The Class

which she said in all sincerity, “You’re ready, champ, you really are.”

“So was Daniel when he went into the lions’ den.”

“Read your Bible, honey. They didn’t eat him, if you recall.”

By the time he entered the lecture hail, Ted had resigned himself to what the Fates would bring.

There were about a hundred people scattered in the auditorium. To him they all seemed faceless, with three exceptions. Cameron Wylie and — two collie dogs. Dogs?

“Are you all set?” Bill Foster whispered.

“I think so. But, Bill, those uh — canine visitors? Is that —?”

“Oh, it’s usual at Berkeley.” Foster smiled. “Don’t worry. In fact, they’re some of my most attentive students,”

He then mounted the podium and introduced today’s guest speaker.

The applause was polite.

All alone now, Ted began by conjuring a striking picture.

“Imagine Sophocles — an established playwright already in his forties, who had even defeated the great Aeschylus in dramatic competition — sitting in the theater of Dionysus, watching the maiden production of a new young author named Euripides …”

The audience was in his hands. For his words had transported them back to fifth-century B.C. Athens. They felt as if they were going to hear about living playwrights. And indeed, when Ted Lambros spoke of them, the Greek tragedians were very much alive.

As he concluded, he glanced at the clock on the far wall. He had lectured for exactly forty-nine minutes. Perfect timing. The applause was universal — and palpably genuine. Even the two dogs seemed to approve.

Bill Foster went up to shake his hand and whispered, “Absolutely brilliant, Ted. Do you think you have the strength for a question or two?”

Ted was trapped, knowing that if he refused, it would reveal a kind of academic pusillanimity.

Like a nightmare coming true, the first hand raised was that of Cameron Wylie. Well, thought Ted, it can’t be any worse than all the questions I’ve dreamed up myself.

The Englishman stood up. “Professor Lambros, your remarks are most stimulating. But I was wondering if you saw any significant Euripidean influence in the Antigone?”

Blood began to flow again in Ted’s veins. Wylie had actually thrown a compliment and not a javelin.

“Of course, chronologically it’s possible. But I don’t share any of the nineteenth-century Jebbsean romanticized views of Antigone.”

“Quite right, quite right,” Wylie concurred. “The romantic interpretations are all silly nonsense — and have no basis in the text.”

As Wylie sat down with an approving smile, Ted recognized a frizzy-haired girl in the back row, frantically waving her hand.

She rose and began to declaim. “I think we’re all missing the point here. Like I mean, bow are the guys you’ve been discussing relevant to now? I mean, I haven’t heard the word politics mentioned once. I mean like, what was these Greeks’ position on free speech?”

The audience groaned. Ted heard an “Oh shit” from somewhere in the crowd.

Bill Foster motioned to him that he could ignore the question if he wished. But Ted was high on approbation, and chose to address himself to the student’s query.

“To begin with,” he observed, “since every Greek drama was performed for the entire population of the polls, it was inherently political. The relevant issues of the day were so important to them that their comic poets spoke of nothing else. And there were no restrictions on what Aristophanes and company could say — that’s the Greek notion of parrhesia. In a sense, their theater is an abiding testimony to the democracy they helped invent,”

The questioner was stunned. First by the fact that Ted had taken her seriously — for she had intended to stir up a little intellectual anarchy — and second by the quality of his answer.

“You’re cool, Professor,” she mumbled and sat down.

Bill Foster stood, glowing with pleasure.

“On that stirring note,” he announced, “I’d like to thank Professor Lambros for a marvelous talk which was both logical and philological.”

Ted felt triumphant.

The reception in their honor was held at the Fosters’ house in the Berkeley Hills. Everyone who was anyone in academia in the Bay Area seemed to be there, not to mention a certain distinguished professor from Oxford.

The mood was festive and the talk was all of Ted.

“I hear your lecture was even more exciting than our last student riot,” Sally Foster joked. “I’m sorry I had to miss it. But somebody had to stay here and prepare the goodies. And Bill insisted that my tacos would entice you to come to Berkeley.”

“I’m already enticed,” said Sara Lambros, smiling happily.

Sensing that her casual remark had made Ted slightly uneasy, Sally quickly added, “Of course, I’m not supposed to say that sort of thing, am I? I always put my foot in my mouth. Anyway, Ted, I’m under strict orders to see that you keep circulating among the various literary lights.”

And there was indeed a high-voltage group of San Francisco intellectuals. Ted noticed Sara in animated conversation with a character who looked amazingly like the beat poet Allen Ginsberg. And on second glance, it was Ginsberg.

Ted had to meet the author of Howl, the radical ululation in verse that had generated so much literary controversy in his undergraduate days. As he approached, he heard Ginsberg describing some personal apocalyptic experience.

“Looking through the window at the sky, suddenly it seemed that I saw into the depths of the universe. The sky suddenly seemed very ancient. And this was the very ancient place that Blake was talking about, the sweet golden clime. I suddenly realized that this existence was it! Do you dig me, Sara?”

“Hi, honey,” Ted smiled, “hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” she answered and then introduced her husband to the bearded bard.

“Say, I hear you guys may be moving west,” said Ginsberg, “I hope you do — the sense of prana’s real strong out here.”

Just then they were interrupted by Bill Foster.

“Sorry to break in, Allen, but Dean Rothschmidt is desperate to have a few words with Ted before he goes.”

“That’s cool. I’ll be glad to continue fascinating Ted’s old lady.”

The Dean of Humanities wanted to express his admiration of Ted’s lecture and ask if he could drop by his office at ten the next morning.

As Ted was returning to Sara, Cameron Wylie cornered him.

“I must say, Professor Lambros, your lecture was absolutely first-rate. I look forward to reading it in print. And I do hope we’ll have the pleasure of hearing you at Oxford sometime.”

“That would be a great honor,” Ted replied.

“Well, when you get your next sabbatical I’ll be happy to make some arrangements. In any case, I do hope we’ll stay in touch.”

A bolt suddenly struck the lightning rod of Ted’s ambition.

Two days earlier, Cameron Wylie had spoken highly of his Sophocles book. This evening he was admiring the talk he had just delivered. Might not a letter from the Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford, repeating those same sentiments, tip the precarious balance at Harvard in Ted’s favor?

In any case, he could lose nothing by seizing this most propitious moment.

“Professor Wylie, I — uh — I was wondering if I could ask you a rather special favor….”

“Certainly,” the don answered amiably.

“I — uh — I’ll be coming up for tenure at Harvard next year, and I was wondering if you’d be willing to write