The Class

you.”

“How did you reach him?”

“Oh, I just had an apocalyptic notion. I left a message with the Hurok office and about ten minutes later he called back.”

“Nina, you’re terrific. It will be some occasion.”

“Yes, Stuart,” she said lovingly. “For him.”

The Russian Tea Room, on Fifty-seventh Street, scarcely an octave’s distance from Carnegie Hall, is a favorite New York haunt of the international music and literary set. Until this afternoon, Stuart Kingsley had known it only by reputation. Now he stood nervously at the entrance, scanning the tables to catch sight of Danny Rossi.

At one point he nodded to what he thought was an old friend. The balding, bespectacled chap gave him the most tenuous of acknowledgments and then turned away. It took another second for Stuart to realize that he had mistakenly greeted Woody Allen.

He did not commit the same gaffe when he perceived Rudolf Nureyev holding forth to a table of worshipful balletomanes. He merely smiled inwardly at the prospect of being so close to such living legends.

At last he spied his classmate. When their glances met, Danny waved him over to a corner booth, its table covered with yards of music paper.

“I see you don’t like to waste even a second,” Stuart remarked jovially as they shook hands.

“No, you’re right. I have an unfortunate tendency to overcommit myself. And you can’t deliver a ‘July Fourth Suite’ on Christmas Eve, can you?”

After Danny ordered blinis for them both, they ran the gamut of do-you-know, and discovered they had many friends in common among the artistic community of The Class.

“Do you get up from Philadelphia very often?” Stuart asked.

“At least once a week, unfortunately. It’s gotten so that I’ve had to rent a studio in the Carnegie Hall Apartments.”

“Must be kind of hard on your wife,” Stuart offered, unable to imagine having to spend a single day away from his beloved Nina.

“Yeah,” Danny replied, “but Maria’s pretty involved with the kids.” He then quickly changed the subject. “You know, I was almost as happy for your prize as I was for mine. I’ve always admired your stuff.”

“You’ve read my poetry?”

“Stuart,” Danny answered with a smile, “you publish regularly in the New Yorker. That’s my favorite airplane reading. So I don’t think I’ve ever missed a poem you’ve had in there.”

“My wife’s not going to believe this,” Stuart murmured half under his breath. And then aloud, “What are you writing at the moment, Danny? I mean besides what we’re using for a tablecloth.”

“That’s just it, Stuart. I’m starting to feel somewhat hemmed in on the composition front. That’s why this whole meeting with you is a kind of kismet. Have you ever thought of writing lyrics for a musical?”

“Do you want to know something?” Stuart confessed. “It’s not only been my secret dream, I’ve actually been playing around with a specific idea for a couple of years. It’s based on a kind of highbrow book, though.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Danny responded warmly. “I wouldn’t be interested in doing another Hello, Dolly! What masterpiece of world literature do you have in mind?”

“Would you believe James Joyce’s Ulysses?”

“Wow, that’s a sensational idea. But do you think it’s really do-able?”

“Listen,” Stu answered, his creative juices now really flowing, “I’m so steeped in that damn book that if you had the time I could lay the libretto right out on this table. But I suppose you’ve got a fiendishly busy schedule.”

Danny stood up in the middle of Stu’s apology and said casually, “Order us some more coffee while I go reorchestrate my agenda.”

All afternoon Danny listened spellbound as his classmate cascaded with ideas. Naturally, they couldn’t cram Joyce’s whole epic novel into two hours of stage time. But they could concentrate on the “Nighttown” episode, when the protagonist, Leopold Bloom, wanders through various exotic parts of the city.

There were infinite possibilities for musical invention. Only one significant change was needed. In Stuart’s words, “Our only concession to commercialism.”

All they would have to do was translate the locale from Joyce’s Dublin to New York. Stuart even had exciting ideas for specific scenes and songs. But it was growing late and they’d have to put this off for a second meeting.

“I think we’re already a little pregnant, Stuart,” he commented. “If you’re free tomorrow, I’ll be glad to stay over in New York so we can keep going.”

“I’ve got no classes. What time do you want to start?” Stuart responded eagerly.

“Well, if you can make it to my studio as early as, say, eight, I’ll provide lots of cups of disgusting but strong Nescafe.”

“You’re on,” said Stu as he stood up. He glanced at his watch. “Gosh, it’s nearly five o’clock. Nina’ll think I’ve been hit by a bus. I’d better call and tell her I’m okay.”

“Is it really that late?” asked Danny. “I’d better scramble, or I’ll have one hell of an angry guest waiting outside my apartment.”

After their second meeting the two were ecstatic.

They had worked through the day, even chatting as they munched the sandwiches Danny ordered from the Carnegie Deli.

After eight hours of feverish symbiotic creativity, they had not only a broad outline of both acts, but at least half-a-dozen song suggestions and a place pinpointed for a ballet sequence.

Most of all, they shared the common euphoria that when the curtain fell on Bloom parting with young Stephen Dedalus, there would not be a dry eye in the house. Or a single prize they wouldn’t win.

Danny suggested that if they spent a lot of concentrated time together, they could finish the whole thing very quickly. He proposed they rent adjacent houses on Martha’s Vineyard for the summer. Then they could bring their families along and — if they could snare a producer — have the show ready to go into rehearsal just after Christmas.

There was only one difficulty. And Stuart approached it with some diffidence.

“Uh, Dan, a house on the Vineyard is — uh — a little out of my budget.”

“No sweat. With what we’ve got already, I’m sure we can find a producer willing to give us a healthy advance. But first we’ve got to get somebody to represent the property. Do you have an agent?”

“Poets don’t have agents, Danny. I’m just lucky to have a wife who’s not afraid to talk on the phone.”

“Then why don’t I ask around and see who’s supposed to be the best for Broadway. That okay with you?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Hey — I’ve got to really sprint. As the Mad Hatter put it, ‘I’m late for a very important date.’ ”

It was the White Rabbit, thought Stuart Kingsley. But he didn’t dare contradict his senior partner.

The next evening, as Stuart and Nina were conscientiously studying an LP of Danny’s Savanarola ballet, the phone rang. It was the composer himself.

“Hey, Stuart,” he said, slightly out of breath, “I’m rushing to catch a plane, so I’ve got to talk quickly. Ever heard of Harvey Madison?”

“No. Who’s he?”

“My informants tell me he’s the best theatrical agent in New York I mean, a guy in Hurok’s office said he isn’t even ten percent of a human being.”

“That’s good?” Stu responded with astonishment.

“Good? It’s incredible. What you need to negotiate for you is an absolutely heartless shit. And this guy