ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY. After graduating I expected to find myself metaphorically, but not literally, at sea.

March 10, 1959

After graduating I expected to find myself metaphorically, but not literally, at sea.

Yet here I am crossing the Atlantic on a ship of the U.S. Navy. Knowing of my family’s distinguished record in this branch of the services, I had been determined not to follow where I might stumble in their footsteps.

But when the ninety-day notice suddenly came from the army, I panicked and thought, I don’t want to spend the next two years of my life marching around some bog. So I signed up for the navy. I mean, how bad can things be on a ship?

At least there’s nowhere to hike.

I found out otherwise, however. A sailor’s existence can be hell. While my old roomie Newall is an ensign stationed out in San-Francisco waiting for a ship full of guys to whom he can bark orders as they cruise the tropics, I thought I’d give myself a real dose of what life without privilege is like. So I’m seeing the navy as a simple white-hat, an enlisted man.

Anyway, after basic I was assigned to the destroyer tender St. Clare as an ordinary swabbie. Our task is to escort the USS Hamilton as a kind of oceangoing nanny. My initial duties were twofold. First, keeping the St. Clare shipshape. In other words, scrubbing decks. And second, acting as a football for our chief petty officer, who somehow took an instant dislike to me. I couldn’t figure out why. I never said I was from Harvard or even went to college. (Someone later told me that he thought I was “obnoxiously polite” — whatever that means.)

But the guy was fixated on giving me grief. And when I wasn’t doing the many extra tasks he set for me, or standing watch, he would storm into our bunkroom and confiscate as “trash” whatever the hell I was reading.

Once I thought I’d try to get my own back at him.

I indicated at evening mess that I felt like turning in early to read, and hurried back to settle in with… the Holy Bible. Sure enough, he barged in a few minutes later and, without even looking, ripped the book from my hands, bellowing, “Sailor, you are polluting your mind!”

And it was then that I indicated, in front of two other guys, that I had been merely enriching my soul with the Scriptures.

All he could manage was, “Oh,” replaced the book on my bunk, and marched out.

I had won that battle all right. But unfortunately I lost the war.

After that, the guy rode me day and night. At one point I was so desperate that I thought of going AWOL. But then, of course, we were a thousand miles from the nearest landfall. There are, after all, some advantages to being in the army.

If this was real life, I’d had enough of it. And if I was to survive the navy, I had to get my hands and knees off the deck.

When I was certain that this guy was on another part of the ship, I went to see the first lieutenant to plead for a transfer of duty. I didn’t give the real reason, I just said that I felt I might have some other talents that could better serve the navy.

Like what? he inquired.

Like what, indeed? I thought to myself. But off the top of my head I suggested that I had a kind of yen to write. And that seemed to impress him. So, much to my chief petty officer’s disappointment at not being able to drive me into leaping off the ship, I’ve been transferred to our information office.

Here I’m kind of an editor and journalist, writing for the various internal navy newspapers, as well as forwarding the more interesting stories to Washington for wider dissemination.

This has turned out to be a pretty neat job. Except my one chance for a wire-service break was censored by the captain. I thought it was a good story. I mean, it had excitement, thrills, surprise, and so forth — even a touch of humor. But somehow the upper echelons didn’t see it that way.

Last week when we were just entering the Mediterranean, it was a terribly dark foggy night. (Dramatic start, huh?) And in the perilous obscurity we collided with another ship. No hands were lost, though some repairs would have to be done at the next port of call.

What I found so fascinating was that we had actually collided with our own destroyer. I mean, I thought the story had a certain human interest value.

But the captain felt otherwise. He argued that American ships never did that sort of thing.

Assuming it was a journalist’s task to report the truth, I pointed out that we bad in fact just done so.

At this he blew his top and hurled at me a veritable thesaurus of synonyms for lack of intelligence. His essential message was that the U.S. Navy may make an occasional error, but they sure as hell don’t send out a press release.

I will be discharged in one year, three months, eleven days. With any luck it will be honorably.

In any case, it cannot be too soon.

***

Sara had finished at the top of her class.

Actually, nothing in her previous educational experience gave any hint that she would excel her fellow Radcliffe graduates in the arts of shorthand and typing. But sure enough, at the end of that first summer, she could take down dictation at an admirable 110 words per minute and could type an amazing 75.

