They’ll be rolling in the aisles. And not just Orange County ladies, but a thousand of the world’s most knowledgeable people. What a disaster. Why did I ever go out for this goddamn contest anyway?
He felt his forehead. It was hot and moist. Maybe I’m sick, he thought. He hoped. Maybe they’ll have to cancel my appearance. Oh please, God, make me have the flu. Or even something fairly serious.
To his increased distress, the next morning he felt reasonably healthy. And thus resigned himself to face the evening guillotine in Sanders Theater.
He stood backstage all alone, wishing he were somewhere else.
Don Lowenstein, who was conducting, came back to ask him if he was ready. Danny wanted to say no. But something autonomic made him nod.
He took a breath, said inwardly, “Oh shit,” and walked on stage, his eyes fixed on the floor. Just before sitting at the piano, he bowed slightly to the audience, acknowledging their polite applause. Mercifully, the spotlights blinded him and he could see no faces.
Then an uncanny thing occurred.
No sooner was he at the keyboard than his fear transformed into a new sensation. Excitement. He was burning to make music.
He signaled readiness to Don.
The motion of the opening baton put Danny in a strange, hypnotic trance. He dreamed that he was playing flawlessly. Far better than at any prior moment in his life.
The sounds of “Bravo!” flew at him from every corner of the hall. And applause that seemed without diminuendo.
The atmosphere surrounding Danny afterward reminded Jason of the finals of a tennis championship. They did everything but pick him up and carry him around the theater on their shoulders. Gray eminences of the music community were lined up like fans to shake his hand.
Yet, the moment Danny noticed Jason, he broke free and hurried to the edge of the stage to greet him.
“You were fantastic,” Jason warmly hailed him. “We were really glad to get the tickets. Oh, I’d like to introduce my date, Miss Annie Russell, ’57.”
“Hi.” Danny smiled. “Are you at The Cliffe?”
“Yes,” she answered, beaming, “And can I be the millionth person to say you were absolutely fabulous tonight.”
“Thanks,” said Danny. And then quickly added in apologetic tones, “Hey look, I’m really sorry, but I’ve gotta go shake more professors’ hands. Let’s get together for a meal sometime, huh, Jason? It was nice to meet you, Annie.”
He waved goodbye and sprinted off.
The next afternoon, buoyed by her vivacious attitude all evening, Jason telephoned Annie to invite her to the football game next Saturday.
“I’m really sorry,” she replied, “I’m going down to Connecticut.”
“Oh, a date at Yale?”
“No. Danny’s playing with the Hartford Symphony.”
Shit, thought Jason as he hung up, bursting with frustration. That’s a lesson for you.
Never help a Harvard classmate — even up a step.
On Tuesday, April 24, 1955, winter was still very much in the Cambridge air. Yet, official administrative statistics suggest that a metaphorical ray of sunlight shone into the lives of 71.6 percent of Harvard’s 322d freshman class. For this elated majority had been accepted by the house of their first choice.
To the trio in Wig G-21 it came as no surprise, since their admission had been heralded a month earlier by the visitation of a distinguished archangel. But they were delighted to learn that they had been assigned a suite that enjoyed a river view. Not many sophomores got such choice accommodations.
Nor did many sophomores get the privilege of living in a single room. But Jason Gilbert, Jr., was so honored (for services rendered). His private lodgings were situated across the Eliot courtyard from his three aristocratic friends.
He conveyed the good news to his father in their weekly phone conversation.
“That’s terrific, son. Why, even people who’ve only barely heard of Harvard know that Eliot House has the cream of undergraduate society.”
“But everybody here is supposed to be cream, Dad,” Jason answered good-humoredly.
“Yes, of course. But Eliot’s the crème de Ia crème, Jason. Your mother and I are really proud of you. I mean, we always are. By the way, have you been doing those new exercises for your backhand?”
“Yes, Dad. Absolutely.”
“Say, I read in Tennis World that all the big guns are going heavier on the road work — just like boxers in the morning.”
“Yeah,” said Jason, “but I really haven’t got time. My course work is incredible.”
“Of course, son. Don’t do anything to compromise your education. Speak to you next week.”
“So long, Dad. Love to Mom.”
Danny Rossi, on the other hand, was outraged. His first choice had been Adams House, because so many musical and literary types lived there. You could practically knock on your left and right and have enough participants for chamber music.
So certain had he been of acceptance into Adams that his alternate second and third selections were scribbled down without the slightest forethought. He had merely listed two other houses as they appeared in alphabetical order on the application, namely Dunster and Eliot.
And it was his third choice, Eliot, to which he was assigned.
How could they do this to him — someone who had already distinguished himself in the college community? Wouldn’t Adams House someday be proud to boast that Danny Rossi had once lived there?
Moreover, he didn’t relish the prospect of being stuck for three years in Eliot with a bunch of smug preppies.
The man to whom he chose to voice his complaint was Master Finley. Such was his respect for the great man after Hum 2 that he felt he could honestly convey his disappointment to the master of the house he didn’t want to be in.
But even more astonishing was his reaction when Finley candidly confessed. “I wanted you very badly, Daniel. I had to trade the master of Adams two football stalwarts and a published poet just to get him to relinquish you.”
“I guess I should be flattered, sir,” said Danny, quite off balance at the news. “It’s just that —”
“I know,” the master said, anticipating Danny’s misgivings, “but despite our reputation, I want Eliot to be outstanding in all the disciplines. Have you visited the house before?”
“No, sir,” Danny admitted.
A moment later Finley was conducting Danny up a winding staircase in the courtyard tower. The young man was out of breath, but the dynamic Finley had sprinted up the steps. And now opened a door.
The first thing Danny saw was an astonishingly beautiful view of the Charles River through a large circular window. Only seconds later did he realize that there was a grand piano placed before it.
“What do you think?” asked Finley. “All the great minds of the past found inspiration in elevated places. Think of your own Italian genius Petrarch ascending Mont Ventoux. Amost platonic gesture.”
“This is unbelievable,” said Danny.
“A man could write a symphony up here, could he not, Daniel?”
“I’ll bet.”
“Which is why we wanted you at Eliot House. Remember, all of Harvard welcomes genius, but here we cultivate it.”
The living legend held his hand out toward the young musician and remarked, “I look forward to your coming here next fall.”
“Thank you,” said Danny, quite overwhelmed. “Thank you for bringing me to Eliot.”
Yet, for certain members of The Class of ’58, April 24 was just like any other day.
Ted Lambros was one of those unhappy few. For, being a commuter, he had not applied to any house and hence was completely unaffected by the news conveyed to all those living in the Yard.
He went to class as usual, spent the whole afternoon grinding in Lamont Library, and at five headed for The Marathon.
Still, he could not help being aware that the more privileged of his classmates were rejoicing at the prospect of spending the next three years along the river as members of a unique housing arrangement.
Having garnered an A-minus and three B’s at midterms, he had been reasonably confident of obtaining a scholarship — large enough, in fact, to permit him to live at the college.
But to his chagrin, he had received a letter from the Financial Aid Office, which took great pleasure in informing him that he had been granted a stipend of eight hundred dollars for next year.
This would normally seem like cause for at least some modest rejoicing. But Harvard had just recently announced a rise in its basic tuition to precisely that amount.
Ted felt frustrated as hell. Like a runner sprinting madly on a treadmill.
He still did not really belong. Yet.