrific.”

“Yes. And he’s not only made me his head section man in Coy. 180, but he’s even arranged for me to have a piece in Foreign Affairs.”

“Oh, George.” Faith smiled. “That sounds very naughty.”

George was charmed by her delightful sense of humor.

“Eliot,” he smiled, “you’re a really lucky man.”

“Well, Faith,” Andrew asked when he returned from driving George to his bus, “what do you think of old George? A mad genius, huh?”

“He’s quite attractive,” she replied thoughtfully. “But something about him worries me. I mean, I can’t exactly put my finger on it. But I think it’s the way he talks. Have you noticed that he has no foreign accent at all?”

“Sure. That’s what’s so fantastic about him.”

“Andrew, don’t be naive. If a foreign person doesn’t have a foreign accent that means he’s trying to hide something. I think your ex-roommate just might be a spy.”

“A spy? Who the heck could he be spying for?”

“I don’t know. The enemy. Maybe even the Democrats.”

***

From the “Milestones” section of Time magazine, January 12, 1963:

MARRIED.

Daniel Rossi, 27, keyboard Wunderkind, and Maria Pastore, 25, his college sweetheart; both for the first time; in Cleveland, Ohio.

After a European honeymoon (during which Rossi will fulfill some of his long-standing concert engagements), the couple plans to settle in Philadelphia, where Rossi has just been appointed Associate Conductor of that city’s symphony orchestra.

The only prenuptial promise Maria had extracted from Danny was that he would drastically cut down his frenetic touring so that they could take roots somewhere and build a domestic existence.

Though at first he was reluctant to give up the polyglot murmurs of adulation that gave him such pleasure, the offer from Philadelphia had come as a kind of miraculous solution.

They bought a spacious Tudor home on an acre and a half in Bryn Mawr. It was large enough to transform the entire top floor into a studio for Danny. And a light airy room for Maria, where he insisted on installing a barre, but which she wanted to become a nursery as soon as possible.

They spent their wedding night in the downtown Cleveland Sheraton, where Gene Pastore had thrown a lavish reception.

Throughout the celebration, Danny was strangely subdued — although he tried not to show it. For he was preoccupied with the fact that, having earned the reputation of being an international Don Juan, he might not live up to it on the one occasion that really mattered.

Not unexpectedly, he was coerced by the wedding guests into playing the piano. To his mind, it proved an ominous harbinger. For though he delighted them with a complete rendition of Rossi on Broadway, he was perhaps the only person in the room who noticed he was not performing as well as usual.

Perhaps it was the champagne. He had been sipping a little all evening to calm his nerves, even though he knew it was not a good idea. As an ironclad rule, he never drank anything stronger than Coke before a concert. He might take a Miltown or a phenobarb if he was especially nervous. But it was too late for that.

Now that he was slightly boozy, he wondered if he hadn’t been sabotaging himself. For he would soon have to enter the bedroom of the sexiest girl he had ever known, who had waited all her life for this moment.

There were “his” and “hers” bathrooms in the bridal suite. As Danny brushed his teeth (long and slowly), he looked in the mirror and saw the face of a frightened adolescent.

Could he go through with it? Of course, he told himself. Come on, don’t make a big deal out of all this. Besides, she’s a virgin. Even if you’re not at your very best, how could she know?

Danny looked at himself again. And his own expression told him that he couldn’t walk into the bedroom and face Maria.

Not alone, anyway.

He unzipped a pocket in his toilet kit and stood half-a-dozen small bottles of pills on the shelf above the sink. They ranged in effect, as he’d often joked to himself, from largo e pianissimo (tranquilizers) to allegro e presto (stimulants for when he was tired from a long flight).

Thank God for medical science, he thought, reaching for a jar marked “Meth.” He poured one into his sweaty left palm, closed the cap, and returned the pharmacopoeia to its hiding place.

A playful voice called from the bedroom, “Danny, are you still here, or have I been abandoned on my wedding night?”

“I’ll be right with you, darling,” he replied, hoping his tone had not betrayed any nervousness.

He crushed the tablet in his palm in hopes of speeding its effectiveness, and swallowed it with a glass of water.

Almost instantly his mood lightened. Though his heart beat faster, it was no longer with fear. He put on his robe and started slowly toward the bedroom.

She was waiting for him, her face beaming.

“Oh, Danny,” she said tenderly, “I know we’re going to be so happy together.”

“I know it too, darling,” he replied, and climbed in beside her.

Until that moment, Danny Rossi had never given a performance, either musical or otherwise, that was not impassioned and flawless. That night was no exception.

But it had been very, very close.

***

Fanny and Jason were now too excited to rely on letters. Their feelings were so intense that they had to express them through the more dynamic medium of the telephone. What started as a weekly ritual soon became almost a daily one. The bills were astronomical.

“It would be cheaper if one of us flew over to be with the other,” he remarked.

“I agree, Jason. But you can’t take your exams here and I can’t take mine there. So if you can control yourself for another few months, we’ll be together so long you’ll get tired of me.”

“I’ll never get tired of you.”

“That’s what they all say,” she joked. “I sometimes wish we were just living together and not having to go through all this ceremony business.”

“Fanny, you’re going to live in Boston. This is still a puritan town. Besides, I want to sign you to a lifetime contract so there’s no possible chance of your getting away.”

“I like the sound of that,” she replied.

The wedding would be in July at her family’s church in Groningen. Since Fanny had planned to visit Eva again that summer, it was decided that she would go in late spring — as soon as she had qualified.

On May 15 she called Jason to say, “Goodbye for three weeks.” Since her “sister” Eva’s kibbutz in the Galilee was a pretty spartan establishment, communication would be all but impossible.

“I think they’ve got about three phones in the whole place,” Fanny remarked. “So I don’t think they’d