“I don’t think any further courses could possibly improve your chances in the job market, Sara,” counseled Mrs. Holmes, head of the summer course. “With your speeds and educational background, you’re more than ready for an executive secretarial position. I suggest you start following up the want ads.”

Buoyed by this encouragement, Sara and Ted set about checking the newspapers. There seemed to be so many open ings in Cambridge that she could probably find something within walking distance of their apartment on Huron Avenue.

Her first two interviews resulted in firm offers and a real dilemma. The job with the vice-president of the Harvard Trust paid a lavish seventy-eight bucks a week, whereas the University Press had an opening with longer hours offering a mere fifty-five. Yet, it was clear which attracted both husband and wife.

First of all, the Press was closer (you could even slide there in a snowstorm). Secondly, it offered the possibility of advancement (“With your languages, you might move into copy editing fairly soon,” Mrs. Norton, the personnel director, had remarked when she saw Sara’s initial reaction to the proposed salary).

Perhaps the most attractive dimension, as they both realized, was that it could be a rich source of top-level information about the Classics world. They would be among the first to know who was writing a book on what, and whether it was going to be accepted or rejected. This sort of intelligence might prove invaluable at Ted’s job-seeking time.

Graduate school was much more rigorous than he had ever anticipated. To earn a Ph.D., you had to take some brutally difficult seminars in Linguistics, Comparative Grammar, Metrics, Greek and Latin Stylistics, and so forth. Fortunately, he was blessed with a nightly dinner partner with whom he could discuss such esoterica.

From as early as the summer they first lived together, Ted had always insisted on cooking the evening meals. But now, since he believed the chef should have his classical studying finished before entering the kitchen, Sara had the uncomfortable prospect of having to wait till nearly ten o’clock before her husband would begin to prepare their deipno (dinner).

This posed some delicate problems of diplomacy. For what sane woman could object to a delicious meal accompanied by choice Greek wine, served with music and soft candlelight by a highly professional waiter — who would then sit down and tell you how much he loved you. And after dinner would join you in bed.

How could a woman tell such a husband that, though the evenings were enchanted, the mornings after she could barely stay awake at her typewriter? Sara therefore concluded that the only way to solve this predicament was to learn the secrets of Lambros cuisine from Mama herself. This way, while Ted was still struggling with Indo-European etymologies, she could be starting dinner.

Thalassa Lambros was flattered by her daughter-in-law’s interest and did everything she could to accelerate her culinary education. This included detailed memos, which Sara diligently studied.

By January she was confident enough to arrogate the task of cooking dinner. And none too soon. For Ted would be facing a battery of language exams at the end of the spring semester.

The German requirement was killing him. Dammit, he had often thought, why does so much important classical scholarship have to be written in this preposterously difficult language? Here again, Sara, who had taken three years of German in school, was able to help him acquire a feeling for its periodic sentence structure. And by plowing through several articles with him, showed how he could intuit the general meaning of a passage from the classical citations in the text.

After one of these mini-tutorials, he looked at her with unadulterated affection and said, “Sara, where the hell would I be without you?”

“Oh, probably out seducing some attractive graduate student.”

“Don’t you even joke like that,” Ted whispered, reaching over to caress her.

With Sara’s help and encouragement, Ted successfully jumped all the examination hurdles and began a thesis on Sophocles. As a reward he was made a teaching fellow in Finley’s Humanities course.

He tossed and turned but still could not get back to sleep.

“Darling, what’s the matter?” Sara asked, placing her hand gently on his shoulder.

“I can’t help it, honey. I’m so damned scared about tomorrow.”

“Hey,” she said soothingly, “it’s understandable — the first class you’ve ever taught in your life. It would be unnatural if you weren’t nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” he replied, “I’m absolutely catatonic.” He sat up on the side of the bed.

“But, darling,” she reasoned, “it’s only a Hum Two discussion. The kids will be more frightened than you. Can’t you remember your first freshman section?”

“Yeah, I guess. I was a scared little townie. But they say the damn undergraduates are getting smarter and smarter. And I keep having this ridiculous fantasy that some world-famous professor is going to decide to drop in unannounced tomorrow.”

