zoom in close and get me out of frame."
"It's a deal," Moran replied. "And I'm very impressed."
"With what? My stubbornness?"
"No. You seem to have more camera expertise than my directors." - -
"You don't have to keep flattering me, Mr. Moran. I've already said I'd do it. Anyway, I've spent about a million hours with Danny in TV studios. To keep from overdosing on coffee and doughnuts, I locked myself in the control booth and sort of picked up what all those buttons meant by osmosis."
"Well," he quipped, "as Plato said, 'Osmosis is the best teacher.' Or was it Aristotle?"
"1 think it was Terry Moran," smiled Maria Rossi.
"You looked wonderful even in the millisecond-long shot, Mrs. Rossi. And we got good prices for everything on your
table," the station president commented as they drank sugary tea from paper cups in the Green Room.
"I'm still glad it's over," she said, sighing. "I
absolutely loathe being on camera."
"But you do enjoy the control board, don't you?"
"Oh, that's always fun. I love to look at the bank of monitors and try to imagine which camera I'd use if I were the director. It's nice and safe when it's only a game."
"Have you ever thought of actually doing it?"
"Oh, I daydream sometimes. But then I also fantasize about doing a pas de deux with Nureyev. Anyway, thanks for accommodating my idiosyncrasies."
She rose to put on her coat, but Moran motioned her to sit down. "Mrs. Rossi, I'm sorry I can't speak for Rudolf-who I'm sure would be delighted to know you're interested '-'-but I can speak for this station. Would you like a job?"
"You mean, a real job?" -"That's the only kind we have around here. I mean-nothing high-powered to start with. But we can always use an extra assistant director. And you already have enough know-how for that."
Maria was tempted, but diffident. "I'm not in the union,'~
she protested meekly.
"Neither is this station." Moran smiled. "Now, are you interested?"
"You're doing this just because I'm Danny Rossi's wife."
"Frankly, that's your only liability. Because if things don't work out I'll have to fire you. And then I'll be in trouble, won't I?"
"No," Maria answered cheerfully. "But if I can get home in time to have dinner with the girls, I'll give it a try."
"No problem," he replied. "Oh.-'I haven't told you the bad news, though. The salary is pretty laughable."
"That's all right, Mr. Moran. I could use some laughs."
T
ed was awakened late one night by a call from Walter Hewlett, professor at Texas and best-informed gossip in the world of classics. -
"Lambros, I've just heard something sensational and I
wanted you to be the first to know."
"Oh God, Walt, what could possibly be so important at two in the morning?" - -
"lt's Dieter Hartshorn-"
"What about that pedantic German?"
"Then you know-?" -
'Yeah. The guy Harvard just hired for the Greek chair."
"Then you don't know-listen. Rudi Richter just called from Munich. Hartshorn's been killed in a crash on the Autobahn. I mean, this news hasn't even reached the papers yet, baby."
"Christ, Walt, you're gloating like a ghoul."
"Hey, Lambros, do I have to spell it out for you? Harvard now has no Eliot Professor of Greek. And the chances are-if you drive carefully-the job's going to be yours. Sleep on that, amigo."
As Ted hung up, he could not help but think, This is not good news at all.
It's fantastic news. -
A decent interval after the tragic death of Dieter
Hart-shorn, the Harvard Classics Department circulated a
small announcement to the effect that applications were being solicited for the Eliot Professorship of Greek. -
In earlier days they would simply have made a few phone
calls, perhaps written some letters, and then sat down and voted a successor. But now federal legislation required all universities to advertise their available positions, offering Equal Opportunity for advancement to men and women of all races and creeds. -
Naturally, with such a prestigious chair, the public
notice was merely a formality to comply with the dictates of
Wash-
ington. In practice, the system still worked in its
time-honored way. The department met and made a short list of the most eminent Greek scholars in the world. And, since his book was causing a stir even in manuscript, Theodore
Lambros's name was among the leaders.
Again in compliance with the Equal-Opportunity directives, he would, like all other candidates, be required to visit Harvard and deliver a lecture.
"I know this is silly," Cedric Whitman apologized on the phone. "After all, we've known you for years and heard you speak. But to follow the new rules an pied de la lettre you'll have to give that obligatory 'tryout' talk."
"That's okay," he responded, already mentally packing his bags for the triumphal return to Cambridge.
They then set a date for the lecture. Officially it would
be an audition, but, at least in Ted's mind, it would be his inaugural address.
"Among the many publications of tonight's speaker, two
stand out in particular: Tiemosyne, a brilliant study of the Sophoclean tragic hero, and The Poet of Paradox, his forthcoming analysis of Euripidean drama, which I have had the great pleasure of reading in manuscript.
"Tonight he will unravel the complexities of Euripides'
final play, Iphigenia at Aulis. It gives me enormous pleasure to present Professor Theodore Lambros."
Ted rose, shook Whitman's hand, and placed his notes on
the lectern. As he adjusted the microphone, he glanced out at the spectators. And could n~t help thinking that he had never seen Boylston Hall so full.
Had his scholarly reputation preceded him? Or was it
common knowledge that tonight's audience would be getting a sneak preview of the next Eliot Professor of Greek?
