returned to his fishing.
I had no great expectations when I dialed Faith Pierce at the Wildlife Preservation Fund, where she was a full-time volunteer. I assumed she would be a vapid, overprivileged, snobbish Brahmin. Well, she may have been a lot of those things, but she wasn't vapid. And what absolutely amazed me when we met was that she was so good-looking.
I mean, she was one of-the prettiest girls I'd ever seen. I thought she gave Marilyn Monroe a fair run for her money
(except that she had more money).
What's more, I liked her. She was that rare creature
-among the so-called bluebloods-a real enthusiast. Every activity to her was "a fun thing." Whether it was tossing a football on the banks of the Charles, having a gourmet meal at Maître Jacques, or sex before mar- -riage. Moreover, all her previous life could be sub- -sumed under that same description.
Her mummy and daddy hadn't gotten along too well. But when they divorced and she was sent to boarding school at the age of six, it turned out to be "a fun thing." Likewise the finishing school in Switzerland, where she picked up a terrific French accent-and one or two words to say with it. Skiing, sailing, riding, and sex (previously mentioned, I guess) also came under that category.
And she's a terrific gardener.
I would describe our courtship as whirlwind-and I have no doubt how she would term it. In any case, we seemed to know so many people in common that I feared the only thing that would keep us from marrying would be some kind of incest by association.
For the - record, I'm not marrying Faith simply be- cause our mutual fathers and mothers are fairly berserk about the whole idea.
Knowing his deeply held views, I would never admit it to my dad, but secretly-I'm still a romantic.
And I'm marrying Faith Pierce because she said something that no one has ever said to me in my entire life.
- Just befor~4~psoposed, she whispered, "I think I love you, Andrew." -
O
ne morning in late spring of '62, Danny Rossi woke up alone. Not merely alone in bed, but feeling a pervasive emptiness in his entire life.
How could this be? he asked himself. Here I am in my new
- Fifth Avenue duplex overlooking Central Park. In a minute a butler is going to walk through that door with my breakfast on a silver tray. He'll also be bringing this
morning's mail, which will contain invitations to at least a dozen parties all over the world. And I suddenly feel unhappy.
Unhappy? What a ridiculous thought. I'm the critics' darling. I think if I sneezed during a concert they'd write it up as an exciting new interpretation of whatever I was playing. I can't even walk from here to Hurok's office without people calling out friendly greetings or asking for autographs.
Unhappy? There isn't an orchestra in the world that
wouldn't die to have me as a soloist. And now the commissions for symphonic compositions are starting to come in. Everybody seems to want me for my talent, as well as my personality-not to mention the innumerable lovelies who want me for my body. So why, with the platinum winter sun streaming brightly through the windows of my fantastic apartment, do I feel
worse than I ever did when I was stuck in that lousy little practice room in my parents' cellar?
This was not, in fact, the first time he had had - such thoughts. But now they seemed to be coming more frequently. What made matters worse, he had no official engagements
for the day. No concerts, no rehearsals, not even an appointment with his hair stylist.
This, of course, had been on his own insistence. Because
he wanted to devote the day to composing the orchestral suite commissioned by the St. Louis Symphony. And yet now the prospect of being alone with sheafs of empty music paper depressed him.
What could possibly be causing this melancholy? -
After breakfast he put on jeans and a Beethoven sweatshirt
(the gift of an adoring fan) and climbed to his studio on the
upper floor. There on his piano, where he had left it late
the previous night, was his unfinished composition. And on an easy chair nearby, a magazine he had leafed through to relax and let his sleeping pill take effect.
Perhaps just to avoid sitting down to work, he ambled over arid picked it up again. It was the Harvard Alumni Bulletin that he had left open the previous evening at the Class Notes section. -
Why is it, he asked himself, only the boring guys write in
- their "achievements"? And what the hell makes them think that their marriages or even the birth of a kid would be of any possible interest to anybody else?
Yet, despite his indifference, he sank once again into the chair and reread the list of new matrimonies and parenthoods that had been so somniferous the night before. -
Then, alone in his magnificent penthouse studio, almost involuntarily he made a confession to himself. This isn't boring, really. It's an account of all the joys in life that I've been missing. I mean, applause is heady stuff. But how long does it last? Five, ten minutes at the most. When everything is over I still come home and no one's here except the staff. Sure it s fun when I bring a woman back. But after all the physical excitement we don't talk. I mean, it sometimes makes me feel more lonely.
I want a wife, I think.
I know I want a wife. But someone genuine I can share my life with-and my thoughts. And most of all-if this is possible-a woman - who might like me for myself and not that phony PR image my publicity machine has manufactured.
Come to think of it, who in my life has ever loved me for myself?
Only. . . Maria.
God, he had been stupid, letting his one real chance for a relationship slip through his fingers. And for the worst possible reason: because Maria did not act like every other woman and offer her body to the altar of his ego. -
How long had it been since he'd last seen her? Two years? Three years? By now she'd graduated from Radcliffe, probably married some nice Catholic guy, and was raising kids. Yeah, someone that fantastic doesn't sit around and wait for
- Danny Rossi to call back. No, she's got too much sense. Now he knew exactly why he was depressed. And also that
there was nothing he could do about it. Or was there? -
Maria would be, say, twenty-three or twenty-four at most. Not every woman's married - by that age. Maybe she went to graduate school. Who the hell knows-maybe she even became a nun.
Funny, he had always kept her Cleveland phone number. A semiconscious reminder that he had never surrendered hope. He took a deep breath and dialed. Her mother answered.
"May I speak to Maria Pastore, please~" he asked nervously. "Oh, she doesn't live at home anymore-" Danny's heart sank. He was, as he had feared, too late.