Sara glanced at the alarm clock. It was nearly 5:00 A.M., and there was no point in trying to talk Ted into going back to sleep.

“Hey, why don’t I make some coffee and listen to what you plan to say? It could be a kind of dress rehearsal.”

“Okay,” he sighed, relieved to be liberated from the prison of his bed.

She quickly made two large mugs of Nescafé and they sat down at the kitchen table.

At seven-thirty she began to laugh.

“What the hell’s the matter? What did I do wrong?” Ted asked anxiously.

“You crazy Greek.” She smiled. “You’ve just talked brilliantly about Homer for nearly two hours. Now, since all you’ve got to do is kill fifty minutes, don’t you think you’re adequately prepared to confront your first freshmen?”

“Hey,” he smiled, “you’re some good psychologist.”

“Not really. I just happen to know my husband better than he knows himself.”

The date, the time, and the place of Ted’s first class are indelibly engraved in his memory. On Friday, September 28, 1959, at 10:01 A.M., he entered a discussion room in the Alston Burr Science Building. He unpacked a ridiculous number of books, all with carefully marked passages he could read aloud should he run out of ideas. At 10:05 he wrote his name and office hours on the blackboard and then turned to confront the students.

There were fourteen of them. Ten boys and four girls, their spiral notebooks open and pencils ready to transcribe his every syllable. Jesus, he suddenly thought, they’re going to write down what I say! Suppose I make some incredible mistake and one of the kids shows it to Finley? Worse still, suppose one of them with a million years of prep-school Classics catches me right here? Anyway, Lambros, it’s time to start.

He opened his yellow notepad to his meticulously outlined remarks, took a breath, and looked up. His heart was beating so loud that he half-wondered if they could hear it.

“Uh — just in case somebody thinks he’s in a physics class, let me start by saying that this is a Hum Two section and I’m your discussion leader. While I’m taking your names down, you can learn mine. I’ve written it on the board. It happens to be the Greek word for ‘brilliance,’ but I’ll leave you guys to make up your minds about that after a few weeks.”

There was a ripple of laughter. They seemed to like him. He began to warm to the task.

“This course deals with nothing less than the roots of all Western culture, and the two epics ascribed to Homer constitute the first masterpieces of Western literature. As we’ll see in the weeks to come, the Iliad is the first tragedy, the Odyssey our first comedy…”

After that moment he never once looked down at his prepared text, He simply rhapsodized about the greatness of Homer, his style, the oral tradition and early Greek concepts of heroism.

Before he knew it, the class was nearly over.

“Hey,” he said with a smile, “I guess I got a little carried away. I should stop here and ask if you have any questions.”

A hand shot up in the back row.

“Have you read Homer in Greek, Mr. Lambros?” asked a young, bespectacled Cliffie.

“Yes,” Ted answered proudly.

“Could you possibly recite a bit of it in the original, just so we could get a feel of how it sounded?”

Ted smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

Now, though he had the Oxford texts on the table, he found himself passionately reciting the beginning of the iliad from memory, putting special stress on words they might possibly comprehend — like heroon for “heroes” in line four. He reached the crescendo at line seven, emphasizing dios Achilleus , “godlike Achilles.” Then he paused.

To his utter amazement, the tiny class applauded. The bell rang. Ted felt a sudden surge of relief, elation, and fatigue. He had no idea how it had gone until assorted comments filtered to him as the students left the room.

“God, we lucked out,” he heard one say.

“Yeah, this guy is dynamite,” said another.

The last thing Ted heard — or thought he did — was a female voice offering the opinion, “He’s even better than Finley.”

But surely that was the figment of a tired imagination. For John H. Finley, Jr., was one of the greatest teachers in Harvard history.

***

Jason Gilbert made the first months of his Sheldon Fellowship for traveling a balanced combination of culture and sport. He took part in as many European tournaments as he could, but gave almost as much time to museum going as he did to tennis playing.

Though forbidden by the terms of his award from doing formal academic work, he spent the winter researching a Comparative Study of International Skiing — with special emphasis on the slopes of Austria, France, and Switzerland.

When his enthusiasm for the sport began to defrost, he headed for Paris, city of a million sensuous attractions. He knew no French but was fluent in the international language of charm, and never had to look very far to find a female guide.