He felt extraordinarily relaxed under what - should have been extremely trying circumstances. For he had rehearsed this moment so many times in dreams it was already second nature.
The more he spoke, the less he had recourse to his notes.
He began to look out into the audience, skillfully making eye contact with the more important people present, who in-
eluded no less a dignitary than Derek Bok, the President of Harvard University. -
He had just begun to discuss the bold visual symbolism in
- Clytemnestra's entrance carrying the infant Orestes, when he suddenly lost his breath.
Perhaps the audience, enraptured by his dramatic presentation, did not notice. But Ted himself had seen a vision that shook him. -
Could it be possible-or was he merely imagining that his former wife, Sara, was standing at the back, leaning against a post?
Though inwardly panicked, - his powerful sense of survival enabled him to find his place in the manuscript and-albeit in a somewhat subdued voice-continue reading his lecture.
But he was keenly aware that his sudden shift of style and tone had broken the enchanted atmosphere.
And now he could not -control a desperate urge to get the damn talk over with.
Maybe, he thought, if I reassure myself she isn't really there, I can get back in gear. So, as he turned to his final page, he glanced beyond the farthest row.
Sara was right there. And looking more beautiful than
ever. But why? Why the hell is my ex-wife, who ought to be in
Oxford, here in Boylston Hall? -
And then with thoughts swifter than light, he exhorted himself like a Homeric hero. Get loose, goddammit, Lambros. Pull yourself together. This is your last chance to get everything you want in life.
And heroically, he did. He took a breath, slowed himself, ignored the final written paragraphs, and raised his head to paraphrase them. His concluding words were greeted with admiring applause. -
Before they left, - the President and deans came over to shake his hand. Then, while the senior members of the
Classics Department waited discreetly in the back of the
room, Sara approached the podium to greet her former husband.
-
"That was great, Ted," she said warmly. "You've done a lot of terrific work on that last chapter." -
"Hey, I don't get it," he responded, trying to seem nonchalant. "Shouldn't you be in England teaching?"
"Yes," she answered. And then added with a curious
admixture of timidity and pride, "But Harvard's invited me to apply for the chair. I'm giving a seminar on Hellenistic poetry tomorrow morning."
He was incredulous. "They've asked you to apply for the
Eliot Professorship?"
She nodded. "I know it's silly. Clearly it'll go to you. I
mean, just on your publications."
"They flew you all the way over just on the basis of three articles?"
"Four, actually. And my book."
"Book?"
"Yes, Oxford liked my thesis and the Press is bringing it out this spring. Apparently the Harvard Search Committee's seen a top)'."
"Oh," said Ted, the wind knocked from his sails,
"congratulations."
"You'd better go now," she said gently. "All the bigwigs want to wine and dine you."
"Yeah," he said distractedly. "Uh-nice seeing you."
The post-lecture reception for Ted was in a private room
at the Faculty Club. He knew that it was a social gauntlet he had to run, both to remind his old friends and to convince those who had once rejected him that he was charming,
learned, and collegial. That year at Oxford seemed to have enhanced his status-and improved his dinner conversation. At a late point in the evening Norris Carpenter, the
leading Latinist, thought he'd enjoy a bit of Schadenfreude at the candidate's expense. -
"Tell me, Professor Lambros," he inquired with a Cheshire grin, "what do you think of Dr. James's book?"
"You mean F.K. James on Propertius?"
"No, no. I mean the former Mrs. Lambros on Callimachus."
"Well, I haven't seen it yet, Professor Carpenter. I mean
it's just in galleys, isn't it?"
"Oh yes," the Latinist continued mischievously. "But such a penetrating work must have taken years of research. She
must have, as it were, begun it under your principate. In any case, she sheds some fascinating new light on the
relationship between Hellenistie Greek and early Latin poetry."
"I'm looking forward to reading it," Ted said politely, as he - twisted inwardly from Carpenter's sadistic verbal stilettos. -
He spent the next day wandering aimlessly around
Cambridge. The Square itself had been concreted beyond recognition since his college days. But the Yard had the same magical aura.
At four o'clock Cedric called him at the family home. He got to the point without delay. -
"They've offered it to Sara."
"Oh," Ted gasped, as his blood ran cold. "Is her book really that good?" -
"Yes," Cedric acknowledged, "it's a tremendous piece of work. But just as important, she was the right person at the right time." -
"You mean she's a woman." -
"Look, Ted," the senior professor explained, "I'll grant that the Dean's office is anxious to comply with the
Fair-Employment legislation. But, frankly, it came down to weighing the merits of two equally gifted people-"
"Please, Cedric," Ted implored, "you don't have to explain. The bottom line is that she's in and I'm out."
"I'm sorry, Ted. I understand what a blow this is for you," Whitman said softly as he hung up the phone.
Do you, Cedric? Do you understand what it's like to work forty years of your goddamn life with only one goal? To give up everything, to resist any human involvements that might detract from your work? Do you understand what it means to sacrifice your youth for nothing?
And can you possibly imagine what it means to have waited since childhood for the doors of Harvard to unlock for you? And now to know they never will.
For the moment, what Ted wanted most to do was get