The Pentagon was impressed. And, to the surprise of many, but certainly not to the professor, they agreed to make Henry Kissinger their secret envoy.
Of course, George ultimately guessed what games the master strategist was playing by interpreting the “slips” that Kissinger would make in their conversations.
Once when they were chatting about food, Henry said, “I had the most superb coquilles at Prunier the other night.”
“Where’s that?” inquired George.
“Oh, Paris,” he answered quite offhandedly. “I was over for a few hours to… give a paper.”
George sifted for the nuggets of truth. Clearly, Kissinger was now involved in some kind of covert negotiations on behalf of the U.S. government.
But he still could not grasp why a Democratic administration should choose a relatively unknown professor who had actually worked against them in the previous campaign. Didn’t they have contacts of their own? Why Henry?
When Kissinger’s role finally became public knowledge, George dared to ask what made him think his audacious offer would even be taken seriously.
“Well,” Henry replied, “I could fob you off with a quote from Clausewitz On War. But if you want the unvarnished truth, I just thought I’d give it a shot. There were only two possible answers, so I had a fifty-fifty chance.”
“Oh,” said George Keller in monosyllabic awe. And thought, This man is a genius.
In direct contrast to the sophisticated Realpolitik of George’s mentor was the naive sentimentality of his first Harvard roommate. Often, at lunch, Andrew would seek George’s diagnosis of the malady that was infecting the nation. In early June 1968, he was absolutely distraught.
“George, what’s happening to this country? I mean, has the war drained off all our sanity? Why are we killing each other? It’s barely two months since they shot Martin Luther King — and now Bobby Kennedy. Can you explain any of this madness?”
George replied with cool academic detachment, “I think these are all signs that the Republicans will win iii November.”
But whatever Kissinger was doing on those secret Paris journeys, it was clearly not enough. The Vietnam conflict grew worse. Among its casualties was Lyndon Johnson himself, who, worn-down by the onslaught of protests, chose not to seek reelection. Thus leaving the bombing to an unscarred and less-heartsick leader.
In a sense, LBJ was handing the presidency to Richard Nixon. For this canny politician did not need the advice of brilliant strategists like Kissinger and his young assistant Keller. Common sense told him that a simple promise to end the war would sweep him into office.
And it did.
It also swept George out of Rockefeller Center. His disappointment at the thought of not being able to see those Renoirs and van Goghs every morning was somewhat mitigated by the fact that, although his new working quarters would be cramped and airless, they were at least well located.
In the White House basement, fifty yards from the National Security Adviser, Henry Kissinger.
Broadway musicals are never better than on the first day of rehearsal. This is the moment when the authors themselves read through the play, singing the lyrics in their fresh, unadulterated form.
When Stu and Danny finished their two-man show, the cast clapped enthusiastically. Sir John Chalcott, the director, rose to make some inaugural remarks.
“I think all of us here recognize what a superbly written piece of theater we’ve just heard. It is our duty as professionals to live up to the authors’ intentions. All our efforts in the next six weeks will be bent in that direction.”
Polite applause.
Zero Mostel now stood up. “This is not your ordinary Broadway dreck. I honestly think James Joyce would have respected what Stu and Danny have done. And, guys — we’re going to knock our kishkes out for you.”
More applause.
Sir John turned to the leading lady and inquired, “Miss Hamilton, would you care to say a word or two?”
She did.
Honoring her director by affecting what she thought was an English accent, she remarked, “Can either Mr. Kingsley or the celebrated Mr. Rossi explain to me why Mr. Mostel gets to sing the final number?”
This was hardly what Sir John had expected. But his cast did not seem at all surprised. They merely turned to hear the authors’ explanation.
Danny got up from the piano and took a few steps toward the table around which the cast was gathered.
“Look, Miss Hamilton, this is our concept. Stu and I want to emphasize Joyce’s theme of Stephen looking for his lost father and Bloom for his dead son. We feel the real emotional pull is between the two of them.”
“But surely, Mr. Rossi, the novel itself ends with Molly’s soliloquy. Why are you mutilating a classic for what I assume is the sake of Mr. Mostel’s ego?”
Before Danny could reply, the male lead offered a laconic comment.
“Bullshit.”
In an accent now more aristocratic than ever, Theora Hamilton turned to her costar and said sternly, “Mr. Mostel, such vulgarity is unworthy of the professional you aspire to be.”
To which Zero simply replied, “Bullshit.”
Sir John Chalcott rose again.
“Miss Hamilton, ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure none of us here is unfamiliar with Joyce’s masterpiece. And for that very reason we can appreciate how ingeniously our authors have captured its spirit. You do, after all, have a musical version of the soliloquy when you sing ‘Roses and Fire and Sunset’ in the penultimate scene. I think the slight modification of putting Zero’s duet last works better for the stage. Call it justifiable artistic license.”
“I still think I should sing a reprise just before the curtain,” she replied. “After all, who are the public flocking to see if not Theora Hamilton?”
To which Zero Mostel answered, “Zero Mostel.”
The First Lady of the American musical theater turned again to her costar and said, in an accent by no means English, “Bullshit.”
Rehearsals had begun.
Six weeks later, prior to leaving for Boston they did a run-through in New York. Afterward Edgar Waldorf reported that the group of invited professionals had all been laudatory about the project. Some indeed had confessed to being moved to tears by the lovely duet that concluded the play.
Danny and Stuart embraced warmly.
“Just think,” the poet enthused, “we’ll be starting our triumphal march in the shadow of Harvard Yard. Doesn’t that give it an extra kick?”
“Yeah, it really does.”
“Hey,” Stuart suggested, “do you and Maria want to take the train up with me and Nina? We could all hold each other’s hands.”
“Thanks, but Maria’s going to stay in Philly. She gets sort of nervous at these things. I’m going home over the weekend to conduct two concerts and I’ll fly up Sunday night. We can meet for a drink in my suite at The Ritz.”
“Great. But listen, Danny. I know I’ve told you before but, as Hamlet says, I want to engrave this on the tablets of your memory. I’ll always be grateful that you chose me to collaborate with you —”
“Stu, you’re enormously talented —”
“Please, Danny, you could have had any lyricist you wanted, but you gave a shot to a guy with no track record. Don’t think I’ll ever forget your generosity.”
“Hey, Stuart, now it’s my turn. This whole thing has been a joy. We’re not just partners anymore. We’re almost brothers.”
It is an invariable rule in the theater that musicals are never written. They are rewritten.