Almost within hours he befriended an art student named Martine Pelletier, while she was admiring a Monet in the Jeu de Paume, and he was admiring her legs.

As they strolled the boulevards together, Jason marveled at the Parisian way of life, and stopped to examine the multitude of posters plastered all over the street kiosks advertising cultural offerings. He was struck by one announcement in particular:

Salle Pleyel.

Pour la premiere fois en France (a jeune sensation américaine

DANIEL

ROSSI

pianiste

“Hey,” he said proudly to Martine, “I know that guy. Shall we go and hear him?”

“I would adore it.”

And so by a harmonious cadence of fate, Jason Gilbert was present in the auditorium when Danny Rossi made his triumphant Paris debut.

Backstage, Jason and Martine had to push their way through a stampede of reporters and assorted sycophants to get close enough to attract Danny’s attention. The star of the evening was delighted to see a classmate, and welcomed Jason’s attractive companion in swift, fluent, and courtly French.

Jason proposed that they all go out for dinner, but Danny was committed to a private party to which, unfortunately, he was unable to invite them.

Later that evening, as they were sharing thick onion soup in Les Halles, Martine asked Jason, “I thought this Danny Rossi was your friend.”

“What makes you think he isn’t?”

“Because he asked me to go to Castels tonight — without you.”

“That cocky little runt, he thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”

“No, Jason,” she smiled, “you are that. He is only Cod’s gift to music.”

By late April 1959, Jason had had his fill of the memorabilia of things past and was burning to get back to the tennis courts. Regarding it as a kind of farewell tour, he had booked himself in as many international competitions as he could wangle.

And yet even this aspect of his journey turned out to be educational. For he was learning how very far he was from being the best tennis player in the world. He could never get past a quarter final, and he began to reckon it a minor triumph if he won so much as a single set against a seeded player.

At the Gstaad International Tennis Tournament in mid-July, he had the dubious honor of drawing as his first opponent Australia’s Rod Layer. Jason succumbed to the indomitable left-hander in straight sets, but was graceful in defeat.

“Rod,” he commented as they shook hands afterward, “it was a real honor to be creamed by you.”

“Thanks, Yank. Good on you.”

Jason walked slowly off court shaking his head and wondering why he had been so slow that afternoon — or the ball so fast. A tall young woman with a chestnut ponytail approached him to offer friendly consolation.

“You weren’t very lucky today, were you?” Her English had a strange, charming accent.

“I wasn’t until now,” he replied, “Are you here to play?”

“Yes, I am in the ladies’ singles tomorrow afternoon. I was just going to ask if you wanted to join up for the mixed doubles on Friday.”

“Why? You’ve just seen how badly I play.”

“I’m not that good either,” she answered candidly.

“That means we’ll probably both be killed.”

“But we could still have fun. Isn’t that what really counts?”

“I was brought up to think that winning was all that mattered,” Jason said with lighthearted honesty. “But I’m revising my theories. So why not? It would be a pleasure to be defeated in your company. By the way, what’s your name?”

“Fanny van der Post,” she replied, offering her hand. “I’m a university player from Holland.”

“I’m Jason Gilbert, who, as you saw, is barely good enough to be a ball boy for Rod Layer. Can we discuss our court strategy over dinner tonight?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I’m staying at the Boo Hotel in Saanen.”

“What a coincidence,” Jason remarked. “So am I.”

“I know. I saw you in the pub last night.”

That evening, they drove in Jason’s rented VW Beetle to a three-hundred-year-old inn in Chloesterli.

“My God,” said Jason, as they sat down, “this place is older than America.”

“Jason,” Fanny smiled, “almost everything in the world is older than America. Haven’t you noticed that?”

“Yeah,” he acknowledged, “this whole trip has been kind of a steamroller for my ego. I feel born yesterday and two feet tall.”

“I tell you, Jason,” she said with a twinkle, “if you really want to learn what it’s like to be small, come to Holland. Once upon a time we were a big world power — we even owned Central Park. Now our only claim to fame is that we gave the world Rembrandt and the English word for ‘cookie.’ ”

“Are all the Dutch so self-deprecating?”

“Yes. It’s our sly way of being arrogant.”

They talked nonstop for hours well into the early morning. By the time they said good night, he knew that this girl was very special.