"-But I could give you the number of her apartment. May I
ask who's calling?"
"Uh-it's, uh-it's Daniel Rossi."
"Oh my," she responded. "I knew the voice was familiar. We've been following your career with enormous admiration."
"Thanks. Uh-is Maria well?" -
"Yes. She's teaching dance at a girls' school and enjoys it very much. She's there now."
"Could you- give me the address?" Danny interrupted.
"Certainly," Mrs. Pastore replied, "but I'd be glad to pass on a message."
"No,. please. In fact, I'd be grateful if you didn't say I
called. I'd sort of like to . . . surprise her."
"One-two-three-plie. Now fourth position, girls. Tuck in at the back, please." -
Maria was leading a ballet class of a dozen or so ten-year-
olds at the Sherwood School for Girls. She was so involved that she barely perceived the studio door opening behind her. Yet something made her gaze into the mirror and see the reflection of a once-familiar figure.
She was astonished. Incredulous. But before turning around
she had, enough presence to tell her charges, "Keep repeating
-~ those movements, girls. Laurie, you count the beats."
- She then about-faced and walked to greet her visitor.
"Hello, Danny."
"Hello, Maria."
They were both distinctly uneasy.
Uh-are you in town for a concert? I must have missed it in the papers." -
"No, Maria, I flew out especially to see you." That stopped the conversation cold.
For several moments they stared at each other mutely while behind them ten-year-old Laurie counted cadence for the little dancers.
"Did you hear me, Maria?" Danny said softly.
"Yes. It's just that I don't know what to think. I mean, why after all this time-?"
Rather than answer her question, Danny asked the more urgent one that had been burning in his brain during the entire flight to Cleveland.
"Has some lucky guy nabbed you yet, Maria?" "Well, I've been sort of going with this architect "Is it serious?"
"Well, he wants to marry me."
"Do you ever think about me anymore?" She paused and then replied, "Yes."
"Well, that makes two of us. You've been on my mind."
-"When do you have the time, Danny?" she asked with gentle sarcasm. "Your love affairs are so public I can
read about them at supermarket checkout counters without even buying the paper."
"That's somebody else. The real Danny Rossi is still in
love with you. -All he wants is a wife named Maria and lots of kids. Maybe half-a-dozen cute little dancers like those girls over there." -
She looked at him quizzically.
"Why me?"
"Maria, it would take a hell of a long time to explain."
"Could you give me a brief outline in twenty-five words or less?"
- Danny knew that if he could not sway her now, he would never have another chance.
"Maria," he said earnestly, "I know the last time you saw me 1 was drunk with ~ipplause. I won't lie to you and say that
I don't like it anymore. But I've realized it isn't enough. My
concerts may be packed, but my life is incredibly empty. Am
I making any Sense?" -
"You still haven't answered my original question. Why me?"
"This is kind of hard to explain, but since I've become-I guess famous is the word-everybody I meet says they love me. And I don't believe a goddamn word of it. The only person I ever came close to trusting was you. I know you understand that I put on my cocky little show because deep down I don't think that anybody could really care."
He paused and looked at her.
"That's slightly more than twenty-five words," she replied softly.
"How much do you believe?"
Her answer was barely audible because she was on the verge of tears.
"Everything," she said.
T
hough he never told a soul, it was the only educational experience that Jason ever enjoyed more than Harvard. The twenty-one-week course at the Marine Basic School in Quantico, Virginia, offered instruction in such unacademic subjects as leadership, techniques of military instruction, map reading, infantry tactics, and weapons, as well as the history and traditions of the corps. In addition, there was first aid, combat intelligence, vertical development operations, tank and amphibious - operations, and, his favorite of all, physical training and conditioning.
While the majority of the other college graduates were
either fainting or groaning, or praying for it to end, Jason grew more elated with every pull-up, push-up, sit-up-and every mile he ran. He actually loved the obstacle course and spent some of his rare free moments trying to perfect his technique in negotiating it. His rifle became even more familiar to him than a tennis racket.
Though he had been far from an outstanding student in college, he was determined to finish number one in this class.
In the final week they took written examinations in
military knowledge and skills, as well as practical tests in land navigation and techniques of military instruction. While Jason scored well in these, he was counting on the more sportslike contests to win him a gold medal.
He qualified with extremely high scores in rifle and
pistol marksmanship, but was still outshot by half-a-dozen country boys who'd used firearms all their lives. Still, he led everyone in the physical-fitness tests. And that was some consolation for his overall finish in fifth place. -
Second Lieutenant Jason Gilbert, USMC, took advantage of his first leave to write a long letter to Fanny explaining
the reason for his silence. She answered briefly but warmly. I was really surprised to hear from you. Maybe the Odyssey is not such a fairy tale after all. -
Now it's my turn to plead for your patience as I
have my qualifying exams to study for. Afterward, -when
I'm working in a clinic, I'll have time to write.
- Love, F.
p.s. Did I mention that I miss you?
At Christmastime he deliberately wore his dress uniform
(blue jacket, gold buttons rising to the neck, white hat) to make the maximum impression on his mom and dad. Unfortunately, his impressively costumedarrival was upset
by a more somber event.
When Jason made his grand entrance, he found his father, mother, and sister all sitting at the dining-room table. Julie was 'leaning forward, her head in her hands. The cries of baby Samantha were audible from another room. -
The elegant marine officer was, to say the least, disap pointed when his father greeted him with a desultory glance and a "Hi, son, you're just in time."
He kissed his mother and as he sat- down at the table asked, "Hey, what's going on?"
"Charles and Julie are having a bit of trouble," she replied.
"Trouble?" his father suddenly bellowed. "The son of a
bitch has left her! He just upped and walked out. Abandoning