Fanny had been born on a farm near Croningen during the early years of the Second World War, and had lived through the terrible hunger that devastated her country as the conflict drew to a close. Despite the hardships of her childhood, she had a buoyant good humor and optimism that delighted him.

And although Fanny had ambitions, they were not all-consuming. She was a medical student at Leiden, studying just enough to become a good doctor, and practicing just enough tennis to remain a decent player.

Jason concluded on the basis of this single evening’s conversation that Fanny was the most balanced person he had ever met. She was neither an overly cerebral Radcliffe girl battling for a Med School professorship, nor a bubble-headed Long Island deb whose only goal in life was an engagement ring.

Fanny had a talent he had not encountered in all the girls he’d dated in America. She was happy just being herself.

As he sat in the grandstand watching her play that next afternoon, his admiration grew. Not only had she stayed up late the night before a match, but they had shared quite a bit of wine. He was certain that the Florida girl she was facing had been in bed by nine, after drinking a glass of warm milk.

But Fanny was still good enough to make her opponent work for the victory. Her service was strong and accurate and was never broken until the second set, when the gritty American teenager began to wear her down. Fanny lost 5–7, 6–3, 6–1. Jason met her at the gate to the court with a towel and a glass of orange juice.

“Thanks,” Fanny puffed, “but I’d really like a nice cold beer. Aggressive little devil, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah,” replied Jason, “I bet her father would have spanked her if she lost. God, didn’t his shouting drive you crazy?”

“No, I never hear anything when I’m playing. Anyway, I enjoyed myself.”

They began to walk toward the changing rooms.

“Hey,” said Jason, “you could be really great if you worked at it.”

“Don’t be silly, tennis is a game. If I actually worked at it, it would become a job. Now, where would you like to have dinner tonight?”

“I don’t know. Any suggestions?”

“How about going to Rougemont for a fondue? It’s my turn to invite you anyway.”

That evening they briefly discussed strategy for their doubles game. Since Fanny was shorter (though not by much), she would play net.

“I’m counting on you to keep all the balls from even reaching me in the back court,” Jason joked.

“Please don’t get your hopes up. I think somewhere in that competitive American brain of yours you imagine we actually have a chance of winning tomorrow.”

“Well,” Jason conceded, “I confess it was on my mind. The two turkeys we’re playing may be worse than we are.”

“Nobody in this tournament is worse than we are.”

“Gosh, what a partner you are. You’re destroying my confidence.”

“Nothing could destroy your confidence, Jason.” She smiled meaningfully.

They almost won.

Neither of the Spanish couple they were facing was a power hitter, and they actually took the first set with ease. Then gradually their opponents began placing their long, slow shots with greater accuracy, getting them past Fanny and making Jason run himself into exhaustion.

After a marathon battle, he was sweaty and breathless from the sun and the thin Swiss air.

Too tired even to go change, he simply sat on a bench and contemplated his fatigue. Fanny arrived with two paper cups of mineral water and sat down beside him.

“Thank Cod we lost,” she said, wiping his face with a towel. “I don’t fancy the idea of another long afternoon like this. But I’ll tell you something, Jason. I think we played pretty well together for the first time. Next year we might even lose by a closer score.”

“Yeah, but I can’t make it next year. I’ve got another engagement.”

“Engagement?” she asked, misunderstanding. “You are engaged to someone?”

“Yeah,” he replied, protracting the ambiguity. “My fiancée’s name is the United States Marines. I owe them my body for two years starting in September.”

“What a waste of a nice body.” She smiled. “When are you going back?”

“Oh, I’ve got another three weeks or so yet,” he answered. And then looked her in the eye. “Which I’d like to spend with you — and I don’t mean playing tennis.”

“I think that could be arranged,” she replied.

“I’ve got my VW,” he said. “Where would you like to go?”

“Well, I’ve always wanted to see Venice.”

“Why?” Jason asked.

“Because it’s got canals like Amsterdam.”

“I can’t think of a better reason,” he replied.

They took their time, driving first through the mountain roads of Switzerland. Then down into Italy, spending a few days on the banks of Lake Como. And all the time they talked.

Jason soon felt that he knew all her friends intimately and could practically list them by name. And Fanny discovered that her new boyfriend was a lot more complex than the handsome blond tennis player she had first admired across a crowded lobby.

“What kind of American are you?” she asked, as they were picnicking by the lakeside.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, unless you are a red Indian, your family must have come from somewhere. Is Gilbert an English name?”

“No, it’s just made up. When my grandparents came to Ellis Island, they were called Gruenwald.”

“German?”

“No. Russian. Russian Jewish, actually.”

“Ah, then you are Jewish,” she said with apparent interest.

“Well, only vaguely.”

“How can one be only vaguely Jewish? It would be like being only vaguely pregnant, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, America’s a free country. And my father decided that since the religion didn’t mean anything to him, he might as well, as he put it, join the mainstream.”

“But that’s impossible. A Jew cannot be anything but a Jew.”

“Why not? You’re a Protestant, but couldn’t you become Catholic if you wanted to?”

A look of incredulity crossed her face.

“For an intelligent person you make such a naive argument, Jason. Do you think Hitler would have spared you and your family because you denied your faith?”

He began to grow irritated. What was she driving at?

“Why does everybody invoke Hitler in trying to convince me that I’m Jewish?” he asked.

“My God, Jason,” she replied, “don’t you realize what the Atlantic Ocean spared you in your childhood? I grew up in the shadow of the Nazis. I saw them take our neighbors away. My family even hid a Jewish girl during the whole war.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “Eva Goudsmit. We grew up like sisters. Her parents owned a china factory and were — so they thought — pillars of the Dutch community. But that didn’t impress the soldiers who took them off.”

“What happened to them?” Jason asked quietly.

“The same thing that happened to millions of Jews all over Europe. After the war, Eva searched and searched. She went to all kinds of agencies, but they could find nothing. All they traced was a distant cousin living in Palestine. So when she finished school she went off to join him. We still keep in touch. In fact, every few summers I go and visit her kibbutz in the Galilee.”

That conversation and several others like it in the weeks they spent together crystallized in Jason’s mind a firm desire to learn about his heritage. And ironically, he owed this resolution not to another Jew but to a Christian Dutch girl of whom he was growing fonder each day.

He had wanted to drive her all the way back to Amsterdam and take the plane from there. But they both fell so in love with Venice that they lingered till it was nearly time for Jason to report for duty.

Their parting at the airport disconcerted him. After they’d kissed and embraced dozens of times, Jason swore fervently that he would write her at least once a week.

“Please don’t feel you have to say these things, Jason. It’s been very lovely and I’ll always think of you with affection. But we’d both be very silly to think that we’ll sit pining for each other for two years.”

“Speak for yourself, Fanny,” he protested. “I mean, if you felt as strongly for me as I do for you —”

“Jason, you’re the nicest man I’ve ever met. And I ye never felt as close to anyone. Why don’t we just see what happens — as long as we have no false illusions.”

“Have you read the Odyssey , Fanny?”

“Yes, of course. The couple were separated for twenty years.”

“So what’s twenty-four months compared to that?”

“The Odyssey , my love, is a fairy tale.”

“Okay, my cynical little Dutch girl,” Jason replied, affecting a John Wayne posture to impress her, “you just promise to answer every letter I write and we’ll see what happens.”

“I promise.”

They embraced a final time. He walked off toward his flight. As he reached the door of the plane he looked at the observation gate and saw her standing there.

Even at that distance he could see tears streaming down her cheeks.

***

Danny Rossi woke up slightly confused at finding himself in a strange, if lavish, hotel room. Because of his packed concert schedule he was used to changing bedrooms as often as pajamas. But he had always been sure of exactly where he was. What country. What city. What orchestra. What hotel.

As he tried to clear the cobwebs from his mind, he perceived five glittering gold statuettes on the dresser just beyond the bed. Then it slowly began to come back to him.

Last night had been the annual Grammy Awards ceremony, honoring the best achievements in the record industry. It had been held at a festive gala in the grand ballroom of the Century Plaza Hotel in Los Angeles. He had flown in just in time to register at the Beverly Wilshire, change into a tux, and hurry down to the limo where two PR toadies were waiting to escort him to the ceremony.

Danny’s victory as best classical soloist was not unexpected. After all, the awards are as much for playing the media as playing an instrument. And he had become a master of both.

While it was arguable that his interpretation of the complete Beethoven piano concerti was the best thing put on disk during the previous twelve months, it was indisputable that his publicity campaign was nonpareil.

But what had created the stir last evening was the fact that he had won a second Grammy for best solo jazz album. This was the culmination of a pleasant little irony that had begun the night of his debut with the New York Philharmonic, when he had improvised all those show tunes at the party.

The gentleman who had requested an audience did indeed contact him the following day. He turned out to be Edward Kaiser, president of Columbia Records, and he was absolutely certain that there was a vast “crossover audience” that would lap up Danny’s musical trifles like cotton candy.

At first Rossi on Broadway had a slow but steady sale based mainly on Danny’s gradually growing popularity. But his appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show launched him higher than astronaut John Glenn. It accelerated sales from three thousand to seventy-five thousand “units” per week.

The Sullivan broadcast also came at an especially fortuitous time. For the evening it was aired, the Grammy ballots were in the mail to the voters. Earlier, smart money would have picked Count Basie as a surefire winner. But after Ed’s monotonal but hyperbolic introduction (“America’s great new musical genius”), it was a totally different ball game.

Thus it was that Danny wrote another page of musical history — winning Grammies in both the classical and jazz categories in a single day. Indeed, as Count Basie himself was overheard to remark, he was “a lucky little pécker.”

Who knows how many units per week they’d be selling after this!

As Danny put the mosaic of his mind into place, he still could not account for the presence of all the gold statuettes glittering there in dawn’s early light.

Where the hell had the others come from?

But that, of course, might be explained once the mystery of why he was in this strange hotel room had been solved.

He heard the sound of water running in the bathroom. Someone was performing morning ablutions. He had clearly shared the room and — from the look of it — the bed with someone the night before. Why was his normally razor-sharp memory in such a haze?

Just then the crystal tones of a female voice sang out, “Good morning, honey.”

And making an impeccably coiffed and diaphanously clad entrance from the bathroom, triple Grammy Award winner Carla Atkins appeared.

“Hey, Carla,” Danny enthused, “you certainly were a hit last night.”

“You weren’t too bad yourself, baby,” she cooed, creeping under the covers next to him.

“I take it you’re not talking about the Grammies?” Danny asked with a smile.

“Hell,” Carla laughed in her lower register, “those little statues aren’t any good in bed. I think the two of us deserve a special award, don’t you?”

“I’m glad you think so,” Danny answered candidly. “I just wish I could remember more about my evening with America’s greatest vocalist. Did we drink anything?”

“Oh, a little bubbly downstairs. Then when we got up here I broke open a few amies,”

“Amies?”

“Yeah, honey. Amyl nitrite. You know, those little pills with the invigorating smell. Don’t tell me that was your first time?”

“It was,” Danny confessed. “Why can’t I remember if I enjoyed it or not?”

“Because, baby, you were higher than a rocket ship. I had to stuff you with downers or you would have danced on the ceiling. Are you interested in some breakfast?”

“Yeah, now that you mention it,” Danny replied. “What about five or six eggs and bacon and toast —?”

Carla Atkins smiled. “I get the picture,” she said and picked up the phone to room service and ordered breakfast for “a quintet.”

“Quintet?” Danny asked after she had hung up. “Yeah, baby — those little fellahs over there.” And she pointed at the five Grammies shining in a row.

The stewardess offered him champagne.

“No, thank you,” Danny said politely.

“But, Mr. Rossi, you should be celebrating your victories,” the flight attendant said, smiling invitingly. She was very pretty. “Well, call me if you change your mind — and congratulations.”

After lingering for yet another awkward second in the hopes that Danny would ask for her phone number, she went reluctantly off to attend to some of the other stars who were also flying that afternoon in the first-class cabin from Los Angeles to New York.

But Danny was deep in thought. He was racking his brain to reconstruct what had occurred after he had walked into Carla Atkins’s hotel room.

Little by little it was coming back to him. First, the thrill of being with the undisputed star of the evening. Then the thrill of being intimate with her. And then the sensation of those pills she had brought out.

Yes, he remembered he had felt a kind of wild exhilaration. His heart beat faster merely in retrospect. They had certainly made him feel … vigorous. But then the stuff she used to bring him “down” had really fogged his brain.

And he had forgotten to ask her what